Kissed a Sad Goodbye

she’s told the whole truth. We’ll need to talk to Mortimer again, but perhaps Jo can give us a bit more ammunition.”
    Emerging a few minutes later, a bit breathless, into sunlight and warmth that felt welcome for a change, they saw before them the tall masts of the Cutty Sark. They detoured round its bow to reach King William’s Walk, then made their way through the center of Greenwich. Small and somewhat tatty shops nestled beside flower-bedecked pubs, and many businesses bore Save Greenwich placards on their windows.
    “Save Greenwich from what?” asked Gemma as they passed a particularly inviting pub called The Cricketers.
    “Developers, I imagine. With the underground extension going in, this will be a prime area for commuter flats.” It would be a shame, he thought as they left the town center behind and began climbing up through the terraced streets, for Greenwich to fall to bulldozers now when it had escaped much of the devastation suffered by the Isle of Dogs during the war.
    By the time they reached Emerald Crescent, he could feel a film of sweat beneath his shirt. The lane seemed even sleepier on a Monday afternoon than it had on a Saturday evening, but a knock at Jo Lowell’s door brought a quick response.
    Harry Lowell stared at them, eyes wide in his thin face. It was clear he knew them now as the bearers of bad news.
    “It’s all right, Harry,” Kincaid told the boy gently. “We just want a word with your mum.”
    “She’s in the shed. I’ll take you.” Harry turned and they followed him through the silent house. “Sarah’s having a nap after lunch,” Harry explained as they crossed the back garden, “and Mummy tries to work when Sarah’s sleeping because she’s such a little pest.” When they reached the small blue shed, he put his head round the door and said, “Mummy, it’s the police.”
    Jo Lowell came to the door, wiping her hands on a cloth that smelled of spirits. “What—”
    “We’d just like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Lowell,” Kincaid said. She looked exhausted and untidy, as though she’d hardly slept or looked in a mirror since Saturday. A tank top exposed freckled shoulders pink with sunburn, and her dark hair was pulled carelessly back into a ponytail.
    “I’m sorry.” Jo glanced apologetically at her hands. “I was just trying out a new glaze. We can go in the house—”
    “This is fine, really,” he reassured her. “It won’t take a minute.”
    “All right, then, but there’s not much room.” She stepped back and they followed her into the shed. The single room was clearly a retreat, and he understood her reluctance to allow their intrusion.
    The worktable held a tin pail of garden roses and daisies as well as cans of decorating emulsion and brushes. Squares of board showed translucent yellow paint in various stages of crackling as it dried. On the back wall, shelves held an assortment of gardening and design books as well as bits of old pottery and dried herbs. A friendly-looking gargoyle regarded them from atop the iron frame of a mirror.
    Jo gestured towards the single rush-seated chair and a small stepladder, then turned over an empty pail as a seat for herself. “Have you found something?” she asked.
    Kincaid took the ladder for himself, offering Gemma the chair. “Mrs. Lowell, were you aware that your sister left her interest in Hammond’s to your children?”
    She stared at them blankly. “Her shares? To Harry and Sarah? But... She never said.” Her dark eyes filled with tears and she wiped at them with the back of her hand.
    “She designated their father as trustee,” Kincaid continued, watching her.
    “Martin?” Jo’s face lost what little color it had, and for a moment she seemed too shocked to speak. Then, swallowing, she said, “Surely not... There must have been some sort of mistake....”
    A bumblebee blundered in through the open window and buried itself in the petals of a rose. The scent from the flowers was almost strong enough to mask the paint. Kincaid stifled an urge to sneeze and said, “Annabelle’s solicitor said the arrangement was made several years ago, and that Annabelle had recently discussed changing it when your divorce was finalized, designating you as trustee. But she never got round to it.”
    “But this is dreadful. You don’t know... Martin can be so... unreasonable. And this will give him a substantial voting block. How could Annabelle have done such a silly thing?”
    “She