Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat Read Online Free PDF Page B

financial status?”
    “He had a pension from the Navy, of course; that was his sole source of income, and it was quite sufficient for us.”
    “No investments or anything of the sort?”
    “United States savings bonds. Harold was a flag-waver, really; a borderline chauvinist. Nothing else, except some small insurance policies. I kept the accounts, and if he indulged in any financial speculation, it was either before we were married or entirely sub rosa. And on a small scale.”
    “Insurance policies?”
    She eyed him obliquely. “I’m the beneficiary of all of them—and his sole heir. He has a brother still living, but Ben did quite well for himself in real estate in California. Harold didn’t think he needed anything from him.” She pulled in a deep breath, her weariness coming through. “It’s ironic. If you’re looking for someone with a reasonable motive to kill him, I’m the only one.”
    Conan rose and went to the window again, finding immobility intolerable. And he was running put of questions.
    “Nel, haven’t you any thoughts, any speculations, however irrational? For instance, when you reached the conclusion he’d been murdered, did anyone—or anything—come to mind?”
    Her head moved back and forth slowly.
    “No one and nothing. And I have no speculations, irrational or otherwise. All I know is that Harold didn’t go out to the beach of his own volition.”
    “Did he leave any messages? A note, perhaps, or—”
    “No. I looked for one both before and after he…he was found.” She frowned and leaned down to open her purse. “There was something, though; but I’m not sure it means anything.”
    He tensed, the frustration translating itself into reined excitement. Hope. A fragment of a hint, something, anything that would give him a small foothold.…
    He walked over to her and took the sheet of paper she proffered, studying it almost hungrily. It was from a notepad and bore the navy insignia and Jeffries’ name and rank. A telephone number was written across the lower part of the page.
    “This is Harold’s handwriting?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where did you find it?”
    “It’s from a notepad by the telephone. It’s a local number by the prefix, but it doesn’t belong to any of our friends. I checked our address book.”
    He stared at the number, his frustration returning with a rush that made his shoulders sag. He saw his own disappointment reflected in Nel’s eyes.
    “What is it, Conan?”
    He returned the sheet to her. “That’s the bookshop number.”
    “It’s what?”
    “The bookshop.”
    “Oh.” Her hand moved spastically, crumpling the paper, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of weeping. Then she pressed the paper flat and put it in her purse, managing a short, brittle laugh.
    “Well. So much for my one concrete piece of evidence. I wonder why he wanted the bookshop number.”
    Conan frowned, walking slowly back to the window.
    “I don’t know, but I doubt anyone at the bookshop had anything to do with his death.”
    Again she laughed. “Well, I can’t see you or Miss Dobie doing him in, and that leaves Meg. She’s out on the basis of the feline aversion to water.”
    He called up a smile at this, more for the effort behind it than the humor. She was at the frayed end of hope. “Nel, you found nothing else?”
    “You mean in the form of written messages? No. Pearl and I searched quite thoroughly. We even sorted through the ashes in the fireplace.” She paused, watching him, and her voice had a dull, final tone. “I’ve given you nothing to work with.”
    He turned, drawn by her weary, weighted resignation. There was no hint of recrimination in her eyes, but she seemed immensely tired. And age was a part of her now; he could well believe she was a grandmother. Before, it would have been irrelevant to call her old; now it was only unkind.
    “Nel, I’m an amateur. I’m not equipped to deal with this. If there’s an answer, it’s probably buried in