The Angel. Carla Neggers
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motioned for her to go ahead of him up Sarakis’s front walk. “It’s your investigation,” he said.
Ignoring his sarcasm, Abigail took in her surroundings. The brick walkway was chipped. The front door needed a fresh coat of its dark green paint. The iron railing was loose on the steps. She had no cause to look into Sarakis’s finances yet, but she wondered if eccentricity explained the run-down condition of his place. Everything sagged or was in need of scraping, paint, a good carpenter. A termite inspection wouldn’t hurt, either.
She took note of the full attic, one-story sunroom and attached two-car garage. “What do you think, Bob—five, six bedrooms?”
“At least, except they won’t all be bedrooms. No wife, no kids. Retired at fifty. He’ll have a library, a game room, a dead-animal room—you know, to display stuffed birds and deer heads.”
“Think he was a hunter?”
“Didn’t have to be.”
From her years working with Bob, Abigail knew he wasn’t being literal. He was sizing up Victor Sarakis as a moderately wealthy, eccentric loner who probably had serious amateur interests—ones that probably didn’t include gardening, she thought as she noted the dandelions, crabgrass and bare spots that dominated the small front lawn. His was definitely the ugly duckling house on the street.
She rang the doorbell, the faint sound of a ding inside the house telling her it worked.
“Tomorrow’s the summer solstice,” Bob said next to her, as if that explained an unusual death in the Boston Public Garden.
Abigail glanced back at him. “Don’t start that again. The summer solstice is a happy time. Lots of sun, flowers, bonfires, dancing.”
“Too much daylight, people go nuts. They can’t take it. Brings out the worst in them.”
She had no idea if he was serious.
“I know what’s eating me,” he said simply. “The summer solstice, and my crazy niece chasing fairies in Ireland. You, though. What’s going on with you?”
“What’s going on is that I’m trying to do my job, and you’re here interfering.”
“That’s not what’s going on. You’re used to me interfering. You know you don’t have to be here. You’re letting a straightforward death investigation consume you.”
“What was Sarakis doing that close to the water? It must have been raining when he ended up in the lagoon.” She knew she’d said lagoon instead of pond just to get on Bob’s nerves. He deserved it. “You’d think he’d have stuck to the walks and gotten to shelter as fast as possible.”
“Maybe he was feeding the pigeons.”
Just as she reached for the bell again, the door opened. A trim man with close-cropped graying hair stood on the threshold, looking tired, grim. He wore neatly pressed slacks and a loose-fitting silky sweater. From his expression, Abigail guessed he already knew who they were, but she showed him her badge and introduced herself and Bob.
“I’m Jay Augustine, Victor’s brother-in-law.” He stood back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Augustine,” Abigail said.
“Thank you.” He waited for her and Bob to enter the foyer, then shut the door. “Why don’t we talk in the sunroom—”
“That’d be fine,” Abigail said.
He led them down a center hall. From what she could see, the interior of the house was immaculate and tastefully decorated, a decided contrast to the ratty exterior. They went through an elegant dining room into a small, adjoining room with windows on three sides and French doors that opened onto a brick terrace. Abigail noticed Bob was paying attention, taking in every detail—habit from years on the job, she thought, if not any real interest in her case.
Jay Augustine stood in the middle of the sunroom as if he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Victor spent a great deal of time in here. It’s the only casual room in the house. He—” Augustine’s voice cracked, and he paused, clearing his throat. “Every room in the house is crammed with his various collections. Except this one. Funnily enough, he spent most of his time in here.”
“What did he collect?” Abigail asked.
“My brother-in-law had many interests and the time and money to indulge them. He went all over the world. My wife and I are dealers in fine art and antiques, but Victor bought most of the pieces you see here on his travels. He lived a full life, Detective Browning. That’s at least some consolation.”
Abigail didn’t respond.
“Well.” Augustine took in a breath. “You’re homicide detectives, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “It’s routine to conduct an investigation when—”
“When a man trips and falls in the Boston Public Garden?”
She noted the slightest edge to his tone. “Where do you and your wife live, Mr. Augustine?”
“We have a home in Newton. Our showroom is in Boston, on Clarendon Street.”
“When did you last see your brother-in-law?”
“I stopped by two weeks ago. Charlotte—that’s my wife—was with me, but I can’t speak for her. She may have seen Victor since then. They were close, but they didn’t live in each other’s pockets.”
Bob walked over to the French doors and looked out at the terrace, as run-down as the front of the house. “Where’s Mrs. Augustine now?” he asked.
“In Boston at our showroom,” Jay said. “It’s quiet there. Most of our business is done by appointment. She’s having a difficult time. Victor was such a vital presence in our lives. I actually met Charlotte through him. We’ve only been married two years… I’d located an Italian Renaissance tapestry Victor had been looking for. He was different, as you can see for yourselves, but he was a good man.”
“Where were you the night your brother-in-law died?” Abigail asked.
“In New York on business. Charlotte was at home.” He swallowed visibly, then nodded to the terrace. “Victor had been talking about hiring a yard service and getting repairs done on the house. He’d had complaints from neighbors. He wasn’t angry. He was aware that he was oblivious to things like peeling paint, chipped shutters and weeds. He just didn’t care, provided the house was keeping out the elements and his collections were protected.”
Bob started to pace, a sign he was getting impatient. Abigail moved back toward the dining room, noticed a knee-high wooden elephant, ornate silver, an array of Asian masks, a huge, colorfully painted bowl in the middle of the table. She’d never been one for a lot of antiques and collectibles around her.
“My wife and I are busy, Detective,” Jay Augustine said behind her. “We had no warning—we’re dealing with our shock as best we can. I could take the time to show you around, but I don’t see what point it would serve.”
At that point, neither did Abigail. Augustine ducked past her, and she and Bob followed him back out to the hall.
“What do you and your wife do now?” Bob asked.
Jay seemed surprised by the question. “Now? Oh, you mean with this house and Victor’s collections. He left a will, thank heaven. Charlotte is meeting with the attorney tomorrow.”
Bob bent over slightly and peered at a parade of statues of giraffes on a console. “Guess he collected giraffes, huh? Is your wife his sole next of kin?”
“Yes. Victor never married.”
“Did he keep good records of what he owned?”
“Not particularly.”
“He have anything a museum