Widow - Anne Stuart [28]
“So what did you think about all that?” he said after a moment, sitting on the stone wall beside her. “You think the old guy was murdered?”
“How would that affect his estate if he was?” she countered.
He was about to say “beats me” when he realized he was supposed to know such things. “Depends on who did it, what the will says, that kind of stuff,” he said instead. “I know that in most countries people can’t profit by a crime, so if you’re his heir and you offed him then you’re shit out of luck.”
She swung her head around to stare at him. “I didn’t kill Pompasse. I hadn’t even seen him for years.”
“And where were you the day he died?”
“In my apartment. As a matter of fact, I spent last week alone in my apartment, no phone calls, no visitors.”
“No alibi?” he said.
“I don’t know. Maybe the doorman saw me. Besides, it doesn’t matter. It was an accidental death—there hasn’t been even a suggestion that it was anything but. Madame Antonella is old and quite…forgetful. It’s ridiculous to pay attention to anything she might say. She likes to be outrageous to get attention. She can’t even remember that Pompasse is dead—how would she know he was murdered?”
“Maybe she knows who did it?” he suggested.
“I think we’d be hearing from the police if there was any suspicion surrounding his death.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” Maguire drawled.
“Anyway, they’ve released the body and he’s already been cremated. If they start thinking that he might have been poisoned or something it’s a little too late to check.”
“Poison? Interesting thought. It’s known as a woman’s weapon.”
“Don’t be sexist, Maguire,” she said with a spark of life. “Frankly, when I look at you I tend to think of a gun rather than poison.”
He resisted his impulse to smile. He liked it when he could get her to fight back. “Do you know how to use a gun?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Pompasse insisted I learn. He said there were too many stalkers, kidnappers and the like who might try to break into the villa. For that matter, what if one of those stalkers or kidnappers killed him? Some random, deranged art collector?”
“Or maybe a deliberate, sane art collector who knew his works would be more valuable once he was dead,” Maguire countered. “But I don’t think Pompasse was killed by a stranger.”
“I don’t think Pompasse was killed at all,” she shot back.
“You don’t think he’s dead?”
Her reaction was fascinating. She shivered in the warm summer night. “He’s dead,” she said in an equally lifeless voice. “I’d know if he wasn’t. I just don’t think he was murdered.”
“Why not? Because it’s inconvenient?”
She turned to look at him, and in the shifting moonlight he could see her golden eyes quite clearly. “Because the police haven’t indicated they have any suspicions,” she said flatly. “And because I don’t want it to be true.”
He’d pushed her far enough, gotten more honesty out of her than he had expected. But then, that was his stock-in-trade, his ability to make people reveal things they’d never usually tell strangers. “Fair enough,” he said. “You look beat. Why don’t you go up to bed? You don’t need to waste your time worrying about this stuff tonight.”
“Damnation!” she said, pushing away from the wall. “I forgot to ask Lauretta to find you another room. It’s too late now.”
“Not a problem. You can sleep in my bed.”
“Maguire…” she said in a warning voice.
“Without me, angel. It’s too damned small a bed, anyway—I like to spread out. You sleep in my room, I’ll spend the night in yours with the ghost of Pompasse lurking beneath the sheets. Imagine the old goat’s reaction when he finds me there instead of you.”
Her soft laugh was reluctant and oddly stirring. “I can’t…”
“Of course you can. It’s your house, at least until the will is read. You’re the widow, after all. You can even wedge a chair under the door handle to make