What in the world? He’d just said that.
“Knock, knock!” Willow tapped on my door with a big smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but, Nate, we’re scheduled to meet with Jonathan’s team about the audit.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. Ellice, the office looks great! Keep up the good work. Let’s go, Willow.”
What the hell was that? Is he okay? And that whole play-nice-in-the-sandbox-with Max-and-Jonathan bit even though they try to treat me like crap? I was fuming mad. I really hate it when people piss on me and try to convince me it’s raining.
My cell phone rang. I picked it up from the desk, then I nearly dropped it.
The caller ID: Michael Sayles.
Chapter 13
“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.
“Ellice, this is Anna Sayles. Michael’s wife. I found your number on Michael’s cell phone.”
I froze.
“Is this a bad time?” she said.
My stomach churned. “Uh . . . no.”
“I need to talk to you. It’s about Michael and it’s rather urgent. Can you come over?”
“Okay . . . sure. I can stop by after work.” I said, trying to mask my panic.
“No. Like I said, it’s urgent. Can you come now?”
“Well . . . I guess I could take an early lunch. Is everything okay?”
“Let’s just talk when you get here.”
*
Michael’s house was in Buckhead, a lush, hilly old-white-money community that had sprawled across northwest Atlanta to include upscale shopping and a popular spot for celebrity sightings. The entire drive to his house was like some weird excursion into a mistress’s nightmare. How was I supposed to handle the poor distraught widow who suddenly discovered her now dead husband had a side piece? I pulled into the circular drive of the huge French Colonial and cut the car engine. Even in the dormancy of the winter season, the home’s pitched rooflines and lush grounds exuded understated wealth. And despite the size of this house and its tony Buckhead zip code, Michael and his family lived modestly compared to some of the other executives at Houghton.
The thought occurred to me again: Maybe Anna killed Michael. What scornful wife hasn’t dreamed about killing her cheating husband and his mistress, too? I might be walking into some sort of trap. I couldn’t tell whether it was the hammer pounding its way out of my head or the crush of a confrontation with an adulterer’s wife, or maybe my own deplorable behavior in the wake of Michael’s death, but I seriously contemplated starting the engine and getting the hell out of there. But I didn’t. Instead, I planned to give the freshly minted Widow Sayles five minutes and then I’d leave and pretend she never existed.
I slipped out of my car and up the pavestone walkway. A peek through the large bay window into the living room revealed no noticeable activity. I pressed the doorbell and launched a deep melody of chimes that reverberated through the house. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance before the soft pad of feet approached the door.
An elderly woman with small features, blue-gray hair, and a dress in the same shade opened the door. I recognized her from the funeral, sitting in the front row with Anna. “Hello. May I help you?”
“Hi. My name is Ellice Littlejohn. I work . . . uh, worked with Michael . . . at Houghton.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she scoped me. “I’m sorry, Anna’s resting right now. I can—”
“I believe Anna’s expecting me.” I was polite but firm with the old woman.
“I’m sorry. She really needs to rest. Maybe you can come back another time.”
“It’s okay, Momma,” Anna interrupted, walking up from the side of the open door. “Ellice, please come in.” I smiled at the blue-gray woman, sliding past her small frame, as I stepped inside the house. The woman gave me a side-eye, a warning of sorts, before she closed the door and disappeared into the back of the house.
“Here, let me take your coat,” Anna said as she closed the door behind me. I hadn’t planned to stay long enough to be without my coat, but I removed it anyway.
“Thanks.”
She hung it on a nearby hook. “You mentioned this was your lunch break, so I prepared a little something.”
Her hospitality was unsettling. The model southern wife, even now as she was about to confront her dead husband’s mistress. I followed Anna through the house. The kitchen was massive but inviting. The hard edges of the stainless-steel appliances were warmed by the cherrywood cabinetry, and the smell of fresh baked bread wafted through the room. The center island was covered in sandwiches and salads.