“What’s wrong, Andrea?” Natalie asked softly. “Did Mom say something about a gift for me? Did you talk her out of it—or think you had?”
“I said I’m done!” Andrea shrieked. “Get out before I scream for Austin.”
“Fine.” Natalie stood. “I’ll find other ways to pursue this. Call me if you decide to explain why it upsets you so much. Or if you don’t want to share it with me, share it with the police. They’re curious about the money. I’ll suggest they contact you.” She picked up her purse and strode out of Andrea’s elegant house.
Chapter 25
Natalie felt too emotionally rumpled for smooth hair, a tweed pencil skirt, and a sleek red sweater, but showing up to work in a hoodie and pajama pants with her hair in a sloppy ponytail wouldn’t elicit much confidence from her clients. She had a responsibility to look competent and professional, and she would achieve that no matter what emotions stormed inside her.
She’d deliberately arrived early so she could hide in her office before any of her colleagues arrived, and now, instead of being productive, she sat slumped in her chair, reviewing things she wished she’d never had to think about in the first place.
Had the police talked to Jonas yet in response to Gideon’s report? If Jonas—or Lacey—was clearly guilty and the money in Dante’s filing cabinet had nothing to do with Camille’s murder, would the police continue to investigate the money and Natalie’s connection to it? She had no idea. A hoard of cash was odd, but if they couldn’t link it to a crime, they’d probably turn to more important cases.
Whether or not they wanted answers, Natalie did, no matter how much Andrea didn’t want her to find them. She had no idea if Andrea’s over-the-top reaction indicated anything besides her desperate need to make sure everyone—especially Natalie—knew she’d been so favored that every cent of the family wealth had gone to her. Regardless, today Natalie would mention her conversation with Andrea to the police. It wouldn’t be wise to abandon the possibility that Andrea knew something until Turner and Bartholomew had investigated her.
Granted, the cost of notifying the police would be Andrea haranguing her for the next decade for being so spiteful and jealous that she’d called the police on her own sister. Fine. Send me that bill.
Natalie had never told Andrea about the birthday gift their mother had sent a few months before her death. She assumed Andrea didn’t know—if she’d known, she would have done her best to taint the gift, maybe by claiming Mom had been doped up on painkillers when she’d sent it and didn’t know what she was doing or that she’d gloated about unloading old soap flowers on Natalie because Natalie didn’t deserve anything of value.
But their mother had known Natalie loved the intricate soaps she’d carved. There must have been some affection when she’d decided to send them, some desire for connection.
Could that money in Dante’s filing cabinet have been from her mother? A trace of acknowledgment, a farewell wisp of affection for Natalie, something her mother had arranged with Dante independent of her official will? Could it be money she had wanted presented to Natalie several years down the road, maybe on a significant birthday or as a wedding gift?
If so, why an unconventional, secret approach with no backup plan—resulting in the money remaining undelivered in Dante’s filing cabinet? Had their mother been attempting to avoid conflict with Andrea?
How domineering had Andrea been in those last months of their mother’s life? Roxanne had always been able to stand up for herself, but how much had cancer weakened her willpower? Had Andrea achieved such control over her at the end that Roxanne had taken a roundabout path to leaving a gift for Natalie, skirting Andrea’s pressure and manipulation?
If she wanted to talk to someone who’d witnessed the dynamics between Andrea and their mother near the end of her life, she should talk to Skyler.
The only time they’d talked about Roxanne was the first time they’d met, when he’d come to the office to discuss the possibility of joining the practice. Since Andrea had told him about the opening and recommended him, he’d known Natalie and Andrea were sisters. Natalie had told him her mother had appreciated his skill and had praised him abundantly—not mentioning that she knew her mother’s opinion only through Andrea since Roxanne wouldn’t speak to her. Skyler had smiled and commented on Roxanne’s strength and grit without revealing if he knew anything of their estrangement. They’d never brought up the topic again. Natalie hadn’t wanted to discuss it; she’d figured anything Skyler could tell her would involve bitter humiliation.
She was willing to risk humiliation now if there was a chance of getting information that could help her figure out Andrea’s attitude. Was Skyler at the office this morning, or was he at the physical therapy center? If he wasn’t here yet, she’d check with Jeanne to find out today’s schedule.
She located him in the break room, toasting a bagel.
“’Morning, Nat,” he said. “You doing okay?”
“Yes.” Natalie came to stand next to him so she wouldn’t broadcast her question to the entire office. “Do you remember my sister, Andrea? She always brought my mother to her PT appointments.”
“Sure do.”
“I had a . . . somewhat incomprehensible argument with her last night, and it relates to my mother. I understand you can’t give me any medical information, but that’s not what I want. I want to know what you thought of Andrea and my mother, the interaction between them. Anything you can tell me.”
Skyler peeled open a packet of cream cheese. “What was your argument about?”
“Good morning, folks.” Kirk strolled through the doorway. “Where’s the coconut bread, Hudson? Vicki’s famous coconut bread. You swore you’d bring it today.”
“Yeah, oops. I was going to pick some up from her apartment last night, but I forgot again. I’ll bring it tomorrow, all right?”
“Great. I’ll starve to death.” Kirk set his oversized coffee mug on the table. “That bread was my breakfast. Are you going to share that bagel?”
“Not a chance.” Skyler plucked it out of the toaster.
Jeanne wandered into the room. “What smells so good?”
“A bagel he won’t share.” Kirk settled into a chair and started scrolling down his phone.
“Top-of-the-line blueberry.” Skyler smeared cream cheese on the bagel. “Get your lazy carcasses to the bakery and buy your own.”
Natalie took an apple from the basket on the counter to make it appear she’d had a reason for standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Skyler. She’d have to corner him later. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in front of anyone else, even Kirk and Jeanne.
Skyler sandwiched the bagel halves together, caught Natalie’s eye, and started toward the door, holding his breakfast in a napkin. She followed.
In the hallway, he said quietly, “I’m thinking this isn’t a workplace conversation. I can call you later, or you know what? Face-to-face would be better. What’s your schedule tonight?”
“I’m flexible.”
“Would it work if I drop by your house? I’m not sure if I know anything that would help you understand whatever Andrea’s up to, but I’ll tell you whatever I can.”
“I’d appreciate that. What time?”
“Eight?”
“Fine.”
“Text me your address.” He took a bite of his bagel and headed back into the break room. Hoping he wouldn’t mention her question to Kirk and Jeanne, Natalie headed back to her office.
Her cell phone was buzzing on her desk. She picked it up. “Hello, this is Natalie.”
“Dr. Marsh, this is Abe Bartholomew from the Ohneka Police. We have a few questions for you. Would you be able to stop by the police department sometime today?”
Partly desperate for an update and partly afraid this meant they were closer to arresting her, she said, “I could come either on my lunch hour or after work.” At least this would be a good opportunity to discuss Andrea.
“Let’s go
for the lunch hour. What time?”
“I could be there at a quarter past one.”
“See you then. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Natalie hung up and stashed her phone in her desk. She hoped Jeanne wouldn’t have to notify her afternoon clients that their appointments were canceled because their therapist was in jail. That wouldn’t help anybody’s progress. You can trust me. Yes, I’m a felon in my spare time, but let’s talk about you.
At lunchtime, Natalie pulled out the sandwich she’d planned to eat quickly before leaving for her interview, then stowed it back in the fridge, not wanting to combine a ham sandwich with a nervous stomach. She’d eat after the interview. If she was feeling better then. If she wasn’t behind bars.
Bartholomew met her in the lobby of the police department. “Good afternoon,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I haven’t figured that out,” she said.
“Understandable.” He led her to the same comfortable room where he’d talked to her the other night when she’d come with Gideon. Pale green walls, padded chairs, an oak table, the smell of new carpet.
“Have a seat,” he said. “To get the formalities out of the way, you’re not being detained. You’re free to leave at any time.”
“Thank you.” How had her life become so screwy that the message that evoked the most positive emotions was “We’re not arresting you yet”?
“Dr. Marsh. May I call you Natalie?”
“Of course. We’ve been friends long enough to use first names.”
He grinned and passed Natalie a chilled water bottle. He opened two plastic containers and set them in the middle of the table: one contained grape clusters, strawberries, and pineapple chunks; the other contained cubes of cheese and different types of crackers.
“I haven’t eaten lunch, and I’m guessing you haven’t either.” He sat on the opposite side of the table. “Feel free to help yourself while we talk.”
“Are you sure you’re doing this right?” Natalie asked. “I thought the bad-cop part was supposed to come first.”
“Yeah, usually, but Turner’s busy right now.”
Natalie laughed. Turner had never been remotely bad-cop either.
“Gideon Radcliffe called us,” Bartholomew said. “He reported witnessing Jonas Egan coming to your house and speaking to you in a threatening way.”
“His manner was aggressive, but he neither touched me nor verbally threatened my safety.”
“Mr. Radcliffe said he warned you not to betray his wife’s confidence or play games with her. He said there seemed to be a professional relationship between you and Mrs. Egan.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
“Understood. Mr. Radcliffe also said Egan asked if it was true that you were friends with Camille Moretti.”
“Yes, he asked me that, but I didn’t give him any information about our friendship.”
“We spoke to Mr. Egan this morning,” Bartholomew said. “He told us Lacey was a client of yours and you’d been treating her for anxiety.”
“I can’t confirm that.”
“Understood. We didn’t speak to Mrs. Egan directly; Mr. Egan said she was ill.”
Natalie wasn’t surprised Jonas had prevented Lacey from speaking with the police. He would want to filter Lacey’s information to keep her from incriminating herself . . . or incriminating him. That strategy wouldn’t last. Eventually, the police would demand to speak directly with Lacey.
“Mr. Egan insisted he wasn’t threatening you,” Bartholomew said. “He simply wanted to ensure that you behaved in a professional manner regarding your interaction with his wife.”
“His demeanor was intimidating, as was the fact that he showed up at my unlisted address, but he kept his distance. His only direct threat was to sue me.”
Bartholomew slid the food closer to Natalie. She took a cube of cheddar and a sesame cracker.
“Are you free to give me an update on the investigation?” she asked.
“Neither of the Egans is under arrest. The investigation into Mrs. Moretti’s death is ongoing. That’s all I’ve got for you right now.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t ask how serious of a suspect either of the Egans was; Bartholomew wouldn’t hand her that information. She swallowed a final bite of sesame cracker and picked up another one, mulling over how best to bring up Andrea. She didn’t want Bartholomew to think she was being vindictive or ridiculous, urging the police to get involved in a spat between sisters.
Bartholomew waited until she’d finished the second cracker before he spoke again. “Natalie, as you know, we found an envelope in Dante Moretti’s filing cabinet that contained a large amount of cash and was labeled with your name. In trying to discover the significance of the money, we got a warrant to examine Mr. Moretti’s bank records.”
Perspiration dripped down Natalie’s spine. How did people ever pass polygraph tests? She hadn’t committed any crimes, but she still had wet hands and a racing heartbeat. “Did you learn anything?”
“Starting a little less than two years ago, over the course of several months, there were eight deposits made into Mr. Moretti’s account, each for twenty-five thousand dollars. We traced the deposits. The checks came from a bank account belonging to Andrea Marsh, now Andrea Collier.”
“From Andrea!” Natalie gripped her water bottle, cooling her sweaty palm. Never mind figuring out how to start a discussion of Andrea—Bartholomew had that covered.
“Do you have any idea why your sister would have paid Mr. Moretti two hundred thousand dollars?” he asked.
“As I told you before, Dante was my mother’s lawyer. Andrea was taking care of Mom at the end of her life but would have paid bills from a separate account. And I can’t imagine Dante did two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of legal work for my mother.”
“This money was deposited into Mr. Moretti’s personal account, not his business account.”
Mystified, Natalie tried to think why Andrea would have paid Dante for something non-work-related. Had she bought a luxury car from him? Or a boat? If she had, why hadn’t she bragged about it to Natalie?
“I have no idea why she paid him so much money,” Natalie said. “But last night, I visited her to see if she knew anything about the cash you found in Dante’s filing cabinet. She claimed she didn’t but had a disproportionately angry—almost hysterical—reaction to my questions. When I tried to find out why the topic upset her so much, she threw me out.”
“That’s interesting.” Bartholomew popped a grape off the stem. “We talked to her this morning and asked her about the deposits to Mr. Moretti’s account. She told us she’d paid the money to protect you.”
“Me! Protect me from what?”
“Your mother had told you she was excluding you from her will, which was going to cost you a couple million dollars.”
“That’s old news. What does it have to do with protecting me?”
“Naturally you were upset about getting disinherited. You started coping by using prescription drugs. Using, then abusing.”
“She told you what? I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’ve never had a drug problem.”
“Right before your mother died, you tracked Dante Moretti to his home,” Bartholomew said. “You were high, out of your mind. You barged into his house, yelled at him, struck him, and said he’d better say your mother wasn’t legally competent to write a will and get the will invalidated. If he didn’t, you had friends who’d break his legs and arms and throw him in the lake.”
Natalie rested her elbows on the table and braced her forehead on the heels of her hands. “And?”
“Andrea found you there and hauled you away. Mr. Moretti was furious and ready to call the police and have you arrested on a list of charges. Andrea was desperate to protect you, so she offered a bribe: if Moretti would forget what had happened, she’d pay him a large sum of money once she received her inheritance. Moretti was in financial trouble due to a real-
estate deal going belly-up and was frantic for money. They bargained. Andrea swore to keep you under control and to pay the bribe.”
Natalie didn’t lift her head. Her sister had lied about her to the police. Not little fibs, not exaggerations or distorted facts, but enormous, malicious lies aimed to get Natalie in severe legal trouble.
“Natalie?” Bartholomew said.
She met his gaze. To her relief, he didn’t look ready to pull out the handcuffs. The expression on his bony face was cordial and businesslike.
“After this hair-raising story, are you sure I’m not being detained?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll let you know if and when that changes.”
“Did Andrea have an explanation for why Dante would leave me sixteen thousand dollars in an envelope after I attacked him and threatened to have him murdered?”
“She said she didn’t know but had a theory. Moretti was a competitive athlete, a runner willing to do anything to win races. Since you had underground drug connections, once the whole inheritance issue was water under the bridge, she suspects he offered you a pile of cash in exchange for performance-enhancing drugs, but the transaction didn’t go through before he died.”
Oh, Andrea. Really? Now Dante’s a drug user too? “What about the letter?” Natalie asked. “The missing letter Camille told me about. Did Andrea have an explanation for that?”
“She didn’t know but guessed it must have been something incriminating,” Bartholomew said. “Because the night Camille told you about it was the night she died.”
Bartholomew’s words beaded on the surface of her thoughts. Natalie tried to hold them there, seal her mind against them, but they sank, heavy and poisonous. “She’s saying I killed Camille. To hide the information in that letter.”
Bartholomew plucked another grape and ate it, not confirming her words.
It would have been strenuous enough facing a police detective and struggling to keep her head above a flash flood of lies, but knowing the lies came from her sister, that Andrea had painted her as a conscienceless drug addict who’d murdered her best friend while Andrea had portrayed herself as the heroine who’d surrendered a chunk of her inheritance to protect her troubled sister . . . that she was lying in hopes that Natalie would be charged with murder . . .
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