What the Hatmaker Heard. Sandra Bretting
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“Yes?” The man finally dredged his gaze away from the tumbler.
“Why don’t you take a seat over there.” Lance nodded to the small sofa, which had been getting more than its fair share of use this morning.
It wasn’t a question, and he grudgingly moved to the wicker seat. As soon as he reached it, he practically fell onto the plaid cushion, the drink sloshing over the cup’s side, while I perched on a nearby armchair. Only Lance stood, and he slowly withdraw a small notepad from his back pocket.
“I…I can’t believe this has happened,” Mr. Carmichael’s voice was thick. “What…where…how?” He looked so pained, the creases on his forehead deepening with every word.
“It’s okay.” I leaned toward him. “Lance will explain everything.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Miss…”
I was about to respond when something stopped me. His breath reeked of alcohol. He’d only had time to take a quick sip of his drink, so he must’ve arrived at the sunroom already tipsy.
My first instinct was to lean away. My second was to glance at Lance, who didn’t notice my discomfort.
“That’s Missy DuBois.” Lance answered the man’s question. “She went with the groundskeeper this morning to look for your son. Unfortunately, they found him, only it was at the bottom of a water tower.”
“Oh, my God. Don’t tell me he’d been beaten.”
“No, that’s not it.” I quickly stole another glance at Lance. Of all the other things for someone to focus on, I didn’t expect a beating to be the first one. “To be honest, it looked like he was only sleeping.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Mr. Carmichael sounded relieved. “I just knew something like this was going to happen to him. I warned that boy and warned that boy, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” He slowly drew his hand across his mouth, although it did nothing to staunch the smell. “How many times can you tell someone something before you finally give up?”
“What did you want him to stop, Mr. Carmichael?” Lance paused his notetaking to study the groom’s father.
“Stop with the gambling, of course.” Once again, his fingers trembled next to his mouth, just like Buck’s had done when he gave Lorelei the drink.
“So, your son had a gambling problem?” Lance asked.
“Please call me Foster, and, yes, my son was addicted to gambling.”
“That’s too bad. What did he play?”
“You name it, he’d bet on it. It all started with fantasy football in law school. Apparently, Yale has quite an active fantasy football league. Wesley made a lot of money…at first. Enough that he thought about becoming a sports attorney when he graduated.”
“Interesting,” Lance said. “And did he? Go into that type of law, I mean.”
“No, he didn’t.” Foster’s expression darkened once more. “He never graduated, as a matter of fact. He lost everything at the racetrack in his last year at school. The tuition, his trust fund…all of it. A million dollars, right down the drain.”
“Wow.” My mind reeled. To think someone could blow through a million dollars in one year’s time was mindboggling.
“Did your son gamble right up to his death?” Lance spoke quietly but firmly. He was a master at walking the fine line between being too direct and not direct enough.
“Well, I was hoping he’d quit. His mother seemed to think he did. Lorelei, too. She was so good to him. She still agreed to marry him, even when she found out what a mess he’d made of his life.”
Which reminded me of something else. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael, but I couldn’t help but notice Lorelei’s engagement ring yesterday. It’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. How in the world did Wesley manage to buy a five-carat diamond if he lost all his money?”
Normally, I wouldn’t dream of asking such a personal question, but this was not a normal weekend. As far as I was concerned, all bets were off when it came to a police investigation, and I could—and often did—ask the most impolite questions.
“It was a family heirloom. My great-great-grandmother’s. Since Wesley was my only son, he automatically got the ring.”
“And you said his fiancée knew about his gambling problem?” Lance asked.
“She found out about a year ago. Of course, she wondered when he didn’t take the Louisiana Bar Examination after law school, like his friends did. That was when he had to admit he never graduated.”
“That’s enough, Foster.” A woman’s shrill voice sliced the air.
We all turned at the sound. An older woman stood near the door to the sunroom, her arms folded tightly. It was the woman who’d fainted earlier, the one I’d assumed was Wesley’s mother.
“He’s going to find out anyway, Violet.” Foster didn’t even turn. He remained slumped in his seat, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
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