Crazy Like a Fox (Lil & Boris #3) (Lil & Boris Mysteries)

by Shannon Hill

  The fax machine whirred. Tom rose with the slowness of an old man, went over, and retrieved the paper. He shook his head. Punk looked at it, winced, and mumbled, “Not the same guy.”

  I perched on Kim’s desk, staring into the coffee cup that held the office petty cash fund. “Mr. Clay, when I figure it all out, I will let you know, but for right now, I think it’s safe to say this isn’t coming back on you. But I’m going to need to talk to you again. We’ve got a situation here.”

  His tone veered immediately to the professional. “Situation? Define that, please.”

  “What was your old cell phone number?”

  He read it off. It was the one given by the Crazy version of Steven Clay. “But the company cancelled it,” he added.

  “How long did that take?”

  Into his sudden silence, I provided gently, “Because sometimes they don’t take your word for it the phone is stolen, and you have to provide police reports, and even then they may wait till the end of the pay period and then you can end up having to contest the charges and…‌Well, it was still around the holidays, right?”

  Steven Clay hardened from confusion to menace. “I will call them and find out. I will let you know, Sheriff.”

  We ended the call. Punk whistled. I went to Boris, lounging on his cat condo, and pressed my forehead into his soft fur for a moment. Against all odds, my day was going to get worse. I had to go talk to the Ellers.

  ***^***

  Cousin Jack waylaid me before I made it to the cruiser, no mean feat since I parked it about two steps from the door to the office. His Lexus threw up a little gravel from its tires as he stopped, his face flushed and alight. “Lil!” he cried, and flung himself out of the car. “I was just thinking, could your cousin have set this all up?”

  I wasn’t sure Robert Eller Junior could set up a card table, but I didn’t say it out loud. My tact shows up at the strangest times. “What?”

  “I was thinking. His division of Eller Enterprises lost some money, maybe he set up the ransom to cover his losses.”

  I looked at my Littlepage cousin fondly, and wearily. I really did not need any more complications. “Wouldn’t that look a little odd to the accountants? And just how much money did his division lose? And what division is that?”

  “It’s part of their technology division,” said Jack, patting Boris once, quickly, before Boris could react. Boris responded to the insult by marching to the Lexus and anointing its tires behind Jack’s back. “My sources say he lost six-seven million on a recall.”

  I noted that mentally. “So he sets up a kidnap and ransom, takes the money to bolster his books?”

  My cousin nodded enthusiastically.

  I wanted to dismiss it, but I did have two questions that made me hesitate. One was, of course, that the kidnappers’ second call had gone to the direct house line. The other was that eight million had presumably been transferred out of Eller Enterprises accounts. But to where? Right back into an Eller account, with the two million in cash as payment for the henchmen?

  “Thank you, Jack,” I said solemnly. “I was heading up to the Ellers anyway, I’ll see what I find out.”

  He beamed. He hustled away. My head started to hurt from the tension in my neck. I think I mentioned that conspiracies tend to collapse if you involve too many people, or make it too complicated. Cousin Robert being involved would definitely do that.

  On the other hand, I couldn’t quite shake two gnats out of my brain. The first was the presence of a Tiffany’s jewelry box in Kim’s room. The other was knowing that my cousin Robert spent time in New York.

  ***^***

  When Uncle Eller met me on the veranda, I ignored him, and walked right into the house, Boris jauntily riding my shoulder.

  I stopped in the hall.

  Whoa.

  The Littlepage mansion, with which I have a little familiarity, is full of dark, rich antiques and splendor. It’s also, undeniably, a home. Certain chairs are worn and shabby from use. The second-best china has a few tiny cracks in the glaze, a chip or two around the rims of teacups. The place smells of furniture polish and cooking, since the big kitchens provide meals for the dozen or so full-time estate employees as well as the Littlepage family. Which is to say, Cousin Jack.

  The Eller place was a museum.

  Everything shone. Everything gleamed. Everything had the glassy gloss of constant daily care and no actual use. Even the carpets‌—‌Turkish, wool, a delight to the feet and to Boris’s paws‌—‌had the sterile perfection of a gallery. I couldn’t smell anything except a subtle hint of cedar and, possibly, moth balls.

  My cousin Robert greeted me with pale anxiety, probably brought on by the glare his father bestowed on me. “Please, come sit in the drawing room.”

  Who on God’s green earth calls it a drawing room? What does that even mean? I would have to ask Aunt Marge. She’d probably told me at some point, but I’d always been more interested in watching cop shows on TV than high etiquette.

  The furniture was exquisite, I knew that much. Lots of Empire-Jane-Austen-ish pieces. I had no idea where to put my backside until Cousin Robert pulled out a chair. I sat delicately. I prefer mission-style, or arts-and-crafts, and now I knew why. I liked furniture that wouldn’t collapse if I looked at it cross-eyed.

  “What can we do for you, Sheriff?” my cousin asked, and signaled a maid in a uniform to do something.

  “We’re working on clearing up just who exactly was all involved in the kidnapping,” I said. The Littlepage glare is famous for its glacial cold. The Eller glare I was getting from my uncle was burning holes in the back of my head. “There’s only a few details I’d like to go over, for my own satisfaction.”

  My uncle did not sit. He stood behind his son, thin, grim, furious that I was contaminating the house in which my father had been raised. “I do not see why we should entertain your curiosity.”

  The maid returned. The signal had been to fetch refreshments. She bore in a silver tray with a silver teapot and bone china cups. I felt like I’d been sucked into a BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. Even Boris, normally a champion of feline indifference to manners, curled up around my toes in a defensive huddle. I mean, the maid even wore a little white apron, and a hairnet. And little white gloves.

  “You can entertain mine, or you can entertain the state police’s,” I said more harshly than I intended. I sipped the tea. I’m sure it was a fabulous gourmet blend but it made my tongue curl. I managed not to shatter the saucer when I set the cup down. “When the kidnappers called back to arrange for the ransom drop, they called directly to the house. How did they get the number?”

  See, that’s the trick to a question. If I had asked, “Do you know how they got the number?” I would have given the Ellers an out. Now the only out they had was to provide actual information, not a simple yes or no.

  “They asked for it in the first call, of course,” my uncle sniffed.

  I cocked an eyebrow at my cousin. He nodded limply.

  “Fine, thank you,” I said. “Now, the second point. Which one of you asked the K&R consultant to come down?”

  “Ask?” said my uncle. He pulled himself to his full height. Hauteur came off him in near-visible waves. “They came to us, of course.”

  “Robert?” I prodded gently. “Did you call the insurance company?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not my place. After all, it’s Father’s policy.”

  I placed the cup and saucer back on the tray, which rested on a very dainty table, and smiled at my uncle. It hurt my face. “When did you call the insurance company?”

  “I did not.”

  Meanwhile, down by my feet, Boris and his tail stayed still. Not a shiver, not a lash, not even a casual flick against my ankle. As far as my cat knew, they were telling the truth.

  I sat a minute, waiting for the proverbial light to dawn, but it didn’t.

  Amazing. And these guys made millions in profits all the time.

 
I illuminated it for them. “So…‌how did the K&R guy know to come down here if no one called them?”

  There’s a certain narcissism‌—‌beyond simple egotism‌—‌to the very wealthy. I could tell by their bewilderment and indignation that it had not occurred to either Robert Eller that their doings and problems were not somehow magically known, their needs not somehow magically anticipated.

  “I’d like to talk to the housekeeper,” I announced. I smiled nastily at my relatives. “Here will be fine.”

  14.

  I swear I needed a shower less after being kidnapped than I did after forty minutes in the Eller house. The housekeeper had given me very little more information, except to confirm that to her knowledge, neither Eller, nor any of the staff, had called the insurance company. She seemed as put out by the idea such a call was needed as either Eller.

  Aunt Marge had brought supper over to the office. Comfort food, I saw with relief. Mashed potatoes with real cream and butter. Big fluffy biscuits with honey and homemade berry jam. I saw a platter of ribs from Old Mill for the boys, but I’m a good vegetarian. I bee-lined to the starch. To please Aunt Marge, I also took a big steaming cup of her Moroccan tomato soup, and displeased her by loading up on cubes of cheddar cheese.

  “Any calls?”

  “Harry Rucker called, thinks we can get phone records on Kim by tomorrow, but the other company says they still need more time. He’s working on getting the Eller phone records, too.”

  I fed cheese to Boris. “Let me guess. Cousin Jack called him.”

  Tom saluted me with a weak grin. “You got it. Anything from the Ellers?”

  I told what I could, shrugged between bites. “Any word from the ladies, Aunt Marge?”

  “We may know a little something about Kim’s mysterious absences,” she replied. “Myra Hanley down in Gilfoyle says Kim spent some time at the internet café there, quite a bit of time, in fact. Myra knows because she goes there every day for e-mail.”

  I groaned. Not that I thought we’d get records on Kim’s computer use. Especially since she’d been using her own laptop, now missing in action. But a public café? No chance of getting anything there. Too many privacy issues.

  Ironic, when I think about. Privacy would have been why she’d gone to the internet café to do whatever it was she did.

  Well, privacy and pragmatism. We had wireless internet in Crazy, sure, but it was for the Ellers, the Littlepages. Everyone else still had the relatively sluggish DSL from the phone company. Gilfoyle’s internet café boasted the only high-speed wireless internet available to the unwashed masses.

  I noticed the white board had been filled in with the information from the wallpaper at my house. Aunt Marge intercepted my glare. “I gave them the key when Punk told us you had notes there that would be useful, dear.”

  I stifled my temper. Invasion of privacy wasn’t my biggest concern. “Danes call?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Breeden?”

  “Feds said they can do something about the Eller financials in about a week or three.”

  It’s hard to grouse with a mouth full of berry jam and honey, but I was motivated. “And if I ask the Ellers for them directly, they’ll say no just to spite me.”

  Tom slapped his hat against his leg, stood abruptly. “Leave them to me.”

  Punk harrumphed. “No disrespect and all, but what makes you think they’ll let you in the house?”

  Tom’s face was stone and bone. I’d never seen such menace from him, not even at a murder scene. “We’ve fu‌—‌we’ve foxed this up enough,” he said, softening the profanity for Aunt Marge’s sake. “I’m gonna do what we shoulda done to start. And I am acting sheriff here.”

  He stormed out.

  Note to self: Do not get on Tom’s bad side.

  I flipped another cube of cheese to Boris. “The Lincolns hear from Kim?”

  “From what I gathered between Naomi’s sobs, no.” Aunt Marge unbent enough to add, “I am sure Matt would tell us the truth.”

  I ran down a mental checklist. We’d put out the alerts we could put out. We had people trying to get information that we needed. Yep, it was time to sit and wait and sweat.

  There are days I hate this job.

  ***^***

  We’d worked our way through a decadent dessert provided by Aunt Marge‌—‌frozen yogurt topped with honey and dried fruit and nuts and, in a nod to the day, chocolate chips‌—‌when Tom returned. He walked like he had so much on his mind that he might just fall down. Then he sat carefully. He set his hat on his desk. He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in a year. “Lil? How does Maury feel about lawsuits?”

  “He doesn’t like them much. Uncle Eller?”

  Tom nodded. A grin slowly broke through the worry. “But I got the financials. Jack Littlepage wasn’t all wrong.”

  I nearly tore the papers out of his hand. “How’d you do it?”

  “Arrested your cousin for conspiracy to commit kidnap.”

  Not even I would have done that. Admittedly, because I wouldn’t have wanted to face a lecture from Aunt Marge on what is and is not done to family. Even so, I choked.

  Tom blushed a little. “Had the car to the gate before your uncle caved.”

  I’d have paid a year’s salary to see that. “Tom, you’re my hero. That took ba‌—‌that took a hell of a lot of guts. Good for you.”

  Tom settled back, seeming relieved, and helped himself to the rest of the frozen yogurt. I scanned the records. I’m not very good at numbers like that, but the bank transactions were pretty clear. I passed them to Aunt Marge, and said, “I’ll have to get someone to confirm it, but it looks to me like they never paid ten million. They put in a claim for ten, but they only paid out the two they could get in cash. Unless this isn’t all their records.”

  “If it isn’t,” Tom volunteered through a mouth full of yogurt, “I can go back.”

  “Take me with you,” Punk told him, “and I’ll put the old one in cuffs, too. Get us a matched set.”

  I ignored them. Aunt Marge’s eyes are normally warm and sparkling, but right then, they’d put a supernova to shame. “Disgraceful!” she snapped, not quite under her breath. “Look at this! They moved eight million from the father’s account to the son’s, that was all! Oh, I do hope you report this to the insurer!”

  I thought of the real Steven Clay, and grinned. “First thing in the morning,” I promised gleefully. “Cute trick, isn’t it?”

  “Despicable,” Aunt Marge declared, handing back the paperwork. I took a second, longer look at it, one hand rubbing Boris’s neck where his collar rests. He flopped and purred, batting at the papers to get my attention. I didn’t give it. I wondered how the offshore bank that the Ellers used to avoid taxes would feel when they heard about this little shell game. Money from Eller Enterprises’ tech division goes bye-bye. Money from Eller Senior ends up in Eller Junior’s account. Money from insurer ends up in Eller Senior’s account. Uncle Eller’s account goes back to where it had been, all the zeroes intact. Meanwhile, the eight million transferred to Cousin Robert makes its way to the hurting tech division, leaving Cousin Robert’s account back where it started. Maybe the bank wouldn’t care. Then again, maybe they’d care once the insurance company came calling.

  I put the papers aside, to fax to Steven Clay in the morning. Yeah, yeah, I know. I should’ve been glad they’d thrown two million at the kidnappers to save my ass. What can I say? Insurance fraud takes the edge off my gratitude.

  I was re-reading my notes when the telephone rang. I let Punk get it. I wanted to confirm my new belief that the only ones saying it had been a ten-million-dollar ransom were the Ellers. As far as I could tell, that information had come only from the Ellers. No wonder they’re so rich. They never miss a chance to screw somebody out of their money.

  I heard Punk’s voice, low, abrupt, then a sharp scrape of metal on the floor. I looked up, irritated, to see Tom shoving his chair back. I followed his gaze, and also st
ood in a hurry. Punk’s expression demanded it. “What?” I barked.

  Punk dropped the phone on the cradle, hanging up on whoever had called. “Danes,” he said a little roughly, and cleared his throat. “That was Danes. He took a chance, went up to that moonshiner cabin we found you at. Looking for Winston. Found him, all right. Dead.”

  The blood left my head. Not just my face, not just my brain, my whole head. I swear for a moment the world went white. Then it came back, and I was shaking. “How?”

  “Can’t tell offhand, body’s too bad. Been dead a while. Maybe as long as McElroy.”

  “Jesus,” said Tom, and his voice cracked. “Lil. We gotta find Kim. We just gotta.”

  I took out my cell phone. I needed four tries to dial Breeden’s number. Kim was no longer just a person of interest, a possible suspect. She was a potential victim.

  15.

  It is impossible to do yoga when your head is up your ass.

  Not to say I didn’t keep trying, but we’d been looking for Kim for over forty-eight hours and found no trace of her. Not her car, not her cell phone, nothing. Even if we didn’t suspect her of involvement in the abduction scheme, we’d be worrying. As it was, we were just about frantic.

  Kim’s parents had filed an official missing persons report that morning before church. The minister had said prayers for her. I’d had to leave the church. Half the people piously bowing their heads had spent the previous two days yapping on the phone to each other about why Kim had run off. Rumors ranged from Kim being on drugs to Kim seeking an abortion to Kim running off to Europe with the ransom money. Some people had even begun to mutter a little about the fact my kidnappers were now all dead or missing. All of which I could handle, maybe, but not when I wasn’t sure myself what Kim had done. Or not done. Or could do.

  Like I said, you can’t do yoga when your head is up your ass.

  I shook myself hard. Physically. Arms, hands, legs, feet. Gave my head a roll around on my neck. Then I inhaled deeply, exhaled forcefully, and stared at a tiny spot on the wall. It’s my concentration point. Actually, it’s a dirt smudge from Boris smacking at a bug all one afternoon, but it works. I concentrated on it, and on the zitar music on the CD player. I’d borrowed it from Aunt Marge. It was supposed to soothe me. It was annoying hell out of me.