Susannah contemplated Linda’s statement. “Maybe you’re right. A lost soul pondering coming to services.”
At the counter, the manager informed them that their lunches had been paid for.
“Well, that takes the sting out of getting water spilled all over me,” Susannah said.
They wandered the block together, Susannah chatting mindlessly, parting ways at the corner light.
On the spur of the moment, Linda chose to walk out of her way. She strolled along leisurely before speaking. “Did Phil get what you need?”
“He did. I’ll send it to the lab with orders to expedite testing. Still, it will probably take a couple of weeks. We can’t risk her DNA being contaminated again. I’m also getting my sergeant involved as an extra precaution.”
As she stepped down the crowded street, Linda realized her hands were still shaking.
53
FRIDAY, JULY 25, 2003 ST. CHARLES, MISSOURI RUTH PERKINS’S HOME
After eleven long days, Ruth was still in the hospital, and Emma was bone tired. She was having difficulty accepting her mother’s stroke had been more severe than originally diagnosed. Her mother couldn’t speak and had difficulty swallowing. The paralysis worsened the situation. Emma visited every morning and evening, often tenderly feeding her mother a meal. She talked to her constantly, but Ruth’s distant eyes told Emma she didn’t recognize her only daughter.
She sat at Ruth’s upstairs desk. The reality was setting in—she and Jack knew little about her mother’s finances. She opened a drawer, looking deep into the space. Emma recognized her father’s gun case. It was unlocked; the Smith and Wesson was tucked inside. She laid the gun and ammunition on the desk. Handling the gun, Emma thought back to her father teaching her to shoot. She smiled at the memory of Sunday afternoon outings of target practice, shooting tin cans off a country fence.
The revolver’s chamber was fully loaded. Shocked, Emma removed the bullets and yelled for Jack to join her.
“Jack!”
Emma held the gun, dropping the bullets into the pocket of her sweater and walked out to the hall. She peered at her spouse below. He held an open manila file folder on his lap; when he looked up at her, his brow furrowed in distress.
“You need to come down here.”
Emma walked the carpeted steps fast. “What is it?”
Jack saw the Smith and Wesson in Emma’s hand. “Isn’t that your dad’s gun? I hope it isn’t loaded.”
“It was.” She moved closer to Jack. “What have you found?”
“Ruth’s bank accounts, and she doesn’t have as much money as we thought. The file had fallen behind the drawer. Look at this.”
He handed Emma the folder, and she sat down hard in the chair crosswise from him.
Labeled “Donations,” Emma mutely flicked through the letters of thanks for her generous contributions to The Road to Calvary: ten thousand dollars, fifteen thousand dollars, and fifty thousand dollars for a stained-glass window written in July. Emma’s chest was tight, the air dry. Jack pushed another folder titled JSI toward her.
Emma opened it and huffed. Inside laid a check photocopy for two-hundred thousand dollars, written to JSI. “Damn it!” she screamed, and tears of fury sprang from her eyes. “She promised me she wouldn’t have any more to do with them. My own mother lied to me!”
Jack reached out and put a hand on Emma’s quaking forearm. “I know this looks damaging, Em. But I thought your dad invested in blue-chip stocks, leaving Ruth secure. We’ll have to meet with her financial team.”
The manila file shook in her hands. “I think I figured out what the JSI stands for,” Emma sniffled.
He patted her arm. “What?”
“Jesus Saves Investments,” she stated flatly. “It’s hard to accept she could fall prey to schemes like this. Mom is going to need every cent just to live in a decent place with excellent care. We can sell the house, sure, but how long will that take? My mother shouldn’t live in some hell-hole shack. She deserves better.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket to blow her nose.
“Let’s arrange a meeting with her legal and financial advisors. They’ll have a better idea of her real assets.” He took the revolver out of his wife’s quivering hands. “Give me that and all the bullets, too. Emotions are running high, and access to a firearm is not a good idea.”
Emma glowered at her husband in irritation. She couldn’t believe what he was insinuating and dumped the gun in his lap. “Jesus, Jack, you’re being ridiculous.”
54
THURSDAY, JULY 31, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LEGAL OFFICES OF BAYLOR AND WHITE
Emma and Jack walked out of the elevator into the sleek offices of Baylor and White and let the brisk receptionist know they had a ten o’clock appointment.
“Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, there’s drinks at the coffee bar. Have a seat. Mr. Osborne will be with you shortly.”
Sleep had not found Emma easily. Any rest was transient at best. With so much at risk, she had lain awake for nights worried about what the future might bring. She declined the receptionist’s offer of coffee—she was wound up enough.
“Remember,” Jack whispered. “Let’s hear what they have to say before we start making demands.”
Emma grudgingly shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, I know.”
Mr. White didn’t keep them waiting. “Both your mother’s accountant, Louis Osborne, and financial planner, Raymond Kyle, are here.” He motioned for Emma and Jack to follow him past busy junior associates to a glass-walled conference room.
Introductions were exchanged, and Emma noted no small talk ensued as Mr. White got right to business. “Mrs. Duncan, your mother made some changes to her will in June. I apologize for not having gotten copies sent to the house yet, which is why you couldn’t find it.” He shoved documents toward them.
“What kind of changes?” Emma asked, trying to keep the testiness out of her voice.
The attorney directed them to page seven. “Ruth is no longer giving you any proceeds from the sale of her home in the event of her death. Instead, that money is to be donated to a religious organization she’s listed, The Road to Calvary.”
Emma looked at Jack wide-eyed. “What? It’s not a religious organization. It’s a program, run by a fucking televangelist here in St. Louis. I will contest this will in court!”
Mr. White forced a smile. “I’m sorry this is upsetting to you, but—”
She cut him off and zeroed in on the accountant and Mr. Kyle. “My mother also gave this organization over one hundred thousand dollars in less than eighteen months, Mr. Osborne. And then, we found paperwork that she invested two-hundred thousand in a fund called Jesus Saves Investments. Did either of you know about this?”
Mr. Osborne folded his hands. “Only recently was I made aware of your mother’s intentions. After she had given the first one hundred thousand, she asked me if she could comfortably continue contributing—”
“And you didn’t think to stop her?” To her dismay, Emma saw spittle flying out of her mouth.
Raymond Kyle spoke up, his palms open. “I did know of the investing, and I strongly counseled Ruth against it. But, the client has the final say. However, I have additional unfortunate news.”
Jack put a protective arm around Emma’s shoulder, and she fought to keep her voice from cracking. “Let’s have it then.”
Mr. Kyle spread manicured hands over a file. “Three factors converged for a ‘perfect storm’ if you will, to severely impact Mrs. Perkins’s finances. Are either of you familiar with the Enron Corporation and the ensuing collapse?”
Emma knew she’d heard the name somewhere—the news maybe? She frowned and looked at her husband for input.
Jack squeezed her shoulders tenderly as he spoke. “Enron was an energy company that filed for bankruptcy last year. I believe they were the largest American company to ever do so.”
“That’s correct. Your father bought Enron stock in the 1980s when the company was starting out.” Kyle slid
a colored graph over to Emma and Jack. “For years, Enron was a superior investment. Orville continued to buy the stock until his death, making him and Ruth millionaires on paper.”
Emma viewed the graph of Enron stock soaring upward until December 2001. She felt her skin becoming wet and clammy, but she nodded for Kyle to continue.
“At the time, I suggested Ruth dump her Enron stock, explaining she would take a substantial loss. Your mother is of the generation where women often didn’t get involved in the financial aspects of things. She insisted that since Orville had been right for such a long stretch, the stock was sure to rebound once Enron was sold. That deal fell through; and by the time Ruth understood the gravity of the situation, the stock was worthless.”
Emma fought back tears. She recalled her mother hadn’t written her first check until after her father died, a process Emma had to school her in. Her bottom lip trembling, she posed a statement and a question. “She never spoke of losing the Enron money to anyone. But I thought she had other investments and her pension from teaching. Is that money gone, too?”
Mr. Osborne’s face was sympathetic. “I am so sorry. I understand this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
Raymond Kyle’s tan features were troubled. “The news is not going to get better,” he said, his voice solemn. “Up until 2002, Ruth still had a large amount of money in the stock market outside of Enron. Last year was a bear market. She sold off a larger portion of her portfolio than either Louis or I recommended; but in 2003, the market has been on the upswing, and she was making gains. Then we discovered Ruth had taken out two hundred thousand to invest in the religious-based JSI fund you mentioned.”
Emma’s wailing cries interrupted him. “I knew it! Oh, my God, Jack, what has she done?”
Jack enveloped his sobbing wife in his strong arms.
Mr. White poured Emma a glass of water, and she drank it down.
“We believe this entire organization is fraudulent, taking advantage of people,” Jack said, gently rocking Emma back and forth.
Mr. White took notes on a rapidly filling legal pad. “We need the names of others who invested in this fund who can corroborate that the organization is fraudulent. If it’s a Ponzi-type scheme, it could be awhile before other investors come forward. The IRS will review their 501(c)(3) status. We may have a chance at getting some of the funds Ruth donated back. I can’t promise the outcome will be in our favor, but we’ll pursue it.”
Emma dabbed at her moist eyes with a tissue. “How can we do that?”
The lawyer stopped writing for a moment, facing them squarely. “Historically, US law operated on the principle that once a gift was given, it couldn’t be taken back. Around ten years ago that started to change, with some courts giving donors greater control over their gifts, but enforcement varies by state. Let me research this, starting with whether Missouri has a Uniform Trust Code.”
“Even a ballpark figure of the money Ruth has left would be helpful,” Jack said, releasing Emma from his hold.
“We understand the urgency,” Mr. Osborne added. “Raymond and I will begin a thorough accounting of Mrs. Perkins’s assets. The estate isn’t terribly large, so we’ll have numbers to you in a matter of days.”
Emma realized she was panting. Grabbing Jack’s hand again, she thanked the men. “The state of my mother’s finances has been a great shock. I’m desperately hoping you find more money.”
55
FRIDAY, AUGUST 8, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI RAY AND SUSANNAH’S HOME
Ray was home early, hoping to surprise his bride. He thought they might have dinner at a restaurant they had been wanting to try, and then . . . He smiled to himself as he reached the mailbox.
He sorted the pile—the usual bills, magazines, and a letter from his financial advisor. That’s odd. I already got my quarterly statement, Ray thought. He carried the stack into the house, found a letter opener, and slit it open.
Ray read the statement twice. This was a confirmation letter that twenty-five thousand dollars had been withdrawn from the account. What the hell? It was a beautiful Friday in late summer, and his financial advisor was probably on a golf course. Nevertheless, he called the office number.
His advisor, Shaun, hadn’t left yet.
“Hi, Shaun. This is Ray Williams, and I have a question.”
“Sure,” the young man said. “What can I do for you?”
“I received a confirmation notice in today’s mail that I withdrew twenty-five thousand from my portfolio. I don’t recall that being discussed at our quarterly meeting.”
“Right. The plan was to keep your holdings as is. I’ll pull up your account,” Shaun said as computer keys clacked in Ray’s ear. “Susannah Williams made the withdrawal on Thursday, July thirty-first. Mrs. Williams met with Amy Schultz.”
“Can I speak with Ms. Schultz please?” Ray was infuriated.
“Amy’s on vacation until Tuesday the twelfth. I can give you her voicemail or find another associate. Both your names are on the account,” Shaun said, as if trying to calm Ray by reminding him that Ray was not the sole person with access.
“Give me her voicemail,” Ray responded briskly. “Thanks for your assistance.”
That evening, Ray sat in the living room recliner, listening to his wife trying to explain why the funds were missing.
“We’re married, Ray! I shouldn’t have to ask permission to withdraw our money!” Susannah was defensive, arms tight over her chest, standing rigidly before him.
“Susannah, twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money. It has nothing to do with your asking my permission—”
“Oh, I think it does,” she replied sharply. “You don’t trust me, Ray. I was going to tell you, but not now.”
Ray felt the clench of his jaw tighten. “I do trust you. But as your husband, I have a right to know how our money is being spent. And why not tell me now?”
“Because it’s for us,” she spat. “If I tell you too soon, it will ruin everything.”
Ray stood. “Tell me!” he nearly shouted at her.
Susannah waved him off. “I can’t talk to you right now,” she yelled, stomping from the room.
He decided against following her, mulling over her words, their screaming argument on endless repeat in his head.
A few minutes later, Susannah handed him a large whiskey and 7 Up. “I’m going out for a long walk. Maybe this will calm you down.”
Ray accepted the glass and heard the back door slam. He needed to be reasonable and work this out. He drank deeply. The Marker’s Mark was strong, the drink was sweet, and he relaxed.
SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 9, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDO
Linda had found a Pilates class she enjoyed and was happy to keep her exercise routine consistent. Waiting for DNA confirmation became excruciating, as was watching the days slip by. She had returned home, still dressed in workout clothes, when the doorbell rang.
That’s interesting, Malachi didn’t mention anything about meeting. Who else could it be?
She peered through the peephole to see a deliveryman holding an exquisite arrangement of brilliantly hued flowers. Embarrassed her attire wasn’t more appropriate, she cracked the door a sliver.
“Ms. Sinclair?”
“That’s me,” she responded cheerfully. Gorgeous flowers were arranged in a crystal vase. These must be from Ray and Susannah for my donation.
“Quite beautiful,” the deliveryman commented. “Enjoy them.”
Linda brought the arrangement into the kitchen, gingerly removing it from the plastic bag. She opened the card, expecting a note from the Williamses.
Linda,
Thought some fresh flowers would give your spirits a lift. It’s been a tough haul, but we’re almost there. You’ve done an outstanding job.
M
The last person to send her flowers had been Tom. Linda wasn’t sure what to think. This was a lovely gesture on Malachi’s part, but was it an implication of something deeper
? She had feelings for him that went beyond just being partners. Linda had known since that night in the parking garage when the out-of-control car nearly hit them. He’d pulled her aside and held her so tenderly. She had been comfortable in his arms, placing shaking hands on his forearm without realizing it until later. Did Malachi have feelings for her, too?
She caught herself spinning fantasies, admonishing herself to stop. We are caring partners, nothing else.
Placing the flowers in the dining room, Linda pushed any thoughts of romance aside and went to shower.
56
SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, EARLY AFTERNOON ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI RAY AND SUSANNAH’S HOME
Ray woke up in the leather living room recliner with a blanket tucked around him. He pushed the chair into an upright position and rubbed the back of his neck. His muscles were stiff and sore. How long had he been here?
He let out a long sigh, trying to shake off the cobwebs of deep slumber and looked around. There was an empty highball glass on the end table next to his chair. What time is it? Ray looked at his watch—one thirty. Glancing into the kitchen, he saw brilliant sunshine against an indigo sky. So, it must be one thirty in the afternoon on Saturday?
His thoughts were muddled, and he realized he was wearing clothes from the day before. What on earth? Ray’s memory was a blank; he had no recollection of the past several hours.
The house was quiet, and he called out for his wife. “Susannah! Honey, where are you?”
Ray tried to rise from the recliner and was overcome with dizziness. He fell back hard. Why couldn’t he remember anything? And where was Susannah?
Ray picked up the empty glass and smelled it—maybe that would trigger his memory. The oaky whiff of Maker’s Mark filled his nostrils. That was unusual in itself; he rarely drank alcohol.
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