by Jill Orr
“Can’t talk with the meter running! I’ll call you later!”
I started to say that isn’t how Uber worked, but stopped myself. There were some things you just couldn’t explain to a person over the age of fifty.
CHAPTER 17
When I got to the office, I debated whether or not to tell Kay Jackson any of the revelations I’d become privy to over the past twenty-four hours. Ultimately, I decided to keep them to myself a while longer. I wanted to dig deeper into Dale Mountbatten’s life to see if I could trace the thread of money laundering to its source. Plus, Holman had agreed to come in this morning to talk to me, and I wanted to run all of this past him again. He and I needed to map out a strategy for moving forward on this story.
I did a quick perusal of the other outlets’ websites, starting with the Daily Reporter, to make sure none had written yet about Dale’s dirty financial deeds. Not a word. So far. But with all the media attention on this story, I knew it was only a matter of time.
I called the number Ridley had given me for Colonel Mustard Enterprises and got no response. No voicemail either. It hadn’t been disconnected, but clearly no one was answering. While I let the phone ring and ring, I Googled the company and it was just as Ridley had said, a dummy webpage with vague language about who they were and what they did. No clickable links. Whoever and whatever this company was, they were going out of their way to be under the radar, which was the opposite aim of most small businesses.
Hitting a dead end there, I decided to read up on Dale Mountbatten. I learned little beyond what I already knew. Born and raised in Washington, DC, Dale Mountbatten came from a long line of lawyers. Both his parents worked in the Bush forty-one White House and later opened their own firm specializing in public policy law. Dale distinguished himself academically, and as an undergraduate at Princeton majored in finance. After that, he went to work for a hedge fund on Wall Street for a few years before deciding to go back to school, this time for a law degree.
He graduated at the top of his class from NYU School of Law, and it was during this time that he met Greer Lawrence, also a law student at NYU. They started dating in their second year, and were married within a month of graduation. The couple then moved back to the Washington, DC, area, where Dale opened MB Ideals, and Greer gave birth to their first child.
Being fairly well connected and having the kind of natural confidence that bordered on arrogance, Mountbatten quickly gained several blue-chip clients. His firm represented the interests of more than a few Fortune 500 companies and he was listed as a political consultant on the rolls of many more. The Mountbattens had homes in DC, Miami, and Park City, UT. They were invited to parties at the homes of senators and socialites, and his number was on speed dial by lots of companies looking to carry sway with important legislators. Simply put, Dale Mountbatten was a political baller. If he was laundering money through a café he bought for his mistress, he could face jail time if caught. It didn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination to see a person in that position feeling desperate enough to kill. Another tick in the motive box for old Dale.
I saw Holman enter the newsroom, and I was up and out of my cubicle before he’d even passed reception. “We need to talk.”
“Oh look,” stupid Spencer called out from his desk, “the award-winning journalist has decided to grace us with his presence.”
It was no secret that Spencer was jealous of Holman’s status at the Times. Spencer had been an up-and-comer when Holman moved to town and started working for the paper as a grunt. But Holman’s hard work, dedication, and laser-like focus quickly became evident, and before long he was being assigned the most high-profile stories.
“Aw that’s sweet, Spencer,” I said. “You missed him.”
“Hello, Gerlach,” Holman said, and it was impossible to tell from his tone whether he had caught the sarcasm, or if he thought that Spencer had actually missed him.
“What’s been keeping you so busy these days?”
Before Holman’s blink reflex got tripped, I jumped in to save him from lying. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Holman looked at me, confused. “I think that’s why he asked, Riley.”
Spencer continued to ignore me. “On some big story, are you?”
“You’ll just have to wait to read about it like everyone else.” I steered Holman by his elbow down the hall toward his office. Once we were inside, I closed the door and leaned against it.
“You seem nervous,” Holman said, taking off his cross-body bag and laying it on the desk. “Is something the matter?”
I stared at him slack-jawed.
“What?”
“How could you ask me that?”
Holman blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean, how could you ask me if anything is the matter?”
He raised a single eyebrow. “Are you asking me literally how I formulated the question or…”
I sank into the chair opposite his desk and let out a deep sigh. “If I seem nervous, Holman, it’s because you are currently aiding and abetting a person of interest in an ongoing criminal investigation who may or may not have played a role in the murders of two people and who may or may not have some very dangerous people looking for her!”
Holman then also took a seat. He bobbled gently up and down for a moment before saying, “You’re worried about me.”
“Yes. Among other things, I am worried about you.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Holman said with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Actually, it’s been a long time since anyone has worried about me and I…well, it feels nice to be worthy of your distress.”
The majority of the time, my conversations with Will Holman left me frustrated or confused—or both—but every now and then he’d say something so sweet and sincere, it would nearly overwhelm me. This was one of those times. I put a hand to my chest. “Of course I’m worr—”
“—then again you do tend to be high-strung, don’t you? Sometimes you remind me of…of…” he started snapping his fingers in rapid succession. “Oh, what’s that little guy’s name? You know, he’s small and pink and friends with Winnie the Pooh…”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Piglet?” I was not happy with the direction this conversation was taking.
“Yes. That’s it—Piglet! Sometimes you remind me of Piglet.”
“Are you seriously comparing me to a nervous baby pig?”
“I don’t think Piglet is technically a baby, though I understand your confusion due to his name and small stature. However, if you listen to the sophistication of his sentence structu—”
“Holman!”
“What?”
“What are we going to do about Rosalee? She has to turn herself in!”
“I agree.”
“Wait—what?”
“I agree with you. We talked it through last night. Actually, she suggested we should go to Carl today and tell him everything.”
I’ll admit I was surprised, and pleasantly so. “Isn’t she concerned about being sent back to France?”
“I know an immigration lawyer up in DC. I told her I’d see if he can help figure out a way she could stay.” There was something a little too hopeful in his voice.
“Okay, good,” I said. “So, what’s the plan?”
Holman fished a file out of his bag and handed it to me. “Here is what we have on Dale so far. It isn’t much, but I could use your help. If we can prove his financial crimes, we’ll have something concrete to tell the authorities. Plus, a story like that will be picked up by the AP and appear in every newspaper on the East Coast.”
“Do you think the police are already investigating him?”
“My impression is that his alibi checked out, and without any motive, right now they’re more focused on Rosalee.”
“Speaking of,” I said, “I take it she doesn’t have an alibi for the night Greer was murdered? Or Balzichek?”
Holman shook his head. “She was home alone, both
times.”
“Okay,” I said, irked at his blanket-defense of Rosalee. “I’ll get to work on this as soon as I can. I have a few other things I need to get done first.”
He looked at his watch. “I am supposed to go home and get Rosalee at four o’clock and take her to the sheriff’s office.”
“Meet you there?”
He nodded and I left.
CHAPTER 18
Working as a reporter at a small-town newspaper meant that there was never a shortage of things to do. We all pitched in to make sure any and all stories were covered, plus there was the ongoing challenge of updating the online edition. Even when you had a big story to work on, it wasn’t like you could just push all of your other stories aside. So I spent the next couple of hours checking in on the other stories that were, admittedly, not as sexy as a double murder, but probably more relevant to the bulk of our readership. I needed to follow up with the den mother of local Cub Scout Pack 787 about their upcoming food drive, check in on the lineup for the Thanksgiving Day parade, and I wanted a quote from Mayor Lancett on the most recent stunt from local legend “Batty Betty” Grimes, who had decided last Monday to paint herself purple and sit at the intersection of Main and Park holding a sign that read “Shaylene Lancett Colluded with Russia to Get Elected.”
It wasn’t until I heard Henderson and Spencer talk about wanting to go to Rosalee’s for lunch because “that hot chick’s running it now” that I remembered I’d promised to look in on Ridley.
Holman had already eaten his peanut butter and jelly sandwich at his desk, so I walked over to Rosalee’s alone a little later than I’d planned, around two-thirty. About half the tables were still full, and by the looks of things, they’d been busy.
“How’s it going?” I asked Ryan, who was functioning as host for the moment.
“It’s been crazy,” he said, leading me to a small table by the window. “I’m surprised how many people knew we were opening back up today.”
“You know you can’t keep a secret in this town,” I said. “How’s Ridley doing?”
“Cool as a cucumber,” Ryan said. “She’s in the back, but I’ll tell her you’re here. She asked if you were gonna come by.”
On the surface, Ryan looked and sounded fine, but I knew better. I’d spent seven years of my life analyzing his every expression, posture, and tone of voice—and I could tell something was bothering him. I wondered if he still felt hurt from the other night.
“Listen, Ryan,” I said. “I’m sorry if you were expecting to talk about something else at the Shack and I cut you off.” I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I felt I needed to address this weirdness between us. Tuttle Corner was too small and our lives too enmeshed for us not to be able to have a normal conversation.
“Thanks for saying something,” he said as he sat down and leaned forward. He looked directly into my eyes the way he used to years ago, and I felt an unwelcome stirring from somewhere within the depths. “I know I screwed everything up for us. I know it was my fault, and I take full responsibility for that. I let you go, and that was one of the worst mistakes I ever made.”
The stirring turned to a churning feeling in my gut. I knew where this was going. Again. “Ryan, I—”
“No.” He cut me off. “I tried the other night and it didn’t work out, but there’s something I need to ask you.”
Okay. I guess we were going to do this. I’d have to find a way to explain that we made no sense as a couple anymore. It was true I’d been feeling a little lonely ever since Jay left, and in so many ways it’d be easy to fall back with Ryan, but ultimately it would be a disaster. I’d just have to be strong enough for both of us. I took in a deep breath and steeled myself for his declaration of love.
“How can I keep from losing Ridley the way I lost you?”
I felt like I’d been slapped in the face.
Ryan’s eyes were moist with emotion as he lowered his voice. “I think if she’d just give me a chance, she’d see that we could be happy together—you know, as a family.”
I stared back at him, my mind blank, and my mouth dry as dust. I was so certain that Ryan was going to tell me he loved me, say that he couldn’t live without me, that he wanted a future with me—and even though I didn’t want those things, him not wanting them knocked me off balance. And not in a good way.
“Wow,” I finally forced myself to say. “I didn’t know you had those kind of feelings for her.”
“I didn’t either, I guess. I mean, we always had heat—jeez, just freaking look at her.”
My jaw tightened.
“After our fling in Colorado, I was so focused on getting you back that I just shut her out. And when she told me she was in love with me, I turned her down and told her I belonged with you.”
I knew Ryan had delusions of us getting back together a few months ago, but he never told me the extent of it. Ridley and I certainly never talked about our respective relationships with Ryan. Hearing that she was in love with him—at least at one point—added to my growing nausea over this situation.
Ryan continued to talk, words flowing out of him like a faucet that wouldn’t shut off. “And then she found out she was pregnant. I brought her back here out of a sense of responsibility and because that’s what’s best for the baby—but the whole time I was really hoping you and I would find our way back to each other. Obviously, I know that’s never gonna happen now.”
“Ryan, I never meant—” I broke off. I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for you to give up so easily. I never meant for you to end up with Ridley. It was a complicated stew of guilt, longing, jealousy, and insecurity. And I hated how it made me feel.
“Then she had Lizzie and it was like, I don’t know—magic or something. It’s like Ridley became a whole new woman to me, like I was seeing her for the first time.”
Even though I was looking down at my hands, I could tell Ryan was smiling by the sound of his voice. I felt a stinging sensation behind my eyes, and I took a deep breath to stop emotion from taking over.
Ryan, bless his self-absorbed heart, didn’t even notice. “She’s amazing. The way she takes care of the baby and just holds everything together—she’s pretty much the most capable woman I’ve ever met.”
“What does she think?” I asked, trying not to feel insulted.
He looked back toward the kitchen to make sure Ridley wasn’t on her way out front. “She’s still technically dating David Davenport,” he said, surprisingly without any rancor. “But between having Lizzie and David’s crazy schedule, they hardly see each other. I don’t see it working out.”
I had unwittingly introduced Ridley to David Davenport, a resident at Tuttle General Hospital, a few weeks earlier, and the two hit it off. That was approximately ten days before she had the baby, though, so I could see it being hard to cultivate a new relationship after just giving birth to another man’s child.
“Does she know how you feel?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted your advice on when and how to tell her I’m serious, that I want us to be a real family.”
“Riley!” Ridley’s voice rang out from behind the counter and she made her way toward us, her cheeks glowing from the busy day she was having. Or the incandescent light that shone within her perfect soul. Whichever.
“Congratulations,” I said as brightly as I could manage. “Looks like your opening day has been a success.”
“Thanks.” Ridley looked around at the restaurant. “I think it all went really well.”
Ryan stood up. “Why don’t I take Lizzie home for a nap while you finish things up here?”
I watched them work together to free the baby from the sling. Ryan gently hoisted a sleeping Lizzie into his arms as Ridley tucked a soft lilac blanket around the baby and gently kissed the top of her head. With her eyes cast down, Ridley couldn’t have seen the look of utter infatuation on Ryan’s face. But I
could.
Not really sure where it was coming from, I swallowed the newly formed lump in my throat. “Ridley, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Ryan’s eyes snapped to mine, a look of panic reflecting fear that I was going to campaign for him right there and then. I gave him an almost imperceptible shake of the head as Ridley handed off the diaper bag like they were a tag team in a relay, which I suppose they sort of were.
“Let’s talk in the back,” Ridley said to me once she’d freed herself of the baby gear. “Ryan, I’ll see you at home in an hour or so, ’kay?”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” he said in a lighthearted tone that belied the fact that he probably would be doing just that.
CHAPTER 19
Back in the kitchen, Melvin was busy prepping and cooking. The kitchen was going to stop serving soon, and from the looks of the cooktop, he was at the tail end of new orders.
“Hey there, Miss Riley. You come in to get one of those croissants you love so much?”
“Am I that predictable?”
“You are indeed.” Melvin smiled. “How’s your sweet mama doing?”
Melvin and my mother had gone to high school together, and while they weren’t close friends, they had a deep fondness for each other.
“She’s become an Uber driver.”
Melvin laughed. “Sounds about right. That woman is like the Energizer Bunny. Tell her I say hi, okay?”
I assured him that I would and followed Ridley into Rosalee’s tiny broom closet of an office at the rear of the kitchen. “What’s up?” Ridley asked once we were sitting down.
“I wanted to ask a few more questions about what you told me last night—about the funky butter expenditures.”
Ridley gave me what could only be described as a cat-that-ate-the-canary look. She reached into the bottom file drawer of Rosalee’s desk and pulled out a thick manila folder that was double wrapped with rubber bands. She handed it to me. “I thought you might.”
“What’s this?”