David Martin laughed. “The further Julia moved away, and the longer she was gone, the better it got. Space and time. That’s relativity for the Morrows.” But he didn’t seem amused.
“You have no children?”
“No. We tried, but Julia didn’t seem too keen. She did it for my sake, but once I realized she didn’t really want them I stopped insisting. She was very wounded, Inspector. I thought I could make it better and look where it led me.”
“You’re not saying you stole all that money and ruined so many lives for your wife?”
“No, that was greed,” he admitted.
“If you’re so greedy, why wasn’t your wife insured?”
There was another hesitation.
“Because I couldn’t imagine her dying. Not before me. I’m older than her, I should’ve gone first. I wanted to go first. I could never take money from her death.”
“Do you know what’s in your wife’s will?”
“She might’ve made a new one,” Martin cleared his throat and his voice came back stronger, “but the last I heard it all came to me, except for some bequests to charities.”
“Like?”
“Oh, the children’s hospital, the animal shelter, the local library. Nothing very big.”
“Nothing to her family?”
“Nothing. I can’t imagine they expected anything, but you never know.”
“How much money did she have?”
“Well, she might’ve had more but her father left most of his money to his wife when he died. The kids got just enough to ruin them.”
Now the disdain was clear.
“What do you mean?”
“Charles Morrow lived in terror his children would squander the family fortune.”
“Beware the third generation, oui, I heard,” said Beauvoir.
“His father had told him that, and he believed it. Each of the kids inherited about a million from their father, except Peter,” Martin continued. “He declined his inheritance.”
“Quoi?”
“I know, foolish. He gave it back to the estate and it was split among his siblings and mother.”
Beauvoir was so surprised his formidable brain stopped for a moment. How could someone turn down a million dollars? He hated to think what he’d do for that money, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what would make him turn it down.
“Why?” was all he could manage. Fortunately it was enough.
A chuckle came all the way across the continent. “I never asked, but I can guess. Revenge. I think he wanted to prove to his father that he’d been wrong. That he of all the kids wasn’t interested in his fortune.”
“But his father was dead.” Beauvoir didn’t get it.
“Families are complicated,” said David Martin.
“My family’s complicated, monsieur. This is just weird.”
Beauvoir didn’t like weird.
“How did you meet your wife?”
“At a dance. She was the most beautiful woman there, still was the most beautiful woman in any room. I fell in love and came back to Montreal to ask her father to let me marry her. He told me I was welcome to her. It wasn’t very gracious. We didn’t have much to do with each other after that. I’d actually tried to get them to reconcile, but after I met the family I lost enthusiasm for that.”
“Who do you think killed your wife?” Might as well ask.
“I don’t honestly know, but I do know who I think wrote those terrible things in the men’s room at the Ritz.”
Beauvoir already knew it was probably Thomas Morrow so he was uninterested in what came next.
“Her brother, Peter.”
Beauvoir was suddenly interested.
Peter strode into his brother’s room, not bothering to knock. Best to be forceful, assured.
“You’re late. God, you look a mess. Doesn’t that wife of yours look after you? Or maybe she’s too busy painting. What’s it like to have a wife far more successful than you?”
Rattatatatat. Peter stood stunned. Once he recovered he knew this was his chance to stand up for Clara, to tell this smug, smarmy, smiling nemesis how she’d saved his life, given him love. How brilliant and kind she was. He’d tell Thomas—
“Thought so,” said Thomas, waving him into the room.
Silenced, Peter did as he was told, looking around as he entered. It was much more splendid than his room, the bed canopied, the sofa facing the balcony and the lake. The huge armoire was almost dwarfed by the scale. But Peter’s eyes found the tiniest thing in there. Sitting on the bedside table.
