A Matter of Degrees

by Alex Marcoux

  “Nothing. Steve always paid me a month at a time. I owe you two more cleanings. You know, there is one thing that seemed a bit odd. Maybe the police took it, but there was nothing in the trash basket.”

  “My brother was out of town most of the week. There was probably no trash.”

  “Then the liner would still be in the trashcan. I remove the trash liner from each wastebasket and replace it with a new liner every week. The trashcan in the study didn’t have a liner or trash in it.”

  Marie left, and Jessie ventured toward the study. Deep in thought, she whispered aloud, “It doesn’t make any sense. He was going on a vacation next week. How could it look so bleak that he would take his own life?” She sat at the desk, removed Steve’s phone, and searched for Julie Harris, but there was no one listed by that name.

  Chapter Seven

  The rain beat against the limo’s windshield as it traveled from the church to the graveyard. Jessie had been surprised by the turnout for her brother’s memorial service. She had sat by herself in the front pew of the crowded Catholic Church and was reminded of how alone she was without her brother. Her heart ached, and in a moment of weakness she wished she had asked Taylor to come be with her.

  The limo arrived at the gravesite and Jessie made her way to a small canopy beside the grave. Alongside the casket were two headstones identifying her parents’ resting places. To Jessie, there seemed to be an endless delay while the crowd gathered around her beside the coffin. The priest finally continued the service with a prayer that Jessie would never remember. Subsequently, each person tossed a rose on top of the casket, greeted Jessie, and departed. Jessie recognized only Marie Heron and Gary Stonewall. Others introduced themselves, including Neil Samson and members of the TV show.

  Jessie recognized Rachel Addison as she waited in line to meet her. She was taller than she appeared on television, but then again, she had on killer pumps. She wore a simple black dress, with dark glasses concealing her eyes. Her long dark hair had been pulled away from her face and clipped low, drawing attention to her cleft chin.

  When it was Rachel’s turn to greet Jessie, she warmly took Jessie’s hand and shook it. “I’m Rachel Addison. I worked with Steve. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.” Unexpectedly, she embraced Jessie.

  Jessie felt her slip something into her jacket pocket.

  “Meet me,” she whispered into Jessie’s ear, and then she retreated.

  Preoccupied, Jessie stayed at the casket until everyone disappeared, leaving her with her brother’s body. She had been strong up until then, but as she stood all alone she felt her walls crumble. Then the tears came. “Why?” Jessie asked between sobs. “Why did you do this? How come you didn’t talk to me? How come everyone knew you were having problems, except me? Was I so self-absorbed that I missed it? I’m sorry if I was…Please…forgive me.”

  Jessie pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and a piece of paper fell to the ground. Remembering when Rachel Addison embraced her, she picked up the note and read it. “Meet me at the Half Moon in Dobbs Ferry. Five o’clock. It’s important. Rachel Addison.”

  * * *

  As Jessie drove to the Half Moon that evening, she mulled over why Rachel had been so mysterious about their meeting. She suspected Rachel felt guilty that her promotion had upset Steve. Jessie parked Steve’s cherished BMW and headed into the restaurant.

  Rachel greeted Jessie at the hostess station. Both women remained silent until the hostess seated them. Although their table offered a breathtaking view of the Hudson River and Tappan Zee Bridge, neither was interested in the scenery.

  To Jessie, Rachel seemed nervous, maybe even a little preoccupied. Frequently, she peeked around the restaurant, inspecting her surroundings. When she finally removed her sunglasses Jessie realized that Rachel was even more attractive in person than on television. Her long dark eyelashes outlined intense grayish-blue eyes.

  Jessie spoke first. “I think I know why you wanted to meet.”

  “You do?” Rachel’s voice was husky.

  Jessie nodded. “I understand that you and my brother were—”

  Rachel grabbed Jessie’s hand and without warning she whispered, “Steve didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.” She withdrew her hand and diverted her eyes.

  The stranger certainly had seized Jessie’s attention. “I’m listening.”

  Rachel sipped her Cabernet, and then began. “Have you heard of the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, or the Bilderbergers?”

  “They’re modern secret societies that allegedly strive for one-world government.”

  Rachel was surprised and hesitated, “That’s correct. They’re globalist. There is a theory that the world is actually controlled by members of the CFR and Bilderbergers.”

  “Yes. It’s one of the ultimate conspiracy theories. Some speculate that these societies start and stop wars, control the stock market, interest rates, and the politicians that we supposedly elect.”

  Rachel hesitated again. “You sound well versed in the subject.

  “I’m a writer, and I’m presently working on a conspiracy novel. So I’ve read a couple books on the subject. But…what does any of this have to do with Steve?”

  Rachel began telling her story. She told Jessie about the investigation she had been doing on secret societies the year before, and how Steve had warned her to drop it. She explained that Steve was a Freemason and had advanced through thirty-two degrees in the Scottish Rite, that he had questioned the integrity of the organization and worked to get an invitation to the Thirty-Third Council. She shared that Steve went to Washington, DC, for the initiation into the thirty-third degree. Apparently he went through his initiation, called Rachel on his way back from DC, and had asked her to meet him at his house in the Catskills.

  Rachel tried to hold back the tears as she finished telling her story. “That was the last time I spoke with Steve,” Rachel said somberly. “He never showed up that night.”

  Jessie removed a tissue from her purse and handed it to Rachel. “Thank you.”

  “So you think my brother was murdered because of something he learned in DC?”

  “It wasn’t suicide.”

  “I was told that Steve was suffering from depression, and that he was upset about not getting the promotion.”

  “He wasn’t suffering from depression. And I spoke with him the Friday night before he left for DC. Believe me, he was fine about my promotion.”

  Jessie was thoughtful and continued to stare at Rachel.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Actually, your statement that my brother was murdered is probably the most believable thing I’ve heard since I arrived here.” Jessie shook her head. “I’m just struggling with all this secret society stuff. Were the two of you…lovers?”

  “We were good friends. We were cautious about spending time together and took precautions. I don’t think anyone knew we were anything other than co-workers.”

  Jessie glanced at her watch. They had been at the restaurant going on three hours. “I need to think about this. Can I call you if I have any questions?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Rachel handed Jessie her card. “If you need me, call my cell phone. Don’t call from your brother’s house phone.”

  “Do you think it’s bugged?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  * * *

  Jessie was exhausted by the time she returned to the house that night. It had been a long day—the funeral, the gravesite, and then the meeting with Rachel Addison. Before she retired, however, she went into her brother’s office and sat at his desk. She turned the computer on and called Taylor as it booted up.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Jessie said when she heard Taylor’s voice.

  “How are you?”

  “Drained.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Jessie smiled. “Just hearing your voice helps.”

  The cou
ple spoke briefly about the funeral and Jessie’s day, but Jessie never mentioned her meeting with Rachel Addison. As she hung up the telephone, she quickly scanned the computer’s hard drive. There were no document files. The download manager was empty, and the recycle bin was empty too.

  “CDs,” she whispered. She browsed through the CD stand and retrieved the disk labeled “#46.” Jessie inserted it into the CPU, only to learn that it was blank, along with the rest of the CDs and flash drives.

  She accessed the backup software, only to learn that the computer was last backed up on the evening Steve was killed, at ten p.m. “The medical examiner placed Steve’s time of death between seven thirty and nine thirty.” The external hard drive used for backing up the computer had one backup copy on it, with no files.

  Jessie was exhausted and the events of the day caught up with her. She began to cry. Sobbing softly, she wandered upstairs to the bedroom. The room was stuffy, so she cracked open the deck door. She crawled on top of the bed, rested her head on the pillow, and cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  Hours later, a siren pierced the silence. Disoriented, it took Jessie a few seconds to realize that she lay on top of the bed. The house was dark, and something was dreadfully wrong. She tasted soot in the back of her dry throat. Jessie reached for the lamp on the nightstand. The light hurt her eyes and when they adjusted she saw the thick blanket of smoke on the ceiling. “Shit.” She rushed into the hallway. The smoke was coming from the stairwell, where flames sprouted from the first floor.

  Jessie slammed the bedroom door and ran to the phone. Hastily, she pressed 911.

  Seconds later, a woman answered, “What’s the nature of the emergency?”

  “My house is on fire.”

  “You’re calling from Forty-Three Robin Lane, Scarsdale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get out of the house?”

  “I’m in a second-floor bedroom. I’m going to try. Send the fire department.”

  Jessie hung up then dashed out on the deck. There was a ten-foot drop to the grass below. She leaned over the edge and looked into the downstairs window. Flames pressed angrily against the glass.

  She bolted back into the bedroom. The smoke was much thicker than before. Her eyes stung and she gasped for air. She pulled the comforter from the bed, removed the sheets, and retreated to the deck. Jessie tied one corner of a sheet to the deck railing, then coupled the opposite corner to the other sheet, creating a rope. She flung the rope over the banister.

  One last time, Jessie scurried into the house, penetrating the now smoke-filled room. Instinctively, she groped to the desk where she found her computer bag. She hung it over her shoulder. “Where’s my purse?” She coughed.

  She recalled hanging it on the chair by the desk. As Jessie fumbled for the chair, the bottoms of her shoes warmed from the smoldering floor. Swiftly, she grabbed the purse and hurried outside, gasping for air.

  Suddenly, an explosion from the first floor shattered the windows just below the deck. Flames sprang up furiously from the windows. Jessie hung the handbag on her shoulder, opposite the computer. She climbed over the railing and yanked firmly on the sheet. She readjusted the computer bag, as it was cutting into her neck. Sirens blasted in the distance and she considered waiting for help, but as she thought about it, flames from below seized the deck and the wood ignited.

  She twisted the sheet around one of her hands, took a deep breath, and started down, slowly at first, then more rapidly until her hands were rope burned, and she leaped the remaining distance.

  The sirens now blared out piercingly. She sprinted alongside the burning house toward the fire engines. As she passed a door to the garage she noticed the fire had spread. Just as she spotted her brother’s prized BMW engulfed in flames, it exploded. Jessie’s forearms covered her face as glass shattered from the door window all over her. She toppled backward awkwardly, landing on top of the computer bag that was draped across her shoulder.

  Jessie was stunned. The glass had scored her skin, the air was filled with smoke, and the sirens were deafening. She barely noticed the firefighters shuffling her away from the burning house.

  In those early morning hours, as an Abbey Richmond paramedic treated her scrapes and burns, Jessie sadly witnessed Steve’s house burn to the ground.

  Who did this? What the hell did they want? Her mind raced. My God, Steve, what on earth did you discover?

  Chapter Eight

  It was going on six a.m. when Jessie reached her Tarrytown hotel room. As she placed her computer bag on the desk, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

  “My God, I look like I’ve been to war.” Her long hair was unkempt and she sported a bandage on her forehead, with scrapes on her cheeks. Bandages and scratches covered both hands and forearms. Her clothes were dirty, wrinkled, and even frayed in areas. She studied her bloodshot eyes and decided that it was from the smoke. “Or crying,” she whispered.

  A knock at the door alerted Jessie that her items had arrived. She took a bag from the bellboy, tipped him, and then dropped the bag on the dresser. Jessie was exhausted. She lay on top of the bed, just for a minute, just to rest her eyes before she headed to the shower. But her body had other plans, and she quickly fell asleep.

  It was close to noon when she woke. She emptied the contents of the bag the bellboy had delivered onto the bed. From the items she selected toiletries, sweatpants, and a T-shirt, and headed for the bathroom.

  While showering, Jessie ruminated over the events from the last week. She recalled the phone call announcing her brother’s death, the funeral, her conversation with Rachel Addison, followed by the fire.

  Now where do I go? Jessie contemplated as the hot water streamed over her body. “What should I do, Steve?” she whispered. For a moment she considered hopping on the next plane and joining Taylor in China. I can’t do that…I’d never forgive myself.

  Soon after, room service delivered lunch and Jessie felt better after she ate. She searched for the business card the arson investigator had given her earlier that morning. As she retrieved his business card from her wallet, Rachel Addison’s card fell to the carpet. She set the card on the desk and called the detective.

  “We haven’t finished the investigation,” the detective said, “but we suspect it was from faulty electrical wiring.”

  Jessie pondered as she set the phone down, It’s a new house, and they suspect faulty wiring? She picked up Rachel’s card. I need to go to Steve’s cabin, she decided. There’s nothing else for me here. Jessie punched in the numbers to Rachel’s cell phone.

  “Rachel Addison.”

  “Hi, Rachel. It’s Jessie Mercer.” Jessie needed to get right to the point. “I need your help. Can you take me to Steve’s mountain house?”

  Rachel hesitated. “I probably could take tomorrow off.”

  “Can we drive up this evening and stay the night?”

  “I guess I could do that. Let’s meet at the Palisades exit on 87. How’s eight o’clock?”

  Jessie faltered. “I hate to be an inconvenience, but can you pick me up? Steve’s BMW is…out of commission.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It exploded. There was a fire at Steve’s house last night. Everything was destroyed. There’s nothing left.”

  “My God. Where are you now? I’ll pick you up in two hours.”

  * * *

  It was around seven o’clock that evening when the women arrived at the cabin. Jessie studied the rustic house as they approached the front stoop. “Are you sure nobody knows about this place?”

  “That’s what Steve told me a couple months ago.” Rachel reached for the key under the planter.

  Jessie roamed through the small house, searching for signs that her brother had been there. There were few. His house in Westchester County had been contemporary, which fit him, while the cabin was simple and rustic.

  “The house doesn’t feel like my brother,” Jessie said.

&nbs
p; “From what I understand, he spent his weekends here.”

  Jessie finished her tour in the smallest bedroom, which was set up as an office. She sat at a small desk and ran her fingers over the dark wood. “Even the desk…It’s an antique.” Jessie turned to Rachel. “My brother hated antiques.”

  “Perhaps, he bought the place furnished.”

  “Perhaps.” Jessie’s fingers moved to the computer keyboard. “Steve’s computer at his house was wiped clean. There were no documents on it. His CDs and flash drives were empty too.” Jessie resisted the urge to turn on the computer; instead she changed the subject. “You must be hungry. Is there any food in the fridge?”

  In the kitchen the women scrounged for something to eat, then prepared pasta and sauce from a jar. Within a half hour they were seated at the small dining area table with their dinner and some wine.

  “Thanks for driving me up here, Rachel.”

  “What are your plans?”

  Jessie sipped her Malbec. “I’m not sure.”

  Rachel curled pasta on her fork. “I’ll have to go back tomorrow.”

  “I understand. I’m going to stay here. I want to go through the house and see if there are any clues to what got Steve killed.”

  “The two of us have to be careful, Jessie.”

  Jessie nodded. What an odd turn of events. Only last week she had been home curled up with Taylor on her loveseat. Now, her closest comrade was this stranger sitting beside her.

  Rachel recalled Steve’s last conversation in her head. “It’s the ultimate conspiracy…My God, its going to change everything…Don’t trust anyone.

  “Your brother told me not to trust anyone. He called it the ultimate conspiracy.”

  “Steve called me Wednesday on his way back from DC and there was something he said in his message that doesn’t make sense.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said that he wanted to run something by me about my new project. Steve and I had spoken the previous weekend and I told him about two projects I had been working on. One of them is Among Us and the other—The Ultimate Conspiracy.”