The person approaching me is a middle-aged woman in drab gray sweats, sweats that have some kind of pink stain (Strawberry ice cream? Pepto-Bismol? Pomeranian barf?) cascading down the front. She wears no makeup, so there’s nothing to hide her bloodshot eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and runny, red nose. Her blonde hair, normally a sophisticated shade of pale champagne, looks more like the color of a Bud Light bottle, probably because it hasn’t been washed in days. Several lank strands have escaped the clip her hair’s haphazardly pinned up with, and they’re hanging limply in her face. Hard to believe this sad, disheveled creature is the glamorous Blythe Summers. Perhaps she’s some distant relation who works as Ms. Summers’ manuscript proofreader or Pom poop scooper.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” says the woman in a soft, breathy voice. “I wanted to pull myself together before coming down to meet you.”
This is her idea of being pulled together? YIKES
“It’s been such a trying time,” she continues as a tear spills from her left eye. She dabs at it with a wadded up tissue. “I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course.” Not really. If I was in her predicament, I’d be spittin’ mad and plotting revenge, not holed up in my palatial estate, crying and feeling sorry for myself. But to each their own.
“I’m Sloane Tobin, by the way. From Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister.” I offer my hand to her.
“Nice to meet you. This is Jackie Collins,” she introduces the white ball of fluff in her arms and holds out the dog’s paw to me.
Seriously? She wants me to shake the dog’s hand, instead of hers? I guess Jackie Collins does have a better manicure than her owner does at the moment. I can’t help but notice that Ms. Summers’ lavender polish is chipping on both hands, and her cuticles look pretty rough, while Jackie has a lovely, blemish-free coat of fuchsia on her nails, or would that be claws? Oh, what the hell?
Jiggling her little paw, I say, “A pleasure, Ms. Collins.” I’m not sure if I should be addressing the animal formally or not, but better to err on the side of caution.
Ms. Summers points to the other critters who are down by her slippered feet. “That’s Sidney Sheldon, and Barbara Taylor Bradford, and Nora Roberts.”
Recognizing the orange Pom (Nora?) as being the one who viciously attacked my ankles on the way in, I give her the stink eye.
“Before we sit, are you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink? I know my housekeeper asked you earlier, but–”
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.” I want to get down to business, not have a tea party.
I resume my position on the gold, high-backed settee with all the decorative pillows while Ms. Summers and her canine clutch purse take a seat on one of the fancy, russet-colored chairs opposite it. Sidney, Barbara, and Nora plop down in various spots on the area rug, which is already covered with dog hair of different shades.
“As you know, Ms. Summers, my firm will be working in conjunction with your legal team to prove that your business manager of seven years, Mr. Grant Kittredge, is guilty of embezzling monies from you. I’ve been given an overview of your case and have examined the financial records you were able to provide, but I’d like to get a few more details from you before I launch into a full-scale investigation.”
The author signals her agreement with this course of action by nodding her head.
“Excellent.” I uncap my Montblanc and twist it open, preparing to write. “Now, from what I understand, it was your son, Dr. Stephen Zalapski, who aided you in the discovery of a financial discrepancy in one of your accounts?”
“That’s corre–,” her voice catches, and she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, obviously trying not to cry.
UGH This is why I prefer male clients to female ones. I can handle yelling or cursing, but tears unnerve me. Come on, Blythe, do us both a favor and sack up!
My silent cheerleading (Yes, that’s what I’m calling it.) has the desired effect as Ms. Summers’ eyes pop open and she seems to have her emotions back under control when she says, “That’s correct. Two weeks ago, my son came to me with a request for financial assistance. He works with Doctors Without Borders and he’d just learned that there’s a little girl down in Darfur with a heart condition who’s in urgent need of surgery. I agreed to donate $275,000 for transportation and medical care, which I was only too happy to do. Normally, I would have had Grant cut a check for Stephen, but he was down in Los Angeles seeing to the details of my movie deal with Relativity Media. So, I went to the bank with Stephen to have a cashier’s check drawn on the account I use for charitable donations. When the bank told me there wasn’t enough money in the account to cover the check, I was stunned because I expected millions to be there!”
“But the balance at that time was $35,672.68.” It isn’t a question, just a statement of fact as I’ve already seen bank records for that account going back six months and committed all the figures of note to memory.
“Something like that,” she murmurs, clearly not as keen on exact amounts as I am. “I couldn’t imagine where all that cash had gone, but I assumed Grant had just been moving money around and there was nothing to be concerned about. After all, he’s been taking care of my business, both professional and personal, since a few months before my husband passed in 2007. That was Martin’s job up until he got sick, but then it was just too much for him, so I hired Grant who came highly recommended.”
“I see.” I jot down some notes in my folder. “And could you describe in full what Mr. Kittredge’s responsibilities were while he was in your em– ACK!” I screech in surprise and convulsively fling my pen across the coffee table when a previously unseen black-and-tan furball suddenly jumps up next to me on the settee.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Ms. Summers says, bending over to pick up the Montblanc from the rug and set it on the table. “Nicholas Sparks is very sweet.”
Then, why is he gazing at me so intently with those dark, beady eyes of his? If he’s anything like his bite-happy sister, he’s probably trying to figure out which body part of mine would be the most fun to sink his teeth into. I decide to ignore him. “Mr. Kittredge’s responsibilities as your business manager?” I prompt.
“Well, let’s see . . .” Ms. Summers pets Jackie Collins while she gives my query some thought. “He paid the bills and everyone on my staff, monitored all incoming funds from my publisher, speaking engagements, deals for other formats of my work . . .” Nicholas Sparks paws my file folder, which distracts me momentarily, so I miss some of what Ms. Summers is saying. “ . . . . advised me on my investments and told me when changes needed to be made to my portfolio.”
“So, prior to the dissolution of your professional relationship with Mr. Kittredge on Wednesday, May 7th, he had total access to your numerous checking and savings accounts? Account numbers, PIN numbers, online passwords, monthly statements?” Once again, the Pomeranian paws my file folder, this time more insistently. What does this pesky beast want? For the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I could read dogs’ minds like my sister.
“Nicholas Sparks has a paper fetish,” his owner clues me in. “Newspaper, magazines, toilet paper, whatever he can get his paws on. He’s probably not going to leave you alone until you share something from your file folder.”
But I don’t want to share. All the papers in my file folder have important data on them, data I might need to refer to while consulting with my client. Why can’t Ms. Summers offer the pooch one of her soggy tissues? Tired of waiting for me to accede to his demands, Nicholas Sparks plants both paws on my folder and fixes his tiny, creepy eyes which appear to be all-pupil like a shark’s, on me.
I force a chuckle. “He’s a determined, little guy, isn’t he? Okay, Nicholas Sparks, you win.” I cautiously remove him from my lap and begin to tear a two-inch strip off the page in front of me. It’s mostly the top margin and a heading, so I’m not giving up anything too vital. I just hope it’ll be enough to satisfy the pint-sized pain in my– The strip is unc
eremoniously ripped out of my hand, and Nicholas Sparks takes a flying leap off the settee with his prize clamped between his teeth. He runs to the other side of the room with the paper, which is almost as long as he is, trailing beside him. If he eats that whole strip, he’ll be pooping paper for a week. Fortunately, that’s not my problem.
Reaching across the coffee table, I grab my pen and query, “Did Mr. Kittredge have unrestricted access to all of your accounts? Was your approval required for withdrawals or funds transfers?”
“I left everything in Grant’s hands. That’s the way it’s always been. I focus on my writing, and let someone else handle the money. My husband was so good with financial matters, and Grant seemed to be cut from the same cloth. I never had any reason to doubt him until–” She breaks down again, weeping plaintively into her tissues.
I forge ahead, determined to see this thing through despite my client’s tearful disruptions. “After you found money missing from your charity account, you checked the balances and recent activity in your other accounts and found discrepancies there, as well. Can you elaborate on those?”
Sniffling, she says, “It was Stephen who insisted I check the other accounts. I didn’t even know what I was looking for since I don’t keep track of the comings and goings of my money.”
I try not to twitch. I don’t understand how any woman who rakes in the kind of cold, hard cash Ms. Summers does could fail to keep a watchful eye on it. She’s busy communing with her muse and doesn’t have a head for numbers – fine. She still should have taken a look at her accounts once a month, or better yet once a week, so that she would have had some idea of how her money was being disbursed. Giving financial carte blanche to someone who isn’t even a blood relation? That’s number one on my top ten list of Dumb Things You Can Do to Bankrupt Yourself.
“But you did notice some irregularities in the accounts when you reviewed them?”
“Yes. Payments made to companies whose names I didn’t recognize. Withdrawals that didn’t correspond to any cash purchases I could recall making. It was all very confusing, but I wanted to give Grant the benefit of the doubt. I was sure there had to be a reasonable explanation.”
There’s an explanation all right. Ms. Summers’ business manager is shadier than a redwood forest. He’s probably been siphoning off this oblivious woman’s money for years, but she has so much that it wasn’t readily apparent until he got greedy and started taking bigger chunks. No doubt his fraudulent activity would have continued indefinitely if fate hadn’t intervened.
“And Mr. Kittredge denied any wrongdoing when you confronted him?”
“Yes,” she chokes out the word as fresh tears begin to course down her cheeks. “He had so many excuses, but they were just lies. I knew it. I knew that he’d betrayed me. He could see I didn’t believe him, so he tried to turn it around on me. He said that he was hurt I didn’t trust him, that I didn’t really love him if I could accuse him of doing such terrible things.”
Love? Oh, geez. So, Grant Kittredge isn’t just the ex-business manager who screwed Ms. Summers over; he’s the ex-business manager who was actually screwing her. I guess that explains why she can’t stop the waterworks. Bad enough to be cheated out of your money, but to have it done by someone you were intimately involved with, someone you cared for? That really stinks.
“I don’t know if I can go through with this,” Ms. Summers sobs.
“This?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“The lawsuit against Grant! It’s already getting so much media attention, and things will just get worse when it goes to trial. I’ll have to testify and reveal personal details about my life and my relationship with Grant. The press will have a field day! ‘Romance novelist duped by lover! Real life scandal more shocking than anything in her books!’”
“The media does love its salacious headlines, so there’s a chance that might happen.” I’m not going to lie to the woman. I’m also not going to let her chicken out of seeing this slimeball prosecuted. This case means a lot of money and publicity for Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister and helping Ms. Summers get a positive result in court will bring me one step closer to that promotion I want. “But you probably won’t have to take the stand at your trial. Your lawyers will call in expert witnesses, like me, to help them prove Mr. Kittredge’s guilt.”
“How will you do that?” she wonders, hugging Jackie Collins close. “I mean, yes, there appears to be money missing from my accounts, but how much? And where did it all go? If Grant can’t be directly tied to the misappropriated funds . . . I’m sure he covered his tracks. He fooled me for God only knows how long. He’s very smart.”
“I’m smarter,” I say matter-of-factly. “I will follow the path of every penny you’ve earned in the last seven years and find out where all that money went. Mr. Kittredge may have hidden what he took, he may have spent it – either way I’ll discover the truth, and he will be held accountable.”
“Thank you.” Her watery eyes shine brightly with gratitude. “It helps to know I’ll have a woman on my side in this. We all share the pain of having been disappointed by a man at some point in our lives, right?”
I grimace in response. Men can always be counted on to let you down is a lesson I learned a long time ago . . .
Chapter 8
(Sloane)
It’s after six when I finally get out of my meeting with Ms. Summers. Three torturous hours of listening to her pour her heart out over her failed romance with that con artist Grant Kittredge. UGH What a creep! Moving in on a woman when she was at her most vulnerable and lonely, insinuating himself into every area of her life, stealing from her, and lying to her, all while sleeping with her and making promises about their future that he had no intention of keeping. Absolutely reprehensible. I am going to take great pleasure in putting the screws to this jerk when we go to cour–
A white Jeep Wrangler cuts in front of me, coming perilously close to taking off my front bumper. I slam on my brakes and lay on the horn. “Come on!” I shout at the windshield and make a very unladylike gesture in hopes the driver will see me in his rearview mirror. He gives me an apologetic shrug as if that will wipe the slate clean. “Dumbass,” I mutter and contemplate rear-ending him just for fun. I decide against it only because I don’t want to mar the appearance of my beautiful Lexus. Where was I?
Oh, yeah, Grant Kittredge. I can’t wait to dive into the records Ms. Summers’ lawyers have subpoenaed from that lowlife. I’m going to pick apart every entry he’s made on those books for the last seven years. Not that I expect to discover anything remotely resembling the truth there. Like all embezzlers, I’m sure he’s an old hand at creative accounting. I don’t often question the psychological makeup of the people who take money they have no right to, but I really do wonder about this Kittredge. Avarice explains why he stole from Ms. Summers, but why did he feel the need to toy with her emotions while he was at it? Was it all some sick game? Did he enjoy hurting her? She seems like a perfectly nice woman, so I can’t understand anyone wanting to purposely humiliate and– “Sonofabitch!” I blurt out when I turn on to Gough Street and find myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. What the hell is going on? Has there been an accident? I lower my window and stick my head outside, but see nothing out of the ordinary, just a ton of cars that aren’t moving on my side of the road. Man, this sucks!
Letting loose a string of expletives, I grab the steering wheel and shake it like I’m on the verge of Hulk-ing out and ripping the damn thing from the console. This hissy fit jostles my glasses right off my face and they land in my lap with a soft thunk. Oddly enough, my suddenly blurred view of the world gives me a moment of clarity and I realize how insane I’m acting. I drop my hands, appalled by my behavior, and restore my glasses to their perch on my nose.
Wow. That was weird and so not like me. I get stuck in traffic all the time, but I don’t normally lose my shit over it, nor do I curse like a stand-up comedian on an HBO special. Okay, deep breath, Sloane. What�
��s really bothering you?
I don’t have to ponder the question for long before coming up with an answer. It’s what Ms. Summers said about all women having experienced being disappointed by a man. For a fleeting second, her words had conjured up thoughts of him. And by “him,” I don’t mean some smarmy ex who broke my trusting, young heart back when Dubya was president. No, the “him” I’m referring to is my father, a man who exists in my mind more as a concept than an actual person since I’ve never actually interacted with him. Thinking about dear old dad, aka the sperm donor, always pisses me off, which is why it’s something I seldom do. Even today when he briefly popped into my head, I did the mental equivalent of chloroforming the bastard and shoving him into a dark closet somewhere in the back of my subconscious. Guess he woke up and started banging on the the door. Hence, the aberrant road rage.
I didn’t always have such negative feelings about my father. For the first eleven years of my life, I bought the puppies-and-rainbows version of what went down between my mother and the man who was fifty percent responsible for my DNA. They met in 1981 when he was on summer break from Oxford or Cambridge (Mom always got the two confused. And no, my father wasn’t British, which would have been cool, he was just studying abroad for some unknown reason.) My mother, who showed great promise as a painter, was gearing up for her first semester at the CCA (California College of Arts). According to Mom, Jimmy (no last name, not even on my birth certificate where Father’s Name was left conspicuously blank) was handsome, he was kind, and he treated her like a queen, but their relationship was never meant to last forever. After spending two wonderful months together, they parted ways by mutual consent because they were on “separate life paths.”
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