Maggie supplemented the meager light from the bare overhead bulbs with her flashlight as she opened the now empty cabinets and drawers. Her efforts were rewarded when she reached the bottom drawer. A folded sheaf of four pieces of paper lay face down in the back corner of the drawer. She withdrew the papers, yellow and brittle with age, and carefully unfolded them.
In neat and precise flourished handwriting, reminiscent of the days when fine penmanship was considered a mark of good breeding, was a list of items of silver and flatware. Although she would later confirm her conclusion by comparing this list with the one prepared by Gordon Mortimer, Maggie knew that the papers in her hand detailed each item of silver that would soon be headed for auction. And each piece of paper bore a signature at the bottom: Mrs. Alfred Donaldson.
Maggie rocked back on her heels and clutched the papers to her chest. The silver was hers. Frank Haynes didn’t have a right to any of it. If she had good luck at auction, she’d be able to raise the money to buy out Frank’s interest in Rosemont. She scrambled down the stairs and headed for the phone. John would want to hear about this.
Chapter 27
Frank Haynes checked his watch. It was after nine and Loretta was late, again. He glanced at the financial statements lying neatly across the top of his desk. He’d had time to review them last night after dinner and wanted to compliment her on them. She’d reorganized their chart of accounts and the financials made much better sense. They eliminated his need to make marginal notes and handwritten calculations. He’d been meaning to do this for months—years, actually—and she’d done it without being asked. He was truly impressed and anxious to tell her so.
He walked to the coffee station in the reception area, opened the blinds, and peered out into the parking lot as he waited for his coffee to brew. Loretta’s car was in its usual spot. He turned expectantly to the door and waited. When she didn’t appear, he took his cup of coffee and walked out the door and down the steps. Loretta was nowhere to be seen. He was beginning to get alarmed when he heard her raised voice coming from around the side of the building.
He sidled closer. “I’m sorry that my insurance company isn’t prompt in its payments,” she said curtly. “But I’m making my payments to you on time.”
He held his breath and waited while she listened to someone on the other end of the line.
“What? You can’t do that,” he heard her say. “My little girl needs dialysis now. She can’t wait until the insurance company pays their portion for her treatments from earlier this year.”
Again, silence.
“I can’t pay my account in full right now. I’m doing exactly what we agreed on,” she stated indignantly.
“What do you mean you can’t help me? You’ve got to. My daughter will die without dialysis,” she pleaded, her rising panic undeniable. “She can’t wait.”
Frank Haynes spurred himself into action, rounding the corner and reaching for the phone.
Loretta, startled, nodded and handed him her cell phone.
“Who am I speaking to?” Haynes commanded. He nodded. “Well, Miss Smith, we seem to be at an impasse here. Nicole needs lifesaving dialysis and you’re worried about your accounts receivable. Is that correct?”
Haynes arched an eyebrow at Loretta while he listened to Miss Smith.
“Here’s a solution to our dilemma,” Haynes said. “Draw up a guaranty for any amounts that the insurance company doesn’t pay, and I’ll sign it. How would that be?”
Haynes listened again. “Of course you may. Frank Haynes,” he said importantly. “I own Haynes Enterprises. You may know some of my restaurants.” He was smiling now. “Get Nicole Nash scheduled for dialysis, and I’ll sign your guaranty.”
He handed the phone to Loretta who stared at him, open-mouthed. “You didn’t have to do that, Frank,” she said.
“You can fill me in about Nicole on the way to the hospital.” He ignored her response. “I assume this needs to happen quickly?”
Loretta nodded.
“Go get your purse and lock up. I’ll bring my car to the curb.”
***
Loretta fastened her seat belt as Frank Haynes turned his Mercedes out of the parking lot.
“We need to stop for Nicole on the way,” Loretta said quietly.
Frank Haynes nodded. “I figured. She’s at the babysitter’s, isn’t she?”
“She is. Do you remember where the sitter lives?” Loretta asked.
“I do,” he replied. “What’s happened?”
“The doctor’s office called me this morning. They want to start her on dialysis this afternoon, so she doesn’t get as sick as before. I was walking in from the parking lot when the billing office called me on my cell phone.” She swiveled in her seat to look at him. “I walked around the corner so you wouldn’t overhear my conversation.”
“Sorry,” he said, glancing at her.
“Were you looking for me?”
“I was worried about you. I saw your car in the lot, but you were nowhere to be found. What was I to think? I wasn’t spying on you.”
“I’m sorry about all of this, Frank. I love my work and want to do a good job. I feel like I’m finally able to use some of what I learned in college.”
“The new financials are perfect.” He wanted to reach over and squeeze her hand but stopped himself. “I have them spread out on my desk. I was going to compliment you on them when you came in.”
Loretta smiled.
“Your daughter comes first. Let’s get Nicole taken care of. She’ll be in good hands at Mercy Hospital. And if she needs to see specialists somewhere else—and I’m not saying that I think she will—” he hastened to add, “I’ll guarantee those payments, too.”
Loretta turned sharply toward her passenger side window. Where was the conniving, selfish man she’d come to work for all those months ago? Was this kind and generous man the real Frank Haynes? If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall for this guy. And probably get her heart broken again.
***
For the first time in his adult life, Frank Haynes attended to the needs of others for an entire day. He’d sat in the colorless waiting room, alone, for more than two hours while Loretta checked Nicole in and met with doctors. Even though it was now well past lunchtime and he’d skipped breakfast, he was unwilling to leave his post.
Loretta passed the waiting room shortly before two and stopped short when she saw Frank hunched over a cup of cold coffee, his elbows resting on his knees. “Frank!” she exclaimed. “Have you been here the whole time?”
He got to his feet and nodded. “How’s it going back there?”
“Dialysis is hard on her. It’s not as bad as the first time, but I wish she didn’t have to go through it,” Loretta said. “I’ve been afraid to leave her. I was just heading to the ladies’ room,” she said, pointing to the hallway in front of her. “I thought you’d just drop me off and go back to work.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d need anything,” he stated quietly. “Can I bring you something to eat?”
Loretta sighed. “Honestly—I’m starved. I should say no, but I’d love it.”
Haynes smiled. “If I remember correctly, you favor a chicken Caesar salad?”
“I’m impressed,” she laughed. “That’s what I ordered when you took me to lunch during my interview. That would be my first choice. But anything you bring me will be fine.” She turned. “I really need to make a pit stop and get back in there. Thank you, Frank. Text me when you get back.”
Haynes smiled. Finding a salad for Loretta Nash seemed like winning the lottery.
***
Haynes returned to the waiting room thirty-five minutes later, a chicken Caesar salad and a turkey sandwich on rye in hand. He’d also bought chips, a fruit cup, hummus, and a carton of yogurt, in case she’d like any of those. He’d almost bought cookies but decided that would be overkill.
Loretta appeared in the waiting room almost immediately after he’d sent the text:
&nb
sp; Mission accomplished.
“She’s done with the treatment, and they’re keeping her under observation for a while,” Loretta said as she led him to a table along the wall and unpacked the brown paper sack containing their food. She glanced up at him. “What army were you planning to feed?”
Haynes shrugged. “I figured if you didn’t like your salad, you might want some of this other stuff,” he said. “I also didn’t know when you’d be getting out of here.”
Loretta eyed him curiously. “That was very thoughtful of you, Frank.”
“We can just toss what you don’t want,” he said.
She shook her head. “We’ll leave it for the nurses. They never have enough time to get something to eat.”
“When will you be able to leave?”
“Within the hour, I should think,” she said, digging into her salad.
“I’ll wait and take you both home.”
“I’ll have to take her back to the sitter’s.” Loretta sighed. “Marissa and Sean are coming home from camp late this afternoon. I’ll have to pick them up. Plus I need to get groceries.”
“I can help with that,” Haynes offered, realizing he hadn’t been grocery shopping in years. He never ate at home. “Just give me your list.” He checked his watch. “If Nicole is ready soon, I’ll have time to drop you two off, get the groceries delivered to your door, and pick up Sean and Marissa.”
“What about Haynes Enterprises?” Loretta sputtered. “What about today’s deposit?”
“Leave that to me,” he said. “You just worry about Nicole and yourself. I can’t have the best bookkeeper—no, financial analyst—in town running herself ragged.”
Chapter 28
Chuck Delgado stood in line at the reception desk of the foreclosure company, a cashier’s check clutched in his sweaty palm. He hummed tunelessly. He’d gotten the Wheeler house for a song. Turns out the shady past of its newly deceased owner suppressed interest in the otherwise desirable home. Nothing he liked better than a bargain. Not that he wouldn’t have outbid anyone there. He had a gut feeling there was something hidden in the house that he needed to find.
The receptionist handed an envelope to the person in front of him, and Delgado surged forward, brushing the man aside.
“Hey, doll,” he said to the woman on the other side of the counter. She was young enough to be his daughter. “What’s a good lookin’ gal like you doin’ cooped up in this dump?”
“May I help you, sir?” she replied in clipped tones.
“In many ways, my dear. Maybe we can talk about them over a drink?”
She stared at him and remained silent.
Delgado cleared his throat. If this dumb broad wasn’t interested in having some fun with one of the richest men in town, to hell with her. “I’m here to pay my bid. I bought the Wheeler house—the former Wheeler house—at yesterday’s foreclosure auction.”
“Address?” she responded, turning to her computer screen.
“1842 West Sycamore,” he said.
She scrolled and found the entry for that address. “Your identification, please,” she said, turning to him.
“C’mon, doll. You have to know who I am. Chuck Delgado. Council Member Chuck Delgado.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”
Delgado shoved his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it to her, and it skittered across the desk top and landed on the floor behind her. She threw him an icy glare as she rolled her chair around and reached down to retrieve it. She held up the license and made the comparison.
“Payment, please,” she said.
Delgado handed her the check, now wrinkled and soggy. She unfolded it, touching it only by the corners. She verified the amount against her computer screen, flipped it over, and stamped the back before slipping it into a drawer.
“Where’s my key?” Delgado demanded.
Ignoring him, she unlocked the cabinet behind her and sorted through a stack of envelopes until she found the one marked “1842 W Sycamore.” She removed the key from the envelope, laid it on the counter, and turned her attention to the next person in line.
Delgado didn’t step aside. “What about the deed? Where’s my deed?”
“We’ll mail it to you next week, ex-Council Member Delgado. I believe you got thrown out of office when you got arrested?”
Delgado spun on his heel and marched out the door. Dumb broad. Some people didn’t know who they were messin’ with. He’d be back in his council seat before Christmas.
***
The following day, Delgado lurched to his feet and staggered to the exterior stairway leading from his office to the parking lot where his car was sloppily angled in its usual spot next to the dumpster. He teetered on the top landing and grabbed for the handrail. Maybe he was a little too far gone to be driving, he thought.
One cheeky broad shouldn’t send him to the bottle. What had he been thinking? He wanted to poke around the Wheeler house himself—to see if that bastard Wheeler had left something behind that would sink them all. At the very least, he needed to make sure the place was locked up.
Delgado stepped onto the top step and came down heavily on his generous backside. He wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. He gathered himself and stumbled back into his office, slid into his desk chair, and dialed the familiar number.
“After you see the lights go out at Rosemont tonight, go by Wheeler’s place on Sycamore. I bought it at the foreclosure yesterday. Just make sure it’s all locked up. Don’t go in or anything,” Delgado suddenly sounded sober. “You can come by my office to get the key. I’m workin’ late tonight and don’t wanna be disturbed,” he said, trying his best not to slur his words. “I’ll leave it in an envelope at the top of the stairs.”
Delgado smirked as he hung up the phone. It was nice to have reliable help.
***
The driver in the sedan waited until the light in the windows at Rosemont—the ones he assumed were in the master bedroom—had remained out for a least fifteen minutes. Time to attend to more interesting matters. He swung the sedan out of his regular spot in the clearing below Rosemont and proceeded to his boss’s liquor store, where he retrieved the key as instructed.
He drove slowly down West Sycamore. It was almost midnight. The only light he saw from within the handsome residences lining the street was the pale blue flicker of a television set in the front room of a house four doors down from his destination. He angled his car into the shadow cast by a tree across from the Wheeler house and quietly got out of the car. His gut told him to lay low, and he always listened to his gut.
He crossed the lawn and went up the front steps in a matter of seconds. The door was locked. He hesitated, then went to the back of the house, fingering the key. The back door was firmly secured as well. He trampled the bushes in the flower bed below a window to the left of the back door and peered into the laundry room. He removed the flashlight from his pocket and shone it into the room. Other than dust bunnies and dried leaves, all he noted was the baseboards that he’d seen David Wheeler pulling away from the walls. He rocked back on his heels, thinking.
The man pulled out his cell phone. The call went to voice mail after the fifth ring. Delgado was most likely in a drunken stupor. “The house is all locked up,” he left the message in Delgado’s voice mail box. “It was locked when I got here.”
He turned to leave and noted the small, detached garage at the back of the property. Judging by the disrepair of the driveway, he guessed it hadn’t been used for its intended purpose in years. They probably stored junk in it that should have been thrown away in the first place. He hesitated, then wandered in its direction. Why had Delgado been so adamant that he not enter the house, anyway? Didn’t he trust him?
He tried to lift the heavy wooden garage door but it was painted shut. He switched on his flashlight and trained it along the side of the building. Nestled in the wall was a windowless door. He picked his w
ay to it along the narrow walkway. The knob turned and the door yielded to gentle pressure, swinging in to reveal a jumbled mess of old tires, Christmas lights, a broken-down jungle gym, and stacks of newspapers. Even in the dim light, he could see the undisturbed blanket of dust covering every surface.
He trained his flashlight across the room. His boss owned all of this junk now. Delgado’s next call would probably be for him to clean up this mess. The man bristled. That idiot didn’t deserve him.
He was about to retrace his steps and exit the garage when his flashlight settled on an unusual feature in the abandoned, decrepit structure. Someone had taken the time to install baseboards. Clean and unblemished, they must have been added recently. Puzzled, he bent down for a closer look. The work had been shoddy, with a three-eighths-inch gap bowing out from the wall in the middle of the longest run.
He trained his light into the gap and thought he saw a piece of paper. He took his car key, shoved it into the gap, and pried the baseboard from its moorings. Three sheets of paper clung to the wall. He quickly plucked them from their hiding place and spread them on the floor. All three sheets were covered with neatly written lists of numbers.
The man turned the papers over, looking for a key to explain them. He came up empty-handed.
Taking great pains to ease the door noiselessly into place behind him, he locked the garage and returned to his car. He picked up his phone to call Delgado, then stopped. He had no idea what these numbers meant, but his gut told him that these papers were what Delgado was hoping to find. They were the reason he’d bought this house at foreclosure in the first place.
The man smiled. Maybe—just maybe—he’d stumbled upon something valuable. He could always give the papers to Delgado later, and he’d be none the wiser. He’d hang onto them for now to see what developed. It was good to save something for a rainy day, his mother always told him. He smiled; his mom would be proud.
Chapter 29
Maggie leaned into the microphone in front of her. “This meeting of the Westbury Town Council is adjourned.” She pushed back her chair and turned to Tim Knudsen.
Drawing Close: The Fourth Novel in the Rosemont Series Page 12