“Did the firm carry a life insurance policy on Mr. Landingham?”

If I hadn’t been watching, I’d have missed the sudden stiffening in Thatch’s shoulders, there and gone in a flash.

“We have policies for all our partners,” he replied.

“How much was Mr. Landingham insured for?”

“Five million dollars.”

Wow. My jaw dropped. That was five times what I expected.

“To be paid to the firm, not Mrs. Landingham?”

“That’s right.”

“Does the firm carry policies in that amount on all its partners?”

Thatch’s lips pinched, and he rubbed a hand over his face and smoothed his features. “Graham made a lot of money for the firm.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Cooke.”

“Policy benefits range from a hundred thousand to five million.” He sounded as if the topic bored him.

“How many partners are insured for five million?”

“Three. Graham, Perry, and Gregory Frasier.”

“Have you always carried such large policies?”

“No.” Thatch’s response was grudging.

“When did the policies go in force?”

Thatch looked the sheriff in the eye. “Six weeks ago.”

“I see.” The sheriff nodded as if Thatch had confirmed a suspicion. “Fortuitous timing. Was Mr. Landingham well liked among his colleagues?”

“He'll be missed for his financial contributions to the firm.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ I believe he was trying to unseat you as managing partner.”

“Is that a question?”

“More of an observation. Would he have succeeded?”

Thatch stretched his legs to impossible lengths. “No.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

Sheriff Bascom tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Who benefited from Mr. Landingham’s death?”

“His wife, I suppose.”

“She did not. Mr. Landingham was worth far more to her alive. His death will be a financial blow.”

Thatch frowned as if he’d received bad news.

“The five million dollars from the insurance policy, that will be divided among the partners?”

“Yes.”

“Equally?”

Thatch schooled his features into a neutral mask. “No.”

“As managing partner, will you receive a larger share?”

“There’s a formula. It’s complicated.” The subtext was loud—the formula was too complicated for a rustic sheriff.

“Make it simple for me, Mr. Cooke. How much will you receive?”

“Between a quarter of a million and three-hundred thousand.”

“I see.” The sheriff rubbed his chin. “I recently read that the median salary in the United States is around fifteen thousand dollars a year. You’ll receive up to twenty times that. Seems to me you had a motive.”

Thatch let several seconds tick by. “Perry Brandt. One of Graham’s largest clients will revert to Perry. Perry benefits more than anyone.”

It had taken less than fifteen minutes for Thatch to offer his friend as a suspect.

“Reverts?” asked the sheriff.

“Perry brought the client, a tobacco company, into the firm. Then Graham wooed them.”

“I imagine that caused hard feelings?”

“Yes.”