Widow’s Walk

CHAPTER SIXTY

Larson Graff denied that he knew Felton Shawcross, denied that he had introduced Mary Toricelli to Nathan Smith, denied that he had anything to fear, and insisted therefore that he was not afraid. I didn’t believe any of it.

“Do me one favor,” I said. “If a man named Felton Shawcross, whom you don’t know, shows up, or calls and wants to see you, lock your doors and call me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Graff said.

His face was pale and tight and his mouth moved stiffly when he spoke. I gave him my card.

“Of course it is,” I said. “So am I. But if Shawcross or anyone else that you don’t know wants to see you, call me.”

Graff was silent, sitting in his state-of-the-art swivel chair, behind his big maple desk with the red leather top. His Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. I stood and walked toward the door. I had my hand on the knob before he spoke.

“He called,” Graff said.

I took my hand off the knob and turned, and walked back to Graff’s desk and sat back down in the client chair.

“Shawcross?” I said.

“That was the name he said.”

“Where does he want to meet you,” I said.

A quick flicker of surprise pushed through Graff’s look of cold panic for a moment.

“The parking lot at the Blue Hill Trailside Museum.”

“In Milton,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Nine,” Graff said. “At night.”

“The museum closes about five,” I said.

“I guess so.”

“So the parking lot will be empty and it’ll be dark,” I said. “Nothing to worry about there.”

“Would you go with me?” Graff said.

The valve had opened, and his resolve was running out.

“Why go at all?” I said.

“I… I feel I should.”

“A guy you don’t even know?”

“Can you go?” Graff said.

“I’ll go instead,” I said.

“Instead of me?”

“Yes. You lend me your car. He thinks it’s you. I jump out and say ah ha!”

“Maybe it won’t be him,” Graff said.

“It’ll be him. As I explained so carefully but a few moments ago, you are the only one left, as far as he knows, who can tie him to any of this mess. He isn’t going to send somebody to do it, then that person becomes a threat. He’s going to do it himself.”

“Do it?”

“Kill you,” I said.

Graff leaned suddenly forward in his chair as if he had a stomach cramp.

“Oh God,” he said.

“Not to worry,” I said. Soothing. “I can fix it. All you have to do is tell me what you know, and then I’ll handle Shawcross.”

“You can’t handle him,” Graff said. His voice had become squeaky. “Nobody can handle him.”

“Tell me what you know,” I said.