Page 57 of Murder Will Out
Catherine and Willow’s eyes met, kicking off a new burst of laughter. Nick, looking frustrated, demanded, “What?”
The two women dissolved again. Nick rolled his eyes, trying to keep from laughing. “God, what are you two, twelve? I thought guys were supposed to be the immature ones about this kind of thing.” He paused, suddenly serious. “Did they see you?” he asked Willow.
She nodded, and the hilarity faded. “They did. Or at least Naomi did.” She reached across and grabbed Nick’s wrist. “Hank knows. He knows where Catherine was today. If he doesn’t know exactly what she’s found, he at least suspects. And he came over and threatened us after you left.”
Willow’s face hardened as she came to the next, inevitable conclusion. “It’s what was missing. The link between someone whowants the property Geralt was determined to acquire, and someone with the kind of access to Geralt that would make poisoning him not only possible but easy. Hank probably reasoned that he could make buckets of money if Naomi were to inherit, all the more if he has even a dubious claim to the lineage himself—and I’d bet you anything she hasn’t told him Geralt was broke. Hank sets himself up as the last Cameron heir, while Naomi poisons Geralt.”
Catherine’s eyes widened. “Which means the last thing left in the way of their happily ever after is… Patricia.”
The three of them stared at each other.
From the corner of her eye, Willow saw Naomi step out of the back hallway and walk hastily through the restaurant, casting a terrified look in their direction. Nick murmured, “You stall her; I’m heading to the back to see if I can find Hank. He either slipped out the rear door or he’s still there.”
Willow nodded. She slid from the booth and followed Naomi to the door of the restaurant, catching her elbow before she could open it. Naomi whirled to face her, wrenching her arm away. She jabbed a pointing finger at Willow’s face. “Don’t. Just don’t—not a word. Go ahead, tell all your friends so they can post on their socials about that slut Naomi Talbot, who came from nothing and isn’t good enough to occupy space in their precious puritanical polo-shirts-and-boat-shoes island community. But you have no right to judge me, and it’s none of your business who I spend my time with—”
Willow swatted her hand away. “Naomi, are you serious? Hank Ramsey?”
Naomi had the grace to look abashed. “All right, so he’s no Prince Charming. But he’s fun, and he makes me feel gorgeous, and he—”
“He wanted your husband dead so he could have a clearer path to claiming Cameron House and turning the property into a golf course and hotel.” Willow’s voice was cold and cutting.
Naomi stopped. “What? Please, he’s got plenty of hotels already. Besides, he’s in the Cameron family line himself; he can do what he wants—”
“He’s not. He’s not, and he knows it. He made it all up. It looks okay on the surface, but the minute you scratch deeper, it’s obviously garbage,” Willow said. “Has he shown you any proof? Ask him for proof. He doesn’t have any.”
Naomi’s face clouded. “Geralt wanted the house to stay in the family. I thought—if Hank is family, then…”
“Then you can not only honor your late husband’s last wishes but more easily move on to the next old rich guy on the island and keep living in the manner you have become accustomed to. And the fact that this old rich guy is married won’t stand in your way.”
“Oh, please,” Naomi scoffed, “I’m not planning to marry Hank. I was just—” She looked, suddenly anxious, at Willow. “He’s not a Cameron? It’s all a lie?”
Willow nodded. “It’s a lie. He lied to you about the Cameron fortune, like I’m guessing you lied to him about coming into millions from your dead husband.” Naomi looked abashed, and Willow knew she’d struck home. For an instant, Willow almost felt sorry for her; then she remembered Geralt, his weakness and terror, the bleak despair and confusion as he vomited on the floor, and all pity went away. “But it’s over. You guys blew it. I hope you like prison.”
Naomi started. “You hope we… what?” Understanding hit her. “Oh my God, you think I—we—killed Geralt.” Then the next realization came. “And tried to kill Patricia?” She backed away from Willow, shaking her head in terrified denial.
“Didn’t you?” Willow spat. “It makes perfect sense. The minute we look at the two of you together, it becomes obvious. Everyone gets what they want. Except Geralt, who is now dead, and his family’s house about to be sold to a bloodthirsty developer. Buthe was old and a creep, so who cares about what he wanted?” Willow’s voice was bitter.
Naomi’s head was still moving back and forth. “No. No, I would never do that. Hank would never do that. He’s a bit of an operator, but he wouldn’t… I’m sure he wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off.
This was unexpected. Willow had anticipated carefully planned denials, proactively offered alibis, and at least some more polished and indignant protestations, but Naomi gave the appearance of being genuinely upset. And Willow didn’t think Naomi Talbot was that good an actor. She had shown defensive hostility about being caught banging Hank in the broom closet, but when accused of murder, the woman seemed frightened and shocked.
Was Naomi’s only crime her abhorrent taste in men?
Was the young widow beginning to realize the danger she might face, far beyond newspaper headlines and social media cancellation?
A horn honked outside, loudly, aggressively. Naomi recoiled a little at the sound. There was a new resolve on her face as she pulled a thick envelope out of her purse. Her voice was hurried. “Look, my allegiance all along was to Geralt; you know that. So maybe I thought I could have my cake and eat it too—let Hank inherit the house and ride the wake of that for a while until I could get myself set up financially. But if he’s—” She stopped; Willow could all but see the wheels turning.
The horn honked again, more insistently.
When Naomi turned back to Willow, there was new resolve in her face. She held out the envelope. “Look. I don’t know if this makes any difference at all, but you should have this.”
Curiously, Willow took the envelope and looked at the return address: Downeast Investigation Services.
Naomi said, “Geralt hired a private investigator. He was helping your godmother, trying to track down living Cameron descendants.The guy’s preliminary report came this afternoon, and—well, it doesn’t change anything about the house or the situation we’re in now, but I feel like you have a right to know what he learned.” She leaned closer. “Make sure you’re alone when you read it. And don’t tell anyone you don’t absolutely trust.” Before Willow could respond, Naomi had slipped out the door.
Willow waited an instant too long before following; she stepped outside in time to see Naomi slip into another vintage car, this one bright blue, with Hank behind the wheel. The man gave Willow a sly, knowing grin, kicked the car into gear, and squealed away just as Nick rounded the corner of the restaurant.
“Son of a—” The tall officer scowled as he joined Willow, panting a little. “He gave me the slip—literally. I almost fell on my face.”
