A Taste of Death

by Suzanne Rossi

  “I have no idea, but I think it might be a good idea to let Nancy see if she can find anything in the Treasurer’s files.”

  “Oh, brother, this is getting worse and worse. Poor Jane, if Fran told her to do something, she did it. I wonder if that’s what caused her to try to kill herself.”

  “Did you see her at the hospital?”

  “No, but I talked to her husband. He said she was upset by a phone call last night and was going to see the caller this morning. He didn’t know who it was. She’s going to be all right, but still…” Anne’s voice trailed off.

  “So, do I keep the nasty stuff in a separate file?”

  “Do we have to keep all of that?” Anne asked.

  “I don’t think so, but…” Rose paused.

  “But what?”

  “She exchanged e-mails with board members after the election trying to get them to go along with her and declare it fraudulent.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the exchanges are all on one big e-mail, nobody bothered to truncate it, but Madge Conway, the other secretary candidate, was the only one to agree with her. Jane was noncommittal as usual, Ellie said no, but Kathy Samuels told her in no uncertain terms to get over it, to which Fran replied—and I quote—‘I will remember this. You should have more loyalty to me and to the chapter. Anne Jamieson is a troublemaker and her involvement in the murder of Dorie Powell shows she has no business even being in the chapter. I suggest you rethink my suggestion of declaring the election null and void. It only takes three of us. I can talk Jane into it.’ Kathy replied no again. Then Fran calls her a disloyal bitch.”

  “I don’t think we need to keep that in the files. It’s petty and does no one any good.”

  “I agree.”

  Anne swiped her lipstick over her lips. “Besides, I don’t think that part about only three board members need to declare the election void is right. The rank and file membership would also have to okay it.”

  “You’re probably right. And this from a president who made herself secretary last year when the woman who held the position moved.”

  “She sure didn’t follow the by-laws, did she? Keep what you think is relevant and dump the rest.”

  “Will do. Have a good evening.”

  She laughed. “I intend to. Gil and I are going out to dinner.”

  Rose hung up with a chuckle.

  Anne rose, smoothed a hand over her hair, and headed downstairs. Is there no one whom Fran didn’t insult or piss off?

  Gil arrived as she hit the foyer. He whistled when he saw her.

  Suppressing a giggle, she twirled allowing the full skirt to billow. “I felt like dressing up tonight. I’ve been thinking about Thai food all day.”

  “Well, in that case, let’s not linger.” He smiled, crooked his elbow, and tucked her hand in the bend.

  “So, how was your day?” she asked as they drove to the restaurant. “Did you find out anything from the file I gave you?”

  “Some. The store’s finances are in good shape. The Harrisons cleared in the high five figures a year in sales from it.”

  “Fran’s sister said George used to be a CPA, but now does the buying for the shop.” She paused. “Come to think of it, they lived very well for income from an antique store. I guess her husband did well in the accounting business.”

  “This is just preliminary. I’ll dig deeper if I have to.”

  Gil swung into the parking lot of Thai-Thai, a popular restaurant not far from the beach. They were seated immediately. After ordering wine, they read the menu before deciding on chicken with spring vegetables for her and chicken in red curry sauce for him—both dishes Thai hot.

  When their drinks arrived, Anne told Gil about her day at the antique store, Jane’s attempted suicide, and her talk with Jane’s husband at the hospital.

  “And you think Ms. Whittaker was the woman you overheard in the shop?”

  “I’m not sure, but it makes sense.”

  “How?” Gil asked.

  “Maybe Jane went there to ask George to put the money Fran borrowed back in the chapter’s account and he told her no.”

  “But she’d already resigned, so what would be the point?”

  “I don’t know, maybe to help repair her reputation and avoid possible criminal charges.” She sighed heavily and leaned back. “Yet, her husband said she’d had a phone call last night that upset her and she planned on talking to that person this morning.”

  “And you think that person was George Harrison?”

  She heaved another sigh as the waiter served their food. “What I can’t figure out is why Fran’s husband would call Jane with something that upset her. Unless, of course, the caller was someone else and she saw them first, and then went to the store to ask for the money.”

  “What was the woman’s demeanor in the shop?” Gil asked as he dug into his curry.

  Anne took a bite of her super-spicy chicken and let the heat roll around on her tongue before answering.

  “Her voice was kind of high-pitched, and she was on the verge of tears—you know that sound; kind of a breathless, slightly gasping quality.”

  “My guess is Ms. Whittaker was not in the shop. You heard someone else.”

  “And did the conversation have anything to do with Fran?” she mused. “For all I know it was a vendor.”

  “Don’t see things that aren’t there,” he warned.

  The waiter stopped by and they asked for refills on their wine. The drinks arrived and for a few minutes they concentrated on the food.

  “So, did you talk to the lawyer and private investigator?” she asked when she finished her meal.

  “Attorney hasn’t gotten back with me yet, but the PI called late this afternoon.”

  “Did he have anything important to say? I’m curious. Fran contacting a divorce attorney looks like trouble for George.”

  “The law firm of Crocker, Ryan, and Montgomery not only litigates divorces, but other things as well. They just settled a big case out of court concerning fraudulent advertising. A well-known car dealership was forced to cough up a bundle. Seems their used cars weren’t quite what had been advertised or represented to buyers.”

  “What did the PI have to say?”

  Gil looked her straight in the eyes. “He spoke in generalities, but the gist of it was he was asked to investigate certain offshore banks in the Bahamas, Panama, and the Cayman Islands—by Fran Harrison.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Offshore banks? That’s where criminals hide their ill-gotten gains,” Anne said thinking of Isadora Powell.

  “Not necessarily,” Gil replied taking a sip of his wine. “Sometimes people are considering a move to a foreign country and want some insight into the banking system. It helps if there’s easy access to banks here in the States.”

  “But I never even heard a whisper that Fran and her husband were thinking of moving out of the country.”

  “Maybe she never discussed it with anybody other than her husband.”

  “Or maybe she didn’t plan on including George in the move.” Anne sipped from her wine glass. “But why go through an attorney to hire a private investigator? Why hire a PI for that matter? Just get online and Google what you need to know.”

  Gil smiled. “You are beginning to think like a cop, my love. The same question popped into my head, too.”

  She swirled the wine in her glass and thought. Something didn’t sound right.

  “It doesn’t make sense. Fran was a logical person and a good businesswoman—greedy, but good. And why borrow three grand from the chapter to cover the cost of the investigator? Unless…” she interrupted herself to stare at Gil.

  “Go on, keep working on it.”

  “Unless, she didn’t want her husband to know what she was up to.”

  “If you ever want to quit writing and become a detective, let me know.” He leaned forward. “I’ve already requested more financial and phone records. Plus, I think it’s time to have anoth
er talk with Mr. Harrison. I’m meeting him tomorrow morning at Fran’s Fabulous Finds. And before you ask, no you can’t go.”

  “I wasn’t planning on asking. Besides, he wouldn’t say anything important with me around anyway. Probably won’t say anything important to you either. I wonder if Fran was thinking of taking off with another man. The question is, did good old George know or suspect anything? If he did, that makes for one hell of a motive, plus he put on one smashing performance at the funeral. No, I think I need to dig deeper into these rumors of Fran’s numerous affairs.”

  “Be discreet.”

  “I’m always discreet.” She ignored him rolling his eyes and continued. “Jen is a fountain of information regarding rumors. She’s due back tomorrow. I’ll see what else she may have heard. In the meantime, I’ll make a list of members whom Fran may or may not have wronged.” She shot Gil a keen glance. “The family is usually at the top of the suspect list with something like this. How about George Harrison? Are you investigating him?”

  “We are. He claims to have been at home all morning working on spreadsheets concerning store inventory and expected shipments.”

  “So nobody can verify that.”

  “We could always get a warrant to look at his computer, but as of now, there’s no probable cause. And we still have no motive as to why he’d want his wife dead.”

  “Unless like I said, he got wind of her actions about the banks. Perhaps he discovered her affairs. And maybe those attorneys were gearing up for a divorce.”

  “Let’s see what the attorney has to say when he calls me back. I may be able to persuade them to divulge information.”

  “Gil, I never noticed, but what was the date on that invoice from the attorneys?”

  “May sometime. Not sure of the exact date.”

  “And Fran borrowed three thousand dollars from Beth Whisnant in May. Oh, boy.”

  The waiter stepped up to the table casting a glance at their empty plates.

  “May I get you some coffee or dessert?”

  “Anne?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, thank you. Just the check.”

  The server removed the dishes and returned a minute later with the bill. Gil added the tip, refigured the bill, and tucked his credit card into a slot in the folder.

  “Let me know what you find out from the so-called wronged women,” he said as the waiter disappeared. “However, I do think this is deeper than a love triangle. Something else is going on. And I have a feeling the answer lies in the financial statements.”

  “Anything more on the dead waiter?”

  He shook his head. “The surveillance cameras are set up on the corners of the buildings and near the outside stairwell entrances. Some of them even work. The witness’s statement is corroborated. A guy wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, comes around the corner, meets Wainwright, and they go up the stairs at nine-thirty. He’s carrying what looks like a small brown paper bag. The clothes are loose-fitting and conceal weight. Although he looks to be on the tall side, he walks bent over in an attempt to disguise his height. He comes out again at eleven-thirty—minus the bag and moving fast. The camera just catches him getting into Wainwright’s car and driving off.”

  “So, he’s the killer. The drugs may be in the bag he’s carrying. They—or maybe just Wainwright—take a hit or two of weed or coke. The bag is either in the trash or his pocket when he leaves. Does that sound logical?”

  “As logical as anything else about this, especially if he was Wainwright’s supplier. It may have been a routine they followed. And there was no brown paper bag in the trash.”

  “But why kill him?” Anne asked.

  “Maybe he owed money to the seller or he talked too much in public about his connection.”

  “Do you think it’s in any way connected to Fran’s death?”

  Gil shook his head. “Hard to say, but I don’t like coincidences.”

  “And why take a dead man’s car? Where’s his?”

  “He’s first seen on another surveillance camera coming across the lot from the direction of a house next door. We checked. That house has been unoccupied for months. He could have been a squatter, but that’s very convenient, and like I said, I don’t like coincidences.”

  The server returned with the finalized bill, wishing them a good night.

  “Nightcap?” Anne asked as they pulled into her driveway.

  Gil shook his head. “Not tonight. I have some paperwork at the station that needs to be cleared up before I have my chat with Mr. Harrison tomorrow at ten. I’ll call you in the afternoon.”

  He walked her to the door, gave her a toe-curling kiss, and waited until she was inside before driving away.

  She leaned back against the door and sighed, then pushed herself upright. Time to start another list of suspects.

  Upstairs, she checked on Ken and Lisa. Ken barely looked up from his computer game, but said his homework was done. Lisa replied the same as she watched some reality show on her TV.

  Satisfied, Anne pulled out the chair at her desk in the office and started the list of possible Fran-the-man-eater haters. She hoped the pen didn’t run out of ink.

  ****

  Anne sat in a silent kitchen sipping her third cup of coffee and reading the list she’d compiled the night before. Nothing new jumped out at her. She sighed. Why can’t things ever work out to a logical conclusion the first time?

  Her cell ringing interrupted her thoughts.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, is this Anne Jamieson?” a hesitant male voice asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh, good. This is Bill Whittaker, Jane’s husband. We spoke yesterday at the hospital.”

  “Yes, Mr. Whittaker, how’s Jane?”

  “Doing much better, thank you. She’s been transferred to a private room in the…that is in another wing of the hospital.”

  He didn’t need to mention the words “psych ward.” She assumed that was standard operating procedure for attempted suicides.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Actually, yes there is. Jane would like to speak with you whenever you have the time. The doctors have cleared her for limited visitation. Would…would you have time today?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Oh, thank you. She’s very anxious to talk to you. How about you drop by around one this afternoon?”

  “One is fine.”

  “She’s in room 312 of the psychiatric wing. Just go on up and check in with the receptionist. I’ll see to it your name is on the list of approved visitors.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up wondering what Jane could possibly have to say that necessitated an immediate audience.

  ****

  “You will have exactly fifteen minutes to talk with Ms. Whitaker,” the receptionist at the entrance to the psychiatric wing told Anne. “Her doctors want her to remain as calm as possible for the next couple of days.”

  “I understand,” Anne replied.

  “I’ll let you in through the double doors. The check-in desk is just down the hallway.”

  Anne nodded and stepped away toward the large steel doors with the thick and what she assumed was bulletproof glass windows. As she approached, they swished open, no doubt activated by a button at the reception desk.

  “May I help you?” a nurse at check-in asked.

  “Yes, my name is Anne Jamieson and I’m here to see Jane Whittaker. I believe her husband, Bill, has put me on a list of some kind for visitors.”

  The nurse gazed at her computer screen and scrolled. “Yes, ma’am, I see your name here. Please be seated in the waiting room. Someone will be with you in a moment.”

  Anne turned and walked twenty feet down a corridor into a large area. Several people sat on sofas and in chairs reading magazines or books. She took a seat and tried not to stare. Bill Whittaker was not in attendance, but she
supposed he may have been with Jane.

  Ten minutes later, a nurse walked in and scanned the group. “Anne Jamieson?”

  Anne rose. “Yes, I’m Anne Jamieson.”

  “Please follow me.”

  She trailed the woman down another corridor and turned right before stopping at room 312.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Anne took a deep breath, knocked, and opened the door.

  The room looked like any other hospital room if you ignored the bars on the window. Jane lay in the bed with the head propping her up in a semi-sitting position. The television was tuned to some old comedy show. Jane ignored it and picked at the blanket covering her. She looked up when Anne entered. Her face was pale and pinched looking.

  “Anne, I’m so glad to see you. Please sit down.”

  She pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. “I’m glad I could come. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  Jane attempted a smile. “Taking a bunch of pills was such a stupid thing to do, but I was so upset and so afraid.”

  “About what? Hon, no one on the board would ever reveal the reason for your resignation.”

  “I know that. No, I was angry with and afraid of Susan.”

  “Susan? Susan Lynch? Whatever for?”

  Jane sighed and turned her head to gaze out of the barred window in silence. The quiet lasted almost a full minute before she answered in a low tone. “Susan knew about the loan to Fran.”

  Anne sucked in her breath in astonishment. “What? How? Did Fran actually tell her?”

  “No. Remember when I told you I asked Fran to replace the money immediately after the election? Well, I’d pulled her into an empty meeting room to discuss the situation. Apparently, Susan saw us enter. I thought I’d closed the door, but guess I didn’t. Susan eavesdropped.” She swung her gaze back to Anne. “You’re going to have real trouble with Susan.”

  “How?” Anne had no problem seeing the paranoid Susan listening in on a private conversation. She dismissed the fact she had done the same yesterday.

  “I know she’s been banned from the chapter loop for a while, but she’s making phone calls trying to drum up support for a recall election.”