Chapter 3
Lathe sat down at the table, nodded to Abigail and Monroe, and cleared his throat. “I might as well tell you straight out that Thurston Cubbins was found dead this morning.”
There was a collective gasp at the table. Thurston Cubbins, President of the only bank in town, dead?
“Was it a heart attack?” Miss Georgia asked, remembering that Thurston had put on a good bit of weight with the years.
Roe’s face looked drained of color. “Thurston, dead? Why, he can’t be. I saw him just last night.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Lathe said, “And, no, it was no heart attack, Miss Georgia.” He turned toward Roe. “One of the cashiers said that you came into the bank just before closing time and Mr. Cubbins took you back to his office to talk. When did you leave the bank?”
Roe’s eyes narrowed. “I left a few minutes after the employees. I wanted to stop in to see Thurston because I knew him a long time ago, before he became President of the bank. I served in the army with his father for a short time and I wanted to tell Thurston that I’ve never known a braver man in the face of battle than his father.”
“You didn’t ask him for a loan?” Lathe asked.
“Certainly not,” Roe said. “I have no need of a loan.”
“Somebody had a need for a great deal of money,” Lathe told them. “The bank vault was cleared out and Mr. Cubbins lay dead on the floor right in front of it, shot through the heart.”
The kitchen was filled with warm sunshine, but Miss Georgia shivered. She felt cold through and through. The clock ticking on the mantel in the front room was the only sound while the three friends tried to digest this dreadful piece of news.
At last, Monroe spoke. “And, you’re here to talk to me because you think I might have killed my best friend’s son?” he asked, his cheeks suffusing with color.
Lathe sighed. “I don’t know who killed him. I just know that, according to witnesses, you were the last person to see him alive.”
Miss Georgia lifted her chin and looked Lathe straight in the eye. He had always been cocksure as a youngster, well-meaning, but as stubborn as a mule and about as tactful as a charging bull. It seemed he hadn’t changed much.
“That can’t be right, Lathe,” she said. “The last person to see Thurston Cubbins was the person who killed him and that person was not Monroe Williams.”
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