“It’s going to be all right,” Virginia said. “I’m not saying it will be comfortable, but it will be okay. All families are dysfunctional in one way or another.”
They were back in her condo, sitting on her sofa. The second dinner with Xavier and Anson had gotten off to a rocky start, but when Cabot had suggested that Xavier help Anson work on the little math book, Xavier lit up with enthusiasm. He had asked an endless string of questions while wolfing down half the pizza.
By the time Cabot and Virginia left, Xavier had been deep into the photocopied pages of the book.
“Easy for you to say all families are dysfunctional,” Cabot muttered. He swallowed some of his beer and set the bottle down. “You’re not the one who is suddenly developing a lot of connections with a family that, until recently, didn’t give a damn whether you were alive or dead.”
“I understand,” she said. “But it occurs to me that what you are witnessing is a change of generations in the Kennington family. The old man, as you call him, is gone. Now that he’s dead, the younger family members are taking charge. They may know some of the history of your relationship with the rest of the Kennington family —”
“That’s just it. I don’t have a relationship with the Kennington people.”
“Well, you do now. My advice is to deal with it.”
He glared at her. “Are you on the Kennington side of this thing?”
“I’m not taking sides. I’m offering advice.”
“I don’t need advice.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you some. Don’t worry, it’s free.”
Cabot raised his eyes. “And worth exactly what you’re charging?”
She looked at him. “Do you want my advice or not?”
He groaned. “I know you’re trying to be helpful. What’s your advice?”
“We both know that Xavier had nothing to do with what happened all those years ago.”
“I’m not arguing that point.”
“So try to look at him as an individual in his own right. He’s a young man who is going through some perfectly natural growing pains while simultaneously becoming the collateral damage that always comes down when divorce happens. With things in a bad way at home, it’s not surprising that he has suddenly developed a deep curiosity about his long-lost, mysterious cousin.”
“I’m not mysterious and I was never lost. The lawyer, Burleigh, sure knew how to find me. So did Xavier.”
“Well, it’s not as if you were trying to stay hidden,” she said. “Not like Quinton Zane.”
“Assuming he’s still alive.”
“Assuming that, yes.” She swallowed some of her wine and lowered the glass. “Speaking of our investigation, where do we go next?”
“Good question.” Cabot seemed relieved by the change of subject. “I’ve been thinking about that. We can keep talking to people who worked with Sandra Porter. Sooner or later we might catch a break. But, as you said, the cops are already pursuing those leads. I think we need to refocus on our own case.”
“Hannah Brewster’s death?”
“If there is a connection between Brewster and Porter, we might have better luck finding it from our end.”
Virginia rested one arm along the back of the sofa. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve told you from the beginning that if we’re right that someone is looking for the missing money, it’s because something changed in the equation – something that must have happened fairly recently. It occurs to me that Brewster was not the first person connected to Zane’s operation who died on that island up in the San Juans.”
“You’re talking about Abigail Watkins? The woman who owned the Lost Island B and B? But I told you, there was nothing mysterious about her death. She had cancer.”
“You said she sold the B and B shortly before her death to raise a little cash.”
“That’s right. Rose Gilbert bought it. She allowed Abigail to stay there until the end.”
“The Seattle housing market is hot, but that’s not so true up in the San Juans. Properties on the more remote islands can sit on the market for months or even years, especially a big, old Victorian that needs a lot of upkeep.”
“Sometimes you just get lucky when you’re trying to sell property. The right buyer comes along at the right time. In this case it was Rose Gilbert. Are you saying there’s something suspicious about the transaction?”
“I’m saying we need to go back to the start of this thing and question every coincidence,” Cabot said.
He leaned forward and opened his laptop on the coffee table. Virginia watched him search real estate databases.
“Nothing,” he announced after a few minutes. “There’s no record of the sale. The B and B was never on the market. As far as the property tax records are concerned, the Lost Island B and B still belongs to Abigail Watkins, which means it is now part of her estate.”
“I don’t think Abigail had a will. Like Hannah, she didn’t want anything to do with legal stuff that could be used to track her down.”
“Yet Rose Gilbert moved in shortly after Watkins died and told everyone she did a private transaction with the previous owner.”
“No one on the island would have questioned that,” Virginia said. “Certainly Hannah never did. As far as I know, Rose Gilbert didn’t show up on the island until after Abigail’s funeral.”
“Maybe there never was a deal between Watkins and Gilbert,” Cabot said.
Virginia frowned. “Are you suggesting that Rose Gilbert just moved in one day and started running the B and B business?”
“Ever heard of squatters? They move into foreclosures and vacant properties all the time. But I’ll admit it seems unlikely that the average squatter would take over a bed-and-breakfast operation.”
“Well, she’s not exactly running it on a paying basis,” Virginia said. “She keeps talking about needing to make some major repairs to get ready for the summer season. You saw for yourself, the top floor of guest rooms is closed.”
“It might be interesting to know a little more about Rose Gilbert. I’ll have Anson go to work on that in the morning. Meanwhile, thanks to you, we do know two very important things about Abigail Watkins. The first is that she had a connection to Zane.”
“And the second?”
“She’s dead,” Cabot said. “No matter who you are or how much you try to hide, there’s always paperwork and records associated with dying.”
He concentrated intently on his laptop. When he looked up again, Virginia could tell by his diamond-sharp eyes that he had found something.
“Abigail Watkins had only one surviving family member, a half sister,” he said. “Rose Elaine Gilbert.”
Comprehension whispered through Virginia. “Rose wasn’t just some casual buyer who showed up at the right moment to buy the B and B. She knew her half sister was dying. She probably figured she was Abigail’s legal heir.”
“Probably.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Rose keep quiet about her connection with Abigail Watkins?”
“Maybe because Rose has been lying to us from the beginning.”
“I assume we’re going to talk to her again?”
“Yes,” Cabot said. “As soon as possible.”
Virginia took out her phone. “I’ll see if I can get reservations on the private car ferry tomorrow. Shouldn’t be hard at this time of year. I’m assuming you don’t want me to call Rose and make reservations at the B and B?”
“No,” Cabot said. “We’ll take her by surprise.”