Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [40]
“Planted all those trees?”
“Yes.”
“You do all that over the summer?”
“Yes.”
“You were busy.”
“I had some time on my hands.”
“You take any time off at all?”
“Only to dig another hole,” he told her.
“I noticed the inside of the house was all newly painted, too. And there’s real furniture in the living room.”
“I did that back in June.”
“You fixing the house up to sell it?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I like it here. I want to stay here.”
“It’s a great house, Will. You’ve done wonders with it. Hard to believe it’s that same ramshackle old heap of shingles you bought back when.”
“Thanks.”
The phone in Miranda’s pocket began to ring.
“Cahill . . . yes. Thanks. Give me a minute to find something to write that down.” She disappeared into the house, then returned a few minutes later. “I appreciate the information. Thanks so much . . .”
“Telford PD,” she explained as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket. “I’d asked them to check Unger’s room for a business card from anyone who might be a writer. They found one with the name Joshua Landry on it. Sound familiar?”
“Of course. True-crime writer. Picks up on cold cases and tries to solve them. Does all the talk shows, the morning shows. Made a big splash a year or so ago when he solved an old murder in Wisconsin, then another in Michigan. I have a bunch of his books.”
“Me, too. He’s really good.”
“Agreed. So, he was the writer who came to see Al Unger a few weeks back. Not too tough to figure out what he was interested in. Wonder what his angle was going to be.”
“I think we should ask him.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Should we call, or pay a visit?”
“I think we should speak with him in person.”
“I agree,” Miranda told him. “I’ll call him first just to make sure he’s home today.”
“Where does he live?”
From her pocket Miranda pulled the slip of paper on which she’d written the information given to her by the Telford police.
“New Jersey. Near Princeton.”
“Maybe we can catch an afternoon flight.”
“Last minute on a Saturday? Doubtful. It will take less time to drive.” She dialed Landry’s number and smiled up at Will. “Especially if I drive . . .”
The ride to Joshua Landry’s home wound through several miles of flat farmland outside the Princeton borough limits. Following the directions Landry had given them over the phone, they found his two-hundred-year-old farmhouse at the end of a long lane, guarded by trees splendid in autumn golds and reds and overlooking a small, peaceful pond. Mature woods along the back of the property added yet more color, and a large well-kept barn completed the picture of pastoral serenity. All was as perfectly composed as a painting, and impeccably maintained.
“Who says crime doesn’t pay?” Miranda said dryly as she parked next to a Jeep near the barn.
“He’s sure found a way.” Will got out of the car and stretched the kinks from his long legs. He wished Miranda had fallen in love with a car that had a little more legroom.
“Wow. He’s got, what, twenty, thirty acres here. Pool and pool house out back. Tennis courts over near the barn. Looks like a little guesthouse out there as well. Nice.” Miranda nodded as they walked to the front porch. “Very, very nice.”
Will leaned past her and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, the door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties greeted them. She wore faded jeans and a cornflower-blue sweater that matched her eyes. A haze of blonde hair framed her pretty face.
“Agent Cahill?” the woman asked.
“Yes. This is Agent William Fletcher,” Miranda replied.
“I’m Regan Landry. Please come in. My father is waiting for you in his study.” She smiled and stepped aside to permit her guests to enter, then closed the door behind them. “This way . . .”
They followed her down the hall, over highly polished oak floors upon which lay a well-worn carpet of reds and creams and golds. American primitive artwork flanked the walls on either side, and a huge bouquet of fresh flowers sat on an antique table. The overall impression was one of comfort and quiet wealth.
“Dad, your visitors are here,” Regan announced