She sighed. What a wonderful way to go.
THIRTY
ISABEL WASN’T A SUPERSTITIOUS PERSON, AND SHE DIDN’T GET SPOOKED EASILY, BUT
walking into Walter MacCarthy’s office she felt as though she were entering Satan’s waiting room.
The walls were painted a garish red, which would have been okay, she supposed, except for the large painting of a clown with a freakishly manic grin on his face hanging on the wall. Looking around she noticed the other clowns, too. There was a clown coffee mug and two small stone statues of clowns being used as paperweights on MacCarthy’s desk. Large clown bookends sat on a shelf against the wall, and a clown key chain dangled from a hook next to a large paper shredder.
When Isabel was a little girl, clowns frightened her, but now that she was an adult they just creeped her out.
She and Michael had arrived for their appointment with Gladstone a half hour early. Sinclair had notified them that he had secured a search warrant and would be looking through MacCarthy’s personal records. Michael was hoping he could help. Client files were off limits . . . unless Gladstone was MacCarthy’s partner. Then he could look through those papers. Michael would soon find out.
The law offices were in an old two-story stone building. Only the first floor was occupied. They were greeted warmly by Nessie, a plump middle-aged woman wearing a blue knit cardigan over a floral blouse. Her cropped brown hair was swept back on both sides and held by simple black barrettes, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She sat behind a desk in the middle of the reception area.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Gladstone isn’t here yet,” she told them apologetically.
“We wanted to have time to talk to Inspector Sinclair first, perhaps take a look at Mr.
MacCarthy’s office ourselves,” Michael explained.
Her smile faded and was replaced with a worried frown. “Oh yes, Inspector Sinclair,” she said.
“He and one of his officers are upstairs. He has a search warrant and is going through Mr.
MacCarthy’s personal things. I’m not quite sure what they’re looking for, but I think I heard one of them say something about a contract for murder.” Shaking her head and raising her hand to her chest she added, “I must not have heard that right.”
Nessie then pointed out that MacCarthy’s office was on her left, and Gladstone’s office was on her right. There was a third office behind her that wasn’t occupied. Down a short hall there were stairs that led to the second floor, which was used for storage.
“There are boxes and boxes of Mr. MacCarthy’s personal papers stored in plastic containers up there,” she said. “Some of them go back ten, fifteen years. The man never threw anything away until recently. The last couple of weeks before he died, he got into a shredding frenzy. I’m not sure why,”
she admitted. “It’s going to take the inspector and his team a long time to go through everything.” She pointed up to the ceiling. “You’ll find him up there now.”
While Michael had gone up to talk to Sinclair, Isabel stayed behind and slipped into MacCarthy’s office. As she stood there gazing around the room, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person would feel comfortable in such a bizarre environment. She also thought it might be a good idea to get a tetanus shot before she touched anything.
MacCarthy’s proclivity for hair-raising art was disturbing, but the appalling condition of his office was disgusting. The man was a slob. There were papers stacked everywhere. The piles on the floor were so high, one pile of papers had spilled down into another pile, which spilled into another and another, mimicking the domino effect. The room appeared to have been ransacked, which is what Isabel had concluded until Nessie walked in to join her and explained it was always disheveled.
“I begged him to let the cleaners in, but he didn’t want anyone moving his files around. He swore he knew where everything was in the clutter. All those stacks by the window are to be shredded. I’ve been helping him get it done.”
“I doubt he could find anything in this mess,” Isabel remarked.
“That rug under his desk hasn’t been vacuumed or swept in years, and the air is so stale. When Inspector Sinclair arrived, he let me open the door to the reception area, but I didn’t dare open any windows. Paper would be flying everywhere.”
“MacCarthy’s decorating choices were certainly different,” Isabel said, tilting her head toward the clown monstrosity on the wall. The painting was huge, and the clown’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room, and that, she decided, went way beyond creepy.