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some time, and very depressed. She said he had just lost a close friend—his lawyer, Eli Prescott.
    “Apparently, he was pretty much estranged from most of his family, but those the investigating detectives talked to agreed he’d been seriously depressed ever since he was confined to a wheelchair after a fall this spring. The housekeeper says he’d often talked of suicide, but like I said, the rest of the family weren’t in close contact.”
    I’m not sure why, but for some reason I detected the faint aroma of fish.
    “The housekeeper found the body, I understand.”
    “Yeah. She’s a live-in, but she has every Tuesday and Friday afternoon off. She went to church, did some shopping, and returned home to find Bement dead. The doors were locked, there was no sign of forced entry, and nothing was missing or out of place. 
    “The gun was his, and was lying beside the body just where it would have fallen when his hand relaxed after the shot. The prints on the gun were his, there was gunpowder residue on his right hand—he was right-handed—and what we call ‘tattooing’ on his temple, indicating the gun was pressed against the skin when it was fired. No suicide note, nothing to indicate a struggle.
    “The only thing out of the ordinary was that it took him two tries—the first shot missed and went into the wall. The second did the job.”
    “Two shots?” I asked, incredulous. “How can someone miss shooting himself in the head the first time?”
    “Well, it’s not unheard of. The bullet entered the skull just forward of the right temple, above the right eye and exited just above the left eye. Most aim farther back, nearer the ear. But a ninety-year-old with a shaky hand, with the barrel aiming toward the front of his temple, could well miss the first time. And the fact he made sure to press the gun against his head for the second shot might support that.”
    “So, what more can they do?” I asked. 
    “They’ll be checking more closely with the family, to see if they can find something suspicious—where everyone was at the time of the death, whether any of them had, or knew of anyone who had, a particular reason to want him dead.
    “Of course, the fact he was a multimillionaire certainly can’t be overlooked. But unless they can find some definite indication of foul play—and there’s none so far—there’s only so much time and manpower we can afford to expend. Still, they know what they’re doing, and they aren’t likely to miss anything, if there’s anything to find.”
    “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have a hard time selling that ‘no foul play’ to Jonathan. He swears Bement would never have killed himself, and he never once mentioned Bement’s being anything but positive about life.”
    There was a slight pause before Marty spoke again. “With all due respect to Jonathan, how long and how well did he really know Bement? I understand he worked for him, but…”
    He had a point.
    “Yeah,” I said, “you’re right, of course. He only worked for him for a month or so, and then only a couple hours three times a week. But apparently they talked a lot while Jonathan was working in the garden, and he feels they got to be fairly close. He said Bement confided in him, and I’d think if he were suicidal, Jonathan would have picked up on something. He’s pretty perceptive.”
    “I don’t know what to tell you, Dick—I’m afraid he’s outnumbered on this one. But let’s see what else we can find out. I’ll let you know if there’s anything.”
    “Thanks, Marty. I appreciate your looking into it for me.”
    “Glad to do what I can.” There was a slight pause, then, “So now I’d better get back to work. I’ve got a desk full of cases.”
    “Understood. Thanks again, and we’ll have to get together for lunch before too long. My treat.”
    “Sounds good. See ya, Dick.”
    I hung up wondering yet again how, shaky hand or no, it could take two tries to shoot yourself in the