“I guess you could ask Keaton’s wife, Penelope,” Gladys said. “She probably knows who took care of the adoption.”
“Does she still live in Huntland?”
“She’s in Winchester now,” Chester said. “Lives over on North High in one of those fancy historic homes. She was never the friendly type. I doubt she’ll want to talk to you.”
“Unless,” Gladys said with a scowl, “there’s something in it for her.” She sniffed. “That’s just her way,” she added as if attempting to temper her unkind words.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the boy or his parents?”
“Just odd,” Chester said. “Not necessarily bad, mind you—just plain old odd. Like I said, for the most part they kept to themselves.”
“Thank you so much for your time and the tea.” Finley stood, anticipation roaring in her ears. She had to find that cop’s wife.
Gladys walked her to the door. “Good luck, hon. I hope you find whatever it is you need.”
Finley thanked her. Far more than luck would be required, she imagined, to find the answers she needed. But she had to try.
Keaton Residence
North High Street
Winchester, 2:30 p.m.
Google hadn’t given her much about Joe Keaton or his wife, Penelope, but she had learned when they’d purchased the historic home and how much it had cost. Only a few months after the murders, and it cost far more than a cop could afford on a small-town salary.
She had a feeling about what had happened to the baby girl, and it was more like a sale than an adoption. She also suspected the money and other items missing from the Holmes house had gone toward the purchase price of this property.
Penelope had never remarried or held a job. She lived well on her husband’s retirement and the large insurance payout she’d received when he was killed on the job.
That was the other interesting aspect. Keaton had transferred from Huntland to Winchester a couple of years after the murders. Then, ten years later he was shot in his cruiser while eating his lunch. No one witnessed the shooting. There hadn’t been any body cams in the Winchester Police Department nearly two decades ago. His murder remained unsolved.
Finley rang the doorbell. The yapping that followed was from a tiny white dog that stood in a window staring out at her.
The door opened, and Penelope Keaton considered Finley. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Finley O’Sullivan, and I’m trying to locate the daughter of Wanda and Douglas Holmes.”
Penelope flinched at the name. Panic widened her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about that family. I’m afraid I can’t help—”
Before she could say more, Finley rushed on, “This is concerning an estate that has been left to her, and there’s a substantial reward for whomever helps me find her.”
The panic faded. “An estate? I was under the impression there was no extended family.”
So much for her not knowing anything about the family.
“I suppose that’s what everyone thought,” Finley said, running with her cover story. “Apparently Wanda had fallen out with her family when she married Douglas, and they lost touch. Her mother recently passed away, and my firm has the task of finding the heirs. Since Wanda died, that leaves no one but her children. We’ve located the son, but he knows nothing of what happened to his sister.”
Worry surfaced in Penelope’s eyes, and her posture stiffened. “I’m not sure I can help you. It’s been a long time.”
“Any help you can provide would be greatly appreciated, and as I said, there is a substantial reward.”
Penelope blinked. “I can certainly try, but I can’t make any promises.” Her words were tentative.
Ah, money. There was never enough.
“I’d really hate for her to be left out of her inheritance.”
“Leave me your name and number,” Penelope said, “and I’ll let you know if I can find out what became of her. I remember my husband said she was adopted privately, but I don’t know the details. My husband passed away, so . . .” She shrugged.
There she went, laying whatever happened at her dead husband’s feet. Finley withdrew a business card from her bag and passed it to the lady.
“Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Finley walked to her Subaru, climbed in, and drove around the block. Then she parked a short distance from the Keaton home to watch. Penelope Keaton wouldn’t wait long before making some sort of move to earn that substantial reward. Being a cop’s wife, she likely knew better than to use the phone or email to make that move.