Carolina Crimes

by Nora Gaskin Esthimer

  The buzz of the phone pulled her out of musing on the implications of all those neatly paid bills.

  “How are you doing?” her sister-in-law Margaret asked. “This is your first night alone in the house without George. I’m sure it’s lonely. I’ll be glad to come over if you need company. Or help you start packing up his things.”

  She’s trying to be helpful, Caroline reminded herself, though Margaret’s idea of help usually meant taking charge of any situation and issuing orders. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’m meeting with the funeral director tomorrow at ten to go over the details. You want to meet me there? We could do lunch afterward.”

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” Margaret said. “Do you need help with George’s things? I know that must be difficult for you. Dave and I would be glad to come over on Saturday.”

  “I’ll let you know.” She took a moment to wonder if she was getting paranoid. Why did all the offers of help make her suspicious rather than grateful?

  She ended the call, went back to the file cabinet, and paged through the rest of the bills, finding nothing of particular interest. The next drawer held sales receipts, warranties, and instruction books for everything they’d ever bought, including things they no longer owned. It was so like George to save it all and keep it neatly arranged, she thought, as she flipped through information for two vacuum cleaners that had passed on to small appliance heaven years ago.

  Tears threatened again. She’d sometimes wondered if the gambling was a reaction to his compulsive need for order and control in every other aspect of his life. An outlet perhaps. But whatever anyone else thought, the gambling hadn’t been bad enough to damage their lives. He wouldn’t do that to her.

  She paid closer attention to the financial records in the drawer below. Folders organized by company and year contained monthly reports from their various investment accounts. Several times over the past year, George had taken money from one or the other account, but in no case had his withdrawals represent a huge percent of the balance. Unless he’d drained all of the accounts since the most recent reports, she would certainly not be penniless.

  At the back, she found the reports for the trust his parents had left him and his sister. Jeff had been the lawyer who administered it for him and Margaret. She saw the records of the orderly monthly payments to both beneficiaries.

  She’d seen the reports on several occasions, though she never paid close attention.

  They were arranged with the most recent closest to the front. She planned just to glance over it, but one number on the top sheet made her stop and study the whole thing more closely. In fact, she read all the text as well as the numbers and graphs, but still didn’t understand why there should be an unexplained withdrawal of almost one hundred thousand dollars taken from the principal. If that was a trustee’s fee, it seemed excessive on a three-million-dollar trust. Had there been some kind of change in the fee structure?

  She went through the rest of the reports page by page. Each month showed some dividends reinvested as well as the regular distributions, but in May, fifty thousand had been deposited without explanation. In March, another hundred thousand had been taken out, listed only as “miscellaneous fees.” In January, a trustee’s fee of fifteen thousand was noted.

  Caroline flipped the page to the previous year. In November, forty thousand was deposited with no explanation other than “reimbursement.” In August, another one hundred thousand had been removed as “miscellaneous fees.” In May, fifty thousand was deposited and in March, one hundred thousand removed. In January, another fifteen thousand trustee’s fee was noted. Reports from two prior years showed the same pattern, with the regular trustee’s fee in January and other irregular deposits and withdrawals. Always the withdrawals were greater than the deposits.

  That didn’t make any sense. Unless someone was taking out loans against the principal of the trust. Who would be doing it though?

  She booted up the computer again. George kept his checking account log in a program that tracked all his financial records. Scrolling through the transactions showed nothing to account for the large withdrawals from the trust fund. He had a couple of larger deposits, but she thought the end-of-year ones were bonus distributions from the accounting firm where he was a partner, and the others were likely the occasional gambling win. None of the deposits matched the dates or amounts of the withdrawals from the trust to say that he’d received those funds.

  It was possible the money had gone directly to some other account, but she couldn’t find it. George had said he ran everything through his checking account to track it. So, where had those funds gone? There weren’t many possibilities. Margaret or Dave? Either might explain his email to Dave. Margaret had expensive tastes but she also had a decent-paying job and a substantial settlement from the divorce.

  Caroline retreated to the couch to consider how she might figure it out. When she realized she was falling asleep instead of thinking, she gave up and went to bed.

  First thing in the morning she called Detective Martinez and explained to him what she’d found and what she made of it. She had all her arguments mustered and ready, but he surprised her by not immediately rejecting the idea.

  “You think you’ve found a motive for murder?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty sure of it.”

  “The coroner’s just as sure it was suicide.”

  “Did you see the note on the whiteboard in the kitchen?”

  A moment’s pause followed. “Something about picking up a suit at the dry cleaner,” the detective answered.

  “Right. And he wrote that sometime after I left to go shopping and before I got home and found him dead. Does that sound like a man who planned to commit suicide? George wasn’t impulsive. If he’d decided to kill himself, he would’ve made preparations. He’d have left me a long list of instructions on what to do with his things, not a reminder about picking up his dry cleaning. That’s the way George was.”

  Martinez paused again. “You have a point. But it’s not enough to weigh against the coroner’s ruling.”

  “I know. But I think I know how to get around it.”

  When she told him what she wanted to do, his response was loud and uncompromising. “No way. Don’t you dare.” Anger and concern made the words ring loudly through the phone line. “It’s way too damn dangerous.”

  “I have to.”

  “I don’t want to have to investigate another murder.”

  “I don’t want you to, either, but I’m not safe now.”

  That quieted the detective for a moment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there are a couple of ways to ensure it. Revise that letter you left with the attorney and make sure everyone knows I have a copy. Or just hand over the documents.”

  “No. I’m not stupid, and that means I’m not safe. Can’t be safe because I’ll always have access to the information no matter what I hand over. But in any case, I want justice for George more than I want safety. I’ll take the risk.”

  “I can’t let you take it.”

  “You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it. But I’d much rather have your help.”

  The silence stretched out for so long she feared he’d hung up, then he said, “I’m going to regret this one way or another. We do this my way. You will do exactly as I tell you. We have to do this right to be sure it’s air-tight.”

  She agreed and told him she’d be there after she met with the funeral director and had lunch with Margaret.

  The meeting went about as expected. Caroline had made several decisions about the casket and funeral beforehand. Margaret weighed in with her opinions and Caroline let her have her way on some of the less important things.

  Afterward they went to an Italian restaurant for lunch.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with the house?” Margaret asked over plates of linguini.

  “No. Not yet. I need to decide what I want to do next before I can worry about that.”

&
nbsp; “What about George’s things? Do you want Dave to come help you go through them?”

  Warning bells rang in her brain again. Was there more to Margaret’s pushing on George’s things than simple concern? A less simple need to protect herself or her son?

  “Not ready to even think about that yet. I’ll let you know after the funeral.” Caroline found it hard to keep her mind on the conversation and was relieved when they finished eating and she could honestly say she had another appointment and had to get going.

  It took the detective and his people several hours to set everything up. By the time she made the phone call that would set the plan in motion, it was almost five. Her hands shook and it took all her will power to make her voice steady and casual as she asked for help with George’s papers and said she’d be at home that evening.

  Then she had to wait.

  “Try to do your normal things,” Martinez advised. “Cook dinner. Watch TV. Read. Whatever you’d normally do this time of day.”

  “I don’t dare. What if I forget to concentrate on what I need to say when the time comes?”

  “You won’t. When the doorbell rings you’ll snap into catch-a-killer mode.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Caroline cooked dinner and watched television, but her mind could only be coaxed into paying half-attention to those activities. Time crawled.

  When the doorbell sounded a little after eight that evening, she did jolt into full alert mode, mentally rehearsing what she needed to say. She checked behind her, saw all looked normal, drew a deep breath, and went to the door.

  She struggled for a calm, normal smile as she let him in.

  “Jeff. Thank you for coming.” She kept her head down and sniffed, hoping to hide her nerves under the real grief. “I appreciate the help. I just don’t think I can handle the paperwork.”

  She followed him into George’s office. “Can I get you some boxes or bags for this?”

  “That would be good.” He answered absently as he approached the desk.

  By the time she returned with a couple of boxes, he was going through the bottom drawer. “Anything in there you need?” she asked.

  “Just what’s in the top drawer.” He shut the bottom drawer and went over to the file cabinets. He ignored the folders of paid bills in the top drawer and the instructions and warranties in the second. When he got to the third, he pulled out the folders of trust account reports and dumped them into the boxes without looking too closely. As he tore through the bottom drawer, though, his expression changed to concern and puzzlement.

  Caroline picked up the set of folders she’d tucked away on a corner of a bookshelf and put them on the desk. “Are these what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  He straightened up and turned, approached the desk, and his eyes widened at the label. He stared at her. “You’ve looked through them?”

  “You’re a gambler, too, aren’t you? All those business trips you and George took together. You encouraged his gambling along with your own. But you couldn’t afford it as easily as he could.”

  “Wrong.” He frowned and eyes flashed with anger. “He drew me into the gaming world, even though he knew I couldn’t afford it.” He paused and sighed. “If you’d just let me handle all of George’s finances, you would never have known about this.” He took a step toward her, pulling a gun from under his jacket.

  Nausea roiled her stomach but she had to keep going. “George was worried that you couldn’t repay the debt to the trust and that you wanted more. Did he tell you he was going to put a stop to your borrowing against the trust fund?”

  “He threatened to. After he’d dragged me into his sordid mess in the first place.”

  “You’d be disbarred. Maybe go to jail.”

  “It was supposed to be an unfortunate accident. But suicide was even better. And now you’re going to have to end it all, too,” Jeff said. “You couldn’t handle the grief. Too bad. Please don’t try to struggle. I promise it will be quick.”

  She didn’t dare look up. Breath clotted in her throat but she managed to choke out, “You found his gun again?”

  “I took it out of the drawer in his desk while you got the boxes. You’re going to use it.” He stepped toward her keeping the gun aimed at her head.

  “What was George doing when you pulled it out of his desk?”

  “He went to the bathroom. I waited until he sat back down and moved right up beside him.”

  “How did you know he had a gun?”

  “I’ve seen it a couple of times when I met with him here. I’m sorry, Caroline. I hate to do this—”

  “We definitely do not hate to do this,” Detective Martinez said as he grabbed Jeff’s gun arm, forcing it upward so that the bullet he fired hit the ceiling. A second police officer yanked the gun away, while a third got an arm around Jeff’s neck and dragged him backward, to the floor, facedown.

  Caroline bit her lip as she stared at Jeff. “Didn’t it occur to you to wonder why I put it back in the same exact place after the police took it? You didn’t check to make sure it was loaded, though, did you? It isn’t.”

  Jeff glared at her but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you all right?” Martinez asked her while the others cuffed Jeff and led him away.

  “Shaken and stirred, but okay. Better now that I’ll have justice for George.” She looked around. “I suppose your crime scene unit will have to make a mess in here again?”

  “Not as much this time,” he said. “You won’t have to move out.”

  “That’s all right, then.” She shook her head. “But I’ll have to get someone to repair the ceiling. Doesn’t matter. So worth it.”

  Back to TOC

  Intervention

  Caroline Taylor

  Dearest Younger Sister,

  I know you didn’t mean to do it. I’m just trying to understand. Wallace is quite upset, as I’m sure you can imagine. Nobody wants a criminal in the family. He claims he can barely hold his head up around town. Like some nineteenth-century paterfamilias, he has forbidden me to contact you. Thus, the Charlotte postmark.

  I’ve been told I may not visit you unless you okay it. Will you?

  We haven’t been close, I know. But I truly want to understand what happened. The trial was a joke, in my opinion. Your legal representation was ineffective. Even Wallace agrees with me on that point.

  Speaking of whom, please reply to the post office box number on the return address. In case they didn’t give you the envelope, it’s P.O. Box 390, Charlotte, NC 28201.

  I look forward to seeing you. It has been too long.

  —Your always older sister, Lucy

  Lucinda—

  After all this time? You must be joking. Go crawl back under your rock and don’t bother me again.

  —Martha

  Dear Marty,

  To borrow your own words, “after all this time,” you still hate me? Surely you have more important things to concern you than whatever grudge you’re clinging to. I know I haven’t been the best sister, and I apologize if that has hurt your feelings. I have always felt I needed to look after you, especially when it comes to things Mom and Dad aren’t aware of. I can’t help wanting to do whatever I can to clear your name and get you out of there.

  It can’t be pleasant for you. In fact, I imagine it’s quite horrible. I don’t want you to suffer. So please let me visit. I really need to understand what happened and why.

  The official version—that you deliberately dropped your hair dryer in the bathtub—just doesn’t fly with me. You might have some serious problems, but you’re no killer. Was it an accident? If so, why didn’t the jury believe you?

  You can still reach me at the Charlotte post office box.

  —Your loving sister, Lucy

  Dear Martha,

  It has been three months and no word from you. I called the correctional facility and discovered that you still haven’t put my name on your approved visitors’ list.


  I might have been a bit too frank when I told you I didn’t think Tony was the right man for you. But don’t imagine that Wallace was influencing me. He wasn’t. Although he, too, thought Tony was not, as he put it, “our kind of people.” If Tony had family here or at least somewhere else in the South, we would have been able to ease our qualms a bit. The wise-guy accent alone was off-putting, and the way he acted around you was disgusting—like you were nothing but bimbo arm candy. You might have been blinded by love, but the rest of us—including Mom and Dad, by the way—thought he came straight out of central casting for The Godfather. What else were we to think about an Italian from New Jersey?

  That’s why I’m on your side, Marty. I think it’s more than plausible that Tony was the kind of male chauvinist pig who always has to be in charge. Given your personal issues, it’s easy to imagine that you maybe weren’t paying enough attention to him. His poor, fragile ego couldn’t take it, and so he played tough guy with you. Made your life miserable. Was that what happened?

  Please, Marty, let me come and visit. Mom and Dad want to know how you are doing. They’re too far away and too old to travel all the way to New Jersey. They’re wondering if you’re being offered treatment. We all hope so.

  Please.

  —Lucinda

  Lucinda—

  Treatment! Fuck you. All of you. You think I’m some kind of addict? Get real. And, while you’re at it, go to hell.

  DO NOT PASS GO.

  DO NOT write to me!

  Dear Martha,

  I’m only trying to understand, sis. If you didn’t kill him, why are you locked up? Was there somebody else? A jealous girlfriend, maybe?

  —L

  Bitch. Tony might have had his faults, but he was not cheating on me. Now, do me a favor and GET LOST.