Breaking the Chain by C D Ledbetter Page B

were smooth-talked into taking out policies on their spouses. But Jack was the only one who collected."
              Elizavon pressed the staff buzzer mounted on the underside of her desk, opened the lower left-hand drawer, and removed an envelope. She tossed it toward the detective, where it landed with a thud near his elbow.
              "Thank you, Mr. Rolfe. You'll find the money for your fee inside the envelope. Should I need your services again, my attorney will contact you."
              Taft glided into the room and waited beside the detective's chair. Before Rolfe could utter a sound, she dismissed them and he escorted the surprised detective from the room.
              Once the door closed, Elizavon reached for the report and thumbed through the pages. So that's where he and Mary got the money to buy a half-interest in the plantation bed and breakfast. The story was a trifle too pat for her taste, and she wondered if Jack had taken out another insurance policy--this time on Mary.
              Her frown deepened as she skimmed through the pages. After finishing the last paragraph, she shoved the report back into its torn envelope, then locked it away from prying eyes. Instead of returning to her desk, she wandered over to the French doors and stared ahead, oblivious to the brilliantly colored gladiolas that formed a semi-circle around the patio. The tick, tick, tick of the wooden clock on her right faded away as her weary mind tried to make sense of the information she'd received.
              The bong of the grandfather clock chiming three times brought her back to the present. How long had she been gazing out the window? Taft's footsteps echoed on the marble floor in the hallway, and she watched in silence as he set a silver teapot and plate of sandwiches on a small table near her desk.
              "I want to place a call to my niece," she announced. "Try the plantation first. If she's not there, ask for a number where she can be reached."
              "Very well, madam."
              She lifted a sandwich, then returned it to the plate. "Taft...there's something else."
              He paused, one hand on the doorknob.
              "Make sure you don't say anything to her husband. If he answers the phone, hang up. Under no circumstances is he to know that I want a private conversation with Mary."

             
 
     
     
     
    13
 
     
                  Sadie glared at Mrs. Milliron as she rolled the serving cart over to the guest table, set the steaming bowl of stew in the center, then stacked the rice and vegetable dishes in a circle.
              "Can't stand that woman," Sadie said. "There's something fishy about her."
              Justine shushed her and tipped their pitcher so tea flowed into their glasses. "Don't be silly, Sadie. You don't like her because she told you she doesn't believe in Voodoo. Mrs. Milliron's a very nice woman. Please don't insult her again; she might quit this time, and Mary wouldn't like it if you ran off her housekeeper while she was gone."
              "So what? We're here; we can handle a few guests."
              Justine shook her head. "No, we can't. You and I are too old to keep up this place. Please, as a favor to me, don't say or do anything to upset her. She's only here three days a week; it's not like you have to put up with her all the time."
              Sadie mumbled incoherently, then reached for her glass. "She better not cross me. I got enough things on my mind; don't need that woman adding to it." She ladled gravy over her rice. "Don't even know how to cook a decent gravy. Look at this--it's thin as water."
              "What on earth is wrong with you?" Justine whispered. "Ever since Jack