On Harrow Hill

Gurney drove the Outback around to a parking area behind the house, where he noted three Larchfield police cruisers, two unmarked Dodge Chargers, and Morgan’s Tahoe. As he was getting out of his own vehicle and into Morgan’s, he saw that the areas behind the two adjacent Victorians were also paved parking areas. The vehicles in one were civilian and generally upscale. In the other, there was a metallic-silver Lexus with a rear wheel elevated on a jack.

Morgan explained, “The house on the left is the village hall—mayor’s office, justice of the peace, village board, code enforcement, et cetera. The one on the right is the Peale Funeral Home. The one in the middle is our headquarters. There’s a peculiarity in the village zoning ordinance—an architectural clause that requires public and commercial buildings to conform to residential design standards—part of the historic Russell grip on everything in Larchfield.”

Gurney took a moment to absorb that before changing the subject. “Any developments at the crime scene?”

“Couple of things. One of our guys discovered a surgical scalpel on the floor under some shelving—in a greenhouse-conservatory type of structure on the back of the house. Same area where the break-in took place. There was blood on the scalpel, probably the murder weapon. Looks like the killer stumbled and fell on his way out, and the scalpel got away from him.”

“Prints?”

“Smudged but maybe recoverable. Lab’s doing what they can.” He pressed the start-engine button.

“You said there were a couple of things.”

“The Russells’ dog. It was found in back of the house, out by the woods, dead. Head appeared to have been hit with a hammer. The ME agreed to take a look, but he wasn’t happy about it. Said we should be sending the animal to a veterinary pathologist. Very touchy about his status.” Morgan backed out of his space and headed down the driveway.

Before he got to the end, a dark blue BMW turned sharply into the same narrow passage from the street side, coming to a stop nose-to-nose with the Tahoe.

“Jesus!” Morgan grimaced. He put the big SUV into reverse and slowly backed up into the parking area. The BMW came up the driveway and stopped beside him. Morgan lowered his window. The other driver did the same.

He had close-cropped dark hair, small unblinking eyes, and a downturned mouth. He peered at Gurney for a long moment before turning his attention to Morgan.

“We need to talk.” His tone was emotionless, but his eyes were insistent.

“Definitely,” said Morgan. There was a tic at the corner of his mouth. “But right now I need to get out to Harrow Hill. Do you have any specific information about—”

The man interrupted. “Not about what happened to Russell. But we need to talk. There’s a lot at stake. I’m sure you understand. So, call me. Before noon.” Giving Gurney another once-over, he turned his car around and disappeared down the driveway.

“Jesus,” said Morgan a second time. He exhaled slowly, his hands on the steering wheel.

Gurney stared at him. “Who the hell was that?”

“Chandler Aspern,” said Morgan, as though the name had a sour taste. He put the Tahoe back in drive and drove slowly out of the parking area.

It wasn’t until they reached Waterview Drive, the road encircling the lake, that he spoke again. The tic was still working at the corner of his mouth. “He’s the mayor of Larchfield. For years the sharpest thorn in Angus Russell’s side. They both have enormous manor houses on Harrow Hill. All the land is technically owned by the Russell family, but Aspern has a hundred-year lease on half of it—a lease that Angus Russell was desperate to break.”

“Why?”

“Because the land has quadrupled in value since the terms were negotiated.”

“How much money is involved?”

“It’s conceivable that Aspern could sell the lease to his half of Harrow Hill, with development rights, for somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty million dollars. If Russell could have gotten the lease invalidated, those development rights would have reverted to him. But there was a larger issue than the money. It was about control. Russell was always fiercely determined to get his own way. On top of that, he despised Aspern. And the feeling was mutual.”

“Why did he lease him the land to begin with?”

“He didn’t. The deal was worked out years ago between their fathers, who were business partners, and both of whom died soon after the deal was finalized.”

“So, your victim had at least one serious enemy.”

Morgan burst out in a nervous laugh. “Be nice if it was only one. Control freaks like Angus Russell collect enemies by the dozen.”

“I assume there’s a will. What do you know about his beneficiaries?”

“Best guess is that everything will be funneled through private trusts and there won’t be any significant assets to go through public probate. Maybe none at all. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the bulk of his wealth going to his wife and his sister.”

“He had no children?”

“No.”

“Charities?”

“He considered them all frauds.”

“How about close friends? Local institutions?”