Social Graces

by Dixie Browning

  One thing she definitely could do was clean her house. That accomplished, she could start going through her father’s files, looking for whatever he’d wanted her to find that would enable his lawyer to reopen his case posthumously and clear his name.

  There had to be something there. Otherwise, why had he made that strange, hurried request? He could’ve had no way of knowing that he’d be dead within hours of being arrested.

  Bitter? Yes, she was bitter. But grief and bitterness weren’t going to solve any problems, either those facing her here or those she’d left behind.

  She stood, crossed the small room and kicked at the baseboard. “All right, Mickey, your time is up. Sorry, but I’m not in a sharing mood, so pack up your acorns or whatever and move out.”

  By no standards was the house she’d inherited from Achsah Dozier comparable to the one she’d left behind. The original structure might have been modernized at some point since she’d last seen it, but the white paint was peeling rather badly and a few of the faded green shutters dangled from single hinges.

  At least the gingerbread trim on the front eaves was intact. She remembered thinking in terms of a fairy tale when she’d been told as a child that the fancy trim was called gingerbread. The fact that her great-grandmother had actually baked gingerbread that day, the spicy scent greeting them at the front door, had only enhanced the illusion.

  Marian Kuvarky had mentioned that a few years before she’d died, Achsah Dozier had had part of the old back porch turned into another bedroom and bare-bones bath with its own separate entrance, in case she needed live-in help. Since her death, it had occasionally been rented separately. Val briefly considered the possibility and decided that she wasn’t cut out to play landlady.

  On the other hand, unearned income was not to be sneezed at.

  Dropping the shoes and dress she’d been clutching, she headed downstairs in search of cleaning materials. Before she could even consider sleeping in the room, she had to do something about the mice-and-mildew smell, either air it out or scrub it out. It was too cold to air it out.

  It occurred to her that if Ms. Kuvarky had any idea of just how little she knew about the domestic arts, she would never have offered her a job cleaning houses, even as a joke.

  Later that evening Val stepped out of the rust-stained, claw-footed upstairs bathtub onto a monogrammed hand towel. She hadn’t bothered to pack such things as tablecloths, dresser scarves or bath mats, knowing that short of renting a trailer, she had to draw the line somewhere.

  She had augmented the lukewarm water with a kettle of boiling water brought up from the kitchen. One kettle wasn’t enough, but by the time she’d heated another one, the first would be cold, so she’d settled for lukewarm and quick.

  Now, covered in goose bumps, she swaddled her damp body in a huge bath towel. Aside from being grimy and smelly, the house was also drafty. There was a space heater between the tub and the lavatory that helped as long as she didn’t move more than a foot away from the glowing element. At least with all the drafts, carbon monoxide wouldn’t be a problem. As for the danger of an electrical fire, that was another matter.

  Note: have the water heater repaired.

  Note: have the wiring checked.

  Which reminded her—what about insurance?

  “Welcome to the real world, Ms. Bonnard,” she whispered a few minutes later, flipping an 800-count Egyptian-cotton king-sized bottom sheet over the sagging double-bed mattress.

  She’d pulled on a pair of navy satin pajamas, a Peruvian hand-knit sweater jacket and a pair of slipper socks. January or not, wasn’t this supposed to be the sunny south?

  Fortunately, she’d crammed two down-filled duvets in around her suitcases, one of which she’d immediately tossed over the ugly brown plaid sofa downstairs. The other one was miles too large for the double bed, but its familiar paisley cover was comforting. That done, she collected a pen and notepad and settled down for some serious list making, ignoring the reminder from her stomach that except for pretzels, popcorn and two candy bars, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Starting early tomorrow she had a million things to do to make this place even marginally livable before she could concentrate on searching her father’s files for evidence of his innocence.

  Nibbling the white-tipped cap of her Mont Blanc, she reread the shopping list. Table cloth—one had standards, after all. Mattress cover—she definitely didn’t like the looks of that mattress, even after she’d flipped it. Oh, and a bath mat. She’d have to ask where to buy linens here on the island.

  On to the next list. Tea, bagels, other foods, preferably already prepared. Wrinkling her nose, she added mousetraps to the list. And cleaning supplies.

  A clean house was something she’d always taken for granted. After graduating from college she’d lived in small apartments, first in Chicago, then in Manhattan—always in upscale neighborhoods. She had moved back to her father’s house after he’d suffered his first small stroke, and soon after that she’d gotten involved with a few of the local charities. It was what she did best, after all—manage fund-raisers for worthy causes. She had frequently acted as her father’s hostess, although most of his business entertaining had been done at the club.

  Looking back, it had been a comfortable way to coast through life. Not particularly exciting—no major achievements—but certainly comfortable.

  “Definitely room for improvement,” she murmured, her voice echoing hollowly in the old house.

  Tired, hungry, but oddly energized, she surveyed her surroundings. Gone were the familiar French wallpaper in her old bedroom, the mismatched but well-cared-for semi-antique furniture, the faded oriental rug and her eclectic art collection. Here she was confronted by gritty bare floors, dark with layers of varnish—naked, white-painted walls, dusty windows, and the lingering aroma of mouse spoor.

  Okay. She could handle that. The sand, she’d quickly discovered, hid in the cracks between the floorboards so that each time she went over it with a broom, more appeared. She could live with a little sand. This was the beach, after all. Even if she couldn’t see the ocean from here, she could hear it.

  She added window spray and bathroom cleaner to the list, hoping there would be directions on the bottles in case she got into trouble. More paper towels. Sponges. Rubber gloves, although she probably wouldn’t be able to wear them without her hands breaking out. Her skin was inclined to be sensitive.

  Note: take down the for rent sign on the front lawn.

  The lawn itself was a mess, but once she was through scrubbing the entire house, maybe she could paint the front door a bright color to deflect attention from that and the rest of the peeling paint until she could afford to landscape and repaint the entire house. There was nothing wrong with old, but she preferred old and charming to old and neglected.

  One more note: find position that pays in advance.

  Leaning back on the two down-filled pillows, she closed her eyes. “Dad, what am I going to do?” she whispered. “Charlie, Belinda—Miss Mitty, where are you when I need you?”

  The only sound was the plaintive honking of a flock of wild geese flying overhead. It was barely nine o’clock. She never went to bed before eleven, often not until the small hours of the morning.

  Her last memory before sleep claimed her was of her father being led outside to an unmarked car while she stood in the doorway, too stunned even to protest. One of the officers pressed her father’s head down and urged him into the back seat.

  It had been Sunday, the morning of her birthday. Belinda had made blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Frank Bonnard, an early riser, had evidently been in his study. He’d been dressed in flannels, an open-necked white shirt and a navy Shetland sweater when Charlie had answered the door. Val remembered thinking much later that if the ghouls could have stuffed him into a pair of orange coveralls before marching him out in front of the single reporter who had probably tuned in on the police radio and followed them to the Belle Haven address, they’d have don
e it.

  That had been only the beginning. Within hours, the press had swarmed like locusts. Shortly after that the phone calls had started. Despite all the blocking devices, a few people managed to get through with variations ranging from “Where’s my money?” to “Frank Bonnard owes me my pension, dammit. Where is it? What am I supposed to do now?”

  The calls had ended when the police had put taps on all three phone lines. Not until recently had she wondered why they’d ceased. How could the callers have known their calls could be traced?

  The calls had stopped, but not the nightmares. Both asleep and awake, she had replayed the scene that morning back in late September a thousand times. A pale, stiff-faced Charlie stepping back from the wide front door to allow the two men inside. Her father emerging from his study and carefully closing the door behind him. Belinda, one plump hand covering her mouth as she stood in the dining-room doorway.

  In less than twelve hours her father had been dead. Pestered by reporters, auditors and men in bad suits who seemed to think they had every right to invade her home, Val had tried desperately to cram her emotions deep inside her and lock the door. When confronted, she’d quickly learned to answer with one of several replies that included, “I don’t know,” “No comment,” and “My father is innocent.”

  A part of her was still in hiding, but she had to know the truth, even in the unlikely event that the truth turned out to be not what she wanted to hear. Back in Greenwich she’d been too close for any real objectivity. Here, once she settled down to it, she would be able to think clearly. Then at least the callers who wanted to know where their money was would have an answer, even if it was one that wouldn’t do them any good.

  Valerie Bonnard slept heavily that night. Sometime before daybreak she awoke, thinking about the mouse she’d seen and all the others she’d heard and smelled. Were mice carnivorous? They were grain-eaters, weren’t they?

  Oh, God…now she’d never get back to sleep.

  Eyes scrunched tightly shut, she rolled over onto her stomach. On her own firm, pillow-top mattress, prone had been her favorite sleeping position, never mind that her face would be a mass of wrinkles by the time she reached forty. On a mattress that sagged like a hammock, it was a toss-up as to which she’d succumb to first—strangulation or a broken back.

  Grax, if this was your bed, no wonder your back was rounded, she thought guiltily. Her great-grandmother’s given name had been Achsah, pronounced Axa. As a child, Val had shortened it to Grax. From her one brief visit, she remembered the old woman with the laughing blue eyes and short white hair. Wearing a duckbill cap, a cotton print dress and tennis shoes, she’d been working in the yard when they’d driven up. On their way to Hilton Head, her parents had taken a detour along the Outer Banks so that Lola, Val’s mother, could introduce them to her grandmother.

  To a child of seven, the trip had seemed endless. Her parents had bickered constantly in the front seat. Odd that she should remember that now. Looking back, it seemed as if it had been her mother who was reluctant to take the time, not her father.

  They’d spent the night at a motel, but they’d eaten dinner in the small white house in the woods. She remembered thinking even before she’d smelled the gingerbread that it looked like Aunty Em’s house in the Wizard of Oz.

  Grax had served boiled fish—she’d called it drum—mixed with mashed potatoes, raw onions and bits of crisp fried salt pork. As strange as it sounded, it had turned out to be an interesting mixture of flavors and textures.

  Her mother hadn’t touched it. Her father had sampled a few forkfuls. Val, for reasons she could no longer recall, had cleaned off her plate and bragged excessively. She’d eaten two squares of the gingerbread with lemon sauce that had followed.

  That had been both the first and the last time she’d seen her great-grandmother. Two years later her parents had separated. Her father had been given custody—had her mother even asked? At any rate, Lola Bonnard had chosen to live abroad for the next few years, so visitation had been out of the question. Val had gone through the usual stages of wondering if the split had been her fault and scheming to bring her parents together again.

  She would like to think her mother had attended Grax’s funeral but she really didn’t know that, either. Her relationship with Lola Bonnard had never been close, even before the divorce. Since then it had dwindled to an exchange of Christmas cards and the occasional birthday card. It had been her father’s lawyer who’d handled Grax’s bequest, arranging for someone to manage the house as a rental. At the time, Val had been living in Chicago working for a private foundation that funded shelters and basic health services for runaway girls.

  “I’m sorry, Grax,” she whispered now, burdened with a belated sense of guilt. “I’m embarrassed and sorry and I hope you had lots and lots of friends so that you didn’t really miss us.”

  No wonder the house felt so cold and empty. How many strangers had lived here since Grax had died? There was nothing of Achsah Dozier left, no echoes of the old woman’s island brogue that had fascinated Val at the time. No hint of the flowers she’d brought inside from the Cape jasmine bushes that had once bloomed in her yard. Lola had complained about the cloying scent and without a word, Grax had got up and set the vase on the back porch.

  Val made a silent promise that as soon as she got the house cleaned and repaired, she would see what could be done with the yard.

  But first she had to go through those files, discover what it was her father had wanted her to find there, and clear his name. Frank Bonnard had been a good man, an honest man, if something of an impractical dreamer. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

  Two

  John Leo MacBride studied the encrusted mass of plates and cutlery that had been brought up from one of the Nazi submarines sunk during the Second World War off the New England coast. He considered leaving a few as he’d found them instead of soaking them all in an acid solution, prying them apart and cleaning them up. The before-and-after contrast would make a far more interesting display at the small museum that had commissioned the dives.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall of his stepbrother’s garage where he’d set up a temporary workspace a couple of months ago when Will had called, asking for help. So far, about all he’d been able to do was to keep Macy, Will’s wife, from making matters worse. That and stay on the heels of his lawyer, who might as well be back chasing ambulances for all the good he’d done his client.

  Mac had been standing by chiefly to offer moral support, which was more than Macy was doing. Instead, she seemed almost to be enjoying her role as the wife of a man who was currently awaiting trial for embezzlement. She’d had her hair highlighted two days after Will had made bail, and since then had managed to get a fair amount of facetime with the media.

  Bonnard’s daughter, by contrast, had avoided the worst of the feeding frenzy. He could think of a couple of reasons why she might have managed to avoid the spotlight, but social clout didn’t mean her old man wasn’t guilty as sin.

  Will’s only crime, Mac was convinced of it, was being too trusting. Less than a year after being given a partnership, Will had gone down in the corporate shipwreck along with Frank Bonnard, founder and CEO of the privately held financial consulting firm. Bonnard had paid for his sins by dying of a massive heart attack almost before the investigation got underway.

  Will had hired an inept lawyer—an old law-school classmate. A lawyer himself, as well as a CPA, he’d been planning to present his own defense when Mac had talked him out of it. He was sorry now that he had.

  But the money was still missing, and after nearly three months, the trail was murkier than ever. Current thinking was that funds had been bled off gradually over a period of years rather than months, probably funneled from one offshore account to another until it was impossible to trace either the source or the destination.

  No one was talking. Bonnard because he was dead, Will because he was clueless, his lawyer because if the jerk had
ever passed a bar, it wasn’t a bar that served drinks. The guy was a lush.

  Mac had tried his own brand of logic on the case, running down the short list of suspects. The Chief Financial Officer, Sam Hutchinson, had apparently been cleared. Currently on an extended leave of absence to be with his terminally ill wife, he’d been the logical suspect. His computers, his files—everything that bore his fingerprints, had been impounded. He’d come through it all clean. Will liked the guy. Only hours before he’d died, Bonnard himself had vouched for him.

  As for Bonnard, late founder and CEO of Bonnard Financial Consultants, not even death had offered protection. Once the flock of outside auditors dug in, both he and Will had been swept up in the dragnet.

  It was shortly after that that Mac had moved his base of operations from an apartment in Mystic, near the aquarium, to Will’s Greenwich home. He was currently living in the small apartment over the garage, finishing up a few tasks from his last commissioned dive.

  BFC was a small regional firm, nothing like some of the big outfits that had hit the reef over the past few years. Not that the impact on the victims was any less devastating, as BFC had specialized in handling retirement funds for a number of small area businesses.

  To give him credit, back when the economy had taken a dive a few years ago, Bonnard had borrowed heavily against his fancy house and pumped the funds back into the company, a fact that had quickly come to light. It didn’t exactly fit the profile of a high-level embezzler to Mac’s way of thinking, unless at the same time he’d been shoring up the business with one hand to allay suspicions, he’d been bleeding off profits with the other. Slick trick, if you could pull it off.