“Just one more,” Mary said sweetly.
“I was asking your client why Gabe Wynant seemed so intent on killing Mr. Anthony,” the sheriff repeated.
“Did you ask Mr. Anthony that question?” Mary asked.
“I did. This office has had some past dealings with Mr. Anthony, who isn’t always the most reliable witness. So now I’m asking her.”
“Gabe told me C. D. had been hounding him for money, even trying to blackmail him over some financial irregularities C. D. uncovered. C. D. thought it was just a matter of some bad checks, but I think what he’d unwittingly uncovered was something much more serious—the fact that Gabe was in such bad financial straits he’d started stealing from his clients,” Brooke said. “Gabe must have known C. D. would tell me everything and that I’d figure out the rest. That’s why Gabe tried to kill C. D. He pretended it was to protect me from C. D., but that was a lie.”
“Okay.” The sheriff scribbled some more notes. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and held out an envelope in a sealed plastic bag. “We found this in Mr. Wynant’s car, which was parked in the lot at the city marina.”
“What is it?” Brooke asked.
“Lab results on DNA testing performed on hair samples from C. D. Anthony and Josephine Warrick.”
“Which show what?” Brooke asked, not bothering to try to hide her excitement.
“No familial relation,” Goolsby said. “No big surprise there. I could have told you that old drunk was no kin to Miss Josephine.”
“Could we have a copy of that report, Howard?” Mary asked. “For my client’s peace of mind?”
He shrugged. “Don’t see why not.” He walked to the outer hallway with the envelope. They heard the mechanical whir of a photocopier, and a moment later he was back with the copy of the report, which he handed to Brooke. “Anything else?”
Mary Balent spoke up. “Yes, actually, Howard, we’d appreciate it if you could release Josephine Warrick’s body as soon as possible so her family can have a funeral.”
Goolsby tapped his pen on the edge of the desk and looked at Brooke. “I understand you’ve only recently learned that you and your mother are Mrs. Warrick’s next of kin?”
“Yes,” Brooke said. “It was … a shock, to say the least.”
He rolled the pen over and over between his fingertips. “You being next of kin, I guess I owe it to you to tell you that we now consider Josephine’s death a homicide.”
“What did you just say?” Mary Balent asked, leaning forward.
“It was set up to look like an accidental death.” Goolsby chuckled. “Hate to say it, but Kendra Younts, that hotshot new coroner we got now, she’s the one who made a believer out of me. You know she used to be a homicide detective up in Atlanta, until her granddaddy talked her into coming down here to take over the family funeral parlor business and run for coroner. I was dead-set certain when I saw that poor old soul laid out on that bathroom floor at Shellhaven that it was just an unfortunate accident. But Kendra, she had her suspicions. She took all kinds of photos and measurements of the scene and convinced me not to release the body for burial, even after Gabe Wynant called over here raisin’ all kinds of hell about it.”
“So it was Gabe who murdered her,” Brooke said quietly.
“What makes you think so?” the sheriff asked.
“He had the best motive for wanting her dead. Money. Josephine must have told Gabe that my mom was her immediate next of kin. And as far as we know, he was the last one to see her alive that night when he helped her to bed.”
“How did the coroner conclude that Mrs. Warrick’s death was a homicide and that Wynant was the murderer?” Mary Balent asked.
“Just a feeling she had. She was looking back over the death scene photos and noticed that when we arrived, Miss Josephine was wearing her eyeglasses.”
“I never saw her without her glasses,” Brooke said. “She was nearly a hundred.”
“But if she’d tripped and fallen, don’t you think those glasses would have gone flying off? Probably would have been smashed too. But hers were right there on her face. We fingerprinted those glasses, and found a partial print from Gabe Wynant. Plus, our new coroner determined that she was struck on the side of the head with an unknown object, which caused the fall that killed her. And no, we don’t have a murder weapon.”
“Not much here that would hold up in court, is there, Howard?” Mary Balent asked.
“I won’t argue with you. But it wouldn’t have taken much for him to have done it. She weighed all of eighty pounds and was eaten up with cancer, on top of which she had some powerful prescription opioids in her system. And since we can’t exactly ask a dead man if he was a murderer, that’s the best we’re going to get,” the sheriff said.
“It’s more than enough for me,” Brooke said firmly. “I’ve got a son to raise and a law practice of my own and a funeral to plan. So if you’ll excuse me…”
70
Brooke had barely settled in at her desk the next day when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Younts Mortuary.
“Miss Trappnell?” The woman’s voice had a soft, rural Southern accent, which was different from the harder-edged accents of urban Atlanta, Birmingham, or Charlotte. “This is Kendra Younts from the funeral home. I believe we met over on Talisa, the day of your great-aunt’s death.”
“Yes, I remember.” Brooke took a sip of the coffee she’d just poured.
“I spoke to Howard Goolsby last night, and we’ve gotten the okay to release Miss Josephine to the family.”
“That’s great. And by the way, the sheriff told me about your theories about Gabe Wynant. Thank you for your diligence.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Kendra said, sounding properly somber. “The other reason I’m calling is because Miss Josephine has a pre-need plan in place with us.”
“Pre-need?” Brooke was drawing a blank.
“Yes. She actually set it up with my granddaddy twenty years ago. All the charges have been prepaid, and of course, we have her instructions.”
“Which are?”
“Cremation with remains in our Eternal Slumber Bronzesque urn. Now, that model is no longer in production, of course, but the finish on our new Odyssey urn is very similar. Will that be acceptable?”
“Um, sure,” Brooke said. “You should probably ask my mom, just as a technicality, but what the hell, I don’t think she’ll know the difference.”
“And Miss Josephine won’t care, will she? Oh, sorry, that’s a little funeral home humor. Anyway, I’m afraid that’s about the extent of your great-aunt’s wishes. The notes in the file say that she opted against a hearse or a funeral procession or reception here at the mortuary, and I see that she already has a headstone and a plot in the family cemetery on the island. It’s a fairly bare-bones plan.”
“More funeral home humor?” Brooke asked, chuckling.
“Sorry! Can’t help myself. My three-year-old didn’t sleep last night, and I’m a little punchy.”
“I totally understand. I have a three-year-old myself,” Brooke said. “What happens next?”
“We can have the remains ready for you by the end of the week,” Kendra said. “And if the family decides they would like a reception or something a little more formal, we would love to accommodate you. Miss Josephine was a much-beloved figure in this community, you know.”
“I’ll consult with my mother, but my feeling is that she’ll want to honor Josephine’s wishes,” Brooke said. “So just plan on having the remains ready on Friday, please.”
*
Shug picked her up at the municipal marina. It had rained the night before, which lifted the oppressive June heat a little but left the air as thick and humid as a wet wool blanket.