by Jance, J. A.
“So what do you need?” Ali asked.
“I was hoping you’d go ahead and pay the second half of the cabinet bill. That would be enough to get them started building them. Hopefully, by the time the cabinets are ready to ship, I’ll be able to get the amount you’ve already paid freed up from Morgan’s account.”
“You’re asking me to give you another check?”
Bryan shook his head. “The way things stand, that’s probably a bad idea. I’d rather you have your bank wire the funds directly to High Design. That way, if something else happens…”
“What something else?” Ali asked. “What more could go wrong?”
Bryan let out a long breath. “Do you remember a couple of years ago, when we were afraid that fire was going to come down this side of the mountain and wipe out all of Sedona?”
Ali hadn’t been living in Sedona at the time, but her parents had kept her posted with almost hourly reports. She nodded. “I remember the fire,” she said. “What about it?”
“Our place was like a sitting duck out there in the middle of nowhere. Morgan did everything on the computer. I worried that if the house burned and took our computers with it, we’d be out of business. So I signed up with a Web-based off-site backup system. Every night at midnight, our computers log on to the Internet and backup all the files on our hard drives. I hadn’t ever had any reason to look at Morgan’s backup file. To begin with, I was just trying to figure out what happened to the missing money, so I didn’t look at all of them by any means, but I learned enough to know that she’s been playing me for a fool.”
“More than just the money?”
Bryan nodded grimly. “Way more,” he said.
“She’s been cheating on you?”
“In spades,” Bryan said. “I won’t know the whole story until I have a chance to look into the files. And I have a feeling that once I dig deeper, I’m going to find out there was a whole lot more going on that I still don’t know about.”
Ali heard the hurt in Bryan’s voice. Betrayals that are uncovered while someone is still alive are bad enough, but at least you can deal with them. You can talk them over, or not, and then move on. When something like that surfaced after someone was dead, the survivor was left to deal with the whole thing alone. Unfortunately, Ali knew all about that kind of pain—from the inside out—and she worried about Bryan and whether or not he’d be able to handle whatever else might be hidden in his dead wife’s computer files.
“I’m so sorry,” Ali said. “I’m not sure if you ever heard about it, but something very similar happened to me. There were things my former husband did behind my back that I never knew about until after he was dead.”
“When it was too late and there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it,” Bryan Forester added bitterly. There were tears in his eyes.
Ali pretended not to notice. “That’s pretty much it,” she agreed. Her heart went out to the man. How could it not? And even though she expected the rest of the world would deem her a fool, she decided right then that she would trust him on the cabinet deal. Besides, he wasn’t asking for her money to go to him. He wanted Ali to pay the cabinet manufacturer directly.
“Where do you want me to wire the payment?” she asked.
Bryan let his breath out in a sigh of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Before Ali could reply, her attention was drawn to the sound of raised voices coming from the open door of the house. The words, indistinct at first, became clearer as the speaker moved closer.
“You’ve got a job to do, and so do I,” Billy insisted, his voice raised to a near shout. “I’ve wasted enough time answering questions. Now get the hell out of here.”
Dave Holman emerged from the house a few minutes later, trailed by the two cameramen, one of whom had his camera shoulder-high and running. Obviously, it had occurred to at least one of them that, with a homicide investigation under way, their mundane Mid-Century Revival filming project may have morphed into something that might be more profitable.
The videographers may have been filming for some time, but this was the first Dave seemed to notice. “Hey, you two,” he said. “What the hell are you doing? This is a homicide investigation. Turn that thing off.”
The two cameramen, Raymond and Robert, were virtually interchangeable. At that moment, Ali still couldn’t tell them apart, but on this score, she was in full agreement with Dave Holman.
“That’s right,” she told them. “This falls outside our filming guidelines. Do what he said. Turn it off.”
Dave glanced toward Ali. When he caught sight of Bryan Forester, he stiffened. “What’s he doing here?” the detective asked.
“Talking to my client,” Bryan answered in Ali’s place. “In case you haven’t noticed, we have a job to finish here.”
Without another word, Bryan rose from the table. He stalked off across the driveway and strode past both the detective and the cameramen. Billy Barnes and Bryan walked into the house together. Dave, meanwhile, came over to the table where Ali was sitting. “What’s he doing here?” he asked again. “What did he want?”
“He already told you what he was doing here,” Ali corrected. “We were conferring about the best way to get my project finished.”
Dave made no attempt to conceal his disbelief. “The day after his wife was murdered? Sure he was. It’s a lot more likely he’s making the rounds, trying to make sure his people have their stories straight about where he was and what he did yesterday.”
“Dave—” Ali began.
“Have you ever seen someone who’s been beaten to death?” Dave demanded, cutting her off. “Morgan Forester died a horrible death on the front porch of her own home. She was beaten to death—so savagely that her face is barely recognizable. I can’t believe those poor little girls came home and found their mother like that. Do I think this was a crime of opportunity—that some stranger just happened to stop by their place, found her home alone, and slaughtered her because he could? No way, Ali. Like I told you last night, when homicide cops see this kind of mindless fury, this kind of rage, we usually don’t have to go looking for some kind of stranger/danger perpetrator. Killers like this are mostly found a whole lot closer to home.”
“Bryan didn’t kill his wife,” Ali asserted quietly.
“Oh, really?” Dave returned. “How can you be so sure of that? Because he told you so?”
“Because I know the man,” Ali insisted. “He’s a nice guy who’s worked for me for months. He just wouldn’t, that’s all.”
“Right,” Dave said. “Billy Barnes has known Bryan since high school, and he says the same thing—he just wouldn’t. Don’t be naive, Ali. When a man’s world gets turned upside down, not even his mother knows what he might be capable of.”
When Ali didn’t reply to that, Dave pulled his car keys out of his pocket and walked away. Since he had arrived first, his car was parked on the far side of Bryan Forester’s truck. Instead of going straight to his sedan, Dave made a slow circuit of Bryan’s Dodge Ram, peering into the bed of the pickup. Halfway around the truck, even with the far back tire, he stopped cold, leaned over, and stared. Then, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his back pocket, he reached into the pickup, removed something, and took it with him when he drove away.
For a moment Ali stood there in shocked silence. What was that? she wondered. But she knew what it had looked like—a hammer. And why did Dave take it? But she knew the answer to that, too. Dave had taken whatever it was because he thought it was evidence in his case—evidence that hadn’t required a search warrant because it had been lying in plain sight.
“Are you all right?” Leland Brooks had appeared soundlessly behind Ali and was examining her face with some concern.
“Yes,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he returned. With a firm hold on her upper arm, he led her back to the table. “Come sit down, the
n,” he said. “Let me get you something—coffee, tea, or even something a bit stronger? Perhaps a hot toddy is in order.”
Shaking her head, Ali managed to laugh off his suggestion. She reached for her now-cold coffee. “No, thanks,” she said. “That’s not necessary. I’ll just sit here for a few minutes.”
“Well, at least let me call and cancel your afternoon appointment,” Leland suggested. “There’s no point in going through with it if you’re not feeling up to snuff.”
At first Ali didn’t remember what appointment he meant, but then she did. As a high school senior, Ali had been the surprised recipient of the very first Amelia Dougherty Askins Scholarship, an award that had made it possible for her to go on to college. Now, over twenty years later and through a series of fluke circumstances, Ali found herself in charge of administering the scholarship program that had once benefitted her.
Rather than being part of the regular financial aid programs, the Askins Scholarship had a somewhat unorthodox selection process. There was no formal application. Early in September, Leland Brooks, after months of investigation, had presented Ali with a list of ten possible candidates. The deserving students were drawn from the Verde Valley’s various secondary schools. Once Ali and Leland had winnowed that list down to three finalists, Leland had gone about collecting as much information as possible on all three. Ali had decided that before making her final decision, she wanted to interview each of the candidates. The first of those interviews was scheduled for later that day.
“So you don’t want me to cancel your meeting with Miss Marsh?” Leland confirmed. Haley Marsh, a seventeen-year-old single mother, was a senior at Cottonwood’s Mingus Mountain Union High School.
“No,” Ali said. “Considering what’s going on around here today, a drive over to Cottonwood would probably be good for what ails me. It’s not until afternoon, though. In the meantime it might be a good idea if I spent an hour or so going over the files on all the finalists.”
Leland nodded. “Very well,” he said.
Just then Bryan emerged from the house. Ali was relieved when he merely nodded in her direction and walked to his pickup without bothering to engage her in conversation. He clambered into the vehicle, wheeled it around, and drove out of the driveway.
What if Dave is right about Bryan Forester? Ali wondered. And what should I do about the cabinet order? She had told Bryan she’d wire the money to get the rush job started, but should she? Wouldn’t that be sending good money after bad?
Ali sat there for some time thinking about it, but then the whining sound of someone installing wallboard screws came to her attention. It was a wake-up call. Regardless of what was going on with Bryan, the job was moving forward. If her remodeling project was ever going to be completed, and no matter who was doing the actual work, Ali would need those cabinets on hand sooner rather than later. She spent the next little while making sure her rush order of cabinets was under way.
She was still at the table and finishing up on the cabinet call when the two cameramen came over to the table and helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts. They seemed surprised to see her.
“I want this morning’s tape,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
Which one is he? Ali wondered. Robert or Raymond?
“The tape,” she said. “The one you were doing this morning when Detective Holman was here. You were hired to film a home remodel. You weren’t hired to film a homicide investigation.”
“But it’s all part of the same—”
“Detective Holman’s visit doesn’t fall under the heading of home remodel,” Ali insisted. “I want whatever film you may have taken of that. I clearly remember stipulating in the contract that I had the right to say what film would be released to the public and what wouldn’t. That means I want a copy of the whole tape. That way, if all or part of it is released to any venue without my express approval, I’ll know where the material came from.”
“But what about the wallboard installation?” Robert/Raymond objected. “That’s on the same set of footage.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the crew is still hanging wallboard,” she said. “You’ll have plenty of usable footage on that, but the cop stuff is off limits—all of it.”
“Well,” Robert/Raymond said, “I can’t just give it to you. It’s not that simple. This equipment doesn’t create an actual tape, as such. I can send you the file by e-mail, if you like.”
“E-mail is fine,” Ali said. “But I want it today, no later than five. And if I were you, I’d make damned sure that I didn’t accidentally e-mail it to anyone else, either. I’m the one who determines who gets the material and who doesn’t. If you try passing my film along to someone who isn’t authorized to have it, be advised: I have plenty of trial attorneys at the ready who’ll be only too glad to take you to court and hold you accountable.”
The two cameramen walked away, grumbling to themselves, as Leland Brooks appeared with three file folders in hand. “Good,” he said. “The two of them are forever throwing their weight around. It’s about time someone put them in their places.” With a ceremonial flourish, he set the folders on the table in front of Ali. “Here you are,” he added. “The official dossiers, as it were. When I put these together, I always feel a bit like M from the old James Bond movies.”
“Don’t you mean Q?” Ali asked. “He’s the one with the gadgets. Isn’t M a woman?”
“I know,” Leland replied with an impish grin. “I definitely mean M.”
Ali remembered the night Arabella Ashcroft had realized that her long-term butler was gay. She had hit the roof about it. Ali liked the fact that Leland felt free to tease with her about the situation.
Ali spread the folders out in front of her and glanced at the three names. Two of the candidates were female—Haley Marsh, from Cottonwood, and Marissa Dvorak, from Sedona. The male was Ricky Farraday, also from Sedona High School.
Leland reached down and tapped Ricky’s file. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s out.”
In the spring of his junior year, Ricky Farraday had gained some national exposure as the victim of Sedona High School’s first ever documented hate crime when he’d been publicly outed by having his locker filled with swarms of fruit flies. The ACLU had come to his rescue and had obtained an undisclosed monetary settlement. He had also been thrown out of the house by his hard-nosed, homophobic father. Ali knew from things Chris had mentioned that Ricky was now living in an apartment on his own—at his parents’ expense—as a supposedly emancipated adult.
Even though Askins Scholarship winners were traditionally female, Ali hadn’t objected when Leland Brooks had put Ricky’s name on the list. Ricky’s grades up through his junior year had certainly merited that. Then there was the similarity between Ricky Farraday’s background and Leland Brooks’s own family history. After serving with the Royal Marines during the Korean War, Leland had been cast aside by his nearest and dearest because they hadn’t wanted “his sort hanging about.” Being rejected by his blood relations was the real reason Leland had emigrated from the UK to the States. Bearing all that in mind, Ali was somewhat startled to hear that Leland was prepared to kick Ricky Farraday off Scholarship Island.
“How come?” she asked. She more than half expected to hear that since he was living on his own, his senior-year GPA wasn’t good enough. That was what often happened when kids went off to live without parental supervision for the first time.
“Because he’s a fraud,” Leland declared forcefully. “A lying, cheating fraud.”
Ali was stunned. “You mean he’s not gay?”
“He may be gay,” Leland allowed. “Although I’m not sure I’m entirely convinced of that, either. My main problem with Ricky is that I’ve gotten to the bottom of the fruit-fly escapade. He’s a victim of a self-inflicted hate crime.”
“You mean he put those fruit flies in his own locker?” Ali asked.
“A friend of Ricky’s put them there at his insistence. He
was at war with his father and was looking for a way to get thrown out of the house, and he certainly succeeded in that. Yes, he’s living on his own, but with that undeserved windfall from his court case, he doesn’t really need any scholarship help. That’s just my opinion, however. Go ahead and read all three dossiers. The final decision is yours, but I think either one of the two girls would make a better choice.”
Ali didn’t ask how Leland had uncovered all these details, but she was prepared to accept his considered opinion on the subject. Setting aside Ricky Farraday’s file, she spent the rest of the morning in the canopy-covered break room, working her way through the two remaining dossiers. Although both Marissa Dvorak and Haley Marsh were capable students, neither was performing at the valedictorian or salutatorian level, where scholarship help would have been much more plentiful. The two girls were solidly second-tier students.
Marissa Dvorak had been adopted as a ten-year-old from an orphanage in the Ukraine. Juvenile arthritis had left her confined to a wheelchair prior to her freshman year in high school. Lengthy hospital stays and prolonged absences had limited her academic achievement and had also contributed to a lower GPA than she would have had otherwise. Nonetheless, she was a serious student who gravitated toward classes in science and math. Her single extracurricular activity was the chess club, where she had easily walked away with the state championship.
According to what Leland had been able to learn from interviewing friends and teachers, Marissa hoped to attend the University of Arizona as a premed student with the eventual goal of doing medical research. For right now, her hopes and dreams were stymied by the fact that her parents, who ran a chain of dry-cleaning establishments, made too much money for her to qualify for most forms of financial aid other than student loans. Both she and her parents were reluctant to sign up for those—a situation Ali Reynolds understood very well.