“Yeah?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Betsy Norman.”
“That’s my mom. She’s not here. She’s at work.”
“I need to speak to her. Could you tell me where she is?”
“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“My name’s J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator from Seattle,” I told him. “Who are you?”
“Noah.”
“It’s not a big deal, Noah,” I assured him. “I just need to ask her a few questions.”
“Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“No, I want to speak to her about one of her patients from years ago.”
Noah looked relieved. “You could call her, I guess,” he said. “Do you have her number?”
I did, but I decided to let him help. “Not on me,” I said.
He gave me the number, and I keyed it into my phone.
“But she’s really not in any trouble?”
“None at all, Noah. Thanks for your help.”
I dialed the number on my way back to the car. The call went to voice mail. “This is Betsy Norman. I’m either on the phone or doing patient rounds. Leave your name and number. I’ll get back to you.”
I left my name and number. “Where to next?” Twink asked.
I gave her Jim Brixton’s address on East Danview Avenue. For the first time ever, Twink was stumped and had to dial up Siri on her iPhone to get directions. We didn’t talk much as we drove from the first house to the second. I was still preoccupied with what was going on with Mel.
We pulled up in front of the Brixton residence just as a late-model Lexus entered the driveway and parked in the attached garage. A man, a woman, and three kids exited the vehicle. They were all dressed up as though they’d just come from church—Mass, most likely. The woman and the kids went on into the house. As I exited the Travelall, the man came walking up to me with a puzzled expression on his face.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Jim Brixton,” I said.
“That would be me. Who are you?”
“My name’s J. P. Beaumont,” I explained. “I’m a private investigator from Seattle. I’d like to ask you a question about one of your clients.”
“Which client?”
“Roger Adams.”
“Do you have any ID?”
I presented my ID wallet and passed along a business card as well.
“Has something happened to Roger?” he asked, handing the wallet back to me. “Is he all right?”
“As far as I know,” I answered. “At least at the moment.”
Brixton frowned. “Then why . . . ?”
I cut him off in midsentence. “I’m doing some work for Roger’s daughter, Danitza. I understand you did a change of beneficiary on a life-insurance policy for Mr. Adams last summer and that Nitz is now the owner and beneficiary of a half-million-dollar policy on her father’s life.”
“That’s correct,” Brixton said, “but if you already know that . . .”
“Mr. Adams and his daughter have been estranged for a number of years. Would you be able to tell me what triggered this action on his part, this sudden change of heart?”
“Mr. Beaumont, my dealings with my clients are confidential, and—”
I ignored his objection. “Before you made the change,” I asked, “was Mr. Adams’s current wife, Shelley, the previous beneficiary?”
Brixton gave me an exasperated sigh. “Yes, she was,” he replied resignedly.
“Do you know if she’s aware that she’s no longer listed as the beneficiary on that policy?”
“I have no idea what Roger might or might not have shared with her, and I don’t understand—”
“When you came to his office to do the paperwork, did he mention if he and Shelley were having any kind of marital difficulties?”
“This is outrageous,” Brixton objected. “I really can’t answer these kinds of questions. As I said, dealings between my clients and me are private transactions.”
The fact that he was trying to avoid answering my questions provided more information than might have come from straight answers. I was reasonably sure that Shelley Loveday Adams was up to her old tricks by cheating on this husband the same way she had cheated on her previous one, and Roger was finally beginning to catch on.
“When did you execute that change order?” I asked.