A Dime a Dozen

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “And less than a week later she accidentally did something to the computer that erased large portions of data from our database.”

  “Oh, no! How did she do that?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “She doesn’t know. Again, she swore she didn’t do it, that it wasn’t her. But there was no one else it could’ve been.”

  “Oh, Natalie, that’s terrible. Wasn’t there a backup of the system?”

  “There was supposed to be. But the backup discs were blank. It was obvious that Luisa hadn’t been doing the backups all along, though, again, she swore that she had.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We had to let her go. We had no choice. It was almost the end of the year by then and time for us to start submitting our records to the proper agencies. Unfortunately, we didn’t have many records to submit. As you can imagine, we missed a lot of deadlines, which meant we were in a lot of trouble. In the end, we had to hire someone else to go around and collect data from the local orchards, plus we had to load information back into the computer from the hard copies we had of some of our records, all in an attempt to reconstruct the database.”

  “Did you pull it off?”

  “We managed to squeak by without losing our license,” Natalie said. “Though we were cited for poor record keeping. And now we have a bit of a black eye with the County Migrant Bureau. Frankly, I don’t blame them. These problems made us look very inept indeed.”

  I folded up my napkin and set it beside my plate.

  “You were right to tell me,” I said, nodding. “This would’ve come out further down the line anyway.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m still willing to take some of the blame since we were ultimately responsible, but Dean fully blames Luisa. He feels she let her personal problems affect her work.”

  Looking almost relieved that her story was out on the table, Natalie thanked me for my understanding and said she hoped this wouldn’t have any impact on the grant. She finished her coffee and began loading dishes in the dishwasher. I tried to help, but she shooed me away, saying she would be dressed and ready to head to the office in about ten minutes if I wanted to ride in with her.

  I went down the hall to my room, feeling very disheartened about Natalie’s revelations. Though it wouldn’t disqualify them for the grant, it was going to affect it somewhat, because one of my criteria was that a place have a good reputation.

  Still, at least I had the explanation behind the problem. Now we needed to see if there was anything else MORE could do to improve relations with the agency that held them in such contempt. I would also need to examine the policies and procedures that had allowed such a breach of database security.

  Packing didn’t take long at all because I had only brought in one small bag from the car. As I had explained to Dean and Natalie when we were first planning this trip, I didn’t think it was appropriate for me to spend the entire week enjoying the hospitality of the very people I was investigating, even if they were my former in-laws. Fortunately, they understood and had suggested a lovely bed-and-breakfast in town. I had surprised them both by revealing my intention to spend the remainder of the trip in my vacation home. I felt ready to face old memories, and it seemed a bit silly to get a hotel room in town when I owned a perfectly good house up on the mountain. I had already arranged for my stay with the management company. All that remained was to drop by there and pick up the keys.

  For now I gathered my things, double-checked the creases on the bedspread, and then walked back up the hall to join Natalie for the drive to the office. Despite the trauma of the night before and the bad news of the morning, I was still excited to do what I had come here to do.

  Natalie emerged from her bedroom wearing a sharp navy jacket and skirt, her makeup subtle, her hair just so. I was glad I had chosen to dress up a bit myself in a light cashmere jacket and a pair of tweed slacks.

  “Are we ready?” Natalie asked, gathering her purse and keys.

  “Yes,” I said, and I was ready. I was eager, in fact, to put all of these problems aside for now and go to see the MORE building and the legacy my husband had left behind.

  Six

  As Natalie drove, she and I talked about the events of last night before the murder. She was still concerned about my welcoming party and apologetic that it had gotten out of control and turned into a spontaneous Webber family reunion.

  “Please don’t think anything more about it,” I said. “I would’ve preferred a more subtle greeting, perhaps, but once things got underway, I thought it was great. I was very touched to realize everyone wanted to see me again.”

  “You’re still family, Callie,” she said. “You always will be, you know, even when you find someone else and get married, settle down, have kids. We want you to think of us that way always.”

  I was surprised by her comment and felt my face flush. She didn’t seem uncomfortable with what she had said, however, and even looked as though she wanted to continue the line of conversation. But I really wasn’t comfortable going there with her, especially not if she were to ask if I was dating again or if there was someone special in my life yet. I had a hard enough time talking about these things to my friends; I really didn’t think I could handle such a conversation with Bryan’s mother!

  “So tell me more about yesterday’s bean dip,” I said quickly, trying to change the subject. “Was that your recipe?”

  She was easily distracted, and we managed to talk food the rest of the way to the office. As we turned into the parking lot of the muted brick building with crisp white trim, I couldn’t help thinking that the last time I was in town, all they had were blueprints and an empty lot. Now, the facility was up and running, thanks in part to the original $200,000 grant the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation had given them.

  And it was a lovely place—not huge by any means, but functional and very tastefully done. We parked in front and stepped into the lobby area, and I immediately noticed the large brass plaque that hung in the center of the facing wall. Subtle lighting from a ceiling fixture illuminated the plaque that simply said “This building is dedicated in loving memory of Bryan Davis Webber.” Under his name were his birth and death dates, and under that was inscribed Matthew 5:8: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

  “That’s lovely,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat.

  Dean and Natalie gave me a tour of the building, which included a reception area and separate offices for accounting, records, human resources, fund-raising, and public relations. In the very back of the building was a row of what they called “start-up offices.” There, for a very low fee, any migrant-related service agency could rent, on a monthly basis, one room with a desk, computer, phone, fax, etc. as they attempted to establish themselves. Working out of the MORE facility gave them access to a fully functional office with a receptionist and a very professional atmosphere. Once they were fully up and running, they would have sufficient resources to move into their own space. Dean said that at any one time, about half the offices were kept in use, and that more than one successful agency had been launched that way.

  We ended the tour in the conference room. I sat at the big table and let them present their organization to me in its best possible light. Once they had showed me their full program, they brought out information on each of the agencies that came under the MORE “umbrella.” The needs these agencies met included migrant housing, education, child care, medical care, and more. It was all very dazzling, and I was especially pleased to see complete records for every company on the roster. Once the information was all laid out in front of me, I felt glad that my friend and coworker Harriet was on her way to town to help with the financial side of the investigation. This job certainly was too big for one person!

  When they were finished with their presentation, I commended them for their efforts in building this amazing operation, and then we talked about what it would take to get the company through the grant approval process for the million dollars.


  “As I’ve said before,” I told them, “I have ten criteria that I have to apply to MORE. If we can show that you pass on every single count, then I can recommend that you get the money.”

  “Are these criteria financial?” Dean asked.

  “Only some,” I replied, and I went on to name them as Dean and Natalie both leaned forward, listening intently.

  “A good nonprofit agency,” I began, counting off on my fingers, “serves a worthwhile cause; adequately fulfills its mission statement, showing fruit for its labors; plans and spends wisely; pays salaries and benefits on a par with nonprofit industry standards; follows standards of responsible and ethical fund-raising; has an independent board that accepts responsibility for activities; is well rated by outside reporting sources; has a good reputation among its peers; believes in full financial disclosure; and has its books audited annually by an independent auditor and receives a clean audit opinion.”

  “That’s a pretty tough list,” Natalie said.

  “Think you’ll pass?” I asked.

  Dean winked at Natalie before answering me confidently. “We wouldn’t have applied for the grant if we didn’t.”

  The three of us worked together in the conference room the rest of the morning, and in that time I was able to familiarize myself with their bookkeeping system and their policies and procedures, and to obtain much of the paperwork I would need to do the job. I expected Harriet to arrive late in the day, and in the morning I would bring her here to the office and get her set up with the books to begin her own audit.

  Harriet would be handling two of the criteria for me fully, including “believes in full financial disclosure” and “has books audited annually by an independent auditor and receives a clean audit opinion.” She would also help with a third, “pays salaries and benefits on a par with nonprofit industry standards,” because it was her job to ferret out all of the “extras” that working for this company provided. Often, the benefits were a gray area to which we gave a lot of attention. Of course, here things were a little different, since I believed unequivocally in the Webbers’ integrity. But we still had to go through the full process and sign off on every detail.

  Just by seeing on paper all that they had accomplished with their charity, I had already checked off the first criteria. I knew they served a worthwhile cause. This week I would spend time looking into their fund-raising efforts, their rankings, their reputation, and their board of directors. The main part of my time, however, would be spent checking to see how they fulfilled their mission statement, and if they were planning and spending wisely, as I felt certain they were. Of course, I would also have to assess the effect of the problems that arose when Luisa Morales had worked here.

  Feeling well organized by noon, I took Natalie up on her offer of lunch. Dean excused himself to catch up with some paperwork, so Natalie and I left the office without him and drove up the street to one of my old favorites, Auntie’s Country Kitchen.

  According to the sign next to the hostess stand, today’s specials included a variety of meat-and-starch-type dishes—meatloaf and mashed potatoes, pot roast with rice and gravy—all with sides of biscuits and collard greens and applesauce. In other words, good old Southern home cooking! Inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from inside, I could feel my appetite quickly springing to life.

  We sat in a booth next to the window and perused the menu. The restaurant was an unpretentious place, with a small vase of plastic flowers at the center of every Formica-topped table. Natalie pushed our vase to one side, reminding me to save room for the fruit pies that were the restaurant owner’s specialty.

  Before we had a chance to order, however, Dean entered the restaurant and walked quickly to our table.

  “Dean!” Natalie said happily upon spotting him. “I’m so glad you decided to join—”

  Seeing the expression on his face, she cut herself off in midsentence.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s been a new incident. With Luisa.”

  “Is she all right?” Natalie asked.

  “She and the kids are fine,” Dean said. “But someone just tried to burn down their trailer.”

  Seven

  Dean explained further as the three of us drove toward the trailer in question. Apparently, Luisa had brought her car to the auto shop just a while ago to have the window repaired where the person had broken the glass to throw in the stink bombs. Because it was going to take some time before it was ready, the tow truck driver had given her a ride home. When they got there, the trailer was on fire.

  “The guy from the auto shop said they managed to put it out before it did any real damage,” Dean said. “But he sounded pretty shaken up, and I could hear Luisa crying in the background.”

  Dean added that the man had wanted to call the police, but Luisa insisted that he phone Dean and Natalie first.

  “Why you and not the police?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dean said, “I think Luisa has lost faith that the cops can help her at all. They didn’t treat the stink bomb incident very seriously last night; at least, not until the poor stabbing victim was found.”

  “Yeah, but come on,” I said. “There’s a big difference between a stink bomb and a house fire. Especially now that there’s been a murder.”

  Natalie shook her head sadly.

  “Poor Luisa,” she said. “Her troubles never seem to end.”

  The three of us were quiet for a while as Dean continued to drive. The closer we got to downtown Greenbriar, the more I felt an odd sort of déjà vu. I had come into Greenbriar from a different direction yesterday, so this was the first time I had been to the downtown area in several years.

  The names on the stores may have changed, but the old structures with their lovely ornate cornices were the same. Narrow buildings lined both sides of the street for several blocks, most of them with little shops downstairs and what I assumed were converted apartments upstairs. Fortunately, there seemed to be some effort to keep the area attractive and viable, with charming little boutiques and inviting cafés dotting both sides of the street. A new row of trees grew from brick-lined circles spaced along the sidewalks, interspersed with wooden benches and old-fashioned coach-type lampposts. The street had always been a little too narrow for the passage of cars and parking on both sides, but now it looked as though they had widened the lanes and built public parking lots along the back sides of the buildings.

  At the main intersection, Dean made a left turn and then followed the highway out of town where it snaked alongside a creek. It was a gorgeous spring day, and many of the trees and plants we passed were alive with early blossoms of pink and white and purple. Of course, between the breaks in the trees on all sides were the Smoky Mountains, vivid shadowy peaks topped by white tufts of clouds. Reluctantly, I forced my mind away from the beautiful scenery and back to the task at hand.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said. “After all the harm this woman did to your agency, why are the two of you still so involved with her?”

  Natalie sighed deeply before answering.

  “She really doesn’t have anyone else,” she said. “And besides whatever has happened with her in the past, it is still our charity’s mission to help migrants.”

  “It seems to me you go more than the extra mile.”

  “That’s what it takes sometimes,” Natalie said. “And our hearts really do go out to her. She’s a very sweet woman.”

  “How does she know the fire was intentional?” I asked. “I mean, it could’ve been electrical or something.”

  “From the smell,” Dean replied as he slowed and put on his turn signal. “The man from the auto shop said it smelled like someone had doused the side of the trailer with gasoline.”

  Dean turned onto a gravel drive that dipped down and ended abruptly at a tangled mess of bushes and kudzu vines. He pulled in next to a tow truck, and we got out and walked toward the trailer, a tiny blue-and-white al
uminum capsule that was even smaller than I had expected. It sat at a slight angle in tall weeds, perched next to the creek, and one end was stained black. The smell of gasoline was still prevalent, though there were no containers nearby except for an empty bucket.

  Dean stepped onto the upside-down milk crate that served as a front stoop and was about to knock on the door when a man called out from the far side of the trailer.

  “We’re over here,” he said.

  We walked around the corner toward the voice to find Luisa sitting at a rickety picnic table under a tree, crying. Pacing nearby was a man in an oil-stained work uniform, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  Natalie went to Luisa and hugged her while the man stopped pacing and explained what had happened. Apparently, they had seen the fire before they even turned into the driveway. Once they got out of the truck, they tried dousing the flames with water from the creek, but with only one bucket it was a losing battle. Finally, he remembered the truck’s fire extinguisher, so he retrieved it and sprayed the fire until it went out.

  “This whole trailer woulda probably burned down if we hadn’t got here when we did,” he said in a thick mountain accent. “She’s all upset, but I tol’ her she’s lucky. At least the fire didn’t burn all the way through to the inside.”

  While they continued talking, I walked back around the trailer to look at the big blackened mess, and I saw he was correct. It appeared to have burned down to the insulation, but not beyond.

  “Look, I know the police are probably gonna wanna talk to me, but it’s takin’ too long for them to get here,” the man was saying as he walked to the tow truck. He opened the passenger door and began digging through the glove compartment. “If I don’t get back to the garage right now, I’m gonna lose my job. Tell ’em to call me if they need me, would ya? I’ll be there ’til four. Her car’ll be ready by then anyway.”

  He handed Dean what looked like a business card, and then he climbed up into the truck, gave us a wave, and drove away.