Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  Wilde held up his hand and punched in a number on his cell. “Davie? Do you remember a memorial service for Major Trumbo here in St. Lumis? Really? Okay, I see. No, no problem.” He looked up. “Davie says there was no memorial service held here for Major Trumbo. I wonder where the major was cremated.”

  “Hang on. Okay, no funeral homes in Bushkill; it’s too small. Here we go, the closest funeral home is in Stroudsburg. Give me your cell, Wilde.” He listened to her talk a clerk at the funeral home into checking her records. When she hung up, she shook her head. “He wasn’t cremated in Stroudsburg. Of course, there are other funeral homes in the wider area, but you know what’s smacking me in the face?”

  He clasped his large hands in front of him on the desktop and raised an eyebrow.

  “If Mrs. Trumbo and her son and his unidentified girlfriend didn’t take the major to the local hospital, there wouldn’t be a physician’s report, no death certificate, no autopsy, even though it was an unattended death. There were evidently no questions because no one knew to ask any. He was cremated. Mrs. Trumbo came back to St. Lumis and bought the B&B and put an obituary in the St. Lumis Herald. Ronald went back to Baltimore. And that leaves the question: Did Major Trumbo really fall over dead with a heart attack? Or did something else happen, something Mrs. Trumbo doesn’t want anyone to know? And what happened to Ronald’s girlfriend? Hang on a second.” Pippa found Mrs. Trumbo’s Facebook page without difficulty and scrolled through her public photo gallery. “Wilde? Here’s a photo of Ronald Pomfrey and his mother. Given the date, the major was already dead.”

  Wilde looked down at the photo on Pippa’s tablet of a slight young man with a big smile, carrying several books.

  Pippa said, “He’s handsome as sin even with his hair beginning to recede. I don’t see any of Mrs. Trumbo in him, so I guess his dad was a looker. Here’s another photo of him with his art.” Ronald Pomfrey was standing next to a loom covered with a kaleidoscope of colored yarns forming a vivid picture of a dozen different fruits all tumbled together, so real you felt you could pluck out a plum or a pear and munch. His long, narrow hand rested possessively on the loom. “He studied at the Maryland Institute College of Art, a private art and design college in Baltimore.”

  Wilde waited, then cocked his head to one side. “And?”

  Pippa grinned. “Drum roll… I’ve studied Savich’s file on Marsia Gay. She also studied at the MICA, for one year. She’s an artist, modern sculpture in metals.”

  He sat forward, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, how old is Ronald Pomfrey?”

  She typed. “He’s thirty-six. Young enough to be Black Hoodie.”

  “Sure is. And Marsia is in her late twenties. That puts them both at MICA, but, Cinelli, there are years between them.”

  “Well, Ronald didn’t go to MICA until he was thirty. He was an assistant manager in a hotel in Baltimore his mother managed before she married Major Trumbo. So we have Marsia Gay and Ronald Pomfrey at the same place, same time. That doesn’t prove they knew each other, but it’s way more than a start.”

  Wilde said, “You’re thinking Marsia Gay was the girlfriend at the cabin in the Poconos when Major Trumbo died?”

  “If she was the girlfriend, then Mrs. Trumbo lied about knowing her.”

  Wilde smiled. “Okay, we’re getting somewhere, Cinelli. I can think of a bunch of phone calls to make, but they’ll have to wait until the morning. Maybe it’s time to call it a night.” He rose and stretched. “You want a taco?”

  52

  MINNA SAVICH’S HOUSE

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  After a dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and an excellent vegetable frittata for Savich, everyone adjourned to the living room. With Savich’s mother and Senator Monroe cheering him on, Sean played a video racing game with his dad that Sherlock had rescued from the house. She stood in the doorway of the living room, her cell against her ear, listening to their logistics expert, Janet Mickelson, who never seemed to run out of new wrinkles in the home repairs, from replacing the old wiring in the kitchen to another week’s delay in shipping the living room draperies she and Dillon had picked out. Sherlock knew she should be taking notes, but she only listened as Janet addressed one problem after another.

  “Sherlock, I saved the good news for last, guaranteed to bring a smile. My contractor can start work in the morning, and he promised when he’s done with the painting, there’ll be absolutely no more smoke smell in the house. All of Sean’s new bedroom furniture will be ready for delivery as soon as the painting’s done, exactly what he wanted. So, we’re all on the same page. I’m still hopeful we’ll be done a week before Christmas.” She paused. “Well, unless they delay the inspections, which, alas, is known to happen more often than I’d like.”

  The week before Christmas seemed like a perfect new mantra. When Sherlock punched off, she stood a moment in the arched doorway and looked at her mother-in-law, her shoulder touching Robert Monroe’s as she laughed at Sean’s super-serious efforts to beat his father, or rather Magic John. It struck her what a blessing it was to have this time with Dillon’s mom, and to really get to know the senator, who’d been a rock, tossing in the occasional nugget on what to do about this or that problem concerning the house. Sherlock had no doubt Sean was having the time of his life being the only kid in a house with four adults. Not to mention Gabriella, who was helping Minna, picking up Sean from school and shepherding him to all his activities. When they finally moved back home, Sherlock imagined it would take a month to convince Sean he wasn’t the king of the universe. She watched her son clap his hands and chair-dance next to his father. Dillon was distracted, the great part of his brain still focused on what he’d have to do next to keep Rebekah Clarkson, and of course his own family, safe.

  When Savich took Sean to bed, he listened with half an ear while his over-the-moon-excited son crowed about beating him. To calm Sean down, Savich sang him a new country-western song that had been floating around in his head the past week about a long-distance truck driver named Ed and a pretty young thing outside Yuma, Arizona. Ed woke up from sleeping with the angels in the middle of the desert, his wallet, his water bottle, and his truck long gone. Sean was out before Ed woke up.

  When Sherlock joined him in the larger of Minna’s two guest bedrooms, she found him sitting on one side of the queen-size bed, which was, admittedly, a bit small for the two of them, wearing only his black boxers, his hands clasped between his knees, muttering to himself.

  She rubbed his shoulder until she had his attention. “Tonight was good for everyone, Dillon. You needed the distraction to let your brain simmer a bit.”

  She leaned down and kissed him. “Time to sleep. Talk about a long day, not to mention the small dollop of excitement. Nothing like a hostage rescue to put an end to it. But it’s over now. Duvall is alive, and MAX is working. You have to close your mind down, stop your angsting, all right? You needn’t worry about Rebekah. Her husband’s with her when Griffin isn’t. She’ll be fine, and we’re all safe for now. Get your very fine self into bed.” Sherlock kissed him again and watched him climb into bed and pull the covers to his chest. She looked down at him, gave him what she hoped was a sexy grin. “I’ll be right with you, gorgeous. I’m thinking Mama needs to make you forget your name.”

  She sashayed to the dresser with a mirror hanging above it and started brushing her hair. She heard him humming, a new country-western song. She frowned. “Do you know what I can’t get my brain around, Dillon? How did anyone find out Rebekah knew about the Big Take? Her grandfather made her promise never to tell a soul, and she didn’t. Until last week Rebekah believed the Big Take was only one of his made-up adventures.”

  After Sherlock made him forget his name, Savich fell boneless into a deep sleep.

  He was lying on his back on a narrow white bed. Blackness surrounded him, cocooned him, but it wasn’t frightening; it was comforting, like resting in his mother’s arms, listening to her heartbeat as she whispered how much
she loved him, how she knew he’d be a great man one day. He knew time was passing, but it wasn’t important. The blackness never lightened, always stayed exactly the same, but that was all right. He was one with it, a part of it.

  He heard many voices around him, but they didn’t touch him. Only hers did. Rebekah held his hand, and he heard her beloved voice, telling him how much she loved him and missed him. She told him about her studies, how after she earned a master’s degree, she was going to hunt for forged paintings and keep the art world honest. And it might make her rich. He wanted to tell her she already was rich. Hadn’t he left her several million in a trust? But none of that mattered. Rebekah was here, and she was his.

  As she held his hand, she repeated to him dozens of adventure stories he’d told her when she was young, wild hair-raising tales he’d invented about his and Nate’s exploits. Nate. Where was Nate? He knew Nate was gone, gone for a very long time, but he didn’t know where he was. With Miranda? Was that her name? So pretty she was. With his mother? How much time had passed? He didn’t know, didn’t care. His mind settled into a timeless drift.

  He heard Rebekah’s voice telling him about the Big Take again, her favorite story, she’d say. He wished he could tell her the Big Take wasn’t only a story, it was real. The poem he’d written and made her memorize, the poem he’d made her promise never to tell another person, wafted through his head, but he couldn’t seem to remember the words. He wished he could tell her he loved her, but he couldn’t. He floated, content, then he heard another voice, close to his face, a voice that said matter-of-factly, “I do wonder if you can hear me, Congressman Clarkson. Can I call you John? Of course I can. You won’t mind, will you, not about anything. Your granddaughter is charming. How she loves to repeat all those stories to you, but it’s time for her to go now.” He felt a warm hand on his forehead, felt the warm hand take his pulse. “But you’ll be fine, just fine. I’ll be staying here with you, John.”

  He fell asleep then, rocking in his mother’s warm, strong arms, living in a lullaby.

  Savich slowly opened his eyes. He stared into the gray predawn light coming through the window, didn’t know for an instant where he was, then felt Sherlock’s soft breath against his neck. She’d set the dream in motion, told him to let it all simmer. He lightly touched his fingertips to her curls, and she pushed closer. He smiled, kissed her, and whispered into the warm air, “Thank you for that, John Clarkson.”

  53

  CLARKSON UNITED INDUSTRIES

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Mrs. Frazier looked up to see Rebekah, Agent Hammersmith, and a tall, tough-looking man she’d never seen before step off the elevator.

  “Rebekah, you’re back so soon? I saw you yesterday—” Mrs. Frazier’s voice fell off a cliff. She stared at three stone faces. She knew something was very wrong, and it involved Mrs. Clarkson. And the company? Mrs. Clarkson hadn’t been her usual self these past weeks. She’d gone from euphoric, which was rare at the best of times, to pacing her office, quiet and brooding, to sharp and curt. Olivia had heard her speaking with the Clarksons’ senior accountant, heard raised voices. She’d nerved herself up and asked Mrs. Clarkson if there were any problems and could she help? Mrs. Clarkson had given her a long look and said only, “Yes, Olivia, but they’re my problems. You’re not to worry.” And she’d walked back into her office, chin up.

  And now the FBI was here again with Rebekah. What had Mrs. Clarkson done?

  She slowly rose and automatically straightened her suit jacket. She looked briefly at the closed door, then turned back. “Rebekah, what is going on? Who is he?”

  “Mrs. Frazier, this is Special Agent Savich, FBI, and you remember Agent Hammersmith. We’re here to see my grandmother.”

  Mrs. Frazier nodded and held out her hand to the big man she’d never seen before. Savich stepped forward, shook her hand, and gave her his credentials. He had a hard hand, and were those scars on his finger pads? She studied his ID, handed it back to him. He smiled at her, and it changed his face utterly, made her wonder if her divorced daughter might take him out for a drink. He said, “Mrs. Frazier, a pleasure. Rebekah has told us how kind you’ve been to her over the years.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, only smiled and nodded. She saw Agent Hammersmith was still looking hard as a hanging judge. And Rebekah? She looked resolute, ready for battle. They were here to deliver bad news. She knew trouble when she saw it, and trouble was standing in front of her. She said slowly, “So you’re here to see your grandmother? All of you, together?”

  “Yes. Please see we aren’t disturbed, Mrs. Frazier. I—I’m very sorry about this.”

  Olivia could only nod. She watched Rebekah open Mrs. Clarkson’s door, watched her chin go up as she marched in, followed by the two agents. The door closed. Olivia sat back down and did what she did best, according to her daughter—she pulled the knitting out of her bottom drawer and worried.

  Gemma Clarkson slowly rose as Agent Hammersmith and Rebekah walked into her office, a stranger flanking them. She made no move to come out from behind her desk. She said, “You must be Agent Savich? I spoke to you by phone on Monday. I pictured you in my mind, you know, I always do when I have only a voice to give me clues.” She paused, studied his face, and said slowly, “I imagined you’d be a big man.”

  He stepped forward to hand her his creds. “I’m Agent Savich.”

  She waved them away. “Why are you three here so early on this chilly Wednesday morning?” She paused, pointed to chairs. There were only two set in front of her desk. She waited until Agent Hammersmith fetched another chair, carried it over, and sat down. All three looked at her a moment, unspeaking. Savich leaned forward in his chair. “Mrs. Clarkson, we’ve been looking into your company finances. Since Clarkson United Industries is privately held, it took time and effort to put together some of the pieces, but we now know your company has suffered financial setbacks recently, severe ones. But your own situation is rather desperate because you expanded by borrowing, which didn’t work out at all for you. You have a large bank loan due in several weeks, and you’ll be hard-pressed to pay it.”

  Gemma gave him a rictus of a smile. He had no clue as to what she was thinking. “You have been busy, Agent Savich. Let me just say that this company has been in business longer than you’ve been alive, and our books are really none of your business.”

  “Perhaps not, Mrs. Clarkson, except it might explain the puzzle of why you’re suddenly so interested in getting your hands on a great deal of money. It’s a puzzle that started more than twenty-five years ago, before Nate’s murder in 1995.”

  “There is no puzzle,” Gemma said. “Nate wasn’t murdered; his death was ruled an accident. He was drunk and fell overboard. Now, I want to know why you three are here. I have a budget meeting shortly, so say what you have to say and leave.” She shot a look of ill-disguised dislike at Rebekah, a look from Rebekah’s oldest memories. She felt her familiar child’s guilt that it must be her fault. She remembered the endless questions she’d wanted to ask but was too afraid to, and then she’d simply closed her grandmother out of her mind and her life.

  Gemma said, never looking away from Rebekah’s face, her voice hard and flat, “Particularly you, Rebekah. Look at you, a little Joan of Arc, leading your troops into battle. What did you come to complain about this time? I know it’s not about where your next meal’s coming from or how you will pay the rent. Did someone try to kidnap you again? Were you saved by another strong man?”

  Savich saw Rebekah was used to the barely veiled venom. Then he saw her draw herself up taller in her chair. She said easily, “No, ma’am. No more attempted kidnappings and believe me, I know how lucky I am. I have a man who loves me and a grandfather who loved me, too.”

  Good, Rebekah was standing up to this intimidating woman, but they were getting off track. Savich said, “We’re here to talk about a number of things, Mrs. Clarkson, and we can begin with Zoltan. You said you’d never met her, but w
e ran a facial recognition program and found a photograph of the two of you together at a benefit for the Spiritualist Society in Baltimore earlier this year.”

  For only a brief instant, Gemma’s face went blank, then she shook her head and said smoothly, “Well, yes, now that you mention it, I do recall meeting her. We run in some of the same circles, contribute to some of the same causes. But that doesn’t mean I hired her to do anything nefarious. From what you told me, she tried to help Rebekah communicate with her grandfather, and even if she misrepresented what was happening, it wasn’t illegal, was it? Some believe; some don’t.”

  “Ah, but you knew what Rebekah’s grandfather would say, what he didn’t know, what he would ask for.”

  “That is nonsense. How would I know such a thing?”

  “From the private nurse who attended Congressman Clarkson in the last months of his life at the sanitarium.”

  A patrician eyebrow went up. “I hired many nurses to attend him. What’s your point?”