If he was executor, he would approve his own March power of attorney, and ninety-four thousand dollars would become a line item in an estate he controlled.

That was all there was to it.

The deed he waved in front of the appraiser, the twenty-thousand-dollar offer at the restaurant, the talk about a confused old woman.

Every bit of it pointed at one goal.

I pulled out my phone and called Clare at home.

She answered on the second ring, and a cabinet door shut somewhere behind her.

“He never wanted the house at all,” I said.