My mind was still full of numbers. I took several deep breaths, not really wanting to clear them away, but trying to get a fresh perspective on them. For Sharon's sake, I didn't want to find out that her partner had been embezzling. I wasn't sure how I'd tell her. I'd need more evidence before I could say for sure, anyway. I thought back to the small desk in David's apartment. Had he kept bank statements? Perhaps I should get back there before the relatives had a chance to clear out the place. Monday was the last day of the month. Odds were the apartment management would expect the place to be vacated by the first.
Rusty trotted toward me, his tongue hanging impossibly far out one side of his mouth.
"Hey, boy, have a nice run?" I put my arms around his neck. His fur was hot, with that distinctive dusty doggy smell. I was suddenly glad to have him. Thursday night's attack was still too fresh for comfort. He pulled back as my hug became too confining.
"Come on, kid, let's head back. We've got an errand to do."
We didn't even go into the house when we got back. I pulled my keys from my jeans pocket, and Rusty was happy to hop into the back seat of the Jeep. The sun was low over the volcanoes to the west by the time we arrived at David's apartment complex.
A light shone behind the living room drapes, and the front door stood open. A short Hispanic man with thinning hair was just backing out.
"Excuse me," I said.
He jumped visibly, and I apologized for startling him.
"The place will be available on Wednesday," he said gruffly.
I peeked beyond him, and saw that David's furniture was still in place.
"I'm not looking for a place to rent," I told him. "I'm a friend of David's."
"Oh. Well, when is his stuff gonna be out? I gotta get this place rented."
"Actually, I came to organize some of it myself. I think his father is arranging to do something with the furniture."
He seemed content with that. He stepped aside. "Lock the door when you leave," he instructed.
I watched him shuffle down the sidewalk toward the center of the complex. Closing the door behind me, I once again faced the empty apartment. There were subtle differences from my last visit. The fast food wrappers had been thrown in the trash, the bathroom neatened a bit. There was fingerprint dust on quite a few surfaces. I wondered if the police had cleaned out David's desk.
They hadn't. I could tell the papers had been shuffled through, but I couldn't see that anything was missing. The bottom drawer still held a conglomeration of files and various blank notepads. Under a pad of paper headed "From the desk of David Ruiz" lay a stack of bank statements. It didn't look like the police had even noticed anything this far down.
The statements appeared to be in reverse chronological order, like David had tossed each month's statement in on top of the last. Some of the envelopes had not even been opened. Sloppy work for a financial man.
I peeked into a couple of the envelopes that were already open. One of the statements showed a bank charge for safe deposit box rental. The key. I had completely forgotten the safe deposit box key on David's keyring. My mind churned with the possibilities. A perfect place to stash illicit cash. But, if he had lots of extra cash, why would he be behind with his bills? Actually, as I recalled, his personal bills, although sizeable, had been up to date. It was the restaurant, and therefore Sharon, that was suffering. Now that David was dead, it would take a court order to get into the safe deposit box. I probably should mention it to Kent Taylor, although I had the distinct feeling he was getting tired of me.
As for the bank statements, obviously I would need to take them home and compare them side by side with the business financials before I could see anything definite. I felt a little larcenous taking them with me, but after all, who would care? The police had already had their chance at them. And, I could have them back here by the time any of the family would notice.
I scanned the apartment once more, but saw nothing else that would help me. I didn't have David's keyring with me, so I just twisted the lock on the inside of the doorknob and pulled it shut behind me. Rusty was sitting in the front passenger seat, nose pressed to the thin strip of open window I had left for him. It was dark now, and he was worried. I bought him a cheeseburger at McDonald's to appease him.
At home, there was one message on the answering machine. Drake Langston had called to say he missed me. The sound of his voice made my throat get a little tight. He said he had to fly to the Big Island tonight, and would try to call me again tomorrow.
I tossed David's bank statements on my desk next to the restaurant printouts, but was too tired to think about numbers again just yet. I dialed Sharon's number, and she answered on the second ring.
"I don't know whether you're the person I should notify about this, but you're the one I know the best," I began. I told her about David's landlord wanting his apartment cleared out by Monday.
"His parents are still pretty shaken up," she said. "Maybe I ought to call the cousin, Michael Mann. He lives in the same area, and seems like an organized guy."
Yeah. Hearing Michael's name re-conjured all the thoughts I'd had last night about the Ron-Vicky-Michael situation. I was more than glad to let Sharon talk to him. I was not looking forward to Ron's return tomorrow evening.
Chapter 20
Saturday night with nowhere to go, and not wanting to be alone with my thoughts. My head was full of David, Sharon, Ron, Vicky, Michael, financial statements, bank statements, and mushy love letters. Frankly, I was tired of all of them.
The back of my skull was beginning to throb again. The stitches were out now, but the wound was not gone. I wanted to go back in time three weeks, snuggling into Drake's arms, sipping tropical drinks in a nice restaurant beside the ocean.
I took two Tylenol, peeled off my shorts and top to slip into my snugly terry robe, and flipped open the TV schedule. Channel 14 was showing Casablanca. I'd probably be sorry, but I turned it on anyway. Two hours later I wiped the tears off my face, and felt much better. Rusty and I made a cup of hot chocolate and shared two Oreos before hitting the sack.
High, thin clouds formed a pale gray ceiling Sunday morning when I woke up. A glance at my bedside clock told me I had slept ten hours. I must have needed it. My head felt much better, and I was actually eager to get back to work on Sharon's financial statements.
I pulled on an old favorite pair of sweatpants and loose t-shirt. A splash of water on my face, and combing my hair back into a ponytail were my only allowances toward vanity this morning. Rusty gobbled his breakfast while I peeled an orange and made some toast. I carried this sumptuous feast into my office with me.
Almost from the start, a pattern began to emerge. David's bank account grew as the business's profits dwindled. He wasn't even smooth about it. No doubt the IRS man pegged this right away. No wonder he hadn't sounded concerned over the phone. He must have had David's number almost immediately. Poor Sharon. After the IRS attached liens for their share, and David's creditors got through with the rest, it was doubtful she would retrieve much.
I wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to her. Perhaps the best way would be to make out a full report. Seeing the numbers in black and white might make it a little more real to her. I pulled out a columnar pad and began making notes. It was after one o'clock before I looked up again.
It was entirely possible that David's relatives would choose a Sunday to clear out his apartment, and I began to get antsy over having his bank statements still in my possession. Maybe I ought to go by the office and photocopy them, and return the originals to his place. Rusty looked eager for another outing, so I grabbed the papers I needed, David's keyring, and my purse, and headed for the door.
The weather had turned decidedly cooler. The high thin clouds were now thick and dark—a rumble of low thunder sounding in the distance. I picked up a lightweight jacket, just in case.
The office had a deserted feel to it. In the two days since anyone had been there, an industrious spider ha
d started a web across the back door. The rooms were cool and dim. I switched on lights, trying to dispel the hollow feeling. Microwaved a cup of water and made myself some tea. Rusty clicked around behind me wherever I went.
While the copier warmed up, I sorted through the papers I had brought. It would probably be a good idea to stick an extra copy of my findings into Sharon's file here, in addition to the one I planned to give her. The machine hummed as I fed the sheets into it. I didn't notice Rusty leaving the room, or see the male silhouette in my doorway until he cleared his throat.
"Ron! You big shit! You scared the hell out of me," I panted, patting my chest to get my heartbeat back to normal.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to," he said.
"So, how was your weekend?" I asked. "You're back kind of early." I was hoping like crazy that he'd say they had fought the whole time, and had broken it off. No such luck.
He practically glowed as he told me how much fun they'd had. The only reason they were back this early was because it had started raining hard, and he didn't want to be caught in the worst of the traffic in bad weather.
My mind had been so absorbed with numbers and finances that I really hadn't planned exactly how I'd bring up the subject of Vicky and Michael with him. I took the coward's way out, and invited him to dinner at six. It would give me another four hours to come up with something.
When I left, Ron was looking through the Saturday mail that had been shoved through the slot in the front door. The traffic on the freeway was not bad. The heavy clouds had moved away from the city, hovering now on top of Sandia Peak like a giant gray fur cap. I steered into a parking slot at David's apartment building about twenty minutes later.
My eyes scanned the area, wondering whether I would run into anyone I knew, but all was quiet. The apartment looked just the way I'd left it the night before. I slipped the bank statements back into their hiding place, and made my way out again without being seen by anyone.
All the way home, I let myself shift back into Ron-Vicky mode, trying to plan what on earth I might say to him that evening. Maybe making his favorite dinner would help soften the blow a little. I stopped at the grocery, and picked up chicken, potatoes, and fresh corn.
An hour later, I remembered why I don't cook, especially fried foods. Flour, salt, pepper, potato peels, and corn husks littered the counter tops. A fine mist of oil spatter covered my range top and probably the surrounding walls, if I looked hard enough. It would take a week to get it all off.
All I could say was, Ron better appreciate this. Kentucky Fried Chicken would have been so much easier.
By six o'clock, the kitchen was back in some semblance of order, and the table was set. We would eat in the kitchen, I decided. Making his favorite dinner was one thing, but eating it in the dining room would definitely clue him in that something was wrong.
Rusty met Ron at the door, and the two of them rough housed in the back yard for a few minutes while I set out the food.
"This looks great," Ron said, breathing hard from Rusty's workout.
He washed his hands, then proceeded to load his plate high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and salad. Luckily, conversation wasn't called for right away. I commented that his face looked a little sunburned. I felt stiff and awkward, and hated the fact that I was postponing what I really had to say.
"Where's the pecan pie?" Ron asked, wiping a big greasy place off his face.
I actually had one, but was wanting to save it as a peace offering. I brought it out, and suggested that we brew some coffee first.
"Is it Grandma Franklin's recipe?"
"No, Elsa’s, actually. I wasn't that organized. She had it in her freezer."
"What is it, Charlie? You've been acting weird all evening. I haven't been your brother all these years without figuring out when something's bothering you."
The coffee sputtered through the drip spout while I tried to come up with a way to begin.
"It's Vicky, isn't it?" he asked gently, pulling my chin toward him with his index finger.
I nodded.
"You think she's too young for me, don't you?" His voice was indulgent.
I shrugged. It wasn't untrue. I could sense that he was about to launch into justification of their ages, and I didn't want to get into that. He needed to know the truth.
"Ron, I think she's too married for you."
Denial was immediate. "She's divorced."
I reached to the top of the refrigerator where I had stashed my evidence. I handed him the envelope I had swiped from their dining room table, addressed to Michael and Vicky Mann.
"This doesn't prove anything," he protested. "It's junk mail. Incorrect names stay on those mailing lists for years."
"Ron, I was in the house. In their bedroom. His underwear is still in the dresser drawers."
"What the hell were you doing in her bedroom?" he shouted. "When were you there?"
"Friday afternoon. After you left, I decided to check things out."
"That's breaking and entering!" His face was livid.
I reached out to him, but he spun away. "Ron, I went there thinking the housekeeper might still be around." It wasn't true, and he wasn't pacified. "Besides, there was an unlocked door. I might have entered, but I didn't break."
"How dare you! How dare you spy on Vicky." He shook his finger in my face, and I wanted to slap it away. He was starting to make me mad now.
"Ron, she's a cheat! She's cheating with you, and she's cheating with at least one other guy!" I was beginning to heat up, too. I reached for the other letter, the mushy love letter I'd found in her desk's hidden compartment. I shoved the letter in his face. "That is, unless you wrote this!"
He pulled the single sheet of paper from its envelope. I kept talking while he read. My voice was only somewhat calmer.
"Remember when I mentioned seeing Vicky at the Ruiz house after David's funeral? She denied that she was even there? Well, I saw her in the kitchen planting a big wet one on some guy's face. Probably the same guy who wrote this drivel. Right after she kissed him, she left. She never saw me."
Ron's body was tensed like a piano wire about to break. The paper in his hand shook.
"Charlie, I just can't talk to you about this any more," he said through clenched teeth. He crumpled the letter, and threw it across the kitchen. The front door slammed, and a moment later I heard the Mustang's tires squeal.
It had gone worse than I ever expected.
Chapter 21
When the phone rang, I was still standing at the kitchen sink, staring out into the blackness. It wouldn't be Ron. It would take him a couple of days to cool off enough to speak to me again. I took a deep breath and reached for the phone.
"Charlie, what's the matter?" Drake Langston's voice was low and soothing.
I didn't ask how he knew. Even though we'd had only a short time together, there was a closeness between us that I'd never had with anyone before.
"Ron just blew up at me," I told him. My voice shook as I filled him in on the soap opera situation here. As usual, he was sensible.
"Charlie, it's not your problem," he said. "Ron's a grown man, and like it or not, he's entitled to make mistakes. He'll work it out."
I knew that. Somewhere deep inside me, I'd even probably said it to myself already.
"I just hate to see a nice guy get screwed, so to speak."
He chuckled. "Always gotta help the underdog, huh?"
I felt myself get a little defensive. What was so wrong with helping the underdog, anyway?
Again, it was as though he sensed my emotion before the words came out. He tactfully swerved the subject into a different direction.
"Mack Garvey is doing a lot better," he said. "He made a point of telling me how grateful he was to you for getting him off the hook."
Mack is Drake's friend and employer on Kauai, a nice man who got himself stretched a bit too thin, and wound up being accused of murder. Another underdog.
"Anyway," Drake co
ntinued, "I guess Mack can tell that I'm pining away over here without you, so he scheduled me some vacation time next month. Would I be welcome if I showed up on your doorstep?"
I felt my heart rate pick up. "Anytime," I told him. A flash of his smile flickered through my mind, and the sensuous memory of his hands made me suddenly warm.
"Don't worry about Ron, sweetheart, he'll work it out."
Ron who? Oh, yeah. "I know," I told him. "I guess I just need to back off and let him figure it out for himself."
We talked a few more minutes. Drake sounded excited about getting some time off. I promised to have both Ron's and Sharon's problems out of my way before he got here.
I cleared the plates from the table, and loaded the dishwasher. Threw the chicken bones and corn cobs into a plastic bag, knotted the top and stuffed it into the trash can under the sink where Rusty couldn’t get to it. He settled for a dollop of mashed potato in his bowl. I put the unsliced pecan pie into the refrigerator and poured myself a cup of coffee.
Switching off the kitchen light, I carried my mug into the living room and snuggled into a corner of the sofa. Rusty padded behind quietly, subdued by Ron’s outburst. I scratched the dog’s ears and tried to focus on Drake’s call rather than the scene that had preceded it. I pressed the remote button so the TV news could work at overshadowing my problems. It droned on, only marginally effectively.
Drake, here for a vacation. Sounded nice. I wondered if things between us would be the same on my turf as they'd been on his. The tropical Hawaiian nights might have accounted for much of the romance between us, after all. Well, having him here would be one way to find out.
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