by Maris Soule
The next thing I remembered was Wade telling me it was time for bed, helping me from the couch, and leading me into the bedroom. I guess he undressed me. I woke Monday morning only wearing my underwear.
Chapter Eleven
Jason swore he didn’t take the thumb drive, which, in my mind, left one possibility. “Whoever broke in here yesterday took it.”
“You’re still sure someone broke in here?” Wade’s tone indicated his doubts. “Did you find anything else missing beside that thumb drive?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Did you have anything besides the actual tax returns on that thumb drive?”
“Notes. I make notes of anything a client tells me. That way, if there’s ever an audit, I don’t have to depend on my memory.”
“Have any of your clients told you anything that might be worth stealing?”
“You mean something that could be used to blackmail them?” I laughed at the idea. “No.”
My clientele primarily consisted of farmers, small business owners, and retired residents around Zenith. Even the few clients who followed me after I left Quick Sums were ones who led fairly uneventful lives. “Nothing salacious, but a thief might consider my clients’ personal information valuable. Those files have social security numbers and bank account information.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “And I’ve been giving out business cards, letting anyone and everyone know I do taxes. Those business cards have this address on them. Wade, I’ve led the burglar here, straight to this house. Given someone an easy way to make money. Instead of being electronically hacked I’ve been physically hacked.”
“It’s a possibility, I guess.” Wade looked toward my office area and computer. “What about your original files? Any deleted?”
I understood what he was asking, and I’d had the same thought earlier, that maybe the burglar had wiped a file off my computer as well as taking the thumb drive. A someone who didn’t want a particular tax record to remain in my possession. But that wasn’t the case. “Everything I’ve done this year is exactly as it should be. I checked.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t put the thumb drive somewhere?”
That he asked again angered me. “Yes, Wade, I am sure. And I didn’t leave the kitchen door open so Baraka could get out.”
I was pretty sure about that.
Well, sort of sure.
“Wade, I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right.”
“I believe you,” he said and hugged me. “We’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, are you going to be all right? I do need to go in to work.”
I wasn’t sure Wade really did believe me, but until I could prove I was right, I wasn’t going to argue with him. “You don’t need to stay, but will you be back by the time Jason gets home from school? I promised the Sporbachs I’d stop by today; they have something they want to show me. I think it’s a new greenhouse, one with all sorts of electronic gadgets that are supposed to improve production. And, of course, I want to give them their tax papers so we get paid.” Every little bit helped, and Sporbach’s check would be substantial.
“I also promised to meet up with Anna, from the Mothers-to-Be group. She’s on the Homes4Homeless board, and it looks like the charity’s bank statements have been doctored.”
His eyebrows rose. “Doctored bank statements?”
“I’ll tell you more after I look at the books.”
“You say someone’s embezzling the charity?” At my nod, he went on. “I should be home by two. I need to get those ribs in the oven by three.”
“They’d better be as good as the last time you made them.” I licked my lips, remembering that meal.
I loved when Wade cooked. Soon after our wedding, we decided I would cook four nights a week, Wade would cook two, and we would go out on the seventh night. We varied the nights, our work schedules often making the determination. When Wade was investigating a homicide, he might not be home for meals for a couple days. And, when I was working on taxes, I tended to forget the time. At first Wade’s dinners were mundane, a can of tomato soup, toasted cheese sandwiches, and potato chips. Lately he’d been coming up with some really good meals. So far my favorite was oven-baked barbeque ribs.
* * *
It was actually closer to two-thirty before Wade arrived home. We kissed, I reminded him of where I would be in Kalamazoo and when I expected to be back. He reminded me that oven-baked ribs waited for no one.
The drive into Kalamazoo was uneventful. Although the sunshine from the day before had been replaced by heavy, gray clouds and the outside temperature had dropped to the mid-thirties, my car heater kept me warm, and I had time to mull over the disappearance of my thumb drive.
Not that thinking about its disappearance helped me figure out what had happened to it. Mainly, I kept telling myself I wasn’t going crazy, that I hadn’t put the thumb drive somewhere and forgotten, and I wasn’t being paranoid thinking someone had been in my house while we were gone. By the time I pulled into the parking lot at Sporbach’s Nursery, I’d almost convinced myself I was as sane as anyone else.
Almost.
Sporbach’s Nursery was one of my first clients when I worked at Quick Sums, and Carol and Mike Sporbach were good natured, hard-working people. Even though the Internet has made communicating and filing taxes easy, because they stayed with me when I left Quick Sums and started my own business, I’ve always taken time for a more personal interaction with them.
As I’d suspected, what they wanted to show me was their new greenhouse. They took me on a tour, pointing out the automatic temperature and watering devices along with the specialized lighting. I took dozens of pictures and promised to email them copies. They also peppered me with questions about Paige Joy’s impending birth and why I was using a midwife. Only after I’d explained my reasons did they tell me their daughter was expecting and thinking of using a midwife. And then, to my surprise, in addition to my fee for preparing the nursery’s taxes, they gave me a generous check to be used for whatever I wanted to buy for the baby. My thank you was heartfelt.
I left the nursery later than I’d planned, so I called Anna to let her know I was on my way. When I arrived at the Homes4Homeless charity’s offices, she was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. She pointed toward the paved lot next door, and I recognized one of the two cars parked there as Anna’s. I pulled up next to hers, grabbed my purse, and got out.
“Laura’s inside,” Anna said as I walked toward her. “She’s working on plans for a benefit next month. I’ll introduce you.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper when I reached her. “She doesn’t think Mrs. Welkum will be stopping by this evening, but when I told her what we planned on doing, she suggested, if necessary, I should say the board wanted a registered CPA to stop by and make sure I was doing this right.”
“She told you to say that?”
“Yes.” Anna walked with me up the steps to the porch. “She also said to be careful.”
At the front door, I paused. “Do you think Mrs. Welkum is dangerous?”
Anna didn’t answer immediately which bothered me. I’ve been known to get into dangerous situations, but at those times I only had myself to worry about. Now there was the baby. I didn’t want to put her in any danger.
“I don’t think she’s dangerous in a physical way,” Anna finally said. “I think all Laura meant was let’s keep this quiet, not force a confrontation until we’re ready.”
I hoped that was all she meant.
A sign on the front door gave the office hours—technically it was closed now—and a phone number to call for help. The door wasn’t locked, and I stepped inside, followed by Anna. The work on the exterior of the two-story house had been primarily upkeep: new siding, a new roof, and repairs to the windows and porch. Once inside, however, I saw several changes had been made to convert the house into a functional workplace.
The room in front of me, which may have originally been a living room, had been sec
tioned off from the rest of the downstairs to act as a reception area and waiting room. Its walls were almost totally covered with photographs of people standing in front of various houses. Success stories, I supposed. Homes that the charity had found for the homeless.
To my left I could see a staircase leading up to the second floor, and on my right were two well-worn upholstered chairs and a three-cushion sofa. A desk sat directly opposite the front entrance door, and beside that desk was a closed door. A slender woman, whom I assumed to be Laura Parks—receptionist, event planner, and probably whistleblower—sat behind the desk. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. What I noticed most, besides the Rolling Stone’s T-shirt and jeans she had on, was the streak of neon green running through her light brown hair, and that she was looking directly at me—at my midsection.
Her first comment after Anna made introductions was, “You two look like twins. Did you plan your pregnancies so you’d give birth at the same time?”
“Just happened by chance,” Anna said. “We’ll be in Jewel’s office. You staying much longer?”
“No.” Laura began gathering the papers she’d been working on. “I don’t want to be around while you’re doing your job. I’ll lock up, that way no one should disturb you. Simply pull the door shut behind you when you leave.”
We said our goodbyes, and I followed Anna as she went through the doorway by Laura’s desk. On the other side of the wall the floor plan had been modified so what had once been a huge dining area and kitchen was now divided into a kitchenette—with barely enough room for a card table and two chairs—and two offices, one considerably larger than the other.
“Bathroom’s there,” Anna said and pointed to a doorway next to the kitchenette. “Door next to it goes to the cellar stairs.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was down there once. Creepy place full of spiders.”
I cringed at the thought.
“This is Madeline Welkum’s office.” She indicated the door to a larger walled-off space. “And this is Jewel’s.” Anna opened the door to a closet-size room.
Once inside the small office, I took off my winter coat, and dropped my purse on the floor. The room was warm and a little stuffy, so I left the door open. Anna removed a folder from the top drawer of a three-drawer file cabinet and handed it to me. “Here are the bank statements from last year and the start of this year.”
In addition to the file cabinet, a desk and two chairs filled the room. A computer, printer and an in-and-out box took up most of the desk’s surface. I cleared an area and opened the folder. The January statement was on top. “Any idea when they started doctoring the statements? When they started changing the deposits and withdrawals?”
Anna nodded. “I think it started last summer, back when Mrs. Welkum’s daughter started working here.”
“Ah-ha, so maybe we have our culprit.” I slowly thumbed through the bank statements, going back in time to last summer. I stopped at July’s, returned to August’s, and then went back to July’s. “Yep, it started here.” I handed Anna the two statements. “If we hadn’t talked about this before, I might not have noticed, but August is definitely when the statements start looking a little different.” I placed the August statement next to the July statement. “It’s like you showed me Saturday, like the difference between your bank statement and the charity’s. The numbers under the different column headings simply don’t line up right. The spacing is close, but not exact.” I pulled out the June statement and the October statement. “June and July match. August and September match. But June and September show the difference.”
“But if you weren’t looking for it, would you have caught it?” Anna asked.
“I’m not sure. The doctored ones do look like the real ones.”
“How did she do that?”
How? One thought came to mind. Not an answer to the question but a person who could tell me “how.” I dug in my purse and found my cell phone. Ken answered on the third ring. “What’s up, Pajama Girl?”
“How can someone duplicate a bank statement so it looks real?”
“What are you up to now?” he asked. “Doctoring bank statements can get you into big trouble.”
“I want to know so I can get someone else in big trouble.”
He chuckled. “Now, that’s nasty.”
He then told me how to figure out the font being used and how to create a template identical to the original. “That’s how scammers can make it look like the letter really is from Social Security or Publishers Clearing House,” he said. “All a good scammer needs is a good scanner and computer program.”
I looked at the printer on the desk. It printed, copied, and scanned. “Thanks, Ken.” I usually always followed with “Stay out of trouble” but it seemed a bit late to be saying that, so I finished with, “Keep in touch.”
I looked at the computer on the desk. “Is that password protected or can we get into it?”
Anna smiled. “Password protected, but Laura gave me the password.”
“Let’s see what we can find.” I sat down at the computer, and as soon as Anna told me the password and I was in, I began investigating the programs and files. “She uses Quick Books and Word,” I told Anna. “Do you have the password for Quick Books?”
“No.” She glanced the direction of the reception area. The door was now closed. “Laura’s probably gone, but I can try calling her.”
“No. Wait for now. We may need more than one password.” I looked up at Anna. “Meanwhile, the February statement isn’t in this folder. I’d like to see that again.”
“I have the copy I made.” Anna pulled that from her purse and placed it on the desk. “The original should be—” She moved the top piece of paper in the in-box and smiled. “The original should be here. Take a look.”
She handed me what looked like the February statement from the bank, except it didn’t look exactly like the statement Anna had copied last Thursday. They were almost the same, but not exactly. On the one she’d pulled out of the in-box, the opening balance now matched January’s closing balance. “It’s been changed.”
“Damn!” I studied the new statement and then went back to the computer. “There’s got to be a template or something in here.”
To my surprise, finding the template wasn’t difficult. Jewel had named the file “Bank Statements.” The most recent entries included February and March. The February file was what we had on the desk. The March file was the template. It showed the bank logo, address, account number and charity’s address. The date hadn’t been entered, and below the line all of the repetitive column headings were in place with no actual amounts except for the Beginning balance. That amount was the same as the Ending balance on the doctored February statement.
“She creates this for each month, types in the data she wants to keep and leaves out any she doesn’t want to appear. The closing balance is the adjusted amount.”
I pressed Print and the printer next to me came alive. Once I had a copy of the March statement, with its open areas, I placed it on the desk with the January statement, the February statement that Anna had copied on Thursday, and the February statement we’d found in the in-box. I then took a group picture and individual pictures with my phone. I also took a picture of the computer screen showing the March statement. That was when the Low Battery message flashed on my phone.
Time to recharge.
I slipped my phone back in my purse. “I should have enough pictures for Wade to tell us what to do next.”
“Send those to me,” Anna said, “I want—”
“Hello,” a strident female voice called out from the front area of the house. “Who’s here?”
I sucked in a breath, and Anna stiffened, her eyes widening. Her gaze snapped to the door between the reception area and where we were, then down to the papers spread out on the desk. “It’s me, Mrs. Welkum,” she yelled, all the while grabbing the statements spread across the desk. “Anna Carr. I’m in Jewel’s office.”
I moved over to the computer, clicked the file on the screen closed, and as soon as it was gone, clicked to shut down the computer. I expected the screen to go black. Instead, a message appeared stating not to shut down while Windows was updating.
The door between the reception area and the office area opened, and Madeline Welkum stepped into our section of the house. She stopped and stared at us. “What the hell are you two doing?”
I’d seen the woman on television and pictures of her in the newspaper, but I’d never met her in person. Tall, well dressed, and not a flaw in her makeup or hairdo, Madeline Welkum presented an imposing figure and I could see why Anna said the woman reminded her of Maleficent from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. Right now, as Madeline Welkum glared at us, I could picture her as a villainess.
“Well?” she said.
Her voice weakened the image. Its high pitch had irritated me even when I heard her on TV just the week before, and I’d told Wade then that I thought the woman’s voice alone would keep her from being elected to the state senate.
“I’m,” Anna began, closing the folder with the bank statements. “That is, we—” She took in a deep breath, smiled, and looked directly at Madeline Welkum. “We’re working on the audit the board asked me to do.”
I was impressed. My legs were shaking, but Anna sounded assured and calm.
Mrs. Welkum looked at Anna, then me, and then back at Anna. I glanced toward the computer. Windows was still doing its update. Shut down, I mentally ordered.
“What is this, the pregnant duo?” Welkum came closer. “I told you I would give you the files you needed. You have no right to be here.” She glared at me. “And who are you?”
“P.J. Benson, C.P.A.,” I said. I wanted to sound like I was in control. To my ears, I didn’t sound that confident. “Ms. Carr asked me to come with her to make sure she had the appropriate data for an audit.”
“P.J.?” Mrs. Welkum repeated, practically spitting out the initials. “That’s a nickname. I asked for your real name.”
“That is my real name.” Now I was irritated. “But you’re right. P.J. Benson is my business name. My legal name is P.J. Kingsley. I’m married to Kalamazoo Sheriff’s Deputy Wade Kingsley.” I wasn’t above using Wade’s connection to law enforcement to stop the woman from trying to intimidate us.