“Walter fought Mama in court?” Kara asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“For Donner?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What about Marlie?”
“Oh, he wanted her, too, you bet he did, but Zelda wasn’t having any of it and with Samuel’s money, Walter didn’t have a chance at custody for those kids. He knew Marlie would insist on staying with Zelda, but he thought he could persuade Donner to go with him. Of course that wasn’t going to happen.” She let out a snort. “Don’t get me wrong, Walter’s a good man. Served his country, works hard and does well enough for himself as an electrician, even got into electronics, but compared to your father? It’s no contest.”
She let out a sigh. “They were good kids, you know. Not like Sam’s boys. Oh, the older one, the namesake, he was okay, I guess, but Jonas? Mean. From the get-go.”
Faiza had always blamed Jonas for the murders, but she didn’t dwell on it now. Instead, she abruptly changed the subject. “So are you coming home?”
Home to Faiza was the house in the West Hills, the mansion where Kara had spent the first eight years of her life, where Faiza and Roger had resided since the killings, the place from which Kara had retreated, preferring to stay with Merritt Margrove and his second wife, Helen. Kara had avoided the huge, rambling estate with its Tudor-like house and magnificent view of the city.
“No, Faiza. I live here,” Kara asserted. “In Whimstick. And I’ll go back to my own house soon.”
“Oh, Kara, this is your home,” her aunt argued. “You belong here.”
Never. Kara was never going back.
“And soon . . . well, after your birthday, you’ll actually own it.”
“With Jonas,” she said succinctly, and Faiza drew in a quick breath.
“Not if he’s incarcerated again. There’s a distinct clause in the will that forbids any of Samuel’s children from inheriting if they’re using drugs or imprisoned.”
Kara wasn’t surprised that her aunt knew about the estate inside and out and though she hadn’t understood it as a child, she’d later realized Faiza, with the help of Roger Sweeney, was skimming off Kara’s inheritance, as had, according to Jonas, Merritt Margrove.- All of it was a bitter pill to swallow.
“I want to see you,” Faiza said suddenly, her voice audibly brightening. “How about I throw you a birthday party?”
“What? No! Are you serious?” The last thing Kara wanted was any more attention drawn to her. “No.”
“You could use a little fun in your life, Kara. And really, so could I, not to mention Roger!”
“Forget it,” Kara said. “Look, I have to go. I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. My friend needs his phone back.” And before Faiza could argue, Kara ended the connection and decided she needed a drink.
*
Thomas scanned the statements again, made a few notes to himself and by the time Johnson arrived with a crowd of coworkers, dawn had broken and Thomas had located Chad Atwater, who was a ski instructor on Mount Hood, and Silas Dean, who, now retired, was a snowbird, living the winter months in Scottsdale, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix, and the summers in Bend, the largest town in central Oregon. He’d expected that Dean was down south but had called and found out that he was actually in the area, back in Oregon to spend the Christmas holidays with his son and grandchildren, who lived in Hood River. Silas had already been here for a week and though Bend was in central Oregon, it wasn’t that far from Margrove’s cabin, two hours or so depending on traffic and road conditions.
A possibility.
Thomas was ready to roll.
Johnson barely had time to sit down at her desk when he’d approached. “I’m heading back to the hospital,” he said, “then I want to go over Margrove’s office. After that I want to talk to Silas Dean, Faiza Donner and Chad Atwater. So far, I haven’t been able to scare up Kara McIntyre, but if we locate her, she goes to the top of the list.”
“Whoa . . . hold on a sec. I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” Johnson said around a yawn. She wasn’t a morning person, Thomas knew that, but he also knew she worked extra hours, often late into the night, around her son’s schedule.
“We’ll get it on the way.”
“Fine. Give me ten minutes to check email and catch up.”
“You got it.”
They met in the parking lot and with Thomas at the wheel and under the gunmetal-gray sky eased through traffic and a drive-through coffee kiosk five blocks from Whimstick General. By the time he parked in the hospital lot, Johnson was halfway through her latte and in a much better mood.