“Okay,” I say, even though Marley hasn’t answered me with words.
Owen steps towards Marley. “Sweetie,” he says. “Let’s talk about this.”
Marley shakes her head. Then she backs up some more, turns around, and starts weaving through tables, hightailing it for the door.
Owen and I are left standing awkwardly by the table.
“Well, that didn’t go well, did it?” Owen mutters.
“Nope,” I say. “Not at all.”
There’s still food on our plates, but Owen and I are eager to wrap up the meal. We’re both here for Marley—not for each other’s company. Now that Marley is gone, the evening is ruined. Owen’s mind seems to be elsewhere. The waitress brings the bill, Owen pays, and we both say goodnight.
When we part ways, I mount my bike and begin riding home.
The snow is thick and soft under my tires, making it slow going.
So slow, in fact, that I find myself gazing into the lit-up windows of the houses I pass. I turn right on Pine Street and then make a left on Willow. The houses that I pass look so cozy inside. I see people fixing dinner in kitchens, hunched over tables wrapping up work for the day, and playing with kids in living rooms.
I pass Mike Mitchell’s house, and catch sight of his rotund silhouette as he leaves a room that looks like a home office.
Screech! I slam on my breaks. Metal grates on metal as the worn brake pads slide against my tire rims. I skid to a stop in the snow.
Then I place my boots on the ground and begin stepping backwards.
Was that really Mike... stepping out of his home office?
What does he do in that home office?
I take another look in the window.
There’s a plant in the corner of the room, some framed documents on the wall, and the warm glow of a standing lamp. A large desk is the central focus of the room, and behind it there’s a high-backed office chair.
This is definitely an office I’m looking at.
To the right of the office there’s another room. It looks like a living room. I see Mike walk into it. A woman is on the couch. Mike leans over and kisses her, and then they talk for a minute. Next I see Mike head out of that room.
He doesn’t return to the office.
I keep watching. A minute later, a light comes on to the right of the living room. Now Mike is in the kitchen. I see him open the refrigerator.
It seems that he’s done with work—at least for the moment. Yes! He’s pulling items out of the fridge. I watch him reach for a loaf of bread. Perhaps he’s going to make a sandwich! That will take a while.
Is it enough time for me to go in and take a look around?
I dismount my bike and prop it against the Mitchell’s mail box. Then I start post-holing through the foot of snow on the front yard. I make my way towards the office window. There’s a snow drift right below it, probably from snow that fell off of the roof. It’s the perfect aid for breaking and entering. Once I’m on the snowbank, it’s easy to lift the window from the outside and then slither in.
Just because the snowbank gives me a height advantage doesn’t mean I make my entrance flawlessly.
Nope! Flawless has never been a word used to describe me or my actions.
One of my cowboy boots gets stuck in the snow. When I finish straddling the window ledge and land fully in the office, I find that my right foot is bare. The snowbank ate my boot and my sock! This simply won’t do. I can’t conduct a professional investigation with one bare foot!
I lean out the still open window and start tugging on my boot. Come... on! You... stupid...
Ah! The boot is free from the snow at last. I’ve been pulling so hard that as it comes free I fly backwards, and my head smacks the window.
“Ow!” I whisper under my breath as I reach up and rub my head as I regain my balance. I place the boot on the floor and step into it.
Next I close the window, as quietly as I can. I don’t want Mike’s wife, in the room next door, to feel the draft and come investigate.
That would not be good!
Now that the window is closed, I turn around and start looking over the room. The office door is closed. The desk is empty except for a few papers. Where is Mike’s computer? Every office must have a computer. I think back to my visit with Mike, and how he said that he rides home with his laptop in his bag.
Right! The bag. Where is it? My eyes roam over the room but I don’t see it.
I walk around the desk. There, on the floor, is the messenger bag just like mine. I reach down, unzip it, and pull out a sleek, thin laptop. I glance at the office door once to ensure it’s still securely shut before I open the laptop and place it on the desk.
My hands are a little shaky. I guess it’s because I know someone could walk into the office at any point. What if Mike forgot to send an email, and he pauses his sandwich-making endeavors and treks back to his office? What if his wife heard me smack my head on the window pane?
I try to get control over my trembling hands, but it’s no use. No matter how many times I do stuff like this, I never seem to get used to it. It’s always nerve wracking!
A password screen pops up on the computer. I’m ready.
I’ve known since I saw that yellow sticky note on Mike’s desk that his password was Pink Panther.
I type it in quickly.
‘Incorrect Password!’ the screen informs me.
I try again: ‘Pink_Panther’
Nope! ‘Incorrect Password! You have used two of your three available attempts. If you’ve forgotten your password, click here to have an email sent to the address on file’.
I try one more time. PinkPanther.
Voila! That works. I quickly locate an icon of the Miner’s Bank logo on Mike’s home screen.
This brings me into a screen where I have several options.
What I really want to do is look at Victoria and Rich’s account. Will I be able to find records from twenty-nine years back?
It takes some digging, swearing under my breath, and many dead-ends before I finally locate a place where I can search for account histories.
‘Transaction History Archives. Please enter account number’
Shoot. I don't know Rich and Victoria’s account number. Or do I?
I drum my finger on my lip, thinking.
As I think, I hear a noise.
It’s a voice coming from the hallway right outside of the office.
“Yes, I was hoping you’d call,” the voice says. It’s Mike’s wife! She must be on the phone because I hear her pause before speaking again. “I think the 26th would work for us... let me grab Mike’s calendar... he keeps in the office.”
As she speaks, I close the laptop. I stuff it into the bag that’s still on the floor. Then I look left and right. Where to hide? There’s no time to think much. I take a few leaps towards the office door. I press my back against the wall. Palm fronds from the plant right next to me are right in my face. The door opens, and swings towards me. This is good! The door might totally hide me!
I hold my breath as Mike’s wife enters the office. She’s still on the phone.
“I know,” she says. “Last time when Mike had a tooth pulled it was such a nightmare... mm hmm? You’re right. Do you have laughing gas? Yes... yes... that would be great. Here’s his calendar... looks like the 26th at two-thirty will be just perfect.”
I dare not breathe. She has no idea I’m in here!
This hiding place was genius!
She laughs into the phone. “You’re too funny... tooth-hurty! Haha... oh, you’re too much. Now tell me... did you ever hire a new hygienist? Because you know Manuela from the clinic is looking for...” her voice fades as she steps out of the room. The door moves away from me, and then I hear the soft click as it closes.
I’m once again alone.
I exhale a giant breath, and then push palm fronds away from me as I step away from the wall.
Back at the computer, I resume my work. Account number... account numbe
r. I have a tickle in my brain—I feel that I’ve seen a bank account number recently, and not my own.
A quick bit of magic confirms it. I perform the Power Spell; closing my eyes and breathing for just a minute makes everything clear.
I have seen an account number recently! It was when I was rifling through Victoria’s drawers in her sewing room There was a bank statement right beneath her checkbook.
I pull my phone out of my messenger bag and start flipping through my pictures. Within minutes I have the picture pulled up. I zoom in on the numbers. Yes! I captured the entire string of digits.
I quickly type them into the archives search bar.
It takes me nearly twenty minutes to dig through the transaction history. Luckily, Mike’s wife doesn’t have any more dentist appointments to book, and Mike stays occupied with his sandwich building and eating. I have the office to myself.
My search yields positive results. Positive puzzling results.
I hold my camera to the screen to take a picture of the transaction. Well, two transactions to be exact. I’ve found a deposit for eleven million dollars. The timing makes sense—it was right around the time that the gold nugget was sold.
Then, two days later, there’s a transfer. Victoria and Rich transfered money from their account to another account. A full eleven million dollars—all of the money from the gold—was transferred, leaving Victoria and Rich with exactly what they started with before the deposit. It’s a very modest amount. No wonder the two don’t strike me as wealthy. They’re not!
The man who received that money is named Declan Nelson.
The only Declan I know in Hillcrest is a guy in his fifties. I don’t know him well... in fact I don’t even know his last name.
Why would Victoria and Rich give all of their money away to this man?
I want answers. I also want to get out of this freaking office!
I put everything back where I found it and exit through the window.
Back out on the snowy lawn, I fight my way through the deep snow to my bike.
With the name ‘Declan Nelson’ on my mind, I start pedaling home.
Chapter Thirteen
I park my pink cruiser in the bike shed outside of my apartment complex, and start climbing the stairs towards home. When I reach my door, I hesitate.
I’ve been thinking hard the whole time I was riding home.
I keep circling back to one thing.
The will.
The reason this whole thing started in the first place.
It doesn’t make sense to me. If Victoria and Rich were alone with Felix when he died, wouldn’t it be their handwriting on the will? Victoria even said that she was the one that faked Felix’s signature.
Yet the signature on the will doesn't look like Victoria’s handwriting. Or Rich’s. What am I missing here?
Instead of opening the door to my own apartment, I turn down the walkway and head for Chris’s door.
I reach Unit G and knock.
Chris opens the door within a few seconds.
I’ll report the facts here, as an unbiased member of the female population. The guy looks handsome. He’s wearing navy blue sweats, and a grey Hillcrest Police Department tee shirt. His sandy blonde hair is damp as though he just got out of the shower. I’ve had some pretty wonderful showers with Chris. We used to like to—
Nope! My mind can not go there right now. I’m here on business.
“Hey!” I say. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
He shakes his head. “I’m just about to have a beer and pizza. There’s plenty if you want to come in...”
“I’d better not,” I say. Without meaning to, I glance over the railing and down towards the courtyard. I can’t quite see Max’s door from here, but I look in that direction.
Max is not the jealous type. However, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of being alone with Chris in his apartment. There are too many memories in there. Plus, drinking beer and eating pizza was kind of our thing. That probably sounds pathetic, but it’s true. I’m doing really well with my break up from Chris, but I’d better not test my limits.
I speak up. “I just ate,” I say.
He nods. I know that he knows there’s more to it than the fact that I’m full. Historically, I always have room for a good microbrew or a slice.
“Did you find out anything interesting about Victoria?” I ask.
“Nothing too great.” Chris leans against the door frame and crosses his arms over his chest—my guess is to ward off the chill from the outside air. He is in a tee shirt after all. “A little bit about her past. She studied acting in Rhode Island before moving to Hillcrest. She was even in some commercials. Then she moved out here and was in the drama club for a while.”
“The one that puts on ‘Shakespeare in the Park’?” I ask. “She doesn’t strike me as the type.”
“Well, she was,” Chris says. “She even married the director. They divorced after a year. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Hunh,” I say. “Any kids in that marriage?”
“One,” says Chris. “A boy. Born just a few months after the wedding took place. I found records of it. Maybe that was the reason for the marriage. You know how it goes sometimes. And guess who her child is?”
“Declan Nelson,” I supply.
Chris raises his brows. “Lucky guess?” he asks.
“Nope. I... I er—stumbled upon the Dempsey’s bank records.”
Chris frowns. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he says. “You didn’t break into the bank, did you?” He eyes me, as if judging just how far I’d go for a case. “You know you could go to jail for a very long time for that... right? And that they have video cameras that cover every square inch of—”
“I didn’t break into the bank,” I say.
Chris relaxes. “Oh, good,” he says. “I don’t know if I could arrest you Penny. I like you too much.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then, “I just—I... happened across a history of the Dempsey’s bank transactions, and saw that she and Rich gave eleven million to Declan Nelson, twenty-nine years ago. I was trying to figure out what they did with the money. I mean, everyone knows that Rich and Victoria are not well-off now. You said it yourself—they’ve had that same little bungalow and old Cadillac forever. So I looked into it. I found out that they transferred all that money to Declan.”
“Declan Nelson,” Chris asks. “Victoria’s son.”
“Apparently!” I say. “It’s so weird. I never knew Victoria and Declan were related.”
“Me either,” Chris says. “Until I started researching Victoria. I don’t think it’s a surprise really; why would we know that Declan was Victoria’s son? I barely know anything about Declan. He rarely leaves his apartment during the light of day. And then when he leaves, he goes right to the bar. I don’t think he works at all.”
I nod. “And now we know why,” I say. “He doesn’t have to. He’s a millionaire. I don’t think I’ve ever really talked to him, except one night when I was at The O.P. way too late. Marley and I got into a fight with him about what songs to play on the jukebox.”
Chris rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. You and Marley wanted Michael Jackson so you could practice your moonwalk.”
“Of course!” I say. “And Declan refused to comply! He kept changing it to hard rock. Gross.”
“I had to give him a citation once,” Chris says.
“For what?” I ask.
“I forget, now,” Chris says. “It was a couple years ago. Two or three, I think. Actually, it was almost exactly two years ago because I remember I was the only cop on duty because the rest were at the Heroes of Hillcrest Awards.”
“You mean Night of Hillcrest History?” I ask.
“Same thing,” Chris says. “It was when the whole police department was being honored.”
Ugh. I remember that. I remember how bitter I was about it. I’m not proud, but I do remember staying home instead of partic
ipating. I couldn’t help it. I used to want to be a cop so bad. Watching them all be proclaimed heroes was too much for me.
“I remember that, too.” I say. “You’re right. It was two years ago. Why were you the only cop on duty?”
“I drew the short straw,” says Chris. “Let’s see. I remember he was driving a silver Porsche... I forget if it was a DUI or just speeding. Hang on, I probably have it in my SWIFT account.” He pulls out his phone.
“What’s a swift account?” I ask.
“It’s our new software,” Chris says. “Keeps records of everything. It’s really cool. Hang on... I just put in a few search terms and... “
We both wait while his phone works away. After a minute he says, “Here it is. His ticket. Yeah. Looks like he was speeding.”
“Where?” I ask.
“On Main Street,” Chris says. “Stupid place to speed. I nailed him going thirty-five in a twenty.”
“Oohhh... thirty-five,” I say jokingly. “That’s criminal.”
“It is for a zone that’s supposed to be twenty!” Chris says.
I laugh a little. “Alright,” I say. “Don’t get your cop-sweatpants in a twist. Can you send me that citation?”
“Sure,” Chris says, surprising me. I expected some push back there. Maybe Chris is serious about working together. I guess we really are going to be sharing information.
As he taps away on his phone, I say, “Thanks. It’s nice—this whole working together thing. I’m glad we can be mature about our break-up.”
“We have to work together,” Chris says. “You’re a PI, Penny. I’m a cop. Working together is mutually beneficial for us. It makes sense. There.” He stops tapping his phone, and then pushes it into his pocket. “I sent a copy of the ticket to you.”
“Thanks,” I say. Then, “I should get home. It’s been a draining day.” I consider telling him about the tension at dinner, but then think better of it. It would be hard to tell the story without revealing all that I know about Felix Greene. It felt right to tell that to Owen and Marley, but I don’t want to start spreading it around town just yet.
I bite my lip, thinking.
Then again, Chris did just share information with me. I should show him that I value our working relationship. I should tell him what I’ve discovered.
A Hillcrest Witch Mystery Collection Page 82