by Libby Howard
“One hundred thousand dollars,” I reminded him. “That’s a felony. And a mortgage company isn’t likely to take that sort of thing in stride and shrug it off.”
“Which is why I called the title company,” Violet told me. “And the mortgage company. Let’s trace this at both ends and see if they meet in the middle. I agree with Judge Beck. I’m thinking Spencer Thompson figured he could rip off elderly people with no real support system and no assets to fight back. Just think, if you hadn’t gone to visit Melvin Elmer this week, he would have moved out and Spencer Thompson would have flipped that house for a big profit. Double profit if he was the one that pocketed that hundred-thousand-dollar loan.”
“And the mortgage company would cooperate with us before the bank would?” I asked. “I would have thought you’d have needed a court order for that as well.”
Violet shot me a mischievous smile. “No one wants to receive a call from a county tax assessor’s office stating that they’ve received a fraud complaint from a homeowner. Worse, the title company that did the transfer to Spencer Thompson from the foreclosure sale is on the hook, too. I made sure to call them first, knowing they’d be on the phone in five seconds with the mortgage company, holding them accountable for asserting a fraudulent lien. In less than an hour I had two angry title companies with mud on their faces, and one panicked mortgage company that was kind enough to send me this.”
She shoved a piece of paper across the table to me and I read it, Judge Beck eyeing it over my shoulder.
“I’d strike the eviction based on this,” the judge commented. “And if Spencer Thompson was still alive, I’d tell him I didn’t want to see him in my courtroom again until this matter was resolved and he could prove a clear title to the home.”
I beamed. “Thank you, Violet. I still want to see justice done as far as this identity theft, and any potential embezzlement from Spencer Thompson, but this takes one huge worry off my shoulders.”
The memo on official mortgage company letterhead stated that due to questions concerning the validity of the loan and title, they were in the process of conducting an internal investigation and would notify all interested parties of the results. It was addressed to Brockhurst Properties, the two title companies, Melvin Elmer, and the county Records Division. I’d been thinking lots of bad thoughts about the mortgage company and their sloppy loan origination practices, but this memo and their quick response to Violet’s call gave me hope that they weren’t all just sharks looking to make a buck.
“There’s one other thing I found.” Violet slid me another stack of papers.
“You’re not paying this young woman enough,” Judge Beck said as we read through them. “And you, Miss Smith, should have gone to law school.”
Violet beamed in response.
“So, these are all the homes owned by Brockhurst Properties in the last three years?”
She nodded. “Yes. The first six were Humble-House-owned, sold to their for-profit company, then re-sold to Brockhurst Properties who flipped them at closing to the buyer.”
I shook my head, still not understanding all this paperwork. “Flipped at closing? Why?”
“To get a cut of the profits—a cut that Tracey Abramson is probably unaware of.” Violet bounced in her chair, her grin huge. “See, Humble House acquires the title through one of their programs, and when the owner dies, they sell it at a minor profit to their side company as a distressed property.”
“I know. Tracey Abramson told me all this and while it sounds shady as heck, I’ve been told it’s all above board.”
“As long as it’s not too far under market value, yes. Eighty percent is usually the rule, but market value is a tricky thing and appraisals can come in however you want them. Humble House gets a low appraisal, sells to their for-profit wing at eighty percent of that, then the other company gets a new appraisal based on ‘improvements’ and sells for a significant profit.”
“Then why the transfer at closing to Brockhurst?” I asked, shaking my head in confusion. By this point, Judge Beck had abandoned any pretense of doing work and was listening intently to our conversation.
“It’s a money grab.” Violet flipped a piece of paper over and began writing down numbers. “Let’s say Humble House clears thirty thousand in profit. The second appraisal comes in and Humble Properties, LLC sells the property. But there’s a third appraisal that’s what the actual buyer is paying, and it’s got an extra thirty thousand built into it. Rather than have Humble Properties, LLC clear eighty thousand, Spencer Thompson uses the second appraisal. He lets the LLC take fifty thousand in profit and sells to Brockhurst Properties, then immediately, as in within an hour immediately, sells to the actual buyer for thirty thousand more. Brockhurst Properties never needs to front the cash, because it’s all handled by the title company in escrow and it never shows on the actual title because the sale is at closing. Humble House, i.e. Tracey Abramson, would never realize what happened. For all he knows, Brockhurst Properties is an investment company, an REIT handling single-family home rentals. If they buy six of their assets and the purchase looks good as far as the second appraisal goes, it wouldn’t cause any red flags. Spencer Thompson double dips on each sale, and no one is the wiser.”
“Yes, you definitely aren’t paying her enough,” Judge Beck repeated. “And is the county tax assessment office aware of her talent? Screw that, is the prosecutor’s office aware of her talent?”
“I’d be thrilled if you wrote me a recommendation, Judge Beck,” Violet told him, her face pink at his praise. “Or if you mentioned my name to anyone looking to hire a forensic accountant who minored in cyber security.”
“But wait.” I waved a hand to get us back on topic. Not that I wanted to downplay Violet’s brilliance or her untapped talent, but I was worried that if I got distracted, I’d lose my very fragile understanding of the situation. “There’s an issue here. Tracey Abramson isn’t unaware of Spencer Thompson’s double dipping. He’s the one who had me look into Brockhurst Properties. And he said he was shutting down the for-profit side of the company as well as refusing to sell it to Spencer Thompson. I think he was very much aware of what was going on, at least in the last week.”
“That would be why the Humble Properties, LLC flips stopped at six.” Violet pointed down at the papers. “These last ten weren’t flips at closing. Spencer Thompson needed cash up front to buy these at tax and foreclosure sales. I can see the first three or four being funded from what he’d skimmed from Humble House, but in the last nine months, he’d must have started to have a cash flow issue. You can process title and resell a property only so quickly.”
“And that’s when you think he started to do his identity theft,” I added.
“Yes. I think he got greedy, saw some opportunities that were too good to pass by, and no longer had Humble House to rely upon, so he turned to something else.”
“I don’t know, Violet.” I shook my head. “I think that’s where you jump the shark.”
She blinked at the unfamiliar reference, but Judge Beck chuckled.
“You two are amazing. Like Sherlock and Watson, only much better looking.”
“And without the cocaine habit,” I added.
“Am I Watson?” Violet teased. “Or is Kay supposed to be Watson?”
“Detective Keeler thinks I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I told her, “so you be Sherlock on this case.”
“Maybe you can both be Sherlock without the cocaine habit,” Judge Beck said. “Either way, I’m impressed. This is far more interesting than these motions I brought home to go over tonight.”
I was sure it was, but although Violet had made significant progress, we still had no idea who had killed Spencer Thompson. Was it his wife, wanting all the money instead of half, or worried that her husband’s risky behavior was going to cost them everything financially? Was it Tracey Abramson, angered at how Spencer Thompson had betrayed his trust and filtered their LLC profits into another company for his sole gain? Or wa
s it someone else who had a grudge against the man? Honestly, anyone could have been the murderer, from a dying Melvin Elmer to a disgruntled client. Anyone.
Chapter 16
“Why not? Matt Poffenberger is a good--looking guy. You like him. He likes you. Get naked and get busy,” Daisy announced the next morning at yoga. She’d been telling me about how J.T. had given her an adorable cat mug as a gift the other day, and how excited she was about their dinner this weekend at Etienne’s, and that had somehow transitioned into her deciding I needed to date—no, more than date—Matt Poffenberger.
I sputtered, nearly toppling from my triangle pose. “Daisy! Matt and I are friends. We’re not dating.”
I’d made the mistake of telling Daisy that I was slightly envious of her budding relationship with J.T., and now she was busy playing matchmaker.
“Pfft. So don’t date him then. Be friends with benefits. That’s the joy of not being twenty anymore. No worries about commitments, or them calling you the next day, or whether they’re going to spread it around the school that you did it with them. Just sex between two consenting adults who like and respect each other. How cool is that?”
“Daisy…” But she was on a roll and there was no stopping my friend now.
“He doesn’t even have to buy you dinner or anything. Or spend the night, because that might be awkward with Judge Beck and the kids here. You set the rules. You probably don’t even need to fret over birth control, unless you’re like me and your ovaries just won’t get the message that they need to shut it down and call it a day. Just hot, no-strings-attached sex.”
“I don’t want hot, no-strings-attached sex,” I told her. Although the idea did have a strange kind of appeal in a naughty fantasy sort of way. But no. I was mortified just thinking about it. And coming from my friend, who was giggly over a chaste kiss with the man she’d been dating for the last month, this seemed a bit over the top.
Daisy grinned at me. “I’d do Matt, but he’s not the slightest bit interested in me. Go for it, Kay.”
“I am most certainly not going to go for it.” I tried to straighten my back and look both outraged and dignified. “Matt is my friend, and that’s it. I’m grieving. And even if I wasn’t, I’m hardly going to be getting it on with Judge Beck and his kids living here.”
Daisy’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Judge Beck. That’s how the land lies, huh? Can’t say I blame you. He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s in the middle of a messy divorce,” I retorted. “And I’m twenty years older than he is. And we’re just friends. Cut it out, Daisy. This isn’t funny.”
Daisy got that shrewd look on her face. “You’re more like fifteen years older than he is. And in spite of your weird knitting obsession, you’re not old.”
“Stop trying to set me up with my roommate and every other man over the age of thirty you know,” I hissed at her.
Daisy rolled her eyes. “Fine. But at least let me drag you to the spa this weekend. Mani/pedi, a facial, and a cut and color on your hair. My treat.”
I longed for a spa day, but I had plans. “I can’t. We’re going to see Madison’s cross-country meet on Saturday, then going out for pizza.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think those were your step kids.” Daisy shifted into an Utthita Parsvakonasana.
“I like to think of myself as their adopted grandmother,” I told her, mirroring her pose.
She snorted. “Grandmother, my ass. Stop acting like you’ve got one foot in the grave, Kay. You’re an attractive woman. You’re smart and fun. Those kids adore you. Five minutes after he moved in, Judge Beck is considering you one of his best friends. And that, Matt Poffenberger gives you big ole puppy dog eyes every month at bingo. How many times have you gone out to lunch with him? How many times have you gone over to visit his father? How many of his charity events are you fundraising for?”
“A lot,” I confessed. “But he’s just a friend, Daisy. Eli passed away six months ago. I’m not ready. I’m still in mourning.”
I still see his ghost is what I wanted to add. Daisy knew I saw ghosts, but I hadn’t talked to her about the one that followed me from room to room each night. The one that set up watch in my bedroom as I slept. The one whose presence was a constant comfort to me. Although I’d begun to feel a bit guilty that sometimes I didn’t even notice he was there, that so many times I didn’t even think about him.
Six months. How could I possibly be starting to move on after only six months? How could I possibly ever consider loving another man when Eli had been the love of my life, my soul mate, my until death do we part?
Until death do we part. Oh, God.
“Well, you aren’t going to be eating pizza all day. If I make our spa appointments for three, will you be back by then? Or on Sunday?”
I bit my lip, following Daisy into our eagle pose. “I’m assuming I’ll be back by then. Maybe make the appointment for four?”
“Four it is.” She shot me a stern look. “And you’re getting your hair done. Nails. Feet. Hair. The works, girl.”
“Okay, but I’m not dyeing my hair. I don’t want to be one of those old women with the fake-looking black hair. I’m owning my gray. It’s who I am.”
“Can’t you own your gray with highlights?” Daisy said, shifting into a low lunge.
I glanced at Daisy’s platinum blonde hair as I mirrored her pose. It looked good on her—edgy and stylish. There was no way I could pull that off. “I don’t want to be one of those old women with the floozy-blonde hair, either.”
“I’m not saying you need to go crazy. Just some warm blonde foils. Trust me.”
I eyed her, not sure if my trust for my best friend extended to letting her “foil” my hair. “So streaks, only a dark gold-blonde instead of white? I don’t want to be all stripy-headed.”
“Foils. They can do super light blonde, but I think you’d look better with more of a gold tone.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. In full disclosure, I haven’t colored my hair in almost forty years.”
Daisy chuckled. “Forty years? Good grief, Kay. Did they even have hair dye back then? Did you just smear crushed berries on your head or something?”
“Ha, ha. Actually, back in the day, we called it frosting, not foils,” I said.
“Well, this isn’t the same as forty years ago,” Daisy told me. “For one thing, they don’t slap a plastic cap on your head and yank chunks of hair through it with an oversized crochet hook.”
Which hadn’t been too bad when the person getting the highlights had short hair. I winced, remembering the beautician pulling my long, permed hair through the holes in that cap. Yikes. I was lucky I even had hair after all the chemical processing I’d put my scalp through back then. But the frosting had looked good. My ash-toned brown hair had appeared sun-kissed with the frosted blonde streaks in the permed curls. Then I’d turned twenty-two and didn’t have money for perms, let alone frosting. By the time Eli and I were married and he was a doctor and earning enough money to consider having a professional touch my hair, I’d decided big hair wasn’t my thing. Trims at the local beauty school had been a bargain. And the last ten years, I’d cut it myself, not even able to justify the expense of the beauty school. Yes, it probably was time for me to have someone who knew what they were doing cut and color my hair.
And don’t get me started on nails and feet.
“Then after we’re done, we’ll call up Matt Poffenberger and have him meet us for drinks. Bet he’ll be bowled over by how gorgeous you are with your foils and snazzy manicure.”
I bit back a smile, thinking that after the week I’d had, a little spa pampering and a bit of male admiration would go a long way. My first investigation case. A whole lot of unsavory business practices. Identity theft and an elderly man being evicted from his home. And the possibility that the villain in this scenario might be the dead man. Made me think whoever killed him deserved my sympathy as opposed to justice.
“Happy hour on the porch
tonight?” Daisy asked, moving us into the child’s pose that signaled the end of our morning yoga. I could already taste the coffee and the cinnamon raisin rolls I’d made the night before.
“Yes, happy hour. I’ve got a bottle of Pinot chilling in the fridge as we speak.”
“Good.” Daisy stood up and stretched tall, her hands reaching toward the sky. “I’ve got a bottle of my own to contribute. I think the Tennisons might come down to join us.”
I turned to her in surprise. “The Tennisons?” They were a trust-fund couple with more money then I’d imagined possible, and they were also the couple that had the most picture--perfect house and garden on the street.
“The Tennisons.” She grinned at me and headed for the house. “Now let’s go get some coffee and whatever you baked last night and get going. I hear you’ve got a murder to solve?”
I snorted. “Detective Keeler has a murder to solve. I’ve got six skip traces to do and the findings of an investigation to type up along with an invoice.”
But she was right. I might not be the one in charge of solving Spencer Thompson’s murder, but I did have information I needed to deliver to Detective Keeler—information that might help him arrest the killer.
Chapter 17
I plopped a stack of copies down in front of Detective Keeler and sat in the narrow, uncomfortable chair beside his desk. “Spencer Thompson was moonlighting. Twice. Once in a partnership gone sour with Tracey Abramson, and once in a company of his own that flipped properties.”
Now that we had the okay from Marissa Thompson and her lawyer to divulge all this to law enforcement, I was singing like a canary. Or a crow.
Detective Keeler shot me a sour look. “You’re telling me he was killed in a real estate deal gone bad?”