Free ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) by Jill Paterson Page A

after their separation , telling her that he had no plans to make any changes to his will.  He never asked me to write a letter contradicting that.’
    ‘ Mmm.’  Fitzjohn rubbed his chin before he continued.  ‘We understand that Michael Rossi also owned half share in a winery in the Hunter Valley.’
    ‘That’s correct.  Five Oaks Winery.  The will stipulates that it’s to be inherited by his sister, Claudia Rossi, but if she predeceases him, it goes to her daughter, Charlotte Rossi, which is, of course, what will happen.’
    ‘And is Charlotte Rossi aware of this?’
    ‘That I can’t say , Chief Inspector, but being that the winery has passed down through the Rossi family from her great-grandparents, I should imagine she does.’
     
    Fitzjohn and Betts returned to their car, Fitzjohn settling himself in to the passenger seat.  His gaze went the full length of Walker Street to where Sydney’s CBD shimmered in the heat like a mirage over the harbour, his thoughts, however, were elsewhere.  ‘I wonder if the letters Michael Rossi was looking for at Esme Timmons’s residence on Friday night were to do with Claudia Rossi’s life insurance policy, Betts.  And if that’s the case, I wonder what sparked his interest.’
    Betts shrugged as he started the car.  ‘Surely the policy has been paid out by now, sir.’
    ‘Nevertheless , I want you to contact the insurance company and find out exactly when it was paid.  But before you do that, we’ll speak to Nigel Prentice again.  I’m interested to hear how he explains where he was after eight o’clock on Friday evening.  And then there’s Charlotte Rossi.  We’ll pay her a call as well to find out how she felt about her uncle selling the winery.’
    ‘You mean if she didn’t agree with the sale she had a pretty strong motive to kill Michael Rossi.’
    ‘If she knew she’d inherit his share; yes, I do, Betts.’
     
    Fitzjohn’s knock on Nigel Prentice’s front door was answered by a short, plump woman in her early fifties.  ‘Are you collecting for the Salvos,’ she asked with an engaging smile.
    ‘No, madam.  We’re from the New South Wales Police.’  Fitzjohn held up his warrant card.  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’
    ‘Oh .  I beg your pardon.  Nigel did say he’d spoken to the police yesterday.  I’m Maggie Prentice.  Nigel’s wife.  Please, come in, Chief Inspector.  It’s shocking about poor Michael,’ she continued.  ‘Seems nobody’s safe these days.  If you’d care to wait in there,’ she gestured to the living room, ‘I’ll go fetch Nigel.  He’s out the back.’
    As Mrs Prentice disappeared, Fitzjohn and Betts circled the living room, taking in its 1980s flare.  Minutes passed before Nigel Prentice appeared, brushing his clothes down.  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen.  I was doing a bit of gardening.  Won’t you have a seat.’
    ‘We have a few more questio ns,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting down.  ‘We’d like to know where you were after you left the council meeting on the night Michael Rossi died.’
    ‘ But I explained that yesterday, Chief Inspector.’  Prentice sat down on the sofa.  ‘I came straight home.’
    ‘So you said.  The only problem is, a gentleman who attended the same council meeting said you left that meeting around eight o’clock.  And as you said you arrived home at ten, I wonder if you can tell us where you were in those two intervening hours.  That is, between eight and ten.’
    With beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead, Prentice jumped up from his chair and closed the living room door.  Returning to his seat, he clasped his hands together and whispered, ‘I met a friend, Chief Inspector.’
    ‘ A friend?’ repeated Fitzjohn.
    ‘Yes.  A woman friend , if you get my meaning.’  Prentice’s eyes darted toward the closed door.
    ‘ Oh, I do,’ answered Fitzjohn.  ‘Can we have your