By Whose Hand
After the initial relief of seeing Preston, Jennie’s brain registered that he was not alone. She looked at his companion and recognized Hamilton Sunderson, the Barrons’ attorney. She knew Sunderson since he also represented Riverview. He was an imposing figure, distinguished looking in the way some men are when they reach their fifties. Even at this hour, when he must have been dragged from his bed, he looked poised and imperturbable. He was tall–six foot three, maybe four–with classic Nordic features, graying hair perfectly cut, and blue eyes that gave no clue that anything might be amiss. His clothing, tan linen slacks and a sage-green button-down shirt, looked magazine-ad perfect.
Preston Barrons, on the other hand, was rumpled and puffy-eyed, a far cry from the urbane presence who’d smooth-talked Jennie into searching the bank offices for him.
The two recent arrivals stopped to speak with one of the policemen before they joined Jennie in the conference room. Preston entered first. Sunderson followed him in and closed the door.
Preston lay his hand on Jennie’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Okay as can be expected, I guess.”
Sunderson interrupted. “Let’s get on with it.” He maneuvered Barrons out of the way and stood in front of Jennie. “What happened?”
Barrons answered before she had a chance to respond. “She was looking for something for me. She used my key to get in and had my permission to be here.”
“You already told me that. I need to hear from her exactly what transpired.”
“I don’t want her to get in trouble for this.”
Jennie spoke up. “I have a feeling I’m already in trouble. I just want to tell the police what happened and go home.”
“Tell me first,”–Sunderson smiled for the first time, a dazzling exhibition of teeth and charm–“and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”
There was a knock on the door. A disembodied voice penetrated the heavy wood. “We’re ready to talk to Mrs. Connors.”
“In a minute.” Sunderson’s low voice carried the privileged inflections of the Old South and sent a clear message that he was not intimidated. His gaze remained fixed on Jennie. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
She recapped her journey up the stairs, her exploration of the offices, the noises she’d heard, her discovery of the body.
Sunderson said, “Did you find anything in the offices?”
“You know what I found.”
“I mean, anything about the money?”
Preston leaned forward at the last question.
“No.”
“And you didn’t see another person?”
“No, but I know I didn’t miss him by–“
“Him? How do you know it was a man?”
She took a minute to think. “Actually, I don’t. It could have been a woman. I only heard the door squeak when . . . someone . . . left Preston’s office. I hid behind the desk a few minutes. Didn’t come out until I was pretty sure they weren’t coming back. I noticed Preston’s office door was open. Right after that, I realized the elevator was moving.”
“Why did you go into Mr. Barrons’ office? My understanding is that you were instructed not to.”
What kind of question is that? Jennie wondered what Sunderson was getting at, but confined her answer to:“Because, when I saw the door open–I was pretty sure it had been closed when I got here–I knew someone had been in there. I figured they’d just gone down in the elevator and I went to check.”
Another knock sounded. Louder this time.
