Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She took the map and pointed to one section. “If it’s up to me, I’d say explore the Classic department first.”

  “Okay.”

  “If nothing there appeals to us, we can go to Vintage.”

  Why did the casual use of the pronoun us, delivered in an impersonal tone, make such an impact on his pulse? “Sounds good. Lead the way.” This time he’d be smart enough to follow.

  Fort Smith, Arkansas

  Meghan

  Sheila climbed out of Greg’s back seat and grinned at Meghan. “I wish my brothers were here. They’d have gotten such a kick out of going around town today and asking people what kind of lifestyles the bankers at UNB&T have. Their favorite game when they were little was Clue. Mom even bought them detective costumes for Christmas one year, with magnifying glasses, hats, trench coats, and everything. They wore them every time we played Clue, until the cheap fabric fell apart.”

  Meghan hadn’t had the pleasure of playing games with siblings, but she smiled at the picture Sheila’s remembrance painted in her head. Sean would probably like the idea of having a weekly family game night if they had kids someday. Her smile wobbled. “Sounds like fun.”

  “The game was fun, but doing it for real is even more fun. I can’t wait to call Wayne and Brandon and tell them I got to help in a real investigation.” Sheila’s bright expression faded, and she blinked hard. “Do you think Mr. Wallingford’s the one?”

  Meghan folded her arms and angled her head. “What makes you think it’s him?”

  “Well…how many people said something about him taking a lot of vacations? More than anybody else they knew. That’s kind of a clue, isn’t it?”

  Meghan nodded. “Yep. That is definitely a clue.”

  Greg rounded the vehicle and joined them. “What’s a clue?”

  Meghan repeated Sheila’s observation.

  Greg grinned at the younger woman. “Good call. Of course, we can’t prove anything yet, but he worked the closest with your father back then, and he seems uneasy about us spending time at the bank. He also can’t seem to look you in the eyes. My gut says we need to check into him more closely.” At that moment, his stomach growled.

  Sheila burst out laughing. “I heard that.”

  He grimaced and gestured to the hotel. They headed across the parking area.

  Sheila rubbed her stomach. “I’m hungry, too. What I wouldn’t give for a supersized pepperoni pizza from the pizzeria in Little Rock. Have you ever been to Ir—”

  Meghan and Greg chorused, “Iriana’s.” Meghan’s mouth immediately began to water.

  Greg groaned. “Now you’ve done it. I can’t get pizza off my mind.”

  Meghan looked up and down the street. “There’s gotta be a pizza place around here.”

  Greg made a face. “I’m all for pizza, but it’s Friday night. Any pizza places will probably be overrun with teenagers.”

  Sheila shrugged. “What about delivery?”

  “Delivery would be all right.” He crooked his finger, inviting the women to follow him, and entered the hotel. He crossed to the check-in desk. “Excuse me.”

  The young man serving as clerk hurried over. “Yes, sir?”

  “We’re in the mood for pizza, but we’re not in the mood to go out. Is there a delivery service close by?”

  The clerk nodded. “Less than two blocks away. Murray’s. We keep their menus on hand because a lot of our guests order from them.” He dug through a pile of papers and pulled out a rumpled photocopied sheet. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Greg showed the menu to Meghan and Sheila. “Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll order it. We can get bottled sodas from the machine in the laundry room, then use the desk in one of our rooms for a table. That sound okay?”

  Meghan nodded. “Sounds great. And I’m good with whatever you two want.”

  “Pepperoni,” Sheila said, then hunched her shoulders. “I mean, pepperoni, please. With mushrooms.”

  Greg laughed. He tapped the phone number into his cell and handed the menu back to the clerk. “One large pepperoni pizza with mushrooms, comin’ up.”

  Twenty-Six

  Meghan

  Meghan sat in the lobby and watched for the pizza deliverer. Greg had given her money to pay for the pie, then excused himself to call his wife since he’d neglected to let her know he wasn’t coming home for the weekend. Sheila stayed with Meghan until one of her brothers called and she went to the room to talk to him. So now Meghan waited alone.

  She didn’t mind. She’d been around people all day without a moment to herself, and hiding out in a chair tucked in the corner was the perfect way to unwind. Mom had teased her more than once about being an introvert. “You’d rather sit and watch the world go by than be in the middle of the action.” Mom was probably right, but all that sitting and watching had prepared her well for what she did now. So much of her job involved simple observation and drawing conclusions from people’s behavior.

  Take Darryl Wallingford, for example. During their first meeting, he’d hardly said a word, deferring to his coworker to answer questions. Then the second day, when they’d left Sheila at the hotel, he’d answered boldly, almost overly confident, as if he’d spent the night rehearsing and was eager to share his lines. But on the third day when, once again, Sheila sat in the room, the man acted uncomfortable, but was it because he was hiding something or only because he didn’t like revisiting the loss of someone who’d once been a good friend?

  Sheila’s comment about Uncle Wally being the same age as her dad lingered in Meghan’s mind, too. If the men were close in age, then Wallingford would be somewhere between fifty and fifty-five. Yet his physical appearance more closely resembled someone in his late sixties. Guilt, and the worry of being caught, could sure bring on early wrinkles and gray hair.

  Of course, certain illnesses or poor lifestyle choices also aged people prematurely. As far as they knew, he was healthy. She didn’t take the man for a smoker—his teeth weren’t stained, usually a telltale sign, and he didn’t carry the scent of smoke on his clothes. A drinker? That was a little harder to detect.

  The lobby doors opened, and the spicy smell of pepperoni filled the room. A young man scuffed in. The torn hems of his baggy jeans dragged on the floor, his shirt was half-untucked, and ragged strands of brownish-blond hair fell across his forehead, partially shielding his eyes. A plastic bag swung from his wrist, and a pizza box balanced on his palm. If it hadn’t been for the spicy aroma wafting from the waxed cardboard box and Murray’s emblazoned across the top in bright red letters, Meghan would have presumed the man was homeless.

  He headed for the desk, and Meghan hopped up and intercepted him. “Hi, is that order for Greg Dane?”

  The man—or maybe she should call him a boy, given the two pimples decorating one cheek and the abundance of peach fuzz covering his chin—squinted at the piece of paper taped to the top of the box. “Yeah.” He turned his gaze on her and smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re Greg Dane.”

  Meghan didn’t like the way he ogled her. If Sean were with her, the young man wouldn’t be so brazen. She stood as tall as possible and stared him down, the way she’d been taught to confront uncooperative suspects. “No, I’m not, but I am his partner. I’m paying for the pizza.”

  “Hmm.” The guy gave her a head-to-toes-to-head-again examination and settled his weight on one bony hip. “Lucky guy.” He slid the box onto the counter and flopped the bag on top of it. “Paper plates and napkins in there. Total is sixteen ninety. That includes the delivery fee but not my tip.”

  The way he was behaving, the only tip he deserved was advice on appropriate behavior, but from the looks of him, he needed every penny he could get. Meghan gritted her teeth and handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  He pocketed the bill, grinning. “Thanks, sweetheart. You have a good day, no
w.”

  Meghan bristled. The obnoxious upstart! She started to demand change from the twenty—he needed manners even more than he needed a haircut—but the desk clerk spoke first.

  “Hey, Kip, back at Murray’s again, huh? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  An uneasy feeling attacked Meghan’s midsection. She took a hesitant step backward as the pizza deliveryman leaned on the counter and grinned at the man behind the desk.

  “Yeah, you know how it is. Sometimes I feel like workin’, sometimes I don’t. But you can only watch YouTube videos and play Xbox so long before the boredom gets you. So I signed on again.”

  The clerk laughed. “Lucky sap. If I had a rich daddy like you, I sure wouldn’t deliver pizzas for Murray’s. Not even if I was bored out of my gourd.”

  A sullen look fell over the young man’s face. “You wanna be bored out of your gourd, spend an hour listening to one of my old man’s lectures about responsibility. You oughta hear him.” His lips twisted into a sneer. He lowered his voice in timbre and struck a pompous pose. “ ‘Son, I’m fed up with your lazy attitude.’ ” A sarcastic laugh left his throat. “Takes two or three months before he’s fed up enough to say anything. Then you know what he does when he leaves? Hands me three or four hundred-dollar bills—supposedly to get myself cleaned up. But hey, he never sticks around to make sure I actually do it, so I spend the money how I want to.”

  The clerk laughed. “Sucker!”

  Kip slapped the counter and roared with laughter. “I know, right?”

  For a moment Meghan felt as though she observed the prodigal son who’d squandered his inheritance. So obviously rebellious and self-absorbed. Based on his appearance, he might’ve even recently rolled in a pigsty. She cringed. Had he put their pizza in the box? If so, it might not be wise to eat it.

  The boy pushed off from the counter and saluted the clerk. “Good to see ya, Mason. Enjoy your job.”

  “Ha, ha—real funny, Kip. Take it easy, man.”

  Kip sauntered out, and the clerk turned a smile on Meghan. “No need to look so worried. Kip’s harmless. He’s just kind of a…well, a loser.”

  What had Mom called Kip? A brat. Similar to a loser. She picked up the box, but then she remained in place, staring out the glass doors where the boy named Kip had disappeared. Maybe it was coincidence that the pizza deliveryman had the same name as the boy her father had adopted. Still, how common was Kip?

  She turned to the clerk. “What’s his full name?”

  The clerk eyed her. “Why? Are you gonna file a complaint against him? He flirted with you, but he didn’t really do anything wrong.”

  She forced a smile. “No, I’m not going to file a complaint. He reminds me of someone. I wondered if he might be from the same family.” Not a complete truth, but not a lie, either. He reminded her of Mom’s description.

  “Oh, okay. In that case, his name’s Kip Harrison. Do you know the Harrisons?”

  Meghan’s stomach churned. “I know of them. Is Kip’s father Kevin Harrison?”

  “That’s right. Kip’s old man owns lots of businesses, makes a lot of money.” He smirked. “Likes the ladies, too. So does Kip. But I guess you figured that out.” He shrugged, and his expression turned thoughtful. “Kip and I ran around some in high school. My mom always said she thought he got into trouble because he had really poor self-esteem. But I don’t know about that. Me and my pals always just kind of saw him as…” He shrugged again. “A loser.”

  “Then why’d you hang out with him?”

  “Are you kidding? Hanging around Kip had its privileges. He always had money for movies or burgers or whatever we wanted to do.”

  How sad was that? Meghan thanked the clerk and carried the pizza up the hallway toward her room. By now it was probably cold, but they could reheat slices in the little microwave in their room. She doubted she’d be able to eat, the way her stomach felt. If Kip was the outcome of Kevin Harrison’s parenting abilities, she should be grateful she’d been spared living with him.

  But gratitude refused to rise. Her hope that she might have inherited some good parenting genes from her paternal side had just crashed and burned.

  * * *

  The bank was open until noon on Saturday, and during breakfast in the hotel’s little eating area, Greg suggested spending the morning in the conference room. “Make sure they all know we’re still around.”

  Meghan shook her head. “I got to thinking last night…” She’d been awake until almost two o’clock, too uneasy to sleep, but it gave her plenty of time to think about the case. Now if she could gather her thoughts enough to make sense, given her drowsiness. “A man who absconded with hundreds of thousands of dollars has to have something to show for it. The people we talked to yesterday mentioned Wallingford’s frequent trips out of town. We need to find out if he’s made use of his passport. People with money usually take some pretty extravagant vacations. I’d like to know where he goes.”

  Sheila’s bright-eyed gaze fixed on Meghan. “How come?”

  “If there’s another country he visits regularly, he might actually own property there.”

  Greg had chopped a cherry turnover to pieces while she spoke. He jabbed a chunk with his plastic fork and pointed at her with it. “Smart thinking. We should also go to the courthouse, see how many deeds are in his name, what kinds of vehicles he drives.” He jammed the bite into his mouth. “I didn’t uncover anything in the bank’s financial records that stuck out, like one employee with unexplained deposits. Not that it’d be smart to put it in his own bank. But first-timers aren’t always the brightest crooks.”

  Sheila poured milk from a half-pint carton over her cereal. “Is the courthouse open on the weekend?”

  Greg speared another chunk of turnover. “Not usually. And since Monday is Memorial Day, it’ll be closed then, too. I guess we’ll have to wait until Tuesday to do any checking there.”

  Meghan groaned. Why hadn’t she remembered Monday was a national holiday? They could’ve gone home for the weekend after all. If they’d left yesterday afternoon, she wouldn’t have come face to face with Kevin Harrison’s son. Oh, how she wished they’d left then.

  Greg wrinkled his nose and put down his fork. “This thing’s bone dry.” He folded his arms on the table and looked first at Meghan and then Sheila. “All right, then, it’s decision time. Do we stick around, spend the morning at the bank snooping through financial records, make sure everybody knows we haven’t gone anywhere? Or do we head for Little Rock and let them think we’ve given up?”

  Meghan cringed. “If we leave, we might give the thief time to hide assets.”

  Greg nodded. “Or skip town if he’s really worried we’re onto him.”

  Meghan wanted to skip town. She needed to see Sean, to sort out the emotions her encounter with Kip Harrison had stirred. “Maybe—”

  “Excuse me.” A police officer stopped next to their table and sent his gaze across each of their faces. “I’m Officer Lang from the Fort Smith Police Department. I’m looking for some cold-case detectives from Little Rock—Greg Dane and Meghan DeFord?”

  Greg stood and offered his hand. “I’m Detective Dane, Officer, and this is Detective DeFord.” He gestured to Meghan. She shook the officer’s hand, too, but remained seated. “What can we do for you?”

  “I’m here to escort you to the jail.”

  Greg scowled. “For what reason?”

  The officer slid his thumbs into his pants pockets and splayed his elbows. “It’s probably best to discuss all this at the station.”

  Greg pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Before I go anywhere, I need to check with my captain.”

  Officer Lang shook his head. “No need for that. Little Rock’s been notified. You can ride in my squad car or follow me in your own vehicle. But we need you to come in as quick as possible to get this
mess straightened out.”

  Meghan slowly stood on shaky legs. “What mess are we talking about, Officer Lang?”

  “The one you’re stirring up about Anson Menke.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Kendrickson, Nevada

  Diane

  Diane tiptoed through the hallway to her mother’s bedroom. Mother had always been an early riser—up by six, six thirty at the latest. So worry traveled with Diane to the closed door.

  She pressed her ear to the door and listened for sounds of activity. Nothing. Her pulse pounding, she tapped on the door. “Mother?” She waited a few seconds, then tapped again a little harder. “Mother, are you all right?”

  “What? Who’s…” A few soft thuds and bumps and mutters.

  “It’s me—Margaret Diane.” She gripped the doorknob. “May I come in?”

  “Yes. Yes, come in.”

  Diane entered the dark room and crossed to Mother’s bed.

  Mother sat on its edge, her snowy hair on end and bare feet dangling. She squinted at Diane. “What time is it?”

  “A little after seven.” She reached to pull up the shade and allow in sunlight, but Mother put out her hand.

  “Please don’t. I have a pounding headache.”

  Diane sat next to her and put her arm around her. “Are you sick? Should I call the doctor?” Mother had the strongest constitution of any octogenarian Diane knew, but almost four years ago she’d undergone an endarterectomy and fallen into a brief coma after the surgery. At Mother’s age, illnesses could strike fast and overwhelm quickly. Diane wouldn’t overlook symptoms the way she had last time.

  “I don’t need a doctor. I need an aspirin.”

  “You’re sure it’s just a headache?”