Love for Sale

Goodheart’s death. All the picky details had fallen away, and now he could clearly see that only two of the four people most closely involved with the man were strong suspects.
    Nobby Hazard was still first on his list. Nobby had wholeheartedly worshiped the fake preacher. If someone had told him convincingly that it was likely that Goodheart/Pottinger had a serious flaw in his nature, Nobby would have been fully capable of killing him out of sheer outrage. Nobby was a fanatic who’d met and worked hard for another fanatic. If the curtain behind which Pottinger concealed his real moral failings had been ripped away, it would have destroyed Nobby’s entire view of him. He’d most likely feel he had to stop the man—dead.
    Howard had no proof against him though. No fingerprints, no physical evidence whatsoever. Just motives. None of those who were staying at Grace and Favor that Saturday night had an alibi except being alone in their own rooms overnight. The fourth suspect on his list, Big Jimmy Rennie, didn’t have a provable alibi either. But he wouldn’t have known which room Pottinger was in, or that the door was unlocked.
    Howard’s feeling about Nobby was a gut reaction, which he’d learned was usually reliable. But if he ever found the evidence to take Nobby to court, the judge and jury would wonder what a madman who should clearly remain locked up in the loony bin was doing in a courtroom.
    All three of the guests were dependent on keeping Goodheart alive, kicking, bringing in the money, and providing them with jobs at a time when jobs of any kind were thin on the ground.
    Big Jimmy Rennie most of all. He lived a very high life. A big house, a devoted wife, the best of suits, ties, automobiles, and dentures. If he’d fiddled the books as Goodheart was apparently claiming at the secret meeting, he’d be out of work. But the same applied if he’d knocked him off. However, all of Howard’s real knowledge about Rennie’s sense of honor had come, not from him, but from Rennie’s wife.
    Munching on another of Miss Jurgen’s excellent cookies, Howard also suspected that Edward Price was also an unlikely suspect. Price had admitted he disliked the preacher intensely. But his high moral stance was colored by the fact that he stuck with the job. Another one who had nothing to gain and everything to lose by murdering his employer.
    Jackson Kinsey, however, was probably better off with Goodheart dead. Kinsey was the executor of what was doubtless an enormous estate. There would be extraordinarily high fees coming to him for this. Apparently he was one of those individuals who was able to bounce back from committing civil and financial crimes.
    At least Kinsey had good reason to stick around as long as he could drag the estate settlement out. The longer the legalities took, the more money he’d make. This mysterious son of Pottinger ‘s youth, if he was meant to inherit, would probably end up with only enough money for a bus ticket home.
    Why haven’t I paid more attention to the son? Howard asked himself. Pottinger wasn’t worth anything to his son alive. The boy may have thought his father would be much more valuable to him if he were dead.
    How could I find him? Howard wondered. Nobody but Pottinger had ever seen or spoken to him. Nobody had any idea where he was or what he looked like. Not even what name he might be going by. That was an interesting thought.
    Even Pottinger probably wouldn’t recognize the small son he’d left behind in Nebraska if he turned up at the Institute with a different name and acquired a job as one of the toadies. Listening, watching, for an opportunity to bump off the old man.
    There might be something in that.
    His only other suspect was Brunhilde, a.k.a. Kathryn Staley. He felt sure she was in love with poor Susanna Cooper, and her beloved had been besmirched by Pottinger.
    Again, he had no evidence to prove it. Lily had made good sense when she asked how Kathryn could have known which room he was in, and that the door wasn’t locked. He wanted to suspect her first though, because he didn’t like her, and second because she had a motive of passion.
    He brushed the chocolate out of his teeth and went to bed, thinking of a list of things he should do the next day. Get in touch with the accountant in Albany who was studying Big Jimmy Rennie’s bookkeeping. Call on Mrs. Taylor at the Institute to see if she could tell him anything more about Pottinger’s son. Lastly,