Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [56]
“Sam, come here.”
A moment later, wiping his hands on a dish towel, Sam came in. “What is it?”
I pointed a finger at the figure in the shot and noticed with dismay that it trembled. “I took photos of the onlookers last night.”
He bent to study the screen. “Going on the theory that whoever did it might stick around to see your reaction? That’s my girl.”
His mouth thinned and his brows snapped together. “That’s Joe Poellinger.”
The ice cream trucker driver. I’d been right.
“Can you print out a copy? I’m going to haul his ass in for questioning.” Sam straightened, all business now.
“Yes, I can, but I have a better idea.”
He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to like it.”
“Probably not.” The computer was already hooked up to a color printer, and I went to press Print but paused, spotting another face in the crowd. “Does he look familiar to you?”
Sam squinted and then gave a low whistle. “Yeah, but I can’t place him…”
I swallowed. “He was at the restaurant the other night, sitting behind me.”
“I recognize him now. Razor cut, stocky build, mean-looking cuss.”
I raised my head. “The kind who would try to hit us with a car, perhaps?”
“I’ll need a digital copy as well so I can have it blown up. I’ll run this through identification so I can get a lead.”
“Okay.” I undid the pause and another picture slid into view, the one Sam had taken in the kitchen.
A lump lodged in my throat. He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’d say that’s one to join the others on the mantel.”
Unable to speak for the tears welling in my eyes, I nodded.
For once Mom wasn’t looking at the camera. Instead, her face was turned toward me with an expression of exquisite tenderness. The way a mother loves her child, the way I had never known she’d felt.
Chapter Fourteen
“Would you care for some coffee, Ms. Sterling?” Gillian Hassenfeld gestured toward a high-end stainless steel coffee machine on the other side of the enormous kitchen.
“Thank you. Black, please.”
She poured a cup and set it in front of me. The kitchen, done in Italianate style with stone, granite, mahogany and hammered copper, matched the rest of the Manalapan estate. In good taste but with a definite “look at me, I’m expensive” quality. Mrs. Hassenfeld had clearly received the better end of the deal in her divorces.
When I arrived, the petite brunette had escorted me to the curving sweep of an island lined with bar stools and asked me to be seated. After putting an apron over her cream cashmere sweater and camel pants, she opened one side of the French door refrigerator and took out eggs, milk and butter. “I hope you don’t mind my cooking as we talk. The boys roped me into making cookies for a school bake sale.”
“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Hassenfeld. First, let me say how sorry I am for you and your sons’ loss.”
“Call me Gillian, and David wasn’t the boys’ father. They hated him from the start. I guess I should have paid better attention to their instincts. Thank God I never made the mistake of getting pregnant by that bastard.”
I nearly choked on the sip of coffee I’d taken. I carefully set the cup down. “I take it there was no love lost between you.”
She opened a cabinet and pulled out two glass bowls. “None whatsoever. In case you’re wondering if I ripped him off in the divorce, this place was mine before we married. Got it as part of my first divorce.”
That confirmed what I’d read in the courthouse file.
“You’d think a cardiologist would be swimming in money, but no.” She measured dry ingredients into one bowl. “I had to marry one with a gambling habit, looking for some woman to bleed dry. Good thing I insisted on a pre-nup.”
“So you both walked away with what you brought into the marriage?”
A smug smile curved her mouth. “Wouldn’t say that. When I noticed signs that David might be having an affair—” she cracked an egg with a sharp snap of the wrist, “—I hired a shark of a divorce attorney.”
“Did you ever find out who she was?” A man often said things to his mistress that