Nickeled and Dimed to Death

by Denise Swanson

  “We were always on the same wavelength,” Noah said as he refastened his seat belt.

  “By the way, I don’t think I ever thanked you for the sushi,” I said, reaching for my own seat belt. “It was really sweet of you to send lunch to me when you couldn’t call, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I remembered you liked that place the last time we were there together.” Noah smiled. “That date is one of my favorite high school memories.”

  “Mine, too.” I impulsively touched his hand. “I’m so glad we’ve moved beyond the bad parts of our past and can enjoy the good times again.”

  “I always hoped we could.” His gray eyes darkened, and he brought my palm to his lips. “I can’t tell you how much I missed you.”

  Swallowing a lump in my throat, I murmured, “I know. I missed you, too.”

  Noah continued to hold my hand, caressing it with his thumb. We sat there gazing at each other until I realized we were parked on Shadow Bend’s main drag, clearly visible to anyone driving or walking by. All I needed was to have Chief Kincaid pull up in his squad car and catch me with another guy or, worse, have one of Gran’s cronies see us and report back to her.

  “Uh.” I cleared my throat and pulled my hand out of his. “We probably should get going. We don’t want to be late. Which restaurant are we meeting Max at?” There weren’t many choices in Shadow Bend—the new Chinese place, the pulled-pork wagon, and a family diner were about it.

  “I know Max likes nice things, so I figured we’d take him to the Manor.” Noah started the Jag. “We might as well butter him up with a fancy meal.”

  The Manor was located on a man-made lake midway between Shadow Bend and the neighboring town of Sparkville. It attracted diners from as far away as Kansas City, catering to the affluent for both a fine dining experience and elaborate parties. I had never eaten at the restaurant, but I had been there not too long ago when Jake and I had wanted to talk to Noah, who had been attending a committee meeting being held in one of the banquet rooms.

  The restaurant was both elegant and intimidating, so I was glad that I had dressed up. My usual Devereaux’s Dime Store sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and tennis shoes would have been out of place. And ever since my father’s incarceration and my previous boss’s high-profile fraudulent activity, my goal in life was to blend in.

  Noah and I chatted about Boone’s case as he drove the fifteen miles to the restaurant. It was a sunny day and I was enjoying the scenery. We crossed a creek bubbling cheerfully over shiny rocks and then zoomed past a stubble-studded field with a trio of deer munching the stray corncobs that the combine had missed.

  As we turned into the Manor’s long driveway, Noah said, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Geoffrey Eggers claims that Elise’s colleague, Lindsey Ingram, had a strong motive to get rid of her. He said that Lindsey and Elise were competing for the same job and that Lindsey claimed she’d do anything to get the promotion.” Noah repeated his conversation with the mayor and finished with, “So someone should probably talk to Lindsey and see if she has an alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed. Then after Noah handed his car keys to a valet and we climbed one of the twin marble staircases into the Manor’s imposing brick building, I brought him up to speed on what I had discovered regarding Lindsey and her husband.

  As we stepped into the stunning lobby, I once again admired the Thomas Moser chairs and the sideboard displaying a collection of Murano glass. I smiled when I heard the sound of a harpsichord playing Scarlatti’s Sonata in B minor, because, unlike last time, I knew that it was a live performance and not a recording.

  As Noah approached the hostess, I studied a pair of large gilt-framed paintings on the sidewall. On my previous visit, I hadn’t been sure if they were original works of art, but since then I had asked around and now knew that they were indeed genuine.

  I hadn’t been surprised, since I had been fairly sure that the portraits were authentic. I had a good eye for spotting the real thing, which had served me well in my previous occupation, in which I had been required to have a working knowledge of the value and authenticity of artwork, antiques, and the other trappings of wealth. It was an odd job qualification to insist on, but Mr. Stramp had wanted his employees to be able to judge a client’s bank account by his or her possessions. It was only after his Ponzi scheme was revealed that I realized why he really wanted that kind of information.

  Interrupting my thoughts, Noah informed me that Max was already seated. A striking woman wearing an exquisite black wrap dress and red high heels led us past generously spaced tables filled with well-dressed diners having thoughtful discussions.

  She showed us to a booth tucked into a corner away from the other patrons. It was obviously one of the best locations in the restaurant, and when she put her hand on Noah’s arm and purred, “I hope this is satisfactory, Dr. Underwood,” I shot Noah a knowing look. Clearly, he was on good terms with this hostess, as well as the one at the Golden Dragon.

  “Perfect.” Noah shrugged at me, then smiled at the woman. “Thank you, Anne.”

  Once the hostess had departed, Max stood and greeted us. I couldn’t recall having met him before, which wasn’t all that surprising. I did most of my banking electronically and went to the building only to deposit the store’s receipts in the night drop-off slot. Heck, I’d even gotten my business loan online.

  Noah and Max shook hands; then Noah introduced me to the bank president. Max assured Noah that he and I knew each other, which was a revelation to me, but I kept quiet and nodded pleasantly. As I studied the bank president, I saw that we were nearly the same height. His hair was unnaturally brown and along his side part I could see gray roots. He wore a gray Turnbull & Asser suit—a brand my father had favored—with a light-blue pinpoint oxford shirt and a burgundy tie.

  Once the formalities were over, Noah and I slid onto one of the padded bench seats, and Max took the other.

  Noah said, “Thank you for agreeing to have lunch with us, Max. We have a rather delicate matter to discuss and thought it would be best if we talked away from the bank.”

  “No problem at all,” Max assured Noah. “I’m always happy to make myself available to one of the board members. As I said when we spoke on the phone last weekend, I feel strongly that my position is not a nine-to-five job and I’m at your service day or night.”

  “Nonetheless.” Noah’s tone was businesslike and his expression was impassive. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Before Max could respond, a server appeared at Noah’s side and said, “Dr. Underwood, would you like your usual drink or are you in the mood for something new?” She gave him a suggestive look.

  “The usual is fine, Mitzi.” Noah smiled at the young woman. “Thanks.”

  She beamed back at him, then, with a show of reluctance, turned to me and asked, “May I bring you something from the bar, ma’am?”

  “I can recommend the Concha y Toro Don Melchor Cabernet Sauvignon 2001,” Max advised, holding up his glass. “It has a dazzling nose of black currant and roasted coffee, with a powerful but still smooth palate of cassis, plum, blackberry, loam, and dark chocolate. It glides down the throat through a superlong finish.”

  “Uh.” I was still fuming about being called ma’am, but I realized that the wine Max was talking about was extremely expensive. Squirming, I said, “I’d better stick to iced tea—lots of ice and extra lemon, please.”

  How much cash did I have in my purse? Since I was on such a tight budget and didn’t want to be tempted into an impulse purchase, I didn’t carry a credit card. I did have one for emergencies, but it was in the store safe. While I was sure Noah would try to pay for this lunch, I couldn’t let him. Boone was my friend and it was his problem we were trying to solve.

  “Super,” Mitzi bubbled. “Two iced teas coming up. I’ll be right back.”

  For some reason, which made no sense at all, it delighted me that I had chosen the same drink as Noah. He mus
t have been pleased, as well, because he squeezed my hand as it lay on my lap.

  The three of us spent the next several minutes reviewing the menu. I silently gulped at the prices. When Mitzi returned with our drinks and we ordered, I again worried about how much cash I had with me. Noah and I selected two of the more modestly priced entrées, but Max chose the costliest item on the list: lobster pasta with truffle oil. Noah hadn’t exaggerated when he said that the bank president liked nice things.

  Once Mitzi left, Noah straightened and said, “Max, I’m sure you heard that someone killed Elise Whitmore last Saturday night.”

  “Yes.” Max took a sip of his wine and said in a detached voice, “What a horrible thing to happen in our little town.” He shook his head. “Most alarming.”

  “It sure is,” I agreed. “And almost more disturbing is that the police suspect Boone St. Onge.” I paused, trying to gauge Max’s reaction. “Of course, there’s no way Boone could ever be a murderer.”

  “I’ll grant you, St. Onge doesn’t seem the type.” Max’s gaze was flinty. “However, can you or anyone really say with absolute certainty that under no circumstances could St. Onge ever kill someone? Think of all the people who claim their neighbor the serial killer was such a nice, quiet fellow.”

  I opened my mouth to defend Boone, but Noah leaned back and said casually, “True. None of us can really say what someone else is capable of.” He chuckled. “We probably don’t know what we’re capable of doing ourselves. But Dev and Boone have been friends since they were children, so of all people, she probably knows him best.”

  “Ah.” Max murmured. “But what about all the wives and girlfriends who claim their husbands or lovers could never be guilty?”

  He started to add something else, but he was interrupted by the server, who placed our salads in front of us and asked, “Does anyone want fresh ground pepper?” We all nodded, and when she was finished twisting the long wooden mill, she said, “Is there anything else I can get for you right now?”

  We all murmured “No, thank you,” and when the waitress left, Max said, “You do have a point, Noah. Dev doubtlessly has had more experience judging people’s guilt or innocence than most people.”

  Hmm. Had he just suggested something about my father or maybe my previous boss? I wasn’t sure how to respond and decided silence was my best option, since I didn’t want to alienate the guy.

  “Did you know that Elise Whitmore’s husband works at the bank?” Max commented, then was silent as he devoured his salad.

  “Actually, we did,” I answered, then realized I should let Noah take the lead. Glancing at him, I indicated he should go on.

  “That’s why we wanted to talk to you.” Noah squeezed lemon into his iced tea. “Rumor has it that Elise was trying to get Colin fired.”

  “Really?” Max asked, pokerfaced. “How do they say she was trying to accomplish that?”

  “We’re hoping you can tell us.” Noah smiled blandly. “Since I assume the only way she could cause his dismissal would be through you.”

  The server reappeared and replaced our empty salad plates with our entrées. Once she left, Max said, “I suppose that’s true.” He forked a huge bite of pasta into his mouth, then took his time chewing and swallowing before he added, “I am the boss.”

  I continued eating as if I wasn’t all that interested in the conversation, and Noah did the same. He silently telegraphed to me that we should let Max take matters at his own pace. The man obviously enjoyed having the power to make us wait, and pressing him would do no good.

  Finally, when he was nearly finished with his food, Max paused, took a gulp of wine, and remarked, “Now that I think about it, Elise did stop by my office a week or two ago for a little chat about her husband’s morals.” Max patted his lips with his napkin. “I believe she mentioned that he’d been having an affair with the help.”

  “Did she tell you the woman’s name?” I asked, finding it semi-amazing that Willow’s identity had remained such a secret.

  “No.” Max wrinkled his brow. “At least not that I can recall.”

  “Were you considering Elise’s request to get rid of Whitmore?” Noah asked.

  “Well.” Max twirled the stem of his wineglass. “She did make a good point. She said that a place of business such as a privately held bank shouldn’t employ people who behave unethically, but . . .”

  “But?” I prodded. Seriously, could this guy take any longer to answer?

  “The problem was that although I was fairly certain that the bank owner, Mr. Bourne, wouldn’t approve of Whitmore’s philandering”—Max heaved a sigh—“I also knew that he valued the young man’s unique skills.”

  “Ah.” Noah nodded. “You were between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Exactly.” Max laughed, sounding like the bleat of a telephone receiver left off the hook for too long.

  “So what did you do?” I was running out of patience and wondered what we’d have to do to get this guy to finish his story.

  “I decided the correct procedure was to allow Mr. Bourne to make that call.” Max picked up his fork and polished off the rest of his meal.

  “So you passed the problem up to the top.” I wasn’t surprised. I was sure Max Robinson hadn’t gotten where he was by acting rashly.

  “It seemed the prudent course of action.” Max patted his little potbelly—something his expensive suit couldn’t hide. “That was a delicious lunch.”

  “Did you inform Mr. Whitmore about his wife’s visit?” Noah asked.

  “I thought it only fair to apprise him of the situation.” Max reeked of pomposity. “That way he could update his résumé should Mr. Bourne instruct me to dismiss him.”

  Something about Max’s statement didn’t sound right to me, but before I could figure out what it was, the server approached our table and cleared the empty plates. She stowed the dirty dishes on a tray behind her, then offered us dessert menus. Noah and I declined, but Max grabbed the card, studied the selections, and ordered coffee and truffe framboise—fresh raspberries and kirsch–moistened chocolate cake layers surrounded by bittersweet chocolate mousse.

  As we waited for Max’s dessert and he and Noah chatted, I pondered what we’d learned. There was a question I was forgetting to ask, but what was it?

  A few minutes later, just before the server slid the confection in front of Max, it dawned on me, and I said, “How did Whitmore react to the news that his soon-to-be ex-wife was trying to get him canned?”

  Before Max could answer, the waitress approached us, carrying a tray holding a cup of coffee. She must have tripped on something on the floor, because I watched in stunned silence as she stumbled and the cup slid off the tray and bounced against Max’s knee, and the scalding liquid soaked the entire lower leg of his pants. He jumped to his feet, cursing, and pulled up the leg of his trousers.

  The hostess rushed over, and she and the server mopped up Max, gave him a cloth full of ice to apply to the burn, apologized profusely, and offered him a gift card for his next visit. Once the commotion died down and Noah had examined Max’s leg and pronounced it a minor injury, we all settled back in our seats.

  As Max dug into his dessert, I said to him, “I noticed that your leg was already injured. What happened?” I’d seen several scabbed-over gashes on his left calf when he exposed his leg.

  Max paused, took another mouthful of truffe framboise, chewed, and swallowed; then he looked at me and with a show of reluctance he said, “You asked how Whitmore reacted to the news that Elise was trying to get him dismissed from his job. This is the result.” Max shuddered. “He kicked over the coffee table in my office. The glass top shattered and the shards flew everywhere, cutting my leg. I’m lucky one didn’t take out my eye.”

  “And he’s still employed by you?” Noah questioned.

  “I notified Mr. Bourne about his outburst. Truth be told, I’m a little afraid to fire Whitmore at this point.” Max blinked. “After all, look what happened to poor Eli
se.”

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  As the valet assisted me into the passenger seat of Noah’s Jag, I was still mulling over what Max had told us about Whitmore’s violent tendencies. I had barely buckled up when my cell chirped, indicating that I had a text. Since Noah was still in the process of tipping the attendant, I checked the phone and saw that I had a message from Tryg.

  My stomach clenched as I read: BOONE’S BN ARESTD. I’M @ 5-O ST8N W HIM. LET’S MEET 2NITE @ POPPY’S APARTMNT N TLK. Why had they arrested Boone again? Did they find some new evidence that implicated him? I sure hoped that Tryg would let Chief Kincaid know that there were several other people who were better suspects than Boone. I especially couldn’t wait to tell the attorney what we’d just heard about Colin Whitmore.

  As soon as Noah got behind the wheel and I’d filled him in on this latest development, he asked, “Do you want to go to the PD?”

  “No.” I forced myself to be sensible. “Tryg’s with Boone, and there’s nothing I can do there.” I tapped my fingers on the dashboard. “What I’d really like to do is talk to Willow, Lindsey, and Colin.”

  “Colin will be at the bank.” Noah turned the Jag out of the driveway. “And Lindsey will probably be at work in Kansas City.”

  “I wonder where Willow lives and whether she works from home,” I mused. “And another thing no one’s mentioned: Does she still pet sit, or did she quit after she got the big book deal?”

  “She lives with her parents,” Noah said, not taking his eyes from the road. “Their house is a couple doors down from mine.”

  “So you know her?” Had he mentioned that when he first told us that Willow was the woman with whom Colin had been having an affair? I didn’t think so. But, then again, why would he?

  “Not really.” Noah shook his head. “I’ve run into her a couple of times when I’ve been out with Lucky—she has a neighborhood dog-walking business—and we stopped and talked for a few minutes.”