by Rickie Blair
“I don’t blame them for being angry, but I didn’t take their money. They’ll figure that out eventually.” She flipped a chair around, sat, and patted the seat of the chair facing her. “Meanwhile, I have something to give you.”
Natalia sat and looked at her with a smile. Ruby pulled the check from her purse with a flourish and held it out.
“What’s this?” Natalia took the check and read it. Her face went pale. She looked at Ruby, eyes wide. “Ruby, I can’t—”
“You can, and you will. Hari and I both want to do this. I don’t think you realize,” her voice cracked, “how much you mean to me, Natalia.”
Natalia clasped a hand to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. At least, Ruby thought her mentor’s eyes filled with tears. It was a little hard to tell, given that her own were overflowing.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Hari was on his way to the corner deli for a sandwich when he spotted the florist’s shop. Greenery jammed the window and a kaleidoscope of color spilled out of the metal buckets lining the sidewalk. Hari stood outside, studying the elaborate floral arrangements and potted plants. Funny he had never noticed this place before. He smiled, remembering.
You don’t have any plants.
Not yet.
It was next to impossible to keep Leta out of his head, to stop recalling her smile or her touch, even when she was miles away. Leta and Ruby had left early that morning in a rental car to drive to Southampton. The Elgin was closed for maintenance and Ruby had two nights off. Leta wanted to visit Mrs. Fulton, and Ruby—knowing she wouldn’t be welcome at Stonehaven—intended to wander on her own.
You don’t have any plants.
Warm, humid air and a sickly-sweet aroma overwhelmed him as he walked into the shop. Behind a row of aluminum pails crammed with blossoms, a young woman wearing a full-length black cotton apron tilted her head.
“Can I help you?”
Hari pointed at a pair of arching green stems with large white blooms.
“Is that considered a plant?”
“Yeah, that’s a plant all right.” Smiling, she put down a pair of pruners and pointed to similar stems, some with white blossoms, some purple, a few spotted in purple and yellow. “These are orchids.”
“But orchids are flowers.”
“Cut flowers? They can be, yes. But we also sell them as plants.”
“Do they live a long time?”
“Years. Can I wrap one up for you?”
Hari assessed the blossoms and pointed. “That one.”
The young woman cut a swath of brown wrapping paper from a four-foot roll and placed the plant on top. With a flourish, she folded the paper and stapled the top edge. After paying for the orchid, Hari nestled it into the crook of his arm.
* * *
At Leta’s apartment he stood in the doorway, deciding where to put the orchid so she would see it as soon as she walked in. She barely had basic furniture, never mind silly little tables for putting plants on. Hari closed one eye and appraised the windowsill. That would work.
He placed the orchid on the windowsill, walked to the front door, and turned to admire it. Too far to the left. He returned to the window and reached out to move it. His cuff caught on a blossom and tore it off, leaving a jagged edge. Damn. He assessed the damage. His mother used scissors to trim the plants in their conservatory in London. ‘Tidying up,’ she had called it. Maybe he should do the same. He didn’t want Leta to think he had brought her a damaged plant.
In the kitchen, he pulled out drawers, looking for scissors, but found only a can opener and some cutlery. A dinner knife might make things worse. In the bedroom, he opened the top drawer of Leta’s bureau. It was stuffed with receipts, envelopes, pens, and elastic bands, but over to one side was a pair of scissors. He took them to the living room, trimmed the broken blossom, and threw the severed bits into the garbage. Then he returned the scissors to the open bureau drawer.
But as he tried to close it, a paper slid and jammed the top. Hari glanced at it as he opened the drawer wider to shove it back in. It was an airline ticket stub for Air France, probably from Leta’s hasty trip to console Madame de Montagny. He stared at it and then pulled the ticket from the drawer. The dates were wrong. According to the stub, Leta had flown out of LaGuardia on Sunday morning, the same day that he and Ruby left. But the flight shown on the stub had departed hours earlier than theirs.
That was impossible. De Montagny’s body wasn’t discovered until the following day. Leta wouldn’t have flown to Paris to offer condolences to a woman who hadn’t yet been widowed. Airlines were always making mistakes. They must have printed out another ticket for her and Leta forgot to throw this one out. He shoved the stub to the back of the drawer.
On his way out, he glanced longingly at the bed. And just like that, she was in his head again. Humming a few bars from Habanera, he strolled to the front door and turned back for a last look. The orchid was definitely visible from the entranceway. Hari locked the door and headed down the corridor, still humming.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ruby sighed as another mile marker for Southampton swept past on the right. They had left Manhattan only two hours ago, but it felt like days.
“Why don’t we stop for lunch?”
“Let’s keep going,” Leta said. “Wouldn’t you rather have a picnic on the beach than greasy fries in a roadside diner?”
“A picnic? We don’t have any food.”
“There’s a grocery store on our way that makes terrific takeout sandwiches. We can pick up a couple. If you’re tired, I can drive.”
“No, it’s fine.” Ruby chuckled. “I’m just not used to getting up at six a.m.” Adjusting her sunglasses with one hand, she glanced at Leta and then focused on the road. Maybe conversation would help.
“Have you had any more personal repercussions from the Fulton case?” she asked. Even without glancing to her right she felt Leta’s stare. “Not that you did anything wrong,” Ruby added hastily, “that’s not what I meant. But it’s a shame that you’re losing your job.”
“I’m not the only one. The entire firm is shut down, even the sections that had nothing to do with Fulton’s fraud. It’s all so hard to believe.”
“You had no inkling? I remember you said there were discrepancies—”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it was fraud. I don’t know what I thought. Incompetence, I guess.”
Ruby didn’t reply. Hari had told her, in confidence, that Leta might be charged because she helped Fulton doctor the books in some way. ‘I’m sure she didn’t realize what she was doing was wrong,’ Hari had said. Ruby stole a sideways glance at Leta who stared at the road, unblinking. She turned and caught Ruby’s gaze. For a second her eyes were cold, even threatening. Then her face relaxed and she smiled.
“I was Raymond Fulton’s assistant. Of course people suspect me of wrongdoing. But I swear, I had nothing to do with it.”
They drove in silence until Ruby made the final turn to Southampton.
“I don’t think I told you,” she said. “I talked to Antony about the case.”
“Your ex-husband? Why?”
“He knew Fulton when he was younger.”
“How much younger?”
“Antony worked for him briefly about fifteen years ago. Fulton was a mentor.” She winced. “In more ways than one, I think.”
Leta had twisted in her seat and was staring at her.
“So he knows about Fulton’s past?”
“Yes, quite a bit. He wasn’t around when Fulton and his original partner founded the firm, obviously. But he heard about it later.”
“Fulton’s original partner?”
“Edwin Gavan. He and Fulton started out together and then Fulton brought on a third partner.”
“De Montagny?”
“Yes, although Antony says everybody referred to him back then as ‘the Frenchman.’ They didn’t see eye to eye. Gavan and the new partner, I mean.”
“What happe
ned to Gavan?”
“He was arrested. He embezzled money from the firm and it nearly went under. Antony says Fulton called it the greatest betrayal of his life.” Ruby chuckled. “That’s rich, isn’t it? Fulton, who masterminded a massive fraud, claiming he had been betrayed because an associate turned the tables on him. Anyway, Gavan committed suicide before—”
“Stop the car.”
Leta gripped the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Are you okay?”
“Please stop.”
Ruby pulled over on the shoulder. Leta got out and stumbled a few steps to the ditch, where she bent over and heaved. Ruby walked up and held out a tissue.
“Can I get you some water?”
Leta wiped her mouth with the tissue and threw it into the ditch. She straightened up and managed a weak laugh.
“I’m sorry, I should have warned you. I get motion sickness sometimes.”
“No problem. Let’s wait here a bit. There’s no rush.”
They stood under the gray sky, gazing at the turned furrows of a recently tilled field and the whitecaps of the Atlantic beyond.
Leta turned to the car.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Ruby turned their rental car onto the road, this time driving more slowly and trying to avoid bumps.
“We’ll be there in half an hour or so.”
Leta rummaged through the tote bag at her feet and pulled out two bottles of water. She flicked the cap off one and handed it to Ruby, then opened the other for herself. Ruby sipped the water and they drove silently for a few miles.
“Finish the story,” Leta said. “About Edwin Gavan.”
“There’s not much more to tell. He left a widow, and a daughter who would be about our age now. But no one knows where they are, according to Antony.”
“He told you this when you saw him at the prison?”
“Yes. And his lawyer forwarded a message from him a few days ago.”
“What did it say?”
“That he had other information I might find interesting.”
“Such as?”
It was a little unnerving how intently Leta was staring at her. Ruby cleared her throat.
“Well, there was a rumor on the Street that Gavan was innocent and that Fulton and the Frenchman framed him. No one believed it. At least, not back then.”
“And now?”
“People think differently about Raymond Fulton now, don’t they? That rumor is making the rounds again. But this time,” she smiled, “there’s an updated component.”
Leta inclined her head, but said nothing.
Ruby tried to focus on the road, forcing her eyes to stay open. She yawned.
“Sorry. A nap on the beach is starting to sound good right about now. Anyway, some people say the daughter is back and out for revenge. And after de Montagny was murdered … well, obviously, it’s ridiculous. There’s the driveway.” Ruby felt an odd sense of relief as she steered the car down the drive and pulled up alongside Stonehaven’s massive front portico. Turning off the ignition, she leaned her head on the wheel for a moment.
Leta opened the passenger door.
“Wait for me, in case no one’s home.”
“Didn’t you call ahead?”
“No.” Leta got out and walked to the front door.
Ruby’s unease grew even stronger as she watched her slam down the outsized knocker on the front door with no response. Leta pounded twice more, listening each time, and then walked back to the car and climbed in.
“Looks like no one’s home.” She pointed to a dirt road at the far side of the house. “Let’s drive down to the beach and see if they’re there.”
The car bumped and tossed for several hundred yards along the rough beach road. They were only yards from the ocean when Leta gestured to a rough shack on the right.
“There’s the beach house.”
Ruby stopped the car and peered through the windshield at the shack. Some of the roof shingles were missing, and wooden hurricane shutters had been nailed over the windows.
“It looks abandoned. Why don’t we go to that sandwich place you mentioned? Maybe Mrs. Fulton will be home later.”
Leta was already out of the car.
“Don’t be silly. There will be food inside. And I have the key.” She rattled her key chain and grinned.
“Won’t Mrs. Fulton—”
“Mind? Who do you think gave me the key? We used to work on opera society stuff here. Helen always keeps it stocked. Come on.”
Ruby followed Leta to the beach house and stood back as she fitted her key into the four-inch padlock. A few swaths of faded blue paint remained on the door, but most of the wood was bare and weathered.
“You worked in here? This place looks like it’s falling apart.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. You’ll see.” Leta glanced over her shoulder. “C’mon in.”
Ruby stepped over the threshold and squinted into the darkness. After the bright sunshine of the beach, the unlit interior was murky, with only the shaft of light from the open door to illuminate the interior.
Someone moaned.
Ruby’s blood ran cold and she gripped Leta’s arm.
“There’s someone in here.”
Another moan. Ruby walked toward the sound and knelt next to a man’s prone body. His eyes were closed and his face had at least a week’s worth of stubble. She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and waved an arm at Leta, who stood behind her.
“Open the door a bit more.”
Leta obliged and the light fell onto the man’s face.
“Oh, my God,” Ruby said. “Benjamin? Can you hear me?” She twisted to look over her shoulder at Leta. “This is Benjamin Levitt. We have to call an ambulance.” Ruby felt for her shoulder bag to get her phone. Damn. Where had she dropped it? She staggered to her feet and turned to face the entrance where Leta stood, holding her bag. Ruby shook her head, trying to focus on Leta’s blurry figure. She stepped forward, but her legs turned to water and she staggered again.
“Leta?”
“I’m sorry, Ruby, I really am. But you have to sit tight for a while.” The door banged shut and the darkness closed in.
Ruby threw herself against the door.
“Leta? What are you doing? Leta!” She hammered on the surface.
Outside, a car door slammed and an engine revved, both muffled by the heavy storm shutters. After that, there was no noise at all in the stifling blackness. Except for Benjamin’s moans.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Hari unlocked the new deadbolt on his apartment door and walked through to the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker. With Leta away for two days, he intended to finish his presentation for next month’s conference in Chicago. Humming a few bars from Habanera, he set his laptop on the coffee table, switched on the television, and got to work.
It was mid-afternoon before he looked up again. The CNBC news anchor was discussing Raymond Fulton, and Benjamin Levitt’s photo flashed on the screen. Hari turned up the sound.
“…a bizarre side note is the disappearance of Benjamin Levitt, the forensic accountant who originally accused Capital Street Management of fraud. His allegations were publicly silenced by a lawsuit, but Levitt privately stuck by his claims.” Ben’s face disappeared as the anchor switched to the day’s action in commodity markets.
With every day that passed with no news of the paranoid accountant’s whereabouts, Hari’s fears grew stronger. He no longer thought Ben’s disappearance a harmless one. The Castlebar Fund had been revealed as a Ponzi scheme, and Raymond Fulton unmasked as a weasel and a fraud. The Benjamin Levitt that Hari knew would have crowed about that on every television channel and news outlet he could reach. Four people had died because of Fulton’s fraud. Brigitte Perrine, Gregory Keller, Jourdain de Montagny, and Fulton himself. Ben would make five. Hari clicked off the television with a shudder.
He walked into the kitchen to top up his coffee. He had
gone over Ben’s disappearance a thousand times in his head and it always ended the same way. Hari was an accountant, a securities analyst, a mathematician, and a fraud investigator. But none of that made him a homicide detective. He should leave it alone and let the police find Benjamin Levitt. Reclining on the sofa, he sipped his coffee and eyed the unopened mail on the coffee table. Bhatt & Delaney had been in demand since the news of Fulton’s fraud. He should skim through it for anything important, and let Zelda deal with the rest.
With a sigh, he pulled the stack closer and riffled through it. Who still sent snail mail, anyway? One envelope was stiff, like cardboard, with the address handwritten in an elegant cursive. He picked it up to check the postmark. Paris. After tearing a strip along the top, he blew open the envelope and upended it over the coffee table. A photograph fell out, along with a short note in the same hand as the address.
Monsieur Bhatt,
I am sending a copy of the photograph you requested. I hope it answers any questions you may have.
Sincerely, Thérèse de Montagny.
P.S. Brigitte is in the front row, third from the right.
It was the missing photo from de Montagny’s desk in Paris. Hari picked it up and sat back with his feet on the coffee table to examine it.
Children in bathing suits, women in floppy straw hats, and men in khaki shorts and deck shoes smiled at the camera. The women leaned against a picnic table draped with a checkered cloth. Brigitte stood with her feet apart and her hands on her waist, her elbows sticking out to either side. Hari studied her face, trying to reconcile its broad grin with the horrific frozen stare he had seen on Brigitte Perrine’s kitchen floor.
He recognized Fulton, and de Montagny, so the third man in the photo must be Gavan. His hand rested on the shoulder of a young girl. She wore a sunhat and a two-piece bathing suit, and had crossed one arm up across her chest to place her hand over her father’s. That must be the long-lost daughter.
The shadow cast by the brim of her hat obscured most of her face, but there was something familiar about her. Something that tugged at him. Hari stood, snapped on the reading lamp by his armchair and held the photo under it. He stared at Gavan’s daughter, and his breath caught in his throat.