Bad to the Last Drop

by Debra Lewis; Pat Ondarko Lewis

  Bill continued regaling her with his knowledge of local history. "Now, his son, Mike's father, Charlie, just wasn't cut from the same cloth and didn't seem to have the same people skills as Sam. Like anyone who has to follow in the footsteps of a founder of a successful enterprise, Charlie just never was able to fill his dad's shoes. And he could only go so far on his father's name and reputation. People in town soon discovered he lacked the interest and know-how that inspired trust in a banker. He cared more about his golf game than the bank. In time, a lot of people took their banking to the new S&L down the street, even though it wasn't locally owned and operated. Like the old saw says, familiarity breeds contempt."

  "This is very interesting," Pat said. "But what does it have to do with Joe and Mike?"

  "I'm getting there, I'm getting there," Bill assured her. "I just wanted you to understand what Mike walked into. When Mike took over the family business eight years ago, he had been gone a long time. After graduating from UW Madison with an MBA, he went to the Twin Cities to work. He always thought he would make it big, but I don't think that really happened. He was already middle-aged and graying when he was called home to save the bank. Mike was thrust into the position as bank president out of a combination of family loyalty and duty. Charlie, the bank president, had been forced out by the board of directors after he was committed to the local detox unit for the third time in three years. Even in a small town, you can only look the other way so many times before being confronted with the miserable reality of a failing bank. I might even feel sorry for Mike if he wasn't such a horse's rear end most of the time. That guy is so full of himself, you would think one day he will just explode."

  "So how did he save the bank?" Pat asked.

  "It looked for a time as though the bank couldn't survive. Reports and records were in disarray, and the state audit disclosed negligence and questionable loan practices. It seems old Charlie wasn't beneath giving loans to his golf buddies, for whatever they wanted. Mike is a hybrid of his father and grandfather. He came in determined to save the family name and reputation, come hell or high water. Whoo-ee, he hired all new workers, gave the bank a facelift, and began taking an active role in the community. You ask me, he is a busybody, with an inflated sense of his own importance. You know the kind. Someone who likes to put his two cents in by serving on lots of civic committees and who believes his ideas for the community are better than everyone else's. I've got to admit, in the last few years it seems as if the bank has been doing better. It's almost like Mike had a magic wand. No one is quite sure how it happened, but each year for the past five, the amounts of deposits in the bank have shown a dramatic increase. My question is: how or where did he get the cash he needed to keep that place going until it turned around?"

  "Doesn't sound like you like him much."

  "I don't, and that's the truth. I needed money a few years back. I had a show coming up and needed just a small loan to tide me over. He acted like he was affronted by me asking. 'I'm not my grandfather or my dad,' he said to me. 'If you need the money, get a job like the rest of us.' No, I don't like him one bit," Bill said firmly, taking another bite of his cookie.

  "So why is this related to Joe?" Pat asked.

  "Joe had money. And he had it in that bank. I know for a fact he didn't trust leaving his money there. He had some trouble a while back, because he realized the interest wasn't being put in his account. If you're having trouble in a bank, I would think having a few hundred thousand to play around with might be helpful."

  "Anyone else you think might have needed money?" Seeing Bill look at the empty cookie plate, Pat hurried to fill it again. Cookies are little enough payment for the local scoop, she thought.

  "Next," Bill said, counting off on his fingers, "that would be Sarah Martin. Sarah moved here twenty-eight years ago with her first husband and settled on Chapple to raise her children. She quickly became an outspoken and involved community leader, even as she went through two more husbands. She has great taste in decorating. I wish I could afford to hire her to come and do my apartment. Her taste in men is dubious at best. Man, how that woman can pick 'em!"

  Pat leaned forward with great interest. Encouraged by Pat's eager anticipation, Bill continued. "Driven by frenetic energy, she opened a decorating business on Main Street and quickly gained a reputation as a fashionable designer who knew the insides of nearly everyone's home. Yet at the same time, she had trouble finding her way around her own office. And being in all the best houses, she knew more secrets, like whose husband was sleeping with whom or what business was about to go under. If there is a new building project going on in the county, you can bet that Sarah is somewhere in the middle of it." Bill obviously relished his role as gossip monger. "Now here's the good part: Sarah's third husband, Jack, had joined her in the business in the role of helping out, whatever that means. In his case, it was mostly going fishing. At least that was how he explained his increasingly frequent absences from the store. But Jack was out fishing for more than trout, if you know what I mean. When she found him in their bed with a young chippie from the college, she ended up paying him an inflated sum in order to be rid of him. Everyone thought Sarah's decorating business would be unable to survive after that. But my question is, even with laying off most of her employees and working twelve hours a day, how does she, out of the blue, purchase the big empty storefront across the street from her dinky store? Somehow, she managed to completely refurbish it, rent out the empty spaces, and even acquire several other rental properties. How did she do that?"

  "Maybe she had finally got herself a sugar daddy," Pat suggested.

  "The way she picks them?" he snorted. "No, but she was friends with Joe."

  Pat shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I like Sarah," Pat confessed. "She's a good neighbor. But it's true that decorating stores aren't known for making the most money. I wonder where she got the money." She shifted uncomfortably. "Isn't there someone else with motive to kill Joe? Some other reason?" she asked.

  "Only one I can think of off hand," Bill said, grinning. "But you're not going to like it, you being a pastor and all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Our local Catholic priest."

  "You've got to be kidding!"

  "Nope, I'm serious. Father Luke is one of the fortunate few who never seems to age. Middle-aged, but he still looks like he's in his early twenties. Unfortunately, his looks do not coincide with his personality. Have you made it over to his church yet?"

  Pat shook her head.

  "Well, he's very pious, always quoting his bishop—the bishop says this, the bishop says that. He wears one of those Tupperware white plastic collars—you know what I mean? You never see him without it. I mean, it's like an advertising billboard saying 'I'm a priest; make way.' Some of us even wonder whether he sleeps in it. He works hard, but his congregation is so old, I don't even know how they keep the doors open. But do you want to know what's strange? They recently embarked on a half-million-dollar face lift to the building. And he used to visit with Joe all the time. It wouldn't be the first time a church has bilked a poor sucker out of his money."

  Pat blushed. She knew that it was true that there were some dishonest pastors and priests out there. But there were so many who were just trying hard to be of help. Standing, Pat smiled. "Thank you," she said sincerely as she showed him to the door. "You have been very helpful, and thank you for being a friend to Joe."

  As she closed the door behind Bill, she turned and walked to the phone to call Deb at her office. Glancing at the plate of cookies, Pat noticed that Bill had eaten them all. Postponing the call for later, she decided to drive to Gabriele's German Cookies and Chocolate shop on Main Street. If people are going to be dropping in, I'd better stock up, she thought.

  Later that evening, Anastasia welcomed Deb and Pat into the hotel room. "Thank you very much for coming," she said. "I hope you'll understand my reasons for calling you so soon." She gave them both a big hug.

  "Don't mention
it," said Deb. "The truth is, if you hadn't called, I would have phoned you." Taking their coats and placing them on the bed, Anastasia gestured to the two other chairs in the room.

  "It's leaked out to the papers--the suspicious circumstances about Joe's death," Deb explained. "I thought we should talk"

  "Leaked? Oh, I see. Someone gave information, you mean. Yes, news reporters have called and asked for interviews. I just can't understand it."

  "Now, dear, it's to be expected, but as your attorney, I'd advise you to say you have no comment at this time. You don't have to discuss it with anyone."

  "Yah, ve even had a call from some magazine vanting to do an article! Vat next? A book?" Anastasia threw up her hands. "Also, the officer who vas in charge of investigation called and vants to talk to my sister and me." Wringing her hands, Anastasia started pacing. "Said he is cooperation with the CIA! I can't believe our brother could have been a spy or something!"

  "Calm down and sit," Pat said soothingly. "There's just not enough room in here to pace. I'm afraid there had to be some cooperation with the CIA and the army. But I can't really believe it had to do with his past. How could they hope to find any evidence after all this time has passed? And anything people from that time might have known surely has been tarnished by the passage of time. Too bad, but it can't be helped. Don't worry so much. This is America, not the old USSR. Anyway, it's just procedure."

  "Yes," Deb chimed in. "Detective LeSeur is a good man. You can trust him."

  "Maybe it's all a mistake," Anastasia said, starting to weep. "Maybe the laboratory reports were wrong."

  Deb caught Pat's eye. "Maybe," she allowed, "but I wouldn't count on it."

  Deb took one last bite of the spicy chicken stir-fry with mushrooms that she so loved and then put down her fork. She and Marc were just finishing dinner alone—Eric was at soccer practice— in the cozy kitchen of their hundred-year-old Victorian home. She sighed contentedly as she looked across the table at her "personal chef." I am so lucky, she thought, with a husband who likes to cook, who insists on it, even after a long day at the office. What more could a woman want?

  Marc opened up the newspaper and settled back in his chair. "I heard at work today that they think the dead guy down the street was murdered."

  "I've had my suspicion about that for a while, but I haven't said anything because it sounds so far-fetched," Deb replied hesitantly. "Pat and I are pretty close to this whole thing, what with going to the Black Cat every morning and knowing Joe and all."

  "You women aren't sticking your noses where they don't belong, are you?" Marc demanded. "After all, you aren't trained as investigators. You don't know anything about this stuff. And besides, if it was a murder, it's too dangerous for you to have anything to do with it. This is a small town, and you could open yourselves up as targets for the real killer. I think you'd better just leave the investigating to the professionals."

  Deb sighed, suppressing her rebellious instincts. There he goes again, she thought. I just want to help some people, but there's my honey to add a dose of realism to make me think twice.

  Part of her agreed with Marc, and she liked that he tempered her often reckless enthusiasm, but other times, she felt like a rebellious teenager. Is this going to be one of those times when I reject his well-intentioned advice? she thought.

  Deb paused before saying, "You don't give Pat and me enough credit. We are intelligent, insightful women, after all. Do you think I'm really going to intentionally put myself in danger? Besides, we have a lot of threads of information, and I am very good at connecting the dots. If I have something to offer to help this situation, why not use it?"

  Marc rolled his eyes. "You're going to do what you want anyway, aren't you?" he asked resignedly. He smiled affectionately at Deb and added, "I just want you to be careful."

  Chapter Twelve

  There was a sharp drop in the temperature that night, and once again there was light snow by the next morning.

  "Put on your long underwear," Mitchell called as Pat dressed.

  She put on her winter boots, a thick wool scarf, her long gray wool coat, black gloves, and a furry hat. I am ready, she thought as she looked at herself in the front hall mirror before opening the front door onto Chapple Avenue.

  Even warmly dressed, Pat was unprepared for the arctic blast that met her as she stepped outside—the wind hit like icicles. She put on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the glare and the wind, but tears had already formed in the corners of her eyes. The outdoor sounds seemed muffled by the snowfall so that the only thing she heard was the crunching of her boots against the snow.

  Deb was just coming out of her house as Pat arrived. Deb turned back to toss a biscuit to Strider, her golden retriever, and then pulled the door shut behind her. The two friends braced themselves against the bitter wind off the lake as they walked the five blocks to the Black Cat at much brisker pace than usual. The usual crowd of middle-aged men was sitting at the front table in the coffeehouse, loudly talking politics and ranting about the latest government act of malfeasance. Offering the women a quick smile as they passed, Bill Montgomery continued his conversation, his voice filled with indignation. "And I don't care what they say, this president is a criminal, and he should be tried in a court of law, just like any other."

  Deb and Pat approached the counter and greeted Kait, who offered them Italian blend—a little spice against the cold, she'd said.

  They decided to sit in the back room to talk, where they wouldn't be distracted by the lively conversation in the main room. "It's great fun to live in a town where politics and issues are constantly being discussed ," Deb said to Pat, "but right now we've got more important things to talk about. Besides, since the Russians are meeting us, we don't need the details of what they are doing blabbed all over town by lunch."

  They had just settled in and were warming their hands on their cups, when their Russian friends arrived.

  "The man out front said you were back here," Anastasia began.

  Deb smiled in greeting, noting that the women looked tired— their shoulders were bent and there were new lines on their faces.

  They both took off their gloves and sat down, as Anastasia said, "Ve vent to the bank for our appointment vith the banker to try to find out if Joe's money is there. Dat Mr. Williamson vas not helpful. He vas polite, yah, but vague about his dealings with Joe in the past."

  "He vould not tell us if Joe had money in an account," Helga put in.

  Anastasia nodded. "He said ve vould have to vait until probate papers come through before ve can get details from bank. He said Joe vas his friend, but if this vere true, vhy vouldn't he help Joe's sisters?" She shook her head, clearly confused. "Ve think Joe did have money. Our brother Jacob thinks someone in this town may have taken it."

  Deb patted Anastasia's hand reassuringly. "Pat and I will help you find out about Joe's money, if we can," she said kindly, "but we'll need to have a lot more information if we are going to help."

  "Ask anything," Anastasia said eagerly. "Our lives are open to you."

  "Well ..." Pat began thoughtfully, "this may seem obvious, but did you look around Joe's apartment?"

  Anastasia shook here her head. "To tell you truth, ve only vent in to find clothes for his funeral." Looking at her sister, she went on. "Ve vere hoping you vould go over there vith us."

  Gulping down the rest of her cup, Pat looked at Deb. "Have you got the time, Deb?'

  Picking up her cell, Deb began to dial. "I don't have to go to the office for appointments today. Let me just call Kris, and then we might as well go now."

  Putting on their coats and all the required accessories of a northern winter, they started across the street. Their breath made billows of white clouds as they stepped out into the cold air. The wind was blowing so hard that they had to push against it to make headway. The Russian women, on the other hand, were like sailboats in a strong gale—they just seemed to point their bows into the wind and go.

 
The building was a brick three-story that was divided into six apartments. Joe's, as indicated on the antiquated mailboxes inside the door, was upstairs in the back. Pat sniffed the air—the hall smelled of age and cleaning fluids. Mariachi music was drifting quietly out of a first-floor flat.

  They clomped up the wooden stairs in their winter boots. Pat had to stop periodically to rest because she was so easily winded when climbing any stairs. She was glad there were only two stories.

  "Do you have the key?" Deb asked Anastasia as they stood outside Joe's apartment waiting for Pat to arrive.

  "Yah," Anastasia answered, opening the door. "You go first, please."

  The room was dim; even though the shades were up, the weak December light streamed through dirty panes, and the room seemed bleak.

  This is the place where Joe spent his last days, Pat thought. How depressing.

  Deb hesitated before stepping over the threshold. "Are you sure we can be in here?" she asked.

  "Yah. The detective said it vas all right"

  Turning on the overhead light, Pat and Deb surveyed the tiny apartment: living room, small galley-type kitchen, two doors that probably led to the bathroom and bedroom.

  "Nothing looks out of the ordinary," Deb commented.

  "If anything," Pat added quietly, "it's extraordinary in its ordinariness." An old couch and chair with a reading lamp on a small table were all that filled the living room. The kitchen was surprisingly clean—one cup and plate in the sink, counters wiped, dish towel hung through the door handle of the fridge. Pat's eyes narrowed as she looked around again. "Did you come in and clean?" she asked.