by Rickie Blair
I was afraid if I broke into his apparent trance, it would derail this surprising admission. But I had to know more. “Do you mean the alleged fraud?”
He turned instantly alert, straightening in his chair. “What fraud?”
Now it was my turn to look surprised. “Professor Dignam was implicated in a fraud involving the university. When he agreed to leave, it was hushed up.”
“Who told you that?”
“His ex-wife, for one.”
“I never heard that.” Roy raised a hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But the truth is, I wasn’t here at the time. I made several trips to Europe that month, seeking new opportunities for Palmerston.”
“Who spoke to the police on behalf of the corporation?”
“That would have been my brother, Eugene.”
He leaned back in his chair, as if he was trying to retrieve memories from decades earlier. If it was an act, it was a good one. Roy Palmer seemed genuinely confused. “When I got back, the company was involved in a big land deal and my attention was focused on that. I’m sorry I can’t remember anything more.”
Straightening, he flicked a hand. “Besides, as you say, Dignam showed up later anyway. So, even if there was a mysterious trespasser at that dig, it hardly matters. Now—if that’s all, I have work to do.” He smiled again, reaching for his intercom. “Let’s call Tracy. I’m sure she’ll want to see you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tracy was waiting outside her great-uncle’s office, grinning. “Hi, Verity. It’s great to see you again. Was Uncle Roy helpful?”
“Yes. Although I still have a few questions about Palmerston corporate history.”
“Ooh, that. It’s deadly dull, I assure you.” Tracy stared up at the ceiling with an air of exhaustion. “Take it from one who’s had to listen to them drone on about it at family events for years. A four-hundred-page treatise on the Magna Carta would be light reading by comparison.”
“Them?”
“My father. My grandfather. My great-uncle. The only family member who doesn’t go on and on about it is my aunt Marilyn. She couldn’t care less. Technically, she’s a board member, but she rarely shows up because the meetings interfere with her spa appointments.”
Since Tracy used air quotes for spa appointments, I assumed this was code for something else. “Do you mean—”
She mimed the movement of a glass to lips.
“Oh,” I said. “I see. What about your cousin? The one who drove you to Leafy Hollow?”
“Seth is Marilyn’s son.” Tracy smirked. “In more ways than one. He’s a lot of fun. But definitely not interested in corporate history.”
I remembered him leaning on the horn outside the bakery to hurry Tracy along. He never got out of the car. “I’d like to meet him.”
“You will, I’m sure.” She glanced at the ornate gold watch on her wrist. “I’m sorry I have to run, but we’re holding a small reception here tonight. In a couple of hours, in fact. I have to check on a few things in my capacity as corporate events coordinator.” She leaned in with a grin. “Which, by the way, is not a real job. My family believes that nepotism begins at home. Anyway—” Tracy clasped my arm. “Why don’t you come? Please?”
“That sounds like a family gathering. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Oh, it’s not for the family. Dad invites a few investment bankers in for an annual get-together. He always insists I attend. Mostly I serve champagne and babble small talk. It’s deadly dull. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you came along.”
I followed her through the huge wooden doors and into the reception area. Tracy paused to lean on the railing over the rotunda.
“I suggested they cancel this year, given all that’s happened, but Dad insisted on business as usual. I think he wants to prove he doesn’t need Granddad’s help to run the business.”
“But he’s CEO, isn’t he? Why would that be an issue?”
She puffed out a breath before glancing over her shoulder and moving closer to me. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s a been a Shakespearean tragedy around here lately. Since Granddad passed away, they’re all fighting amongst themselves.” She stared out over the impressive rotunda and its looming statue. “Eugene was pretty controlling. To be honest, I think Dad resented his father.”
“Because he wasn’t around much when they were kids?”
She smiled grimly. “Because Dad never measured up. The Palmer brothers were a tough act to follow.” Pushing off from the railing, she turned to me with a smile. “Please say you’ll come and rescue me from the tedium.”
“I’d be delighted.” I hesitated. “Although—I’m not really dressed for a reception.”
Tracy flicked a hand and smiled. “You look great. Meet you here at seven o’clock. You can ask our guests about Palmerston corporate history. They’ll be happy to—” she pantomimed more air quotes, “—walk you through it.” She reached for a business card on the reception desk, paused to scribble something on it, and handed it to me. “Give this to the security guard on the front desk. He’ll let you in. Sorry, I have to get back.”
After watching her stride off down the hall, I turned to the elevator.
On the sidewalk outside the Palmerston building, I paused, formulating my plan. There wasn’t enough time to drive to Leafy Hollow and back for the shareholders’ reception. But there was enough time to make a few essential calls. I slipped my cell phone from my handbag.
“Sorry I can’t meet you for dinner, Emy.”
“No problem. We could drive in and have dinner with you there.”
“It’s not necessary, really.”
“Where’s Jeff?”
“He’s working tonight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Check out the neighborhood. There’s a few things I need to look at.”
“Okay. Call me tomorrow.”
After slipping my cell into my back pocket, I strolled around the Palmerston building. It took up an entire block, with shopfronts on all four sides. I counted five bank branches and investment firms, four sandwich-and-coffee takeouts, two dry cleaners, and one convenience store. Its front window was dominated by a giant moose head wearing noise-cancelling headphones, a display of cheap burner cell phones, and stacked pink boxes of chocolate biscuits from Japan with flying squirrels printed on them. Just what I needed. I went inside for a quick purchase.
After stepping back out onto the sidewalk, I realized there were no supermarkets or car repair shops or hardware chains in the area. No secondhand book sellers, dollar stores, or bulk food outlets, either. Everything around the Palmerston building was new and upmarket.
While waiting at the counter of The Sandwich Station for my order of a “Toronto,” the “flavor destination of the day”—which turned out to be grilled eggplant-and-brie with olive tapenade on artisanal bread—I tried to find out more about the area’s pre-Palmerston era.
“Before my time,” said the young man behind the counter. “Balsamic drizzle with that?”
“Sure. But you must have heard people talk about the changes.”
“I know that a lot of people had to move out, but it was years ago.” He deftly wrapped my sandwich in brown paper before handing it over. “Want a cookie? No charge. We’re closing soon, and I’ll have to throw them out.”
“You don’t stay open over the dinner hour?”
“No reason to. There’s nobody around once the office workers go home. We only have fig-and-macadamia-nut left. That okay?”
“Lovely, thanks.”
He plucked a cookie from the display with a pair of tongs, then dropped it into a paper bag. “Twelve-fifty, please.”
While counting out the purchase price, plus tip, I tried again. “Was there an auto repair shop around here?”
He wrinkled his forehead. “Now that you mention it, there was. It was right across the street. Where that designer furniture store is now.” He nodded his head at the front window
while handing over my cookie. “But that repair shop closed years ago.”
“Because of the new tower?”
“I don’t think so. I remembered my boss talking about it when I started working here. He said the place never seemed to be busy, but he couldn’t get an appointment for even an oil change.”
“That’s weird.”
“He thought so. Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good, thanks. I’ll get out of here and let you close up.”
I settled onto a park bench outside the sandwich shop, turned up my collar against the chill breeze, and munched my sandwich. The sun hadn’t entirely set, but my bench was shaded by the skyscraper and already gloomy. The steady stream of cars leaving the Palmerston underground parking garage slowed to a trickle while I ate. Like office workers everywhere, these wasted no time in leaving their posts. One by one, lights winked out on the office floors above, although the windows on the two top floors continued to glow. That must be the executive team, getting ready for the reception, I thought.
After crumpling up my sandwich wrapper and tossing it into a bin, I headed back to the main entrance. It was still early, but the chill wind had become bitterly cold.
The security guard took one look at Tracy’s scribbled note on the business card and led me directly to the express elevator. When the doors opened, he leaned in and inserted a key on a chain dangling from his waist. “There,” he said, stepping back and ushering me inside. “This will take you to the right floor.”
“How will I know which one?”
“You won’t be able to get out anywhere else.”
He smiled, the doors closed, and the elevator started up with a faint whine. It rose so quickly I nearly upchucked that fig-and-macadamia cookie. Which would have been a shame.
I stepped out on the top floor, expecting to see champagne-clutching guests crowding the rotunda. Instead, the reception area was deserted and the lights had been dimmed. Raised voices were coming from an office down the hall. I headed in that direction.
When I reached it, I saw the words eugene palmer, co-chairman etched into the glass. This must be the office of the deceased co-founder, Tracy’s grandfather. Through the glass, I saw Tracy arguing with a security guard. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
My greeting died on my lips when I saw the state of the room.
This office was similar to Nelson’s, with an expanse of plush carpeting, massive walnut desk, and ten-foot-high windows. But instead of a single shelf of framed photos and trinkets, a row of display cabinets spanned the far wall. Normally, this collection would have been the focal point of the room. But one cabinet had been roughly toppled, and lay on the floor. The glass doors on the rest had been smashed and their shelves cleared. Their contents littered the carpet, where shards of pottery lay among broken safety glass.
I surveyed the shambles in disbelief. “Good grief—what happened?”
Tracy dismissed the guard, who brushed past me with a grim expression. Once he’d disappeared down the hall, she turned to face me. There were tears in her eyes.
“Someone vandalized my grandfather’s collection. And no one seems to know when it happened.” She crouched to pick up the nearest broken piece, cradling it in her hand for a moment before adding, “Or why.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As Tracy rose, the pottery shard slipped from her limp fingers to fall noiselessly onto the carpet. “I’m so sorry, Verity. I should have texted you. I’m afraid the reception has been cancelled.”
“But how did this happen?”
“No one seems to know. Nobody’s been in my grandfather’s office for weeks.”
“Except for the appraisers,” I pointed out.
“What?” she asked abstractedly. “Oh. Right. But that was days ago.”
“Anything unusual happen between then and now?”
Tracy shook her head despondently, gazing at the destruction. “Not that I can think of.” She turned to me with a start. “Have you eaten? My father cancelled the caterers, but we can order something. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
“Don’t worry about me. I had a sandwich. Can I help you clear this up?”
“Oh—could you? It would be an immense help.” She paused, hands on hips, to appraise the mess. “I found this when I came in to set up for the tour. We planned to show off Granddad’s collection before the reception, and I wanted it to be perfect…” Her voice trailed away, and then she shook her head. “Never mind. The cleaners will take away the broken glass and vacuum the carpet. But the artifacts have to be stored before the staff starts sweeping and mopping and moving things.” She pointed to two cardboard banker’s boxes on the floor. “I’ve been putting the pieces in these.”
“Then let’s get started.”
“Thank you. Watch out for broken glass.”
I bent down to pick up a pottery shard and turned it over in my hands. Tiny black letters were printed on the back—the same numbering system I’d learned about at the university. “I imagine some of these are quite valuable.”
“A few are. I don’t know exactly which because the appraisers weren’t done. It doesn’t matter anyway, since my grandfather’s will called for the whole collection to be donated to the museum.” She tossed the shard into a box. “Dad wasn’t happy about that. He believed that the company could sell it anyway, which is why he called in the appraisers. And the lawyers. Of course, now—” She looked helplessly around.
“Didn’t he know about his father’s bequest in advance?”
“No. Eugene’s will was read before the funeral. It was for the family’s ears only, but Aunt Marilyn told everybody about it at the funeral reception. She said it was outrageous that Eugene’s own children hadn’t known the contents of his will. She was unusually vocal, even for Marilyn.” The hint of a smile tweaked her lips. “Daddy finally told her to shut up. Yelled it from the other side of the room, actually. I’ve never seen that many people hush so fast.” Her smile broadened. “In fact, while they stood around in silence with their mouths open, clutching their glasses, the only sound was the popping of a champagne cork and Seth shouting, ‘Drink up before they repossess the liquor.’”
I chuckled, but then added hastily, “That must have been awful.”
Shrugging, she picked up another artifact.
Pulling over an empty box, I bent to help her. “Why would anyone trash your grandfather’s collection? Do you think they were searching for something?”
Tracy sat back on her haunches, gazing around. “I don’t know what it would be. Many of the really valuable pieces aren’t here. They’re in a vault at the bank. No one ever bothered with the collection before.”
“Your grandfather’s will hadn’t been read before.”
Tracy narrowed her eyes, a broken piece gripped in one hand. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” I added hastily. “Just thinking aloud.”
She dropped the shard into the box at her side. “I hope you don’t think anyone in the family could do this.”
“Of course not. I would never—”
Tracy raised a hand, smiling grimly. “It’s a legitimate question. In fact, the police suggested the same thing. Idiots.”
Suppressing a twinge of irritation, I said, “They were only trying to be thorough.”
Tracy grimaced. “Sorry. I forgot your live-in boyfriend is a detective. I didn’t mean Jeff.”
I stared at her, trying to remember when we had discussed Jeff—or my living arrangements. To the best of my recollection, neither had come up during our brief meetings. A prickle ran down my spine, but I dismissed it after a moment’s thought. Emy must have told Tracy about Jeff. They were old school chums, after all.
“When I was sitting on a bench near the entrance, I didn’t see the police come in.”
“They were plain-clothes officers. Unmarked car. They’re gone now.” She shook her head and bent to resume her task.
I glance
d at the nearest window, and my reflection stared back. The lights in the office towers surrounding the Palmerston building had been switched off for the night. We were alone on the forty-second floor, surrounded by darkness, with only the faint sound of far-off vacuum cleaners to break the silence.
Frowning, I joined Tracy in picking up artifacts and depositing them in a box. “It’s creepy here at night, isn’t it?”
Pausing for a moment, she glanced around the room. “Is it? I’ve been here so often after hours I guess it doesn’t bother me.” She dropped two more pieces into the carton beside her. “These boxes are full.” She got to her feet, holding the heavy container. “Let’s go.” She headed for the elevator.
I lifted my carton with both hands and followed. “Where are we taking these?”
“They should go into the vault so the insurance adjusters can examine them and estimate the damage. But the bank’s not open, so I’m taking them to my place overnight.” She punched the elevator button, and the doors slid open.
Holding the heavy box, I followed her in. “I didn’t realize you had a place of your own. I thought—”
“That I still lived with my father?” Tracy smiled, reaching into her pocket for a brass key that she inserted into the lock before jabbing a button. “Not a chance. He’d drive me crazy. I moved out the moment my trust fund kicked in. Mom left years ago, so there was no reason to hang around.”
I nodded in what I hoped was a sign of sympathetic understanding, while these words rattled around my brain: Trust fund? Seriously?
Followed by that well-known expression, The rich are different from you and me—they have more money.
Hmm. I was probably mis-remembering that quotation. Which didn’t make it any less true. Because there was no denying I found Tracy’s lifestyle alien, yet her relationship with her father seemed almost as troubled as mine. Why was that, I wondered? Was it possible I overestimated the effect of Frank’s absence on my life? Even if he’d stayed, we might not have had a Hallmark family. And what if he had continued to lead a life of crime? How would that have affected Mom and me?