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“I’ll bet,” Monty returned drily. “When is he going back to Wellington?”
“After the funeral.”
“Make sure he comes into the office before that. I’ll talk to him there. It’ll seem less official, and he won’t get as spooked. Don’t worry—I’ll only go at it from the angle of Frederick’s murder. I won’t mention the letter.”
Edward gave a tight nod. “Fine.”
“What else should I know?”
“My grandson Blake will be your alternate contact. If I’m not around, go to him. He’ll be the only person I fill in on all the facets of your investigation.”
“Including the blackmail letter?”
“Yes. Blake’s the future of my company. He’s smart. He’s tough. And he’s my sounding board. I’ll pull him aside later and tell him about the letter.”
“Good.” Monty pushed back his chair and rose, pausing to scoop up his fifty-thousand-dollar retainer and tuck it in his pants pocket. “I’ll need a list of your employees, and background information to go with it.”
“No problem. When you get to the office tomorrow, stop at human resources. My granddaughter Cassidy can give you whatever you need.”
“I’ll be in around nine. Let her know to expect me.”
Relief flashed across Edward’s face as he rose. “I will.”
Monty refolded the article and the letter and slipped them back into the envelope. “Can I keep these? I want to look them over more thoroughly.”
“Go ahead.” Edward was back to being the tough businessman. “Just figure out who sent them.”
“I will.” Monty stared him down. “Count on it.”
CHAPTER 7
Devon stood on the Piersons’ front doorstep, hands shoved in the pockets of her camel-hair overcoat, staring at the formidable double doors.
It was showtime.
She sucked
in her breath, wishing her talk with Roberto, the Piersons’ groom, had yielded something of substance. No such luck. Striking up a conversation with the guy had been easy. They’d talked horses, riding competitions, and proper care of warmbloods. As for a lowdown on the Piersons, she’d learned nothing she hadn’t already read in Monty’s notes, other than how profound a role James’s equestrian triumphs played in his grandfather’s life. It seemed that James’s accomplishments in the show ring had been a lifeline for Edward after his heart attack. According to Roberto, James’s growth toward Olympic potential had given Edward the will to live.
The groom was clearly proud. Devon heard all about James’s extraordinary form, his unique affinity with Stolen Thunder, his drive to win. Roberto’s reports were glowing. Unfortunately, they were totally unrelated to yesterday’s tragedy.
So now it was time to execute step two of her plan—befriending the Piersons.
She hoped she could pull it off.
She had to pull it off. Monty was counting on her.
More important, her mother was counting on her.
Blowing out her breath, Devon rang the bell.
A somber-looking butler opened the door. With his wrinkled face, sucked-in stance and sallow complexion, he looked like a sour pickle with hair. “Yes?”
“I’m Devon Montgomery, Sally Montgomery’s daughter,” she introduced herself. “I drove up this afternoon to check on my mother’s house. When I passed your farm, I noticed all the cars in the driveway. I wonder if I might pay my respects to the Piersons?”
The pickle frowned, obviously unsure if he should allow her to enter.
“Please tell them I’m here,” Devon suggested quickly. “They’ll know who I am. If they’d prefer not to see me, I’ll leave.”
