by Bud Crawford
Stephanie stood up. "David, thank you for coming. I really am alright here. Whenever they get done, the police, the medical stuff, the autopsy, I'll head home."
"It's your call, of course. I'm booked here tonight, already paid through, and I'd like a shot at Alistair's breakfast tomorrow, then we'll see. This is my job, Stephanie. Ellen and Geoff have things to do. We don't want to impose on them."
Ellen said, standing, "Geoff and I, we're turtles, our work comes along wherever we go. So we're good, and we're here, until Stephanie says we're imposing." She put her arm around Stephanie's shoulders, and turned her towards the door.
David lifted both hands, palms out. "I'm here to help. Stephanie is a friend, and the widow of a friend who was also a valued associate. I have personal and professional responsibilities in this, but if the best way to fulfill them is going back to Charlotte, I'm gone."
Geoff stood. "Well this turtle's got papers to grade. Perhaps we'll see you at tea time, David. Good to meet you. I'm impressed with Metrocor's benefits and delivery system. I believe Alistair is hovering, holding back on the best part of breakfast until you can eat without interruption. Here he comes. Enjoy the ultimate piece of French toast."
David stood, shook hands with Geoffrey. "Good to meet you Geoff, Ellen. Stephanie. I've got to check in at the Asheville office, then probably I will be back for tea. Oh, thanks, Geoff, sorry I left that underfoot." Geoff moved his suitcase enough to walk past. As they left Alistair approached, hot plate held in an oven mitt.
"Thank you, Alistair, that smells delicious," David said.
He smacked his lips, Alistair thought, audibly smacked them. I guess I like that. Appetite is good for a cook to see. He set the plate on the table and watched David lean forward to inhale the aroma then lean back to shake out his napkin.
chapter twenty-fifth
Ellen sat cross-legged on Stephanie's rumpled bed. Stephanie sat facing in an armchair, cell phone open on the table beside her, on top of the pages torn from Ellen's notebook. She twisted her hair one way, then the other, with the fingers of her right hand.
Ellen asked, "Is David really a friend?"
Stephanie turned and looked out the window, then turned back to Ellen. "I suppose so, kind of. Not really outside of company functions, we didn't socialize with him or anything. He was Harold's boss, you try to be nice to the boss."
"Yeah?"
"When the boss hits on you at the Christmas party, you get less nice." Stephanie crossed her arms. "He was pretty insistent, grabbing and squeezing. After about the fifth no, me getting louder and louder, he quit. He's pretended ever since nothing happened. I didn't want a scene, for Harold's sake. And I never told him."
"I had a knee in the nuts impulse the minute I saw him." Ellen smiled at Stephanie. "I'm glad there was a reason, even if I didn't know it. Not just drive-by malevolence on my part."
"He's okay, with a short boy ego thing, I expect. You don't need to stay, I have to settle in and make as many of these calls as I can stand to, then maybe go for a walk or a run or something. But I think I should practice a little at being alone."
"Absolutely. I've got two interviews scheduled, easy to cancel out if you need me. Just push my button on the phone, and I'll be right back. But if you're okay, I'll go collect some conversation for my article." Ellen unhooked her legs and stood. She leaned over Stephanie, put her hands on either side of her head, leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I mean it about calling me. I'll call you around lunch, see where you are?"
~
"Mr. Ickes, good to see you." Elaine recognized her boss's boss. "Would you like me to buzz Ms Markey?"
"Please, if you would." He reached across the counter and pinched the lapel of her jacket, a soft blue velour. "This is a great color on you, Elaine, flattering to your skin, and the cut is perfect." He let go as she slipped on her headset, pleased by her blush. She's flustered, he thought, not getting enough attention here, maybe time she got a promotion east, hire up a new boy-toy for Maddy.
"She says, just go on down, she's wrapping up a call." Elaine set her headset back on the worktop below the counter. She opened her arm towards the hallway. As David turned she tugged down the hem of her jacket. She didn't hear him walking on the soft carpet, but his voice boomed back as he opened the office door. "Markey! Exactly what kind of example are you setting here! And on company time!" The door crunched against the frame and she couldn't hear Madison's answer. Never know what to think about this place, Elaine giggled as she turned back to the pile of transaction documents. She resumed sorting puts from calls.
~
"Honoria," Ellen said, "you'll keep an eye on her?" She handed Honoria a card with her cell-phone number. "I'm sure she'll be fine, and I told her to call me, but…"
"Of course, Ellen, dear. I was planning on switching between Ann's sweater and doing my emails. My Apple book thing is right here, so's the knitting. I'll watch with my other eye. Geoffrey's upstairs?"
"There can't be anything to worry about. She said she wanted to be by herself a while."
"Go, child. She won't get past us, no one will get past us." The Farley sisters looked up from their books, on the other side of the room and smiled at Ellen. "They've got the right-hand stairs, I've got the left. The Juniper irregulars are mustered up."
~
Sprague looked across his desk at Marti Spence. Her shirt was a couple sizes too small, gaping between the upper buttons, her skirt was short enough that he was happy the desk blocked his view of her lower half. She looked a little frightened, a little combative. But she had come in voluntarily, on Vingood's advice; her stepfather, it turns out. She was pretty, very freckled, hair dyed kind of orange, but not that far from her natural color, he guessed. Her eyes were deep and large, with a beautiful sparkle, if she smiled even a little. Her skin was milk chocolate: half the dark-brown and half the pinky-brown that we still call black and white in this country.
She admitted spending the past two nights with James Richter at his cabin in Chimney Rock. Admitted, because he'd had to dig a little to get it out of her. She was caught between wanting to flaunt a grown-up conquest and sensitive to his judgment of her. Also there was a boyfriend conveniently (and temporarily?) set aside in favor of Richter. She'd just turned nineteen, Richter was thirty-eight, exactly double. She had declined to give him the name of the boyfriend. He had nothing to do with Juniper House, she said, and she hadn't seen him for several days. He let that one go, with a big marginal arrow in his notes. Under the arrow he wrote Vingood? in tiny letters.
She told him about the watch, pretty much the same story as Vingood had given, somewhat confirmed by Fletcher. She was obviously still pissed at Alden, but also worried she'd added to the stress that killed him. Probably did, but Sprague told her a heart attack was ninety-nine percent genes and life-style, nothing to do with her or the watch. Guilt rarely improved human behavior, just deepened its misery, Sprague had concluded over his twenty-two years on the job. That was why she'd bolted, as soon as the ambulance arrived. She drove straight to Richter's cabin. Richter didn't show until several hours later, around sunset. This morning she left before dawn, he was still asleep. She had no idea what his plans were today. She guessed she'd see him later, but they hadn't made specific arrangements. Now, could she go? She had to help with tea, especially after being awol yesterday. There had been no important contradictions between her story and Vingood or Billings or the Fletchers or any of the others. He cut her loose, after getting her cell-phone number and giving her his card. He told her his job was getting information. If he did talk to her boyfriend it would be to find out what he knew, not to tell tales. He would let her know if it became necessary.
He still didn't know about Alden's will, his ex-wife, life insurance, workplace issues, or hometown gossip. Based on what he had in hand, there was nothing. Ross, the weatherman, had been a little opaque, but he'd checked out, just didn't have much to contribute. Fletcher had called this morning about the little co
mputer plug-in drive. It sounded like he believed himself, but Sprague couldn't think of any compelling reason why he should. Even if Fletcher was right, what could it possibly mean? Alden could have pulled it out and stuck it somewhere. They hadn't found it but they hadn't been looking. He'd check tomorrow, might as well. Had Alden been working on anything important or dangerous? Something about brokerage fees, fleecing the rich maybe, in the worst case. No drugs or guns or sex or dirty politics. There were supposed to be coins also, old coins, in little plastic ziplocks, very valuable. Some were in Alistair's safe, but several should have been in the room, maybe in Alden's pockets. Look at that, too, Sprague supposed, sometime. Ok, time to turn it off. Get the forensic report, autopsy, wait for Charlotte PD to answer. Dot the t's, cross the i's, file it. And get on to some actual criminal-activity-type work. He closed his notebook.
chapter twenty-sixth
Shortbread, bittersweet chocolate biscuits, and cucumber with watercress on toast medallions comprised the tea menu Friday at the Inn. Alistair and Marti brought platters into the dining room, but urged the guests out into the parlor or the garden. It was a warm soft April afternoon, temperature in the high sixties, a cloudless sky.
Geoff and Ellen and Stephanie were hungry after a five mile run. Honoria was back from a walk downtown to buy note-cards and stamps. Dwight and Jerry were next in, come to celebrate the end of their Gastonia engagement. The local electrical contractor was deemed fit, by them and the architect and the general contractor, to complete the wiring. They had bid the job, so the sooner done the better. They planned to head home to Raleigh tomorrow. If questions came up, they were familiar enough with the site now to consult by fax and email. Ross made himself a plate and settled with Honoria and the Farley twins in the garden.
Alistair told Geoff the Herters had called to say they were having tea at Biltmore, and also dinner, but to expect them for dessert. Nobody ever calls, Alistair said. He hardly knows how to take it when people do. Only David Ickes was unaccounted for.
David came a quarter-hour later, with Madison Markey. He brought her to Stephanie, who was in the parlor with Ellen. Geoff had gone out to the garden with Jerry and Dwight. Madison wore teal. Her heels, jersey dress, eye-shadow and nails, all teal. Her belt and a small bag were bright pumpkin. She took Stephanie's and Ellen's appraising looks as compliments.
"You poor dear," she said to Stephanie, "such a horrible, horrible thing! Please accept my condolences. We shall all miss Harold terribly."
Stephanie looked at Madison without speaking. After a half-a-minute Ellen said, "As you can imagine, this is very difficult. Your good wishes are appreciated, of course." She put her hand on Stephanie's. "Want to go upstairs?"
Stephanie shook her head, no. "Thanks, Ellen, I'm fine. I can't think of anything to say. You can't decline a condolence. It's not even possible, probably. I've been having these gaps, where I can't fetch up a response. I just go blank. Please don't take it personally, Madison."
Clasping her hands behind her back, leaning into David Ickes, Madison said, "No, this is too much for anyone. I understand. We would never criticize or judge at such a time."
Stephanie said, "I can't promise I won't, but I haven't have the energy, just now."
Ellen flung her arm around Stephanie's shoulder, and hoped the choked gasp of her laughter had sounded like a sob. "Don't hold it in, Stef," she said, "you know you're among friends."
Stephanie put her arm around Ellen and said, "Thank you, so much, I know, I know."
Ellen thought, her sobs sound more like sobs than mine did. We'd better break here. "You'll be fine, honey." She unwrapped her arm and looked up, sadly she hoped, at Madison and David.
David said, "Madison asked me to bring her along, to offer whatever comfort she could. I'm sure you appreciate her concern."
"Of course, David, of course, Madison." Stephanie lifted her head to look directly at them. "You were good friends of Harold, and me, I know that. I'm a little bit crazy, is all. It will pass. Oh, hi, Geoff, hi Jerry, hi Dwight. We've been condoling, please join us. Meet Madison and David, colleagues of Harold at Metrocor."
"I'm Jerry, this is Dwight." David shook hands with each of the men with a perfunctory grasp. Madison took each hand, locking eyes and lingering.
"Wouldn't want to miss a condoling, Stef," Geoff said. "It just struck me, maybe that's the strangeness inside our present Secretary of State, that she was named not from sweetness, but from regret."
Only Dwight laughed, Ellen coughed, and covered her mouth. "I'm sorry," Dwight said, "it's just that that thought knocks so many things into place."
Jerry said, "It usually takes something stronger than tea and watercress to make people this silly, when the underlying occasion is sad." He looked at Stephanie. "You would tell us all to go fuck a duck, wouldn't you, if we were making things worse for you?"
"No, no, it's exactly right. You can pluck a truck for me, I don't mind. Suck your luck."
"Cluck a buck?" Ellen offered, "tuck a puck?"
"Shuck muck?" said Geoff. "I'm played out, stuck in huck. We've exhausted silly, I think, by my alphabet."
Dwight said, "Nearly, we could still chuck a ruck, then helplessly yuck."
David said, "I haven't seen Alistair, is he in the kitchen? I need to talk to him about Harold's computer."
Geoff turned to David. "He probably is in the kitchen, but I don't think he can help with the computer. The room's not just locked, it's sealed by the police. In any case, Stephanie's concern more than yours, surely?"
"It isn't the computer, it's the files of customer and company data that Harold downloaded. There's proprietary Metrocor data involved, along with customer records, identity information."
Geoff handed David a card from the small stack still on the end table. "Detective Sprague is the guy in charge. It's up to him, I think, when to unseal the room. There's also Harold's and Stephanie's private files and personal data. Maybe when the police let it go, the two of you could go through the files. You could pull off or delete the ones you wanted, if Stephanie agreed."
"And you could be the referee," Madison smiled at Geoffrey. "You seem a fair kind of guy."
"What was Harold working on, anyway?" Jerry asked. "He seemed completely fixated. Does anybody know?"
"I know a little," Geoff said. "James, the guy who came here to meet him yesterday, you probably noticed him?"
"Oh, yeah, we noticed," Dwight said. "We moved a table closer."
"It was his instigation," Geoff said, "thought he was being over-billed on his brokerage account. It was a managed fund, where you give complete control to the broker to buy and sell on your behalf. Professionals look squinty-eyed at your holdings, continuously adjusting and rebalancing as the market moves. Theory is, they do it so well you won't mind paying high fees, because you come out even higher." He turned to David. "Is that a fair description, about those funds, in civilian terms?"
"Sure, that's about it. They typically outperform the market by so much, they're worth the fees, which are pretty modest, considering the level of professional expertise you're benefiting from. Anybody who's ever unhappy just has to rescind the permissions, and take it over for themselves. Doesn't happen very often."
Dwight said, "But why would it be hard to figure out? I mean, wouldn't you just look at your statement and say, there's the fee, that's right or that's wrong? What's the big mathematical deal?"
"David? Madison?" Geoff asked. David lifted both hands. Madison shook her head. Geoff said, "Well, yes and no. The details get complex, because the broker may wear many hats. There's an overall charge for managing, then every trade involves charges, fees to buy, fees to sell, fees for filing, fees to prepare documents, usually not itemized, it can be pretty opaque. What James saw, and apparently convinced Harold about, was some kind of trending with these charges, larger than they should have been, but also following some rule. That was what had Harold stumped, he had a curve that reminded him of something, but he couldn't recogniz
e it. I offered to help, the last time I talked to him, but he said he wanted to solve it himself. That's all I know. I never saw any data. Maybe David can shed some light?"
"I can't. I'm sorry. I knew he was working on something for James Richter, but he told me less than he told you. I suggested he should stop wasting his vacation with it, and just show me what he had when he got back to Charlotte. There can't have been anything very significant or somebody else would have noticed. Me, for instance. But if a mistake was made, and I'm the first to admit it's possible, our monthly or year-end audits would pick it up. My guess is he couldn't find it because it wasn't there."
"I still don't see why the pattern mattered," Dwight said. "What if it was phases of the moon, average skirt lengths, Dick Cheney's blood pressure? What's the difference? Was it just a puzzle?"
Jerry said, "'Just a puzzle?', coming from a man who can't open his morning email until he's finished his sudokus, New York Times and Washington Post both?"