Clement’s eyebrows went up, but stayed in two straight lines instead of forming V’s the way Mark’s did. He tugged on his ear. “He told you Gordon had a drug addiction.”
I couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question. Which meant I also couldn’t tell if Clement was surprised they’d told me or was surprised because of what they’d told me. “That’s what they said.”
He kept tugging on his ear—enough that I was almost afraid he was going to permanently stretch it out.
He didn’t have to say it now. I knew from Clement’s body language. Leonard Albright lied to me. Gordon hadn’t had a drug addiction. Still, because of what was at stake, I had to hear him confirm it. “Gordon didn’t have a drug problem, did he?”
Clement shook his head.
“Leonard said Gordon stole their mom’s money to fund his drug habit, and that’s why there was nothing left of her estate. Leonard dropped the suit when he found out because Gordon was getting help.”
Clement drew in one of those breaths that said someone was stalling for time. It let me know that his pause wasn’t due to another one of his lapses in concentration. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re sure Gordon didn’t struggle with drugs? Addicts can be good at hiding it.”
“I’ve known addicts before, Ms. Dawes. Physical symptoms, they show eventually. Darlene and I spent twelve hours or more a day with Gordon. Even if I thought my best friend would hide that from me, I don’t think he could. Not if his habit was progressed enough to consume his mother’s entire estate prior to her death.”
That was a reasonable argument. “Then I won’t waste time looking for his drug dealer. What did Gordon tell you happened with the lawsuit?”
“That’s why I don’t understand it. Gordon and Leonard’s mother was so sick near the end of her life that Gordon looked into natural pain remedies to supplement the morphine. From what Gordon told me, her care ate up all her assets.”
Why would Leonard lie to me if that was the case? Had he refused to believe the truth, and so Gordon fed him a lie that would be more acceptable to a counselor?
The only other alternative seemed to be that Gordon had managed to deceive those closest to him about a major drug habit. I tended to agree with Clement that, given how much time they spent together, even a functional drug addict wouldn’t have been able to disguise all the signs. Even Leonard claimed not to have known about it prior to their mother’s death, and yet they’d been close enough that their relational break drew attention. And I had to believe that Gordon’s mother wouldn’t have given him complete control over her finances if she’d suspected anything of the sort.
But if Gordon wasn’t a drug addict, then it left me with one key question I had to answer above anything else related to this case—why had Leonard Albright lied?
12
Before I left, I reminded Clement that I’d set up a psychological and medical forensic evaluation for him. If I figured out that someone else killed Gordon, and had evidence for who that someone was, we wouldn’t need the evaluation results, but I didn’t want to take chances.
I might not be able to prove that someone else had done it with enough certainty to get the case dismissed. I might be able to prove it with enough certainty for Clement and Darlene, though, and in that case, we’d want to fight to the end to minimize Clement’s sentence even if I couldn’t get him acquitted. An evaluation that confirmed his diagnosis and that confusion and hallucinations were possible would help.
Once I was back at my car, I called Chief McTavish and arranged to be let in to Gordon’s house. Since the prosecution went through his home, I was allowed the opportunity as defense counsel as well. The police and prosecutor would have been looking for anything that could implicate Clement. I had to see if I could figure out the truth behind what happened to Gordon’s mother’s money.
Before heading to Gordon’s house, I went by the Fair Haven post office and mailed the letter Clement gave me. It was the first non-business correspondence I’d ever had to mail. With email and texting, I didn’t realize people actually even wrote letters anymore.
Clement was trying to put his affairs in order the way his doctor had suggested, though, and he’d wanted to write a letter thanking the teacher who’d gotten him interested in history. Given the man’s age, Clement suspected he didn’t have email, and it wasn’t like Clement was allowed a lot of phone time in prison.
Clement hadn’t had an address, so I’d had to get the clerk’s help figuring it out. She’d even called over one of Fair Haven’s mailmen. The mailman knew my name because he also delivered to Sugarwood, and I’d left him a bottle of maple syrup in the mailbox at Christmas. The clerk went to my church.
A warm little shiver filled my core. Mark had been right. I was a local now. I belonged. That revelation made me even gladder we’d decided to stay in Fair Haven.
By the time we finished dealing with that single letter, I was running late. Chief McTavish had said he was sending someone to meet me at Gordon’s house right away, and I didn’t want to waste that officer’s time by keeping him or her waiting.
Troy Summoner already stood next to his police cruiser in Gordon Albright’s driveway when I pulled up.
He touched the brim of his hat. “The chief said I need to go in with you.”
I hadn’t expected to be allowed to go in alone—they couldn’t risk a shady defense attorney planting evidence and claiming to have found it. Someone had to corroborate whatever I saw here. Even though I wasn’t dishonest, policy was policy.
I smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave a mess.”
He gave me the staid blink-blink that I took as appreciation of my teasing. He was much too young to be this serious. I’d appreciated it when I was the victim, though. Troy helped the day my dogs were kidnapped, and he took the situation seriously, unlike the first officer who responded—Grady Scherwin. Scherwin was the Fair Haven officer I liked the least.
Troy unlocked the special padlock that was on the door.
Gordon’s house still carried a hint of antiseptic. It hit my nose sharply, and I could almost taste it on the back of my tongue. Not a smell I usually associated with a personal dwelling. It was more heavy-duty-hospital-disinfectant smell.
Troy stayed quiet and trailed behind me as I went from room to room. The bathroom still had a raised seat and handrails alongside the toilet, and the tub had been cut away on the side and a door installed so that a person wouldn’t have to step over the side to get in.
I peeked into the nearest bedroom down the hall. A hospital-style bed that could be raised and lowered electronically and had rails along the side rested where the bed normally would, and a wheelchair lurked in the corner. I wasn’t a medical expert, but the canister attached to the chair looked like oxygen.
According to Maryanne Albright’s obituary, she’d died almost a year ago, not long after my Uncle Stan. That was a long time to keep expensive medical equipment around without reselling it, especially if someone had the level of drug problem Leonard claimed Gordon had. Even if he’d gotten clean shortly after, he likely would have sold the equipment to repay his brother for some of what he’d taken if he was penitent.
I’d been in the house of an addict before. To fund and then pay off his debts from his gambling addiction, Noah had stripped his house bare. Gordon still had a fairly large TV in the living room alongside the medical equipment.
If Leonard’s story sprung any more holes, I could use it as a sieve.
Knowing that didn’t help me, though, unless I could figure out what was really going on between the brothers.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking for?” Troy asked from behind me. “We took the computer out of the house to process if that’s what you want.”
“I’ll ask Chief McTavish for the results.”
I stopped in the doorway of the bedroom and tapped my finger on the frame. Whatever they found on the computer could be useful, but most people kept tax records in paper form. If Gordon had spent his mother’s money on her medical care, he should have tax receipts. Hopefully he knew he was supposed to keep his tax records for seven years post-filing.
“Which room did they take the computer out of?”
