Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [106]
Maleah sensed this old woman was genuinely fond of her employer.
“What sort of book is Mr. Owens writing?” Derek asked.
“Oh, the kind he always writes,” Ramona replied. “A history book. He’s had ten published, all of them about local Virginia history, from before the Revolutionary War to the present.”
When they didn’t comment, she added, “Mr. Ransom always was as smart as a whip. The boy had the soul of a poet. Neither of his wives appreciated him, that’s for sure. But at least Miss Brenda Lee didn’t shame him in front of the world the way Miss Terri did. Now that gal was a real piece of work. But you two probably know all about her, your being investigators.”
“Then you were the family’s housekeeper when Mr. Owens was married to his first wife?” Maleah asked.
“Sure was. I’m the one who had to look after Mr. Tyler when he was a baby. Miss Terri didn’t take to motherhood. Finally Mr. Ransom hired a nanny for the little tyke.”
“What sort of child was Tyler?” Derek inquired.
“Smart, just like his daddy, but every bit as beautiful as his mama. Too bad the good Lord wasted so much beauty on such a selfish, uncaring woman.”
She led them down the hallway, talking nonstop all the way, and then paused and pointed to an arched open doorway. “Straight through there.”
“Thank you,” Derek said.
“Would either of you care for tea?” Ramona asked.
Maleah and Derek replied simultaneously, “No, thank you.”
They found Ransom Owens sitting in an ornate white wicker chair, his eyes closed and a look of serenity on his long, narrow face. His brown hair, thinning on top, was neatly combed and he was cleanly shaved. He wore brown slacks, a beige shirt, and a tan sweater, the garments fitting loosely on his reed-thin body. When he heard them approach, he opened his tepid gray eyes, picked up the notepad in his lap, and laid it on the side table to his right. Maleah’s first thought was that this man certainly didn’t look like her idea of a killer. No, Ransom Owens looked like a well-to-do gentleman of leisure, a man most definitely born in the wrong century.
“Do come in and sit down.” His deep baritone voice seemed at odds with his soft, scholarly appearance.
“We appreciate your agreeing to talk to us,” Derek said as he slipped his hand beneath Maleah’s elbow and guided her toward the wicker settee flanked by two massive, billowing ferns. Her initial reaction was immediate withdrawal, but she managed to stop herself from jerking away.
“I thought it best to clear up a few matters,” Ransom said, watching them closely as they sat side by side on the settee. “I assume my son had nothing good to say about me. I did my best with him, but it was difficult raising a high-strung boy without a mother…a mother who shamed us both. We’d have been better off by far if Terri had died years ago.”
Before either Maleah or Derek had a chance to respond, Ransom continued quickly. “And before you ask, no, I have no intention of murdering my ex-wife or any of the vulgar, uncouth people she associated with in the past. I know Tyler believes I may be this person the police are looking for, the Midnight Killer. I assure you, I am not. This is simply my son’s way of tormenting me.”
“Why would your son want to torment you?” Derek asked.
Ransom focused his weak, watery pale eyes on Derek. “A man does not like to admit such a shameful truth, but…My son hates me. Perhaps with just cause. I never understood him. I tried, but he was too much like Terri. He was willful and disobedient and never appreciated the way of life I offered him.”
“We would like to take you at your word, Mr. Owens,” Maleah said. “But we want you to know that the Powell Agency will be investigating further, so if you could tell us where you were and what you were doing on specific dates—the dates the four victims were killed—we could rule you out as a suspect.”
“I am alone here in my home a great deal of the time,” Ransom told them. “There are days when I see no one. Ramona comes in once or twice a week now, mostly to prepare and freeze meals for