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“He did. Years ago. I found the firm’s reputation, ethics, and service more than satisfactory.”
“Robert Kraus was listed as your accountant.”
“That’s correct.”
“Yet Randall Sloan kept your books, the books for the foundation.”
“No, you’re mistaken. Robert does.”
“Randall Sloan oversaw the finances of the Bullock Foundation from day one, until his death.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Oh, God! Win! Sloan is dead.”
Winfield Chase stopped short in his stride across the room. He had the look of his mother, the same strong build, same strong face, same glacier eyes. Then he moved quickly to take the hand she’d thrown out toward him.
“Randall? How did this happen? Has there been an accident?”
“His body was found today, hanging from a rope in his bedroom,” Eve said.
“He hanged himself? Why would he do such a thing?” Winfield demanded.
“I didn’t say he hanged himself.”
“You said…” Winfield checked himself as he stroked his mother’s hand. “You said he was found hanged, I assumed…” He widened his eyes. “Are you telling us he was murdered?”
She had to give him credit for the fancy British play on the word. It made it sound as if Randall should have been wearing a smoking jacket while he choked to death.
“I didn’t say that either. The matter is under investigation. And as the investigator I’ll ask you both where you were on Friday between the hours of six and ten P.M.”
“This is insulting! How dare you question my mother in this manner.” His fingers linked with Madeline’s now, and her free hand moved to rest on his thigh. “Do you know who she is?”
“Bullock, Madeline. Formerly Chase, born Madeline Catherine Forrester.” Their body language had something curling in her gut, but she kept her eyes steady. “And in case you don’t know who I am, it’s Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Until the cause of death is determined by the Medical Examiner, this matter is being treated as an unattended, suspicious death. Answer the question.”
“Mother, I’m going to ring our solicitor.”
“Go ahead,” Eve invited. “You’ll need one if you’re afraid to tell me your whereabouts on Friday.”
“Calm down, Win. Calm down. This is all so upsetting. We were home all evening. Win and I discussed plans for our spring gala, a fund-raiser the foundation is hosting in April in Madrid. We dined about eight, I believe, then listened to music and played cards. I suppose we retired about eleven. Does that sound right to you, Win?”
He looked down his nose at Eve. “We had lamb cutlets for dinner, preceded by a smoked tomato soup.”
“Yummy. Have either of you ever been to Randall Sloan’s New York residence?”
“Of course.” Madeline kept a firm hold on her son’s hand. “He often entertained.”
“On this trip?”
“No. As I explained before, we were looking for quiet evenings.”
“Right. Do you do any driving in the city, Mr. Chase?”
“In New York.” He gave her a look of mild distaste. “Why would I?”
“Couldn’t say. Well, thanks for your time.” Eve got to her feet. “Oh, your accounts, as overseen by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus will be turned over to the U.S. and British tax authorities—and, I imagine, those same agencies in several other countries.”
“That’s outrageous!” Winfield might have lunged forward, but his mother surged to her feet and kept the reins on him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.
