by Maris Soule
“Have you heard anything from Mrs. Welkum? Did she call or anything?”
“Nothing.” Anna shook her head. “That makes me even more nervous. What is she doing? What might she do?”
“The question is, what are you going to do?”
“Not a thing until Monday. That’s when the board meets. I’ll show them those pictures of the doctored bank statements and tell them what I think. After that, it will be up to the board to decide what to do.”
“I showed the pictures to Wade.”
“What did he say?”
“Basically, what you’re planning. He said it’s the board’s responsibility to investigate. Once they’ve determined the extent of the theft and gathered all the available records, an outside firm should be hired to do an audit. If there’s sufficient evidence, the suspected embezzler should be confronted.”
“So, who do you think it is?” Anna asked.
“Has to be Mrs. Welkum, doesn’t it?” That seemed self-evident. “Her daughter’s not around, so she couldn’t have doctored that February statement.”
“I guess,” Anna said, “but I don’t want it to be her. P.J. Homes4Homeless is doing good things. Madeline Welkum started the charity with her own money. Her name alone has made things happen. Twenty homes have been purchased, refurbished, and given to vets and families who had no homes. Looking at the books, as far as I can tell, she hasn’t been taking a salary, not a regular one, so maybe the missing checks are payments to her, reimbursements for what she’s spent out of her pocket, or something like that.”
I knew Anna didn’t really believe that. “If so, why write and cash checks that she marks as void? Why doctor bank statements so those checks don’t show up? If she deserves the money, why not simply list it as an expense?”
“I don’t know.” Anna slid into her car. “And I don’t know what will happen to the charity if she’s arrested. I never thought I’d have to do something like this when I agreed to be on the board. I think they asked me so they could say the board was diversified. “Look at me—” She indicated herself with a wave of her hand. “One Black. One female. One lesbian. Diversified.”
I laughed at her description of herself. She definitely fit all of those categories. “Stay out of trouble,” I said and stepped back as she started her car.
* * *
I drove from the church to my grandmother’s house. The rain wasn’t much more than a fine mist, but the temperature was dropping, and as I walked up to her front porch, it felt like icy needles hitting against my cheeks. Entering the warmth of Grandma Carter’s house was a pleasure.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Grandma called from the kitchen.
“Why? What’s wrong,” I asked, surprised by the anguish I’d heard in her voice.
“It’s your mother.”
Grandma sat at her kitchen table. That she didn’t get up worried me. Usually, I received a hug when I arrived. “What happened to Mom?”
“Sit down.” Grandma motioned toward the wooden chair near her. “You’re going to want to be sitting.”
I sat, my stomach tightening as I waited for her to go on.
“You know how normal your mother’s been acting since she got on that new medicine and started dating Ben?”
“Yes,” I said, drawing out the word since I knew Grandma’s question meant something had changed, and I hated to hear that.
Last summer Mom’s doctor had finally found a medicine that Mom willingly took and her hallucinations and paranoia had stopped. She’d found a job with Goodwill and had met Ben Ross. The two of them had been dating off and on ever since. For months I’d had a normal mother, one who helped me on my wedding day, went shopping with me for baby clothes, and lectured me about my weight gain.
“So, what happened?” I repeated.
“Your mother and Ben were arrested last night.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“For indecent exposure.” Grandma sighed. “They were found swimming in a motel pool at three in the morning.”
I knew most motels limited the hours their pools were open but breaking that rule wouldn’t get a person arrested for indecent exposure. Which meant one thing. “Mom went skinny dipping.”
“Yep,” Grandma said. “Both your mom and Ben were buck naked.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back against my chair. “What were they thinking?”
Grandma laughed. “Come on, P.J., you know your mother.”
She was right. I knew my mother’s thinking didn’t always make sense, that over the years she’d been arrested for multiple misdemeanors. Whenever she went off her pills, she saw weird things—like UFOs—and did weird things. “I thought Ben was making sure she was taking her pills. Shoot, I thought he was levelheaded.”
“She says she’s taking her pills, that this has nothing to do with any of that. She says they were celebrating.”
“Celebrating what? How to get arrested?”
“Their wedding.”
That news shocked me even more than the idea of Mom being arrested. I sat forward again. “Mom and Ben are married?”
“That’s what she says. She told me Ben has a friend who can marry people and that they are now married.”
“A friend, huh?” I had a feeling Mom’s marriage was another of her illusions. “Where is she now? In jail?”
“No, she’s at Ben’s place. She said they have to appear in court sometime next week.” Grandma raised her eyebrows. “She asked me to find her a lawyer.”
And my grandmother would. From the time I was ten and we received the report that my dad had been killed by a bomb in the Mideast up to now, Grandma Carter had been the one to come to Mom’s rescue. Mine, too. Over those years, Grandma had helped pay our medical bills, hired lawyers to get Mom out of trouble, and taken us in when Mom forgot to pay the mortgage and we lost our house. Grandpa Carter also helped, but he died when I was fifteen.
“You remember that lawyer you hired last summer for Ida? Think you could contact him and see if he can help?”
I knew who Grandma meant. I met Ida Delaney, a woman in her seventies, when I gave a talk at a local library about avoiding scams. Ida had dementia, and for some reason thought I could help her nephew who was trying to blackmail some unsavory men. When the police became involved, Ida ended up staying with Grandma for a while, and we hired a lawyer. “Arthur Hicks,” I said. “Sure, I can call him, but Mom and Ben are the ones who will have to talk to him.”
“While you make that call, I’ll fix you some tea,” Grandma said, sounding more upbeat than she had when I first arrived.
I had to leave a message when I called Hicks, but ten minutes later he called back. After we exchanged pleasantries, I explained, as best I could, what my mother and Ben had done and why they needed his services. I also let him know I didn’t expect him to do this pro bono, not as he had for Ida.
I then called Mom.
I should have been more enthusiastic when she told me that Ben and she were married, but I wasn’t. She sounded like a teenager, giggling and sighing as she related how someone Ben knew was the minister of a church—one I’d never heard of—and how, for their wedding, this minister dressed liked a hippy. “He wore a tie-dye robe and a garland of flowers around his head,” she said. “Well, actually, they were artificial flowers stuck in a sweat band, but it looked neat. Reminded me of those pictures your grandmother has of when she marched in peace rallies.”
I’d heard about those days and seen those pictures. On occasion Grandma still marched for different causes, usually ones that involved women’s rights.
“The minister’s wife banged on a tambourine and threw torn up bits of toilet paper, like flower petals, on the carpet as I walked down the hall to the living room,” Mom said. “And after the ceremony we drank blueberry wine the minister had made himself and ate brownies.”
“Brownies?” I repeated.
“Yes, they were marvelous.” She giggled. “Much better than that cake you had at
your wedding.”
“Are you still eating brownies?” I asked, wondering if some brownies laced with marijuana might explain a late-night dip in a motel pool sans clothing.
“Finished the last one last night, just before we decided to go swimming.”
Bingo. “Make sure you tell Mr. Hicks that, Mom,” I said, knowing I would also let Arthur Hicks know she might not have been completely responsible for her actions. Neither she nor Ben.
“Will do,” Mom agreed.
Finally, I did tell her congratulations, though I’m not sure why. In all probability she and Ben weren’t really married and unless Arthur Hicks could convince a judge they didn’t know what they were doing, they might be spending the next few months in jail and paying a fine. Poor Mom. She might have a high IQ, but even ignoring the schizophrenia, she lacked common sense.
“I guess we just wait and see,” I told Grandma.
“All we can do,” she agreed. “Meanwhile, are you hungry? And how are you doing? When I talked to you yesterday, you said you were sore from that accident.”
“I am getting hungry,” I admitted, “and feeling better today. Connie, the nurse who runs that Mothers-to-Be group, checked me over and said the baby is fine. That was a big relief.” I had been worried. “I’ll see her again on Friday, and then I have my two-week appointment with my doctor Monday. That is, if Paige Joy hasn’t arrived by then.” I sighed. “I am so ready for this baby to come.”
Grandma stood and headed for the refrigerator. “Babies come when they’re ready. Baked chicken sound good? Potatoes and peas?”
“Sounds wonderful.” I also stood. “What can I do to help?”
As Grandma prepared the chicken, I peeled three small potatoes. Working side by side with her was a familiar experience for me. For years Mom and I had lived in this house, prepared food in this kitchen, and ate together at Grandma’s table. Good memories and bad had been shared here. I considered myself lucky; most of my memories were good ones.
“How are you doing on those taxes you had to finish?” she asked when we sat back down to wait for everything to cook.
“I’ve finished the last of the ones I agreed to handle this year,” I said, pleased with myself. “Just Wade’s and mine left to do.”
“Organized and everything in control, as usual.”
I laughed. “It’s more like I try to be organized, but somehow I always seem to lose control. Things just seem to happen. Think about it. There I am, simply in need of a bathroom, and who do I run into? Brenda Cox. I hadn’t seen or talked to her for almost two years, and an hour later, she’s dead, killed by a hit-and-run driver who no one can identify. Why? Why did I overhear her saying her boss had threatened her? Was her death an accident as Wade and the police are saying or was it murder?”
“P.J.” Grandma’s voice held a warning tone. “Don’t you go and get involved.”
“I know, I know.” I avoided looking directly at her. “I won’t.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I mean it, P.J.” She stood and went to check on the potatoes. “Believe me,” she said from the stove, “I was shocked when I saw it was Brenda who was killed. She was a wonderful person, staying with you that time I was in the hospital, but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you getting involved in whatever she was involved in. Not in your condition.”
She came back to the table and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, some things just happen. Listen to Wade. Let them figure out what’s up.”
I looked at Grandma’s hand, veins and tendons clearly visible beneath thin wrinkly skin. She’d lived more than seventy years and had experienced a multitude of unexpected events, including my mother’s mental illness. I would agree, some things did just happen. On the other hand, sometimes it seemed like there was a reason.
“Grandma, I can’t just let it go. Brenda was there for me when I needed her. Maybe it’s crazy, but I feel like I was meant to be in that bathroom when Brenda was there, that there was a reason why I overheard that conversation. Also, Brenda worked at Patterson’s Furniture and last Friday she died. Last Friday someone else I knew, though not well, died. He also worked at Patterson’s Furniture. To me that’s more than just a coincidence.”
“Two hit-and-run accidents the same day?”
“No, Jerry died of an overdose. But do you see what I mean?”
“Patterson’s Furniture,” Grandma said. “Never heard of it. Where’s it located?”
“Somewhere off Douglas Avenue, north of West Main. I looked it up on-line the other day. They had a cute child’s rocking chair.”
Grandma looked at me and frowned. “P.J., stay away from there.”
Chapter Eighteen
I was hungrier than I’d realized, and dinner was delicious. Grandma drank wine; I drank milk. We talked about her book group, the crocus and jonquils that were starting to peek through the ground, and how much Jason had grown in the last few months. What we didn’t talk about was Brenda or Patterson’s furniture, and when I left Grandma’s house, a dozen cookies for Wade and Jason on the seat beside me, I really should have headed home. It was already starting to get dark, and I had a forty-minute drive ahead of me. Nevertheless, it wasn’t far from Grandma’s house to Patterson’s Furniture, and I was curious. I wanted to see where both Brenda and Jerry had worked.
I took West Michigan Avenue to Douglas Avenue and turned right. At first I passed homes that dated back to the early nineteen-hundreds. Some had been divided into apartments or duplexes, and many, I knew, were rented during the year to Kalamazoo College students. I didn’t see any furniture stores in this area. It wasn’t until I neared the U.S.-131 Business Loop that I passed Patterson’s Furniture.
I made a U-turn at the next intersection, drove back past the store, and turned into the paved lot on its south side. Although it was past six o’clock, a sign in the window by the entry door flashed “Open,” and the store’s interior lights were on.
I couldn’t see anyone inside the building, and there were no cars parked near the entry door, but a black truck with rusted fenders and a delivery van with the words Patterson’s Furniture on its side were parked back by a Dumpster. Engine still running, I sat in my car trying to decide exactly what I wanted to do next. According to the information I’d found on the Internet, Brenda worked here as a bookkeeper. That meant this was where she’d been looking at pictures on her computer, where she’d been threatened by her boss. From here she headed downtown, ending up in the church where I overheard her talking on the phone.
Another car pulling into the lot jarred me out of my thoughts. A dark-colored, beat-up sedan parked near the entry door and a wiry-looking, bearded man got out. He started for the entry door, then paused and looked back at his car. The door on the passenger’s side opened, and a preteen girl hurried to join him.
The two entered the store, and I made a decision. If a man and his daughter could shop for furniture this late in the day, so could a pregnant woman. I turned off the engine, grabbed my purse, and got out of my car.
A buzzer went off as I stepped inside. The man and his daughter were now near a display of mattresses, and I could see a tall, muscular man dressed in well-worn jeans and a faded gray T-shirt walking toward them. One other man stood near a door at the back of the store. Short and stocky, he was also dressed in jeans and a baggy blue sweatshirt. Both men looked to be Hispanic. Not that their nationalities mattered to me, but the way they were dressed didn’t fit my image of a furniture salesman.
“Be with you in minute,” the one walking toward the man and girl called to me.
“Okay,” I called back, glad to have time to simply glance around.
The store looked about as I remembered from the overview on its webpage. One thing my computer hadn’t shown was the no smoking sign by the door, which seemed comical since I could smell a hint of marijuana. But maybe it came from the clothing of the customers, not the store’s backroom. Maybe.
In front of me were the usual groupin
gs: living room furniture, dining room, and bedroom. Nearby an array of lamps, vases, and a variety of decorative items sat on desks, bookcases, and stands. A ceramic crow figure caught my attention. Although twice the size of the crows that harassed me every time I stepped out of the house, it looked to be a perfect replica of the bird, from its jet-black color to the beady glass eye staring at me. A perfect gift, I thought, for Howard.
I carefully picked up the crow to check the price. It wasn’t that much, but looking at the bird closer, I could understand why. Rather than being fired as one piece, it had been fired as two halves that were later glued together. Although the seamline was barely visible, what I held was not an original but a mass-produced crow.
I smiled, remembering the sign on the website: Crafts and Furnishings: Made in Mexico by indigenous native craftsmen.
Crafty craftsmen was more like it. Two halves glued together produced an empty cavity that could be filled with drugs. I wouldn’t put it past the Mexican drug cartels to use crow statues to smuggle cocaine and heroin across the border. And here was Ken’s buddy Jerry, working at Patterson’s Furniture, ready to receive the shipment.
I noticed the employee helping the father and daughter watching me. He made me think of a bouncer. Did he know what I was thinking?
I smiled, carefully placed the crow back on the display table, and stepped away. Whether it was mass produced or not, I might buy the crow for Howard, but first I wanted to look at the nursery furniture. I’d liked what was shown on-line. Getting to that section, however, required working my way past a long, wooden dining table and around a stack of chairs before I made it to a crib crammed between two small dressers.
I was looking at a colorful mobile attached to the crib’s railing when, from behind me, I heard, “Es bonito, sí?”
I turned to see the short, stocky man who had been standing by the storeroom door was now just inches away. Up close, he looked much younger than the other salesman, maybe early twenties. We were almost the same height, and he was smiling, but even though he was physically less intimidating than the other man, his nearness made me nervous. I edged back, closer to the crib.