Honeymoon

Chapter 29

I’D JUST CLEANED the lens of my digicam for the third time in twenty minutes.

In between, I counted the number of stitches on the leather steering wheel (312), reprogrammed the position of my driver’s seat (up a scooch and angled a tad more forward), and learned once and for all the optimal pressure for the kind of tires I had on the BMW 330i (thirty PSI in the front, thirty-five in the back, said the manual in the glove compartment).

Boredom had officially set in.

Maybe I should’ve called her first. No, I decided. The introduction had to be in person. Face-to-face. Even at the risk of my butt falling asleep while waiting there in my car.

If I’d known this was going to turn into a stakeout, I would’ve brought doughnuts. Dunkin’s, Krispy Kreme’s, 7-Eleven’s, anybody’s.

Where is she?

Ten minutes later I watched from across Central Drive as a bright red Mercedes convertible pulled into the late Connor Brown’s circular driveway. It stopped in front, and out she came.

Nora Sinclair. And I guess that I should add, Wow.

She bent from the waist and reached into what passed for the backseat and removed a bag of groceries. By the time she was fiddling with the keys to the house, I was halfway across the lawn.

I called out. “Excuse me… Uhm, excuse me!”

She turned around. Her all-black outfit from the funeral was now a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt. The sunglasses were the same. The hair looked great—thick, lustrous, chestnut brown. I repeat myself, but—wow.

Finally I was standing right in front of her. I cautioned myself not to overdo the accent. “Are you Nora Sinclair, by any chance?”

Sunglasses or no sunglasses, I could tell she was sizing me up. “That depends, I suppose. Who are you?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself first.” I extended my hand. “I’m Craig Reynolds.”

Nora shuffled the groceries in her arms and we shook. “Hello,” she said, her voice still guarded. “You’re Craig Reynolds—and…?”

I reached into my suit jacket and clumsily removed a business card. “I’m with Centennial One Life Insurance,” I said, handing her the card. She looked at it. “I’m very sorry about your loss.”

She softened a bit. “Thank you.”

“So, you are Nora Sinclair, right?”

“Yes, I’m Nora.”

“I assume you must have been very close to Mr. Brown.”

So much for her softening up to me. Her tone was wary again. “Yes, we were engaged. Now, please, what is this about?”

It was my turn to show a little confusion. “You mean, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

I paused for a moment. “About the insurance policy on Mr. Brown. One point nine million dollars, to be exact.”

She stared at me blankly. I expected no less.

“Then I gather you also don’t know this, Ms. Sinclair,” I said. “You’re listed as the sole beneficiary.”