Darn Matt anyhow.
He’d even made her worried about the Mustang, so much so that she’d put it in the garage for the night next to Aunt Dee’s Volvo. Sure, she parked in her garage at home, but never at her aunt’s house. The neighborhood was upscale and impressive cars could be found in most of the driveways, so why her 1966 Mustang would be a target, she didn’t know. Yet Matt’s comments, however well intentioned, had made her uneasy.
Now, Matt’s car would be a target anywhere. And whether he liked it or not, the sporty red Mercedes-Benz belied his fancy suits and supposed newfound propriety. Not that respectable, responsible people couldn’t drive a red sports car, but few of them had Matt Hollister’s reputation to live down, either.
All at once there was a sound in the direction of the kitchen and Layne got up. Yet when she got to the kitchen, everything was quiet and the lights were off except for the LEDs beneath the translucent quartz countertops.
Layne frowned.
Aunt Dee could have gone back to her bedroom, but there’d been no footsteps in the hallway outside the office. Restless, she checked the doors and windows and security system before climbing the stairs to her aunt’s studio. During the day the large room was perfectly lit by skylights and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the wooded canyon below. Moonlight filled the studio now, giving everything a silver gleam.
“Aunt Dee?”
Silence, then a shadow moved near the open door where the art supplies were stored. Layne swallowed, remembering the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz repeating, over and over, that he did, he did, he did believe in spooks. But she didn’t believe in spooks or ghosts or any of that nonsense.
“Yikes.” A shriek escaped her as something warm struck her leg. “JoJo, you rotten cat. Are you trying to scare me to death?”
She lifted the large feline, cuddling him to her chest while a purr boomed from his chest. Layne went back down the stairs with JoJo, heading for Uncle Will’s study. Another sound came, but this time Layne recognized footsteps descending from her aunt’s bedroom.
“Lani?” Dee called.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I was working and thought I heard you get up. It turned out to be JoJo wandering around.”
“You didn’t wake me. I haven’t been able to sleep.”
“Thinking about that customer who bought your painting and fed you tea and crumpets?” Layne asked lightly as they walked into the great room. She settled on a couch, still petting JoJo.
Dee sank down on a chair. “It was mostly cookies. And yes, I have been thinking about Patrick. A couple of nonsense things are nagging me. He paid cash, for one.”
JoJo hooked his paw around Layne’s wrist to get her attention and she scratched under his chin. “Some people like to use cash. That doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“I know, but the total was over twenty-four hundred dollars—I’ve never handled a cash sale that large at the gallery. How many people carry so much around with them?”
“Maybe it’s an Irish thing. Or ego. You said he seemed direct and down-to-earth, but that doesn’t mean he’s above wanting to carry a bundle of money as a reminder of his success.”
“Perhaps.”
“Besides, we’re probably both going to be uptight about everything for a while. I heard a sound in the house and the next thing you know, I’m searching the place. JoJo nearly gave me a heart attack when he head-butted my leg in the dark.”
Dee laughed and visibly relaxed. “You’re right. It’s just been so long since a man noticed me, I must be looking for reasons to excuse it away.”
“They notice, you just don’t notice back,” Layne assured her.
It was endearing that Aunt Dee always seemed oblivious to male admiration. The surprising part wasn’t that a man had made moves on her; the surprise was that she had actually gone to tea with him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HELLO. THIS IS Layne McGraw,” said the recorded greeting. “Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you. Thanks and have a great day.”
The beep sounded in Matt’s ear. “Hi, this is Matt Hollister. I don’t have more information about the thefts, but I have a little on your uncle’s schedule during that period. Please call and we’ll set a time to meet.” He recited his home, cell and private phone number at the office.
Restless, he got up and walked toward his stepfather’s office, hoping Peter was in. Pete was still spending the majority of his time at Hudson & Davidson. It would be helpful when the company sold and he had time to provide recommendations on the foundation’s administrative budget.
The Eisley Foundation paid its employees well, but Matt wanted to keep a careful rein on other expenses. It was one thing for his grandfather to spend money freely on redecorating or creating a relaxation waterfall in the employee solarium; it was another for him to be extravagant. The press loved to point a finger with the attitude of “What else could you expect from that Hollister fellow?”
Hell, not one, but two pictures of him at the gala had been printed in the newspaper, the first with Jeannette McGraw, and another with the reigning Miss Seattle beauty queen. The coy captions had suggested he was more at home at a party than an office, even going so far as to ask, “Is he already bored with philanthropy?”
A part of Matt didn’t care about public opinion, but there were things he wanted to accomplish at the foundation—especially getting top people for the ALS research—and leading researchers did care who they were associated with. In particular, Matt wanted Remy Saunders to head up the project.
Remy Saunders was known as a synthesizer, someone who could take differing points of view and come up with revolutionary new concepts and directions for research. While Remy was considered a radical in certain circles, Matt had done enough of his own research to decide he wanted someone willing to be unconventional. Better yet, Dr. Saunders had an interest in ALS and was concluding his current study on heart disease, so hiring him wouldn’t affect another project somewhere else.
Matt just had to convince Remy that he was serious about a long-term, well-funded research project, and would stay at the foundation to see it through. Remy’s concern was understandable. If Matt left, another director might decide to end ALS research in favor of something else.
“What brings you here?” Peter said as Matt walked through the open door of the financial office suite.
“Mostly stretching my legs.” The interior hallways of each floor were popular for anyone wanting a quick walk as a break. “I apologize for not making it to dinner the other night.”
“You’re always welcome, son. You don’t need an invitation.”
“I know, but I’ve been busy studying the foundation’s projects and getting to know people. It keeps me pretty busy.”
“Mmm, yes. Have you heard more from Dorothy Hudson and her niece?”
Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Layne and I have spoken.”
“Is she listening to reason?”
Matt almost told him what Layne had revealed about her uncle’s home computer and printer, then stopped, recalling what she’d said about hacking computers and stealing access codes. Who would have been in a better position to get into William Hudson’s company office and obtain copies of his keycard and access codes than Peter himself?
The thought shocked Matt. He didn’t believe his stepfather was capable of embezzling and framing his business partner for the crime, did he?
“Layne seems sensible,” he said noncommittally. “Did you know her as a child?”
“Not really—we only met a couple of times. William and Dorothy adored her. What did you two talk about?”
“We mostly discussed the landscaping in her backyard. It’s very appealing.”
“Good, keep it that way. Don’t tell her a damn thing.”
Matt hiked an eyebrow. He was an adult and he’d tell Layne any damn thing he thought was best to tell her.
Peter must have read something in his stepson’s expression, because he flushed. “Sorry, I know you’ll use your judgment. I just hate having this mess stirred up, especially now that I have an offer to buy Hudson & Davidson. The last thing I need is the scandal going public again.”
“I doubt Layne and her aunt want that, either.”
“Yes, of course.” Peter brushed a speck of dust from the shiny surface of his desk. “I hope it stays that way.”
Matt gave him a tight smile, said goodbye, then headed downstairs to see Connor.
“Good morning,” he said, walking in to find the security chief cleaning his firearm. “Planning to use that soon?”
“You never know.” Connor smoothly reassembled the revolver. “How did your meeting with the niece go?”
“So-so. How about your meeting with the aunt?”
If anything, Connor’s face became even more impassive. “It went. I bought one of Dorothy Hudson’s paintings to smooth the way. Mrs. Hudson is very charming. I take it her niece is not.”
“It isn’t a question of charm,” Matt felt compelled to say. “Ms. McGraw is determined to carry on her investigation and I offered to help. I gave her details of the case as a sign of good faith.”
“Can’t think of any reason she shouldn’t have them. The police wouldn’t have told you anything confidential.”
Matt agreed, which made Peter’s reluctance to have Layne and her aunt know what happened seem even odder. Was Peter responsible for the authorities refusing to give information to them? Everything his stepfather had said about protecting Mrs. Hudson and wanting to keep the scandal quiet to shield the company’s value seemed reasonable, but it didn’t sit comfortably with Matt. On the other hand, it sounded as though Dorothy could use her share of the proceeds if Peter sold Hudson & Davidson, so the higher the sales price, the better.
“Connor, how would you feel if a friend and business partner was caught stealing from your company?”
“I’m not a good person to ask. I’ve never cared enough about anybody beyond my mother and sister and brother for something like that to matter.”
Matt knew that wasn’t true.
He’d only seen Connor drunk once—the night word had come that Grady Eagan had died. After consuming enough bourbon to make most men comatose, Connor had begun talking about his stepfather and sister and a few of the security operations he’d run in his clouded past, including the very first, when they’d lost a hostage. Apparently he still felt responsible for the young woman’s death, though he couldn’t have prevented it.
“I forgot to mention that your operating expenses should go on the family account,” Matt said. “Don’t charge them to the foundation.”
“The painting is a birthday present for my sister, so I’m payin’ for it myself. Alleyne is angry when I send a money order, even returned the last one sayin’ some fool thing about not taking charity. It’s a female point of view—how else can I be sure she gets what she needs? She’ll be amazed about the painting, but will like that it isn’t money.”
“Amazed?”
“Art isn’t practical.”
The statement didn’t surprise Matt. Connor had a pragmatic point of view—if it wasn’t something to eat, wear, sleep on or shoot bullets with, he did without. Still, it sounded as if he’d devised a good excuse to explain his presence at the gallery—one that shouldn’t arouse suspicion.
“What do you think about Mrs. Hudson? Her niece tells me she won’t let her family pitch in, though she’s in debt, so it’s unlikely she has a few million dollars hidden in a mattress.”
For the first time Matt could remember, Connor seemed ill at ease. “Still working on my report,” he said. “I’m goin’ back to see her today. The gallery is shipping the painting to Alleyne and I said I’d have to return with her address.”
“Good. I’m trying to reach Layne to set up another meeting.”
“Does she trust you?”
“Not in the slightest. She’s polite, but I think my stepfather is probably on her list of suspects and I’m tainted by association. She’ll realize sooner or later that Peter didn’t do anything wrong,” Matt said, trying to inject confidence into the words.
While it was possible that his stepfather had been involved in the embezzlement scheme, Peter would have to be a master criminal to have escaped the scrutiny of the district attorney’s office. A few weeks ago Matt wouldn’t have questioned his innocence—and shouldn’t now—but the things Layne had told him were troubling, including the part about the supposed loss Hudson & Davidson was operating under. How could Peter be so cavalier about Dorothy’s financial situation? Was his pocketbook hurting, as well?
Surely not. When it got right down to it, Matt knew his stepfather much better than he knew Layne McGraw or her aunt. There wasn’t a scrap of evidence to show Peter was connected to the embezzling. Hell, he’d paid back the stolen money with interest and had cooperated fully with the authorities. And while it was possible Peter wasn’t treating William Hudson’s widow as well as he should be, his sense of betrayal had gone deep.
Matt wanted to understand, but aside from Terry, he didn’t have many friends. And he wasn’t even that close to his siblings from his father’s various marriages, though he was trying to get to know them better. Few of S. S. Hollister’s children had faith in any sort of relationship after watching Spence run through wives.
Aaron was the only one of Matt’s siblings who had even bothered getting married. The wedding in California had been a small affair, but Matt had to admit that if you were going to take the plunge, doing it with a long-legged redhead like Skylar wasn’t a bad way to go. The real question was whether the marriage would last.
Connor glanced at his watch and dropped his feet to the ground. “Hell, I have to be going. Mrs. Hudson is working the two to four shift this afternoon at the art gallery.”
“Good luck.”
“I’m Irish, I don’t need luck.”
“According to my father, you can never be too rich or too lucky.”
“I’ve always appreciated Spence’s originality.”
Matt left, chuckling.
* * *
ON SATURDAY MATT parked in front of Layne’s house at noon, a full hour earlier than they’d agreed. It wasn’t that he suspected she wouldn’t be there, but she hadn’t sounded thrilled about him coming over, suggesting instead that they meet at the foundation later in the afternoon.
In college his business professors had taught that people usually preferred their own turf in power negotiations. Layne either didn’t understand negotiation strategy or wanted to keep her house out of the mix regardless of the advantage of being on her home ground.
The doorbell was the loud, old-fashioned kind that sounded like real metal chimes. Matt waited a minute, and was about to ring again when Layne opened the door. She was wearing snug green shorts and a T-shirt, liberally dusted with something white, and her expression was harried.
“Oh...hi.” A thud and the sound of breaking glass came from behind her and she cursed beneath her breath. “Damn, I hope that isn’t what I think.”
She turned and hurried away, leaving the front door open. Matt promptly followed. He found Layne in the kitchen at the back, staring at a bowl on the floor, broken into numerous pieces.
“What was it?” he asked.
“Pistachio cake. It’s supposed to be a no-fail recipe that turns out absolutely wonderful. I was going to bring it to dinner with my family tonight.” She made the family meal sound like being thrown into an alligator pit.
“You don’t sound excited about going.”
“I’m just busy. We always get together the second Sunday of the month, but m
y sister Stephanie has an announcement to make.”
“Oh.” Matt bent and began picking up pieces of glass, covered with batter.
“Don’t do that,” Layne protested. “You’ll get it on your clothes and I’m already a mess.”
He watched as she efficiently scooped glass and spilled batter into a large dustpan. Then using a huge wad of damp paper towel, she cleaned splatters from the cabinets and finished by wiping up the floor.
She was a mess, but it was cute and he liked that she didn’t fuss and fume about it.
“What are you doing here so early?” Layne asked, putting away the cleaning supplies.
“I had an idea for the investigation and wanted to discuss it right away. Are you going to try baking something else?”
“I’ll just pick something up from the store. It’s what I usually do, anyhow. But my mom ‘suggested’ I try to do something special.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“In my family you’re supposed to do everything well. They’re embarrassed that I can barely boil water. What’s the idea you rushed over to tell me?”
“Maybe you’ve thought of it, too, but how about going through your uncle’s credit card statements? That way you could see if any purchases were made on the days he supposedly took money from his clients’ accounts—the purchases would probably have been after work. The credit card company tracks where the purchases were made and when. There’s probably even a time stamp the police could get if needed.”
* * *
LAYNE SCRUBBED HER sticky fingers at the sink, thinking about Matt’s suggestion. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. She turned around and her appraisal of him became more speculative.
She’d already planned to go through Uncle Will’s personal and financial records to see what she could learn, so Matt’s ideas weren’t revolutionary, but he’d obviously put thought into the matter. It was more than she would have expected, despite what he’d said about wanting to be sure he hadn’t missed anything while working at Hudson & Davidson.
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