The Stolen Beneficiary

Greta Sloane lived above a closed inn with blue shutters and a garden full of dead lavender.

She opened the door holding a fireplace poker. She was seventy, maybe older, with silver hair pinned badly and eyes that had already judged everyone on the porch.

"You look more alive than promised," Greta said to Elise.

"People keep lowering the bar."

Greta let her in, then pointed the poker at Theo. "Bank?"

"Suspended bank," Theo said.

"Better."

Roslyn stayed outside to take a call. Ruby waited in the unmarked car because Greta had said she was not inviting the woman who wore Elise's death bracelet into her parlor until tea.

The inn smelled like dust, lemon oil, and old money that had learned to stretch. Greta led Elise to a dining room where one place setting remained at the end of a long table.

"My husband Robert died three years ago," Greta said. "HartLine handled our trust conversion after his diagnosis. Vivian came to me six months ago and said the wrong beneficiary took his policy."

"The foundation," Elise said.

"Yes. Martin told me Robert had signed it for tax reasons. I was grieving. Grief makes women easy to rob because everyone mistakes shock for consent."

Elise sat with that because it was too true to answer.

Greta opened a sideboard drawer and removed a freezer bag. Inside were original policy forms, a letter from Vivian, and a photo of Martin walking out of St. Agnes with Ruby Bell.

"Vivian asked me to hold these until you came," Greta said.

"Why me?"

"Because she said you were angry enough to keep counting."

Theo looked at Elise. She looked away.

Greta tapped the letter. "There is something else. Robert was not the first. He was not the largest."

Elise unfolded Vivian's letter. One line was underlined twice.

The biggest policy is on Martin himself, and Claire is the beneficiary.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Greta lifted the poker. "I live alone."