by Julie Hyzy
My face apparently broadcasted my alarm, because he smiled then. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to beat him up or anything. What kind of person do you think I am?”
Too startled to blurt anything but the truth, I said, “I have no idea. I really don’t know anything about you.”
My statement hung there for an awkward moment. I realized I’d given him an inadvertent lead-in for the inevitable “Then maybe we should get to know one another better” response.
But he didn’t say it.
I didn’t know if I was more relieved or disappointed. Shifting my weight, I said, “I know the police are doing all they can . . .”
“But?”
Feeling foolish, I nonetheless plunged ahead. “Maybe I’m just used to a bigger city and major task force initiatives. The manpower here is staggeringly small and this investigation is crawling.”
“And you’re intent on helping speed things up.”
“If I can,” I said knowing how ridiculous that sounded. “That’s why I wanted to ask if you remembered anything else about the man you chased. Any details, any impressions?”
His mouth twitched. “Well, city girl, there was one other detail I remembered just this morning. I’m sure it’s no big deal, but I figured if I caught up to the police, I’d let them know. Maybe you can tell them for me?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “What is it?”
“It dawned on me later that the guy wasn’t pumping his arms as he ran. I was behind him for quite some distance and his hands were always in front of his body.”
I followed his logic. “He was carrying something?”
“I think so.”
“And not just the threatening letter,” I said, continuing the thought. “He wouldn’t have needed two hands for that.” Feeling like I’d been given a gift, I thanked him and started back for my office.
“Hey,” he said.
I turned.
“I know you want to get involved in this investigation,” he said, “but be careful. There’s a very bad person out there.”
“I will.”
“Good,” he said, “because I really don’t know you yet either.”
He turned away before I could get a read on his meaning. Was he mocking me? Or flirting?
I looked back once before I pulled open the back entrance door, but Jack had already disappeared into the gardens.
Chapter 15
“IT’S ABOUT TIME,” BRUCE SAID WHEN THE back screen door slammed behind me. “We almost gave up on you.” Standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing a green-striped apron, he held a steaming pot in one hand and a metal colander in the other. “Turn on the light, will you?”
Hefting the banker’s box in my arms to one side, I snapped the wall switch, immediately banishing the shadows from the pink-tiled room. With daylight waning, the overhead light made the area feel particularly welcoming and warm.
“What smells so good?” I asked. Pulling open the oven door, I sniffed the heavenly scent of homemade meat loaf. “Oh.”
Bruce drained potatoes at the sink. “I think we all need comfort food tonight.”
Closing the oven, I stood. “Uh-oh. What happened?”
He winced, but it wasn’t from the steam shooting up around his face. “Dina St. Clair didn’t call.” Turning his back, he shook the colander to release any remaining water. I watched his shoulders shrug. “She said she would be in touch today if Grape Living was interested in doing the feature spread.”
“Did you try calling her?”
“Twice,” he said, still with his back to me. I wondered if he was trying to avoid letting me see his disappointment. “Once she was in a meeting and said she’d call me back. The second time she didn’t answer.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“No.” He turned and smiled. But I could tell it was for my benefit. “Scott’s really disappointed.”
“Just because she didn’t call today doesn’t mean she forgot about you. Maybe she had some personal problem. Maybe Grape Living hasn’t made a decision yet and she’s waiting to hear.”
“She’s their top feature scout. If she recommends us, we’re in.”
“I don’t understand the problem, then.”
Bruce pulled out the hand mixer, butter, and garlic. Comfort food, indeed.
His voice quiet, he chanced a look toward the dining room, as though afraid Scott might hear. “What if she changed her mind? Maybe she doesn’t want to bother telling us. She probably assumes we’ll just figure it out over time.”
“Give her a break. And give yourselves a little credit. What magazine wouldn’t want to feature you guys?”
Bruce raised one shoulder.
I placed my hand on his muscled forearm. “It’s only one day, right? Try her again tomorrow. I’ll bet you’ll hear some good news.”
Turning his back to me again, Bruce plunged the mixer into the potatoes and started it up. I left him there and headed upstairs to change.
AFTER BRUCE’S WONDERFUL, SOUL-NOURISHING dinner, I pulled my two roommates over. “My assistant, Frances, is a pain in my behind but she is the most efficient worker on the planet.” I’d brought home a box of files and began to spread them out on the dining room table. Part of me hoped they would see something I didn’t, the rest of me hoped I could get their minds off Grape Living , at least for a little while. “I asked her for these records just this afternoon, and she had them for me in under three hours.”
Scott lifted the cover of one of the bound folders and scanned the first page. “What are you looking for?”
I sorted through the box again. “The police believe Abe was killed by an intruder intent on robbery. They think the threatening letters have nothing to do with Abe’s death.”
Both men exclaimed their disbelief. Bruce practically shouted, “But you said that the new letter today claimed Abe wasn’t the target. Doesn’t that letter prove the killing and the letters are related?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I asked. “The police aren’t totally dismissing the idea of the letter-writer also being the killer, but they said they’re skeptical. They brought up the story of that Tylenol guy back in the 1980s.”
Scott said, “I don’t follow.”
Bruce said, “I was just a kid.”
I stopped foraging long enough to explain. “You know how that one guy tried to extort money but when he was arrested, claimed he had nothing to do with the actual poisonings?”
“Oh yeah.” Scott picked up the thread. “I do remember hearing about that. So the police here in Emberstowne think this extortionist is attempting to exploit Abe’s murder in the same way?”
“To make their threat seem more grave, yes,” I said. “That’s what the police are telling us, at least. What they really suspect is anyone’s guess.”
“It’s smarter for the cops to keep their information close to their vests,” Bruce said. “Keeps people from trying to help.”
“Not going to stop me,” I said and resumed my search.
Bruce rubbed his chin. “But wasn’t there something in the news not so long ago about that Tylenol extortionist getting arrested again because now they really believe he is the person who poisoned those victims?”
“Bingo!” I pulled out a thick binder and grinned at Bruce. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. You know, the old ‘where there’s smoke’ adage? Even though the police are claiming that the news coverage of Abe’s killing inspired our letter-writer, I’m convinced that the two are related. And with this . . .” I held up the binder, which weighed more than a bag of sugar, “I intend to prove it.”
The two looked at me skeptically. “Exactly how?” Scott asked.
Bruce sat down at the head of the table. “Should you be nosing around like this, Grace? Won’t the police get irritated with you?”
Scott jumped in. “And isn’t that one of the marks of the guilty party? They try to insert themselves into the investigation?”
I’d used tha
t same argument earlier with regard to Tooney. “This is different,” I said. “I’m the acting director of the estate. I’m responsible for everything that goes on. I have a fiduciary responsibility to follow up.”
Their skeptical looks didn’t budge.
Undaunted, I continued, “And as to how I intend to do this, I plan to follow the money. T. Randall Taft lost everything when Bennett turned him in.”
Bruce ran his fingers along file folder edges. “Taft is in jail. And was in jail when Abe was killed.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone.”
Scott took the binder from my hands, with a grunt. “You’re stretching it, kid.” He took a look at the blue cardboard cover. “So what’s in here?”
“Taft isn’t the only person who lost millions. So did a lot of others. That,” I tapped the weight in his hands, “is a list of all Taft’s clients, and an accounting—to the best of the attorneys’ knowledge—of how much each investor lost.”
Scott dropped the binder to the table with a thud. He lifted the cover and fanned through the pages. “Geez, how many people did this guy bilk?”
“He was at it for a long time.”
“So it seems.” Scott sat in the chair to Bruce’s right as he flipped pages. “These are arranged in order of investments. The top losers . . .” he glanced up, “those over five million, that is, take up six pages alone.”
I leaned over to look. “I’ll never get through all of them.”
They both looked at me like I was nuts. “You plan to research every name in this file?” Scott asked.
“Of course not. But I do plan to look into the most suspicious ones.”
“Suspicious,” Scott repeated. “As in, which investors lost the most money?”
“Exactly.” I grimaced at the list. “Thank goodness they’re listed in dollar order. Now if only I could have a separate copy in alpha order, too, to help me keep track, I’d be all set.”
Scott shrugged. “Ask the lawyers to send you the document as a spreadsheet. Then you can sort the data however you like.”
“Duh.” I clunked my forehead with my fist. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because your brain is overtaxed,” Bruce said. He got up from his chair and made his way back to the kitchen, where I heard clinking glasses and the unmistakable cork-creak and hollow pop of wine being opened. His voice rose as he continued, “You’ve been on the go since you started working there, and now this horrible tragedy has you tied up in knots. You need to chill out, sweetie. Leave the files for one night. Get in touch with the lawyers tomorrow and get the information in a form that works for you.”
I took a look at the thick binder and felt all my energy drain. “You’re probably right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he said, returning to the dining room with two big glasses of garnet red wine. “For you,” he said, handing me one.
He gave Scott the other before returning to the kitchen. When he reemerged, he held a chilled plate of chocolate-covered strawberries in one hand and his glass of wine and the bottle in the other.
“The oh-six?” Scott said, aghast.
“It won’t wait forever,” Bruce said, gesturing us into the parlor. “And there are few bad days that can’t be turned around with a good Cabernet and a healthy dose of chocolate.”
LATE THAT NIGHT AS I STARED AT THE CEILING of my room—the same room I’d shared with Liza when we were very little—I thought about the twists and turns of life that had ultimately brought me back to where I’d started. The wine should have made me sleepy, but my mind raced with disconnected thoughts.
This room used to be my mother’s when she’d lived here as a child. My grandmother had occupied the master bedroom, which she’d reportedly shared with her husband on those rare occasions he returned home. He came back only for money, food, or other sustenance. I thought of Liza. I guess that tendency ran in our family.
From all accounts, my grandfather Peter Careaux had been a huckster. Quick to talk anybody out of a buck. Quicker even to spend it—as long as it was on himself and not his wife or two young daughters.
I imagined he’d been a lot like Taft—just on a much, much smaller scale.
I probably should have at least started going through those investor files.
With my bedroom window open, I could hear frogs croaking out to one another in the murky night. A cool breeze lifted the sheer curtains and drifted past my wine-warmed skin. I thanked God it wasn’t raining. I didn’t know how much longer the roof would hold out.
What was it about this house? Why did we all come back? When my grandmother died, my mom and dad moved our family to Chicago, leaving this old Victorian to the whims of renters whose backgrounds they didn’t check thoroughly. It wasn’t until years later, after my dad had passed away and I had moved to New York, that my mom had insisted on moving back. By then the house had suffered, almost too much. But my mother was a stubborn woman.
Maybe the house was bad luck.
Maybe I should sell and get away from here.
I blinked and turned onto my right side so I could stare out the window at the high branches of the tree just outside. I had no idea what kind of tree it was and I felt oddly sad about that. I’d lived here so many years and yet . . . and yet this hadn’t ever really been my home.
I should walk away tomorrow and get a job elsewhere. A person with my experience would be snapped up in a minute. Yeah, right. In this economy? Leaving would allow me to step away from Abe’s murder. Abdicate responsibility. I could sell this house, take the money, and make my way in the world the same way Liza did—with absolutely no regard for anyone’s happiness but her own.
How easy it sounded.
I swallowed. Was Eric with her?
Shadows moved across my ceiling as cars drove past, their headlights reflected in my neighbors’ windows, their glow arcing across my room. I heard the soft shush of one making its way slowly down our small street. I heard the bass beat of another, its rhythm quick and syncopated, reminding me that we had teenagers in the neighborhood.
If the house really was cursed, maybe the reason my parents’ marriage was good was because they’d moved away. Maybe if I hadn’t brought Eric here, he would never have met Liza.
And maybe I should stop dwelling on such things so late at night when the world is dark and life holds little promise.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Stop!” hoping to change my brain’s path by sheer force of will. I told myself to think about my roommates and how lucky I was to have them in my life. I thought about my job, which—despite this week’s tragedy—was exactly where I’d always wanted to be.
Inexplicably, my conversation with Jack Embers this afternoon popped into my mind—his warning to be careful, and his parting comment about not knowing me well. What did that mean, exactly? Or did it mean nothing at all?
And on that last lingering thought about Jack, I finally fell asleep.
Chapter 16
“THEY SAID THEY CAN’T.”
With my concentration broken by Frances’s pronouncement from the doorway, I pressed a finger next to the line I’d been reading to hold my place, then processed her words.
“Who can’t what?”
“The Mister’s attorneys say they don’t have Taft’s investor information in spreadsheet form. The files they sent were based off of their hardcopies.”
Well, that dashed my hopes. “Darn.”
“They also said that the information they sent earlier was only done so because Marshfield Manor is one of their favorite clients. They wanted us to know that our request for the list of investors was highly unusual, but they were willing to help Mr. Marshfield.” Frances sniffed. “Like they have anyone bigger than the Mister.”
I looked down at the files I’d been poring over, blocks of text so dense they made my eyes wiggle. “In other words, this is as good as it gets.”
“Looks like.”
I wrinkled my nose then placed a y
ellow Post-it note where my finger had been, and stood up. “I need a break.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Uh, thanks, no. I’m good.”
“Have you found out anything?”
I consulted the notes I’d scribbled. “Ever hear of . . . ?” I rattled off a few names.
She shook her head.
“So far, they’re some of the biggest losers in the Taft Ponzi scheme,” I said. “I don’t know what I can find on any of them, but I’ll look them up on the Internet. You never know what will pop.”
“You want me to contact the agency we sometimes work with?”
“Agency?”
Frances’s eyes took on a conspiratorial glow as she moved closer to my desk. “We engage a service every once in a while.”
“Like a private detective?”
She nodded.
“Not Ronny Tooney?”
“Fairfax Investigations. This agency is extremely discreet.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
“They’re real good. They know everything about everybody.”
“Even more than you?”
For the first time since I’d met her, Frances laughed. A short, high-pitched bark. “Maybe not that good.”
The outer office door slammed and a woman’s voice called. “Is anybody here?”
Frances frowned. “Oh no. Not her.”
I had no idea who she meant.
Two seconds later, the owner of the voice strode into my office. Wearing a bright pink sleeveless tank with a matching cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders, pristine white linen pants, and strappy sandals, she looked like an ad for summer in the Hamptons. “Where’s my father?” she asked Frances. Then addressing me, she asked, “And who are you?”
“Ms. Singletary,” Frances said with deference. “It’s nice to see you.”
Puzzle pieces dropped into place. Hillary Singletary, Bennett’s stepdaughter from his second wife. For her part, Hillary didn’t seem to share Frances’s sentiment. She ran a French manicured hand through her blond bob, momentarily exposing mousy gray roots. I knew she was in her mid-forties, but except for that flash of gray and a few tiny lines near her eyes, she looked fabulous. Trim, tiny, and well preserved, if I’d passed her on the street I would have tagged her for thirty-five.