by Julie Cave
“Why did you care so much?”
“It’s my job to care!” cried the pastor. “It’s what I do!”
But you don’t guarantee a lease or pay the rent of anyone else. Only Malia Shaw. Why?
“How did you know she even had any more money?” Elise asked. “Where did she get her money from?”
Angus fell silent, and the air between them was heavy with suspicion. “I’m not comfortable talking to you any further without my lawyer present,” he said after a pause.
“Sure, Mr. Whitehall,” Elise said. “Let me say one thing before you hang up. The money trail never lies, and I’m following it. Do you understand?”
She hung up the phone noisily.
“Well, that was fun,” she grinned.
“I want to know where that quarter of a million dollars came from,” said Dinah. She felt that there were only a few missing pieces of the puzzle to the money mystery, and it was frustrating that she didn’t have them. “Who deposited the money? Why?”
She thought about what the bank manager had told them — that the funds had been deposited in different banks all over the country, in amounts of $9,000 at a time so that the transaction wouldn’t be reported to the authorities.
“You know what’s really weird?” mused Elise. She was idly doodling on a blank piece of paper in her notebook. “That quarter of a million dollars has been untouched for 20 years. I mean, apart from paying Malia Shaw’s rent. Could you resist the temptation to withdraw some money here and there for a pair of new shoes or to renovate your house?”
“No, I couldn’t,” said Dinah. “Nobody could.”
She sat back in her chair, drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk. She knew that, equally, finding both Lola and the money would solve this murder mystery.
But it was easy to lose oneself in this great country, particularly if she had access to high-quality fake identification as Angus and Malia did. She could have jumped on a bus, train, plane, or taxi and be in New York City or Los Angeles or Canada by now. Did she have access to cash? If so, she could live completely off the grid, in utter anonymity.
Struck with a sudden idea, Dinah phoned Raoul Gomez at the bank again, and asked if Lola Albright had an account there.
“Yes,” he said, cheerfully. “The agency she works for requires all their staff to have an account here.”
“Any unusual activity in her account? Large transactions?” Dinah asked.
“Well, just her salary up until a couple of weeks ago,” said Raoul. “But then she withdrew all of it in one hit.”
Perhaps Lola knew she was in danger and was preparing to flee. The question is, did she make it?
“Where did she do that?”
“An ATM in . . . let’s see, an ATM just outside Norfolk.”
There is an international airport in Norfolk, thought Dinah.
“Did she have any credit cards?”
“Yes, she did. But she stopped using it a couple of weeks ago.”
Dinah felt her heart rate speed up a little. Clutching the phone a little harder, she asked, “Can you see the transaction history of the card?”
“Sure. What am I looking for?”
“Ticket purchases, like plane or bus tickets. Hotel bookings. Car hire deposits. Stuff like that.”
There was a pause as Raoul scanned through the transaction history. Finally, he said, “No, nothing like that. Just groceries, a haircut, some clothes.”
Disappointed, Dinah thanked Raoul and hung up. She relayed the conversation to Elise and both women lapsed into silence, thinking about the money trail, the fake documentation, and what it could possibly mean.
The money had a story it wanted to tell, Dinah was sure of it.
****
Angus arrived home long after night had fallen, as a light snow fell silently over the landscape. The flakes dissolved the moment they touched the ground, as if too delicate for the reality of life on earth. The moon jutted itself around a cloud, fat and full. As the snow fell, it muffled noise and turned the streets into the gray, bleak terrain of a distant planet. Inside, dinner had been eaten, the dishes washed and put away, and the children were upstairs watching TV or doing homework.
Louise was scrubbing out the pantry. This was not a good sign, Angus knew. Compulsive cleaning meant Louise was angry about something. There had been times when, during an argument, she’d started cleaning windows or the oven in an attempt to handle the conflict. She hated fighting, and it was partly his fault, he knew. He was often too aggressive, despite his best attempts at self-control.
“Hi,” he said, entering the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late. It’s been a crazy day at the office.”
That didn’t seem to help the situation appreciably. Louise scrubbed harder. Eventually, she said, “I’ve kept your dinner warm in the oven.”
Angus was too sick with dread to be hungry, but he found the plate and began eating. Louise didn’t pause in her scrubbing or look at him.
“What’s up?” he asked, at length. “Are you upset about something?”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Angus ate another mouthful. Clearly, she didn’t mean she was fine. She meant that everything was not at all fine. He was male, and women generally mystified him, but this much he knew. “Louise. Please. Stop it and tell me what’s wrong.” He took a drink of water from his glass.
She pushed back a strand of hair and straightened up. She snapped off her rubber gloves and asked, “Where were you today?”
“It was a busy day at the office,” said Angus. “I was in meetings and —”
“Don’t lie to me!” snapped Louise, with more venom in her voice than Angus could remember ever hearing. “Your secretary called here, wanting to know where you were!”
Oh, thought Angus.
“So, where were you?” Louise demanded.
“I’m sorry, Louise,” he said. His old friend shame wrapped thick, suffocating layers of disquiet around his chest. It became more difficult to breathe. “I’ve been trying to protect you from this ugly business with the murdered woman and a friend of hers, Lola, who has gone missing. I’ve spent the last few days in the car, looking for her.”
“Last time I checked, you were the pastor of a church,” said Louise. Her voice was so cold, so unlike Louise. She stood rigidly, her tension obvious. “Not a detective. What business is it of yours?”
“Well . . . uh, I knew them. I feel somewhat responsible,” said Angus. “So I suppose I feel as if I need to help find whoever did this to her.”
Louise’s eyes were like laser points, boring into him, seeking to lay bare his secrets. “Really? How did you know them?”
Angus opened his mouth and realized he was about to lie. It was so natural now, to lie about Malia and Lola and what they’d shared. But to lie to his wife so blatantly was crossing a line. “Louise,” he said, his voice shaky. “I knew both of them from many years ago. We are old friends.”
“Why have you never introduced them to me, if they’re such good friends?”
“No, they’re friends from a long time ago,” corrected Angus. “They aren’t good friends. In fact, they’re only friends in a bad kind of way.”
Louise, usually the very image of gentleness, had somehow transformed into a terrier, refusing to let go. “What does that mean?”
“I felt responsible for them,” he said. “I felt I should make sure that they were okay. The murdered woman, Malia Shaw, was a heroin addict. I checked on her, to make sure she was okay, and by okay, I mean whether she was still alive or not. Lola used to do the same. Occasionally, we’d talk about how we could help Malia. But that was it.”
Louise was silent for a time, studying him as if she’d never really seen him before. Of course, Angus knew that she’d only ever known the thin veneer of respectable Angus. The murky undercurrents of his real self had remained opaque, hidden. Only he knew the depths of disgrace he had sunk to in years past.
“Was there anything else to
your relationship with either of them?” she asked, her face so drawn and tight that her skin seemed translucent under the harsh kitchen lighting.
“No!” exclaimed Angus. “No, Louise . . . I promise to you on my life, absolutely not.”
The news didn’t appear to mollify Louise in any way, but she nodded. It seemed she could accept this as truth. “Do the police think that you killed Malia?”
Angus sagged under the weight of the words. “I don’t know.”
“Did you?” Louise’s eyes were darkly smoldering.
“No! Absolutely not!”
Louise considered him, and Angus realized that for the first time in their marriage she was weighing up whether to believe him or not. That her trust in him had received a mortal wound shook Angus to his core. To hide his fear, he stood up and advanced a few steps toward her.
“Please, look at me,” he implored. “I’m not a murderer.” Well, not anymore.
“But the police continue to call you, to visit here. What is it they think you know?” Louise took a tiny step back. Angus felt another blow deep in his chest, seeing the fear and distrust in her causing her to move away from him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think they’ve latched onto me just because I knew the woman and cared for her wellbeing.”
Louise looked at him oddly for a moment. “What about Lola? Didn’t she care about this woman too?”
He sighed. “Yes, but she has gone missing.”
“Missing?” Louise shook her head as if she couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. “What does that mean? Has she been killed too?”
“I don’t know.” Angus closed his eyes briefly, at once weighed down by the burden of the past. It was too heavy to carry.
She turned her eyes away from him, her mouth sagging at the corners. “I think you’re telling me the truth,” she said, and his relief was instant. “I think I know you well enough.”
“Thank you,” he said. She moved toward him, and they hugged. She was a slight woman and he had always marveled at how delicate she felt in his arms. I don’t ever want to hurt you. It would kill me to hurt you. But I fear that if you ever knew the truth of who I once was, you would hate me. And I love you so much that I couldn’t bear it.
“I love you, Louise,” he said. I’m sorry, so sorry.
“I love you, too,” she said.
****
That afternoon Chloe walked the long way home from school. There was no chance she could take the normal route when Grace wasn’t with her — it was tantamount to asking for a verbal beating, or worse. Grace hadn’t been at school today, and despite Chloe’s text messages to her, hadn’t replied. Chloe hoped she was okay.
She’d spent the last few hours after school in the library — the only sanctuary where she knew Jessica would not set foot. Finally, when the librarian had cleared her throat a few times and rattled her keys, Chloe realized that it was time to leave.
As she walked, her shoulders slumped. School was almost unbearable when Grace was away; Jessica Hunter and her minions had no reason to censor their behavior. As a result, the jibes had been heavy and constant today, leaving Chloe feeling drained and exhausted. Worse than the mocking were the looks in the eyes of other students, who heard the taunts and stayed silent. Chloe could see the pity and embarrassment written on their faces, and it burned worse than Jessica’s words. Would none of them speak up? The burden resting across her shoulders was becoming too heavy for her to bear alone.
She arrived home from school and was used to letting herself into the house and rattling around in there on her own until her mom or dad got home. Today, she was surprised to see her mother’s car in the driveway.
Chloe opened the front door and called, “Mom? I’m home!”
There was no reply, but the sound of scuffling from the kitchen.
Frowning, Chloe dropped her book bag near the front door and peered into the kitchen.
“Mom?”
Her mother was standing at the counter, her back to her daughter. Her arms were spread on the counter, as if they were holding her up.
“Hi, honey,” she said, falsely bright.
“Where’s Dinah?”
There was a pause, then her mom turned around. “She is still at the office,” she said. “I came home early because I need to talk to you.”
Uh-oh, thought Chloe. She immediately began to catalogue in her brain all the things her mother might have discovered: the binging? Skipping meals? What had she done that would make her mom angry?
“Okay,” she said, sinking down onto one of the kitchen table chairs.
Her mom must have read the exhaustion in her face and she quickly said, “How are you?”
“Okay.” Chloe took a few deep breaths. “Okay.”
“I . . . have a situation at work, that may affect you,” her mom said.
Chloe bit her lip. At least she doesn’t know I’ve only been pretending to eat dinner.
“What?”
“It’s Grace’s dad. I know that you are good friends with Grace, so I thought you should know. I’m investigating him for murder. We’re only in the beginning stages of the investigation, but since Grace might bring it up, I thought I should tell you.”
Chloe was shocked. “Murder? That’s insane!” She thought of Mr. Whitehall’s friendly eyes, ready laugh, and obvious adoration for his kids. It was impossible!
Mom sighed. “Nevertheless, it’s true. And I have to do my job.”
“But Mom, he’s the pastor of a church!”
“I know. But everyone is capable of doing the wrong thing. Even pastors.”
Chloe thought about that. “So you’ll be trying to put Mr. Whitehall in jail?”
“Not necessarily. I’m working to find out if he is innocent.”
“Will you have to testify against him in court?”
“I’m not sure. Not yet.”
“Well, can you ask to be taken off the case?”
Her mom smiled slightly. “I can’t, honey. I’m the only detective in town.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Chloe. This may affect your friendship with Grace.”
“Oh.” Chloe felt the fear start hammering at her again. Please don’t let Grace be angry with me. She wouldn’t, would she? Surely she must know that my Mom is just doing her job.
Her first instinct was to dig out her cell phone, but instead she stayed to ask, “Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yes, honey. I know this puts you in a difficult situation. But there isn’t anything else I can do about it. I’m sorry.”
Chloe rarely saw her mother in any other state than perfect control, and this new vulnerability unnerved her. She crossed the length of the kitchen and hugged her mom tightly. She could feel the tension in her mother’s back and it worried her.
“Okay, let’s get ice cream!” her mom said brightly.
In the car, Chloe took out her cell phone and sent a quick text to Grace. How R U? Missed U at school.
Fifteen minutes later, Grace had not texted her. That was unusual. Grace always had her phone with her, and always responded. A low frequency of anxiety began to hum in her like an improperly tuned radio. She ate her ice cream and laughed with her mom. Both mother and daughter forced their laughter and faked their good cheer; while the sham was self-evident, both chose to ignore it.
By the time they got home, Chloe’s phone remained annoyingly silent. While her mom started dinner, Chloe logged onto Facebook to track Grace down. She vaguely heard her father come home, the front door thudding shut behind him, and the deep rumble of his voice drifted upstairs. Then Dinah arrived, and she could hear her Mom and Dinah talking in the kitchen.
She scrolled down the news feed, thankfully noting that she wasn’t mentioned anywhere by Jessica or her minions. However, equally, she couldn’t find Grace.
Don’t panic! She can’t be available to you whenever you want.
Chloe’s anxiety was turning into a low-throated scream. To take h
er mind off it, she eased herself into the bathroom to weigh herself. She found she’d gained half a pound and was disgusted with herself. It was the ice cream, she thought. Why on earth did she agree to eat ice cream?
Staring at herself in the mirror, she pinched the skin underneath her chin. It was really fat, she thought. It was basically a double chin. She wondered how much it would cost to get liposuction.
She checked her phone. No answer from Grace.
Chloe knew that some girls from school made themselves throw up in the bathroom after lunch. They often spoke about it as if it made them cool. Chloe had always regarded them as sad and pathetic, but she wondered if she had the guts to make it a habit of sticking her fingers down her throat and forcing herself to vomit. Probably not — just another thing in which she would never be cool.
She checked her phone. Still nothing from Grace.
New diet starts tomorrow, she told herself sternly. Mom invites you for ice cream, you suggest salad.
“Chloe!” her mom called. “Dinner’s ready!”
This is your opportunity, Chloe thought. Start by not stuffing your face full.
Before she went downstairs, she checked her phone. Still nothing.
Then something made her check Facebook one more time. And she saw that Grace had written on her wall. What she saw felt like a physical blow to her stomach, making it difficult to breathe.
Grace Whitehall -> Chloe Jones Don’t talk to me ever again. I hate you and I hate your mom.
****
Dinah lay in bed in her dark room, an opened but unread book lying on her chest. She stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts zooming around in her head like race cars on the Indianapolis track. There seemed to be so much circumstantial evidence tying Angus Whitehall to the murder, but none of it was quite good enough to stick. There was something slightly off-kilter about the man; a very good facade seemed to hide a rotted core, she thought. But there was also a quiet and determined gut instinct somewhere deep within her that told her that whatever Angus was hiding, it wasn’t the murder of Malia Shaw. If he wasn’t the killer, then who? They had no other leads, no other suspects, no other possible motives.