Final Option

sure there’s nothing there that might present a problem.”
    “Whatever you like.”
    “To your knowledge, was there anything in your husband’s business that was worrying him?” I prodded, I gently. “Anything that seemed to be causing him special concern?”
    “I have no idea,” she replied coldly. “As I told the police, I have never taken even the smallest interest in the day-to-day running of my husband’s business.” It was clear from her tone of voice that Pamela Hexter felt that the rough and tumble of futures was in some way beneath her.
    “So you had no reason to believe there was anything at Hexter Commodities that your husband seemed especially concerned about? He didn’t seem anxious or preoccupied?”
    “Absolutely not. We had a perfectly normal weekend. We had the children for dinner on Friday night. Saturday we hosted an all-day golf outing at the club. We’ve done it every year. We play eighteen holes of winter rules to kick off the spring season. It was great fun. Last night we went back to the club for a party. As I told the police, there was nothing unusual or out of the ordinary about our weekend. They need to stop prying into our private life and find the lunatic who did this terrible thing.”
    “Most people are killed by someone they know,” I said, gently. Pamela stiffened, and the light of friendliness went out of her eyes.
    “Bart was not most people,” she snapped. “It would be ludicrous to suggest that anyone we know would be capable of such a thing. It was obviously a madman, someone who stalks public figures, like that man who killed that singer, what was his name, one of the Beatles—Jack Lennon, wasn’t it?”
    “John Lennon,” I corrected her. Certainly she must realize that her private life was the first place the police were going to look for her husband’s killer. I changed the subject.
    “Do you have any idea how your husband left his business?”
    “Everything is divided among the children,” she replied. “Our son, Barton Jr., is the executor. I think it’s best if you discuss any business matters with him. I, frankly, couldn’t care less.”
    News of Bart Hexter’s death was going to send tremors through the financial world. It would move the markets from London to Tokyo. The assets of Hexter Commodities were worth hundreds of millions of dollars and represented the sum of her husband’s life’s work. What a legacy, a wife who couldn’t care less.
    “I was wondering if you’d like me to arrange for some extra security for you. As you say, your husband was a public figure.”
    “Do you think we’ll be bothered by reporters?” she asked, wide-eyed. “It hadn’t occurred to me. But, of course, if you think we’ll be troubled by trespassers...”
    “I’d be happy to make the arrangements,” I said. Once the story hit the papers it wouldn’t just be reporters she’d have to worry about. Parkland Road would be clogged with gawkers coming for a closer look at the house where Bart Hexter had been murdered. Her doorbell would ring with Realtors dropping by to inquire whether she planned to stay in this big house now that she was all alone. And if she was unlucky, enterprising burglars would pay her a call, hoping to hit the house while the family and staff were all safely at the funeral.
    “One more thing,” I asked. “Your husband was supposed to give me some business papers this morning, documents related to a potential lawsuit. Would you happen to know where he might have left them?”
    “They would be in his study. That’s where he kept all of his business things when he was at home. Bart liked to smoke a cigar when he worked. I don’t permit smok- ing in the rest of the house.”
    “Would you mind if I had a look through his study then?” I asked.
    “Go right ahead,” she said. “The police were in there already, looking for a suicide note.”
    “Do you know if they found one?” I ventured, fingers crossed.
    “Barton would never have killed himself,” replied his widow flatly.
    “Not even if he’d gotten himself into trading difficulties?” I pressed.
    “You didn’t know my husband very well, did you? Otherwise you’d understand what kind of person he was. If Bart had gotten himself into trouble trading, he’d have killed every person who had gotten him there before he’d ever think of killing himself.”
     
    Pamela Hexter rang the bell for Elena, the maid, to show me the way to her husband’s study.
    “I