Double Take - Catherine Coulter [54]
He turned right from Filbert, and in the next minute he turned his Audi onto Wallace Tammerlane’s wide driveway. “Dear God in heaven, a double garage in San Francisco,” Cheney said. “That alone has got to make this place worth big bucks.”
“Probably.”
“Julia, I know he’s your friend, that you care about him, but be watchful—you know his body language, his expressions, okay?”
She gave him a look, then nodded.
As he walked her to the front door of the flamboyant three-story Victorian, he said, “Just jump in when and if you think it’s appropriate.”
He was including her, really including her. She gave him a blazing smile.
CHAPTER 26
Aman dressed entirely in starched black answered the buzzer. He stood squarely in the middle of the doorway. Good grief, a butler?
"Yes? May I help you?”
"I’m Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, and this is Mrs. Julia Ransom. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Tammerlane.”
“I know who Mrs. Ransom is. You’re looking well, Mrs. Ransom. Let me say I am relieved that you’re looking well. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
“Nice to see you, Ogden.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about all this misery, Mrs. Ransom.”
They were shown into a Victorian living room, stuffed with hundred-year-old dark Victorian furniture, down to elaborately crocheted antimacassars spread over the backs of the twin sofas and chairs. The walls were covered in dark red silk flocked wallpaper. Doodads, the term Cheney’s father used for all the knickknacks his mother displayed in their living room at home, were everywhere—dozens of little carved wooden animals that looked vaguely African, and scores of tiny teacups and saucers, doubtless at least as old as or older than the furniture, covering the shelves of glass cabinets. Cheney didn’t see a speck of dust.
Old portraits marched up and down one entire wall, all of them showing nurses and soldiers from what looked to be the Crimean War. There didn’t seem to be any family photos or portraits.
“Good morning, Julia, Agent Stone.”
Julia turned, let him hug her. “Hello, Wallace. Thank you for seeing us.”
Wallace Tammerlane smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Julia. I couldn’t very well say no, now could I? I’m worried about you, about this maniac trying to kill you. You do know, don’t you, that I had nothing at all to do with these attempts on your life—that I know nothing about them?”
“Of course, Wallace. Agent Stone is now looking again into August’s murder, and he needs to speak to everyone.”
Wallace nodded. “I will do what I can to help. Agent Stone, I understand why you wish to speak to everyone again about August’s murder. But let me say, you may be wasting your time. I don’t know anything, nothing at all.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tammerlane,” Cheney said easily. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything.”
“I should hope not! Sit down. Julia, would you care for anything to drink?”
She shook her head. They sat. Wallace Tammerlane, however, moved to stand by the ornate fireplace, and leaned against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. Cheney couldn’t see a single strand of gray in the inky black hair on his head. He wondered if he dyed it. When he’d met the man yesterday he’d thought he was about fifty, but now, he looked to be about a decade older. He looked tired, but still his dark eyes seemed almost terrifyingly alive and focused. What did those eyes see that he couldn’t see? Ghosts? Dead people? Aunt Marge’s lost wedding ring?
He was focusing those eyes on Cheney’s face, as if memorizing what he saw, and looking deeper. It was a creepy feeling, Cheney thought, and a bit frightening because the man acted as if he knew about hidden things, things burrowed deep inside Cheney that even he didn’t know about or remember.
He was dressed all in white this morning, in sharp contrast to his black-clad butler. He had the look of a European aristocrat, lean and long and ineffably bored, except for those eyes.
“What is it you wish to know, Agent Stone?”
“What’s your butler’s name?”
“My what? Oh, Ogden. His name is Ogden Poe, always