by Libby Howard
“Still, he could have used that eight or nine thousand to start an online gambling empire, or lucrative day trading, or something else,” J.T. suggested. “If the guy is one hell of a poker player, then eight thousand could have quickly become a few hundred thousand.”
“If so, there has to be some trace of it somewhere. PayPal or some online account, maybe?”
“Possibly. If you knew where that few hundred was being deposited, it would be a start.”
I sighed in frustration. “But for that, I’d need to see his paycheck stubs or get into his online payroll system from work.”
“We’ll eventually have paycheck stubs,” J.T. told me. “He’ll need to provide them for the divorce discovery process.”
True, but Mrs. Thompson wanted to find these hidden assets before she served her husband with the papers. I’d need to do without.
“Lock up when you leave?” J.T. shot me a grin. “And keep track of your hours. The word of the day is ‘billable.’”
“Got it. And have fun doing yoga with cats.” I laughed at the look on his face.
“So…how badly am I going to humiliate myself trying to bend into positions I haven’t done since my twenties? Or ever?”
“Badly. Make sure you bring your sense of humor.” I saw his frown deepen and took pity on him. “Daisy doesn’t want someone—friend or otherwise—who’s perfect and skilled at everything. She appreciates people who are willing to get outside their comfort zones and try new things even if it makes them look foolish. And she really appreciates people who take an interest in the things she does. You don’t have to make yoga a daily thing, but the fact that you’re giving it a shot makes all the difference.”
“And cats?”
I nearly bounced in my chair. “I know! I’m so jealous. I enjoy yoga, but yoga with cats? I wonder if they come up and rub against you and purr as you’re doing the poses, or if they just wander around. I’d probably fall over, I’d be so busy checking out the kitties.”
Who would have thought I’d become such a fan of cats? Before I’d adopted Taco, I’d been ambivalent toward them, but now I couldn’t see my life without a furry feline in it. But one look at my boss made me realize not everyone shared my enthusiasm.
“You don’t like cats?”
He grimaced. “I had a beagle growing up. Does that count?”
“No, it doesn’t. How do you not like cats?” I’ll admit that last question sounded a bit belligerent, but I thought of Taco and couldn’t believe that J.T. wouldn’t love my little guy.
“It’s not that I don’t like them. They don’t seem to like me. I go to pet them, and they bite me and run away. Or they reach up and claw my leg. They jump up on the counters and knock things over, and…well, they don’t listen. They don’t sit or come when they’re called. And when you tell them to go away, they just stare at you.”
“You just haven’t met the right cat,” I told him. “I’m sure there will be one or two at yoga tonight that will capture your heart. You said they’re all adoptable. Maybe you’ll end up taking one home.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered. “Daisy’s going to talk me into adopting one of those things, I just know it.”
I bit back a smile. “Well, then you need to stay strong. I’ve heard you say ‘no’ before, J.T. It’s a word in your vocabulary.”
“Not where Daisy is concerned,” he admitted.
“Just tell Daisy you’re not ready for that sort of commitment yet, or that you want to wait and make sure you’re choosing the perfect cat.” I waved him toward the door. “Be creative. Think on your feet. And get going. You’ll need to change before you go, because there’s no way you’re going to manage a downward dog in those khakis.”
I watched him leave, shouldering his briefcase as if he were about to head into battle, then I turned my attention back to the stacks of bank statements on my desk.
Chapter 3
I dragged myself home well after six and found an empty house. That wasn’t terribly surprising on weeks when the judge didn’t have his kids and stayed at the courthouse late, but this was his week with Henry and Madison. When the kids were here, Judge Beck rearranged his schedule to pick them up after school, which meant he was usually home before five. Though, with the kids’ after school activities, an occasional mid-week game or a practice running late would throw off the schedule.
At least Taco was home to greet me at the door, although the cat was clearly more interested in me putting food in his bowl than delivering any loving greeting. I’d taken to letting him outside when I got home, knowing he’d be back promptly in time for dinner, but running late had put me right at the hour I usually fed him and no amount of urging was going to get him out the door.
“Come on, boy. I’ll get your dinner.” I made my way to the dining room, somehow managing to not trip over the cat weaving around my feet. Depositing my laptop case and an armful of files, I bent down to pick up Taco. Better to carry him into the kitchen then risk breaking a hip because my cat tried to kill me over a late dinner.
After Taco was happily scarfing down his food, I made a sandwich for myself and surveyed the contents of my cupboard, deciding that after working late, an evening of baking and knitting was in order.
Scones? No, I’d made a double batch yesterday, and there was still a dozen or so left. Yeast-raised cinnamon and raisin bread? I eyed the clock and decided that with the rising time for the dough, I’d be up past midnight if I made that recipe.
Pumpkin bars. It was still September, but not too early for this fall favorite. I pulled out the eggs, sugar, oil, flour, and spices, then found the jar of home-canned pumpkin that Bonita Sedgewick had given me after Eli had died. The giant basket had included frozen casseroles, potpourri, canned pumpkin from her garden, and baked goods. The casseroles and baked goods had been consumed long ago, but I’d been waiting for fall to find something to do with the canned pumpkin.
It had been put up in chunks, so I drained it and ran it through my blender on puree before adding it to the rest of my ingredients. While the bars baked, I gathered the cream cheese, butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla to make the frosting. Thirty minutes later, the bars were cooling from the oven, safely barricaded from an inquisitive Taco, while I turned to eye my knitting.
At the rate I was going on these Christmas shawl projects, they’d end up being Easter gifts. I grabbed the basket, pulled a catnip treat from the drawer to bribe Taco to stay away from the baked goods, and headed into the parlor. A shadow formed in the corner of the room, moving closer as I sat and pulled my knitting from the basket. It had gotten to the point where I sometimes didn’t consciously think of the ghost I’d come to believe was my late husband, Eli. He was just here, a comforting presence. Occasionally, I’d talk to him and tell him about my day, but most times I just enjoyed having him nearby. Even when his shadowy form didn’t appear in the corner of my vision, I still felt him about the house.
Would he always be here? There was a time when I clung to that thought like a lifeline, but now, increasingly, the idea that his spirit would never be at rest bothered me.
“I’ll be okay,” I whispered to him as I organized my yarn and eyed the pattern. “I miss you. I love you. But I’m not alone like I’d feared I’d be. I’ll be okay.”
The shadow shifted closer, its presence sending goosebumps up my arms. Taco paused in his attack of the catnip toy to eye the ghost, then moved his herb-laced mouse to the other side of the room. I closed my eyes and imagined a time before the accident, when Eli and I would sit on this couch and read, or listen to records, when we took vacation and went out to dinner at fancy places like Stella’s, when it seemed our happily ever after would go on…well, forever.
But those were memories. We never know what the future may bring. And right now, I had a Christmas gift to knit.
Three rows of lacy blue shawl later, the shadow had vanished. I sat the knitting down and headed in to ice the pumpkin bars. I’d just put
them in the refrigerator when the front door opened and I heard an excited chorus of voices. I also smelled the wonderful aroma of pizza.
“Ms. Kay! Ms. Kay!” Madison danced into the kitchen, doing a pirouette as she passed the center island. “Dad let me drive home!”
The girl waved a little card at me. I took it and admired her learner’s permit before handing it back.
“We almost died,” Henry teased as he sat a giant box of pizza on the counter. “Dad’s outside, checking the SUV for scratches and dents.”
“I didn’t hit anything,” Madison protested. “And anyone would have run over the curb. It’s a tight turn.”
“Well, you just about gave old Mrs. Steadman a heart attack,” Henry told her with a grin. “She thought you were coming straight for her. Two more inches and she would have had to jump into the bushes to keep from getting run over.”
“She did just fine, Henry,” Judge Beck scolded as he came into the kitchen. “She just clipped that corner. I’ve done it, and so has your mother. And Mrs. Steadman was at least twenty feet away from us.”
I bit back a smile, because in spite of the judge’s words, he did seem unusually pale right now.
“You’ll change your tune the first time you want me to drive you somewhere,” Madison countered, waving her learner’s permit at her brother. “Six months and I’ll be a licensed driver.”
“You still won’t be able to drive anyone under the age of eighteen unless there’s another licensed driving adult in the car,” Henry shot back. “Not for another six months.”
“That’s still three years before you’ll be getting behind the wheel. I can hear it now: ‘Oh Mads, can you drop me off at the arcade? Can you pick me up from Jason’s house?’”
“Not unless I had a death wish,” Henry shot back.
“Enough.” Judge Beck fixed each of the children in turn with a stern glare. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Homework in your rooms, and lights out by ten. Got it?”
There was a chorus of “got its,” then a scramble to grab drinks from the fridge before the two shouldered their backpacks and climbed the stairs, both continuing to argue about Madison’s driving ability.
“Spill it,” I said to the judge as I poured myself a glass of iced tea. “Is she really that bad?”
“She’s probably a better driver than I was at her age,” he admitted. “She’s very careful, just inexperienced. I, on the other hand, was too busy trying to look cool and check out the other cars and pedestrians for attractive women to pay attention to where I was going.”
I laughed. “How many cars did you total before the age of twenty?”
“Clearly, I had a guardian angel looking over me because there were no serious accidents, but I did my fair share of driving over curbs and even took out a few shrubs. There was that time I took off the passenger side mirror trying to get Kelly O’Connell to notice me, though. My buddy and I tried to reattach it to no avail. I lied to my parents that there had been a hit-and-run while it was parked at the grocery store, but they found out the truth and I wound up grounded for two months as well as having to work off the cost of the repair.”
“But did Kelly O’Connell notice you?”
“Noticed me. Laughed at me. Promptly went out with some football jock instead of me.” Judge Beck smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t always this suave ladies’ man you see before you now.”
I chuckled and headed into the dining room with my tea, the judge following behind me. He’d said that somewhat self-mockingly, as if he’d never considered himself to be a suave ladies’ man, but I found it hard to believe someone as good looking as Judge Beck was often turned down for a date.
The pair of us settled in, me with my tea and my huge box of files and the judge with his leather briefcase and stacks of paperwork. I smiled at what was becoming our nightly routine of working across from each other at my dining room table.
“J.T. had me swing by the Records Division today. They didn’t have my files ready, so I wandered around and peeked in on your courtroom,” I told him.
He sorted through his stack of papers. “Which case? The sentencing modification, or the theft trial?”
“The theft. It was fascinating to see you doing your King Solomon thing,” I teased.
He shot me a sardonic glance. “I’m a Circuit Court Judge. The jury decides guilt or innocence. There’s no King Solomon thing, unless you’re referring to my keeping the two attorneys from slicing each other in half.”
“Okay, referee thing then.”
He shook his head. “I’m more like a babysitter than a referee. Mainly I just make sure everyone plays nice in the sandbox. If you wanted to see some King Solomon action, you should have checked out Judge Sanchez on the District Court side. He drew the short straw and had traffic court today.”
“I went there first. I didn’t count, but it looked like the poor guy had over a hundred cases on his docket today. After the fourth ‘I was speeding because I was late for church’ excuse, I left.”
“I’m pretty sure Judge Sanchez had been wishing he could leave as well. That theft case today should have been his, or at least one of the District Court judges, but it was over five thousand dollars and under thirty, so it fell in that middle gray area. I accused Jorge of lobbing it over to me and was going to give it back, but the defendant wanted a jury trial.” He glanced up at me over his glasses. “So that was my day. Listening to a very eloquent attorney first thing in the morning tell me why his client shouldn’t serve twenty, then this theft trial that took the entire rest of the day. We were pushing it close. I wasn’t sure I’d get done in time to pick the kids up from practice.”
“You know you can always call on me if you need backup.” I said it without thinking, then felt myself flush warmer than any hot flash. “In an emergency, I mean. I might be able to help, although probably not today. I worked late and didn’t get home until six.”
I wasn’t their mother. I was the landlord. It wasn’t my place for one, and for two, I was afraid of becoming some sort of default unpaid nanny for Judge Beck’s children. Yes, I loved them. Yes, I’d do anything for them. But if the judge wanted shared physical custody, he needed to have a fallback plan. It would be too easy for me to land into that role, and I couldn’t. I needed to figure out an independent life for myself now that Eli was gone, and that didn’t include being Judge Beck’s substitute wife.
He shot me a look from over the top of his reading glasses. “I’d only call you if it were an emergency, Kay. If I want joint custody, I need to make this work on my own. Plus, I’m really enjoying these moments together with them. It’s amazing what kids open up and say when you’re driving them home from school.”
“Or teaching them to drive?” I teased.
He grimaced. “Honestly? That shaved five years off my life. We came awfully close to a lamp post in the parking lot, and she went up on another curb turning into the driveway.”
Oh my. It seems Madison hadn’t learned as much at last week’s driver’s education class as her father had hoped. I envisioned him white-knuckled in the passenger seat and chuckled.
“I’m sure there will be a few unexplained scrapes and dents in the next few years,” I told him.
“Scrapes and dents I can live with. Late-night calls from the side of the road while waiting for a tow truck and/or an ambulance are what I’m afraid of.” He peered over my shoulder. “What are you working on tonight? Those look like bank statements.”
“They are.” I waved my highlighter at him. “I have my first real case as an investigator, and it’s…a divorce!”
“Ah. A topic I’m very familiar with. Let me guess, you’re deep in the weeds trying to find proof of an affair?”
“Hidden assets,” I told him. “And possibly an affair. But mostly hidden assets.” I looked up at him. “Um, not to imply anything here, but if you were going to hide some money from your wife, how would you do it?”
He shrugged, pushing aside his paperwork. �
�Beats me. Heather managed all of our finances and paid the bills. I pulled a couple hundred in cash out every week or two to cover coffee, lunch, the occasional gallon of milk on the way home. That sort of thing.”
I blinked, surprised that he managed to spend a few hundred every week or two on coffee and lunches. I spent a little more than that on my total grocery bill. “But if you wanted to, how would you have done it?”
He considered that for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Diverting any significant part of my paycheck deposit would be too easy to trace. A spouse is going to notice anything more than a hundred or so a month difference in the deposits and ask for the paycheck stubs to be presented during the divorce process. If the money was for an investment I was sure would pay off, I might take out a loan in my own name, then use the profits to set up a separate account after I’d paid the loan back.”
“The loan will still show up on your credit report,” I reminded him. “If she’s suspicious, she’ll catch that and wonder what it was for as well as how it got repaid.”
“Borrow from friends or family for the investment?”
I nodded and made a note on my pad of paper. “I’ll check into that. J.T. thinks it could be gambling wins or he’s moonlighting, but I’m not convinced there was an investment or a side business. Right now, all I know is the wife thinks there’s hidden assets and that there was an unfamiliar bank or credit card in his name that didn’t show on the credit report I pulled.”
“Maybe the credit report is wrong?”
My eyebrows shot up. “All three of them? Maybe with an apartment rental or some used car lot loan, but not a credit card. That stuff always gets reported. Always. Unless he’s used a stolen identity, and in that case, we’d be dealing with more than divorce here.”
The judge looked intrigued. “Do you think he could be involved in something like that? Embezzlement from his work? Stolen credit cards?”
I shook my head but made a quick note on the pad. Check embezzlement and ID theft. “I doubt it. He’s been at a major investment firm for five years. I’m sure they take their accounting audits pretty seriously. Plus, it would have to be a huge payoff for him to risk a lucrative and promising career like that. The guy looks squeaky clean as far as his online presence, criminal searches, and credit accounts. It’s like he’s the Ken doll of investment advisors.”