by Mary Ellis
Mrs. Dean turned on one heel and marched down the hallway, stopping at the last door. “The church account is the red leather-bound book on the right. All checks have an old-fashioned duplicate copy. Payables are entered into the computer on a daily basis. Take as long as you need and then let yourself out. I’ll be upstairs emptying out closets.”
The moment she disappeared, Michael relaxed. He sat down at the pastor’s cluttered desk and immersed himself in papers, files, and ledgers. Finally, a world he was comfortable in.
Although his eyesight was excellent, Michael slipped on a pair of readers. Magnifying whatever he focused on allowed him to concentrate on details. But after an hour of poring over the last six months of checks drawn on Calvary Baptist’s account, he’d found nothing out of the ordinary: utilities, payroll for Mrs. Purdy, insurance, plumbing repair bills, a new air-conditioning condenser—the endless costs of maintaining a public building. Then he noticed one troubling discrepancy. Although the person authorized to sign on the account was Paul A. Dean, the signatures weren’t remotely the same. At least half the checks had been written by someone else—someone who made little attempt to emulate the pastor’s hand.
And Michael had a good idea who forged the pastor’s name. With a shiver of excitement, he pulled out the agency’s signed contract from his briefcase. He might not be a handwriting expert, but considering Mrs. Dean’s fondness for mixing block letters with cursive, none would be necessary. Who beyond the sixth grade still uses a snowman for the numeral eight? Some of the checks to pay church expenses had been signed by Alice Dean. Correction, forged by Alice Dean. With the barest twinge of shame, Michael rummaged through the pastor’s desk until he found the Deans’ personal checkbook register. Although both names were on the account, hadn’t she stated that her husband paid the household bills? Not according to the signature on most of the checks.
Alice Dean held the financial reins of the family, and maybe for the Calvary Baptist Church of Natchez too. She might already be rich, but if she played her cards right, she was about to add another million dollars to her coffers. All she had to do was find someone to take the rap for her husband’s death.
And she thought he and Elizabeth were here to help.
TEN
Bay St. Louis
When Nate awoke Monday morning, his bride was still sleeping soundly, so he left her that way. Her first night on the Mississippi Gulf Coast had been rough. No one liked to be sick to their stomach, especially away from home. He placed another bottle of water and pack of crackers on her nightstand, dressed in shorts and sneakers, and tiptoed out the door. Outside the sun reflected brightly off the calm water, while a breeze offered relief from the high humidity. In the bay, boats trawled for shrimp, hoping to fill their nets before seagulls ate up their profits for breakfast.
After debating his choices, he decided it was already too hot for his usual morning run. With bikes available at no charge at the B and B, he could ride around the peninsula for an hour and be back about the time Izzy should wake up.
Nate headed north on North Beach Boulevard, past the yacht club and around Coward’s and Cedar Points. The faster he pedaled, the freer he felt, as though his entire world consisted of land, water, wind, and the bike. He definitely would invest in a twelve-speed when he returned home, and maybe one for Isabelle too. He turned down Engman Avenue to shorten his trip by cutting inland and ran smack into the Golden Magnolia Casino.
What an extravaganza of a resort, with a high-rise hotel, an RV park, a marina, and golf course, besides the main attraction, which separated tourists from their money. Nate had nothing against gambling per se. He just never had the desire to lighten their already anorexic bank account. But maybe he and Izzy would stop in since he heard casinos had the best buffets in the business.
Circling the parking lot, Nate decided to head down Golden Magnolia Boulevard, confident it would lead him back to Route 90 and Old Town. But as he rode past the grand entrance, he spotted a familiar face exiting the casino. At least the man looked like Izzy’s former husband. Or had her suggestion simply put ideas in his head? With a scruffy beard, long hair, and a ball cap pulled low, Nate couldn’t be sure.
He rolled to a stop under a tree and watched as the man climbed into a beat-up Toyota and backed from the parking space. He’d only seen two or three photos of Isabelle and Craig taken at long-ago barbecues. Isabelle said she’d burned their wedding album in the fireplace after he filed for divorce. She was lucky her rashness hadn’t burned down the house. When Nate saw the photos, he thought her ex looked like the quintessential lawyer—clean-cut, buttoned down, and almost nondescript, at least from a mildly jealous perspective.
Today Nate was the lucky one. When the early gambler drove away, he passed right by where Nate backpedaled in the shade. Even though a closer look wouldn’t do Nate much good since he’d never met Craig in person, recognition clearly registered on the man’s face. Izzy’s ex stared, blinked, and then punched the gas pedal.
So much for Isabelle being mistaken.
But what difference did it make? Craig was water over the dam. If Nate remembered correctly, Craig had remarried and was living happily ever after in Nashville. It was unfortunate if he had succumbed to his gambling addiction, but was that their problem? He and Isabelle had worked so hard lately, maybe too hard. Long before Nate reached downtown Bay St. Louis, he’d made up his mind to say nothing about his discovery. This was a chance to put their marriage first. And maybe—just maybe—let nature take its course.
When Nate skidded to a stop in front of Aunt Polly’s B and B, his bride was sipping a cup of tea on the porch.
“Sneaking off for a bike ride without me?” she asked, her dimples deepening with her smile.
He leaned the bike against a tree and jogged up the steps. “I thought I’d let you sleep, but if you’re willing, there’s a three-speed with your name on it. Good morning, my queen.” He leaned in for a kiss.
“Hello, my prince. Breakfast will be out in a few minutes. It was last call, and I am famished.” Isabelle pointed at a table set with crystal and china.
“You should be. Hunger is a good sign.” Nate held out his elbow to escort her to her chair. “What would you like to do today? How about a dolphin-watching excursion or maybe deep-sea fishing?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Nothing in a boat on water.”
“How about a drive along the beach road to Alabama? We’ll see the entire Mississippi Gulf Coast. Or we could ride bikes and learn our way around.”
Her smile turned apologetic. “Could we avoid riding on either two or four wheels until I’m sure my stomach is back to normal?”
“Then why don’t we walk to town? That should keep your feet planted on solid ground.” Nate sat down just as Mrs. Russo delivered their breakfast—pecan French toast, crisp bacon, and fresh fruit with cream.
Smiling, Isabelle picked up her knife and fork. “Thanks. I promise not to be a stick-in-the-mud for the entire trip.” She munched a piece of bacon.
“We have all the time in the world,” he said.
Actually, Nate couldn’t wait to start vacationing. Now that they were here, he wanted to leave no stone unturned. He consumed his breakfast as though he hadn’t eaten in days.
Isabelle dawdled, as usual. When she finally went inside to do her makeup, Nate took a two-minute shower and then tapped his toe on the porch for another fifteen.
But the leisurely stroll to Old Town was worth the wait. Inside the historic train depot they found one room filled with Mardi Gras costumes and another dedicated to Mississippi blues musicians.
Isabelle stopped in front of a portrait of several legendary greats. “Do you think my brother might have become famous one day?” she asked softly. “Danny had just started composing music before he died.”
Nate wrapped an arm around her waist. “No doubt in my mind. Everyone said he was the most talented sax player they had ever heard.”
“They could have put his pictur
e here, next to the twentieth-century bluesmen.” Her fingers hovered over an empty area in the painting. For several moments Nate and Isabelle were alone in the museum, surrounded by ghosts from a bygone era. Then a shrill voice pierced the melancholy mood.
“Where were you folks during the hurricane of 2005?”
They pivoted to find a sweet-faced volunteer named Joni, according to her name tag.
“I was finishing college at Mississippi State in Starkville,” said Nate, thankful for the interruption.
“I was at Vanderbilt University in Nashville,” offered Isabelle.
“Me, I was living here.” Joni pointed at the tile floor. “This area east of New Orleans was ground zero during Katrina. Would you folks like to see our album of before-and-after pictures? Wait until you see the progress we’ve made in ten years.”
“We would love to.” Isabelle took a final look around and hurried from the room of guitars, trumpets, and ghosts of what-could-have-been.
Nate wasn’t nearly as excited to see a bunch of old photos, but halfway through the album he changed his mind. To say Bay St. Louis had made strides was an understatement. After being wiped off the map, residents returned to rebuild the Bay Bridge, the roads, and almost every building to equal or exceed the original charm. Joni shared harrowing tales of those who rode out the storm, clinging to tree limbs for hours or hiding in attics until the water receded. Nate and Isabelle were rendered speechless.
“Well, that’s enough about the past,” she said, closing the album. “Be sure to tell your friends about us, and don’t miss the art gallery upstairs. It’s the work of a local gal who knew that life shouldn’t be taken too seriously.”
When Joni moved off to a new batch of visitors, Nate whispered in Isabelle’s ear. “If it’s the same to you, let’s skip the room of wannabe Renoirs.”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort.” Isabelle slapped his wrist for good measure. “That tour guide made me feel part of her family in five minutes. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.” She pulled him toward the elevator.
“All right. We’ll check out the artwork. I’m curious about anyone who can keep an upbeat attitude during a hurricane.”
Upstairs, the work of Alice Moseley surprised him as much as the photo album. Considering the woman had never picked up a paintbrush until her fifties, her extraordinary life gave hope to retirees wishing to reinvent themselves. When Isabelle wandered off in search of a restroom, Nate bought her a whimsical print of cotton fields, sharecropper shacks, and a balky mule. Alice Moseley sure had a humorous way of seeing the past.
Nate found Isabelle by the railroad tracks behind the museum. “I got you a souvenir to remember our trip.” He produced the bag from behind his back.
Isabelle smiled as she pulled out the print. “This one was my favorite too. Thanks, honey.” She buzzed his cheek with a kiss.
“Where to now?” Nate unfolded his map of Old Town.
She took little time to peruse. “Let’s go shopping here and here and here.” She tapped on a vintage clothing shop, a fair trade importer, and a jewelry store whose name he couldn’t pronounce. “And, of course, the bookstore.”
“Did you win the lottery when I wasn’t looking?” he murmured as she pulled him down the street.
“Relax. I’ll only ogle and drool. And I’ll let you pick where we have dinner tonight. Anything but seafood.”
After what seemed like six hours of browsing shops, Nate was ready to eat the stale breath mints in his pocket. When Isabelle finally wore out, he selected the first place they came to, North Beach Restaurant. Fortunately, Monday was a slow day, and they were seated on the patio with a view of the bay. “See anything on the menu you like?” Nate realized too late that most of the choices were seafood. “If not, we can go somewhere else.”
“And give up this view?” Isabelle shook her head. “I’m having the eggplant parmesan.”
“Good choice. I’m going with the rib eye. Now, show me the books you bought.” Nate leaned back in his chair.
By the time Isabelle showed him her five books, the waitress appeared to deliver their drinks and take their orders.
With a glass of lemonade in hand, Nate settled back to appreciate the ambiance and admire his lovely wife. But instead, guilt crawled up his spine like a millipede. He didn’t like keeping secrets, especially not one that struck a personal chord with her.
“I have a confession to make,” he blurted out. “I saw Craig this morning while you were still sleeping.”
The breadstick halted halfway to her mouth. “When you were riding your bike? Where was he?”
“I rode to the north end and ended up in the parking lot of the Golden Magnolia Casino. Craig had just walked out and was getting into his car.”
Isabelle dropped the breadstick onto her plate. “So I wasn’t seeing things last night. He has fallen off the wagon.” Her complexion lost much of its color.
“I wasn’t sure it was him because he didn’t look like the guy in the photos I’ve seen. But when we made eye contact, he reacted. I thought he might have a stroke.” Nate crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t believe he went gambling that early in the morning. We hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.”
“You don’t understand gamblers. Craig probably played all night. He would grab something to eat and then hit the sack, not to surface again until late afternoon.” Her shoulders slumped. “What a shame. I had high hopes for his second marriage.”
Nate leaned back as the waitress delivered their first course. “It is a shame, but check out these salads. Just how you like it, with fresh mozzarella, radishes, and chickpeas.” He chewed a leaf of romaine. “Tastes like it was picked yesterday. Dig in, Izzy.”
His enthusiasm had little effect. Isabelle speared a cherry tomato, but left it on her plate. “I have a confession to make too,” she said after a pause. “I woke up last night around midnight feeling a whole lot better. You were asleep in the chair, so I called Cassie Mitchell.”
Nate almost choked on his food. “Your bridegroom falls asleep and you call your ex’s second wife?”
She smirked. “Sounds ridiculous, but I wanted to thank her for their generous check.”
“You already wrote a thank-you note. Besides, the money was a payback, not a magnanimous gift.” Nate stuffed his mouth to keep from saying something he shouldn’t.
“I know that, but still, some exes wouldn’t make the effort. Anyway, Cassie said that Craig left her for another woman. Someone in his office. She was heartbroken.”
“Tigers will never change their stripes. Eat, Isabelle. This salad is delicious.”
“You’re right.” Picking up her fork, she ate a single chickpea.
But after two years of marriage, Nate wasn’t fooled. By the time he finished his salad, and hers had wilted from being poked at, he leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Izzy, out with it. What’s on your mind?”
Her green eyes peered up at him through thick lashes. “I can’t help thinking we should do something to help. Poor Cassie is alone in Nashville, totally unaware Craig is here in Bay St. Louis.”
“This is not our business.” Unfortunately, that came out a tad stronger than necessary. “I mean, we’re here on our honeymoon, at long last.”
“I’m not suggesting we play marriage counselors, but shouldn’t we see if Craig needs our help?”
“Intervention is what you’re suggesting. And from everything I’ve read, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to change.”
“That’s what I was told too.” She pushed away her salad as the waitress delivered her eggplant parmesan. “My, doesn’t this look yummy?” But her merry tone fooled no one. From her expression, she might have been gazing at pizza sat on by an elephant.
Nate felt his temper starting to boil. He took a few deep breaths before reaching for her hand. “Please trust my judgment. You can say a prayer for Craig, but this trip is about our relationship. I want us to forget about jobs and ex-husbands and concentrate on
us. Aren’t women supposed to be into romance?”
Izzy squeezed his fingers. “You’re absolutely right. I can’t speak for the rest of my gender, but I’m into it for the next three weeks.”
Nate picked up his knife and fork and attacked his steak. He had no desire to gauge her inner feelings or discuss her ex-husband any further. Sometimes a man had to put his foot down. And beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was one of those times.
ELEVEN
Natchez
Are you awake, child?”
Beth opened one eye to see her mother’s lined face. “I am now.”
“There’s a young man waiting for you on the porch. I told him you got home from Vicksburg very late last night, but he said he would keep himself busy until you were ready.” Rita ruffled the back of her head. “He said he’s your partner. Is that true?”
“Just for a while.” Beth bolted upright and kicked off the covers. “Why doesn’t he meet me at the office?” She peeked through the curtains. Sure enough, Michael’s tiny Fiat was parked on the street.
“That’s what I suggested, but he said Maxine is taking a few days off. The office is locked up tighter than a drum. Should I invite him in for pancakes and bacon?”
“If you do, we’ll never be rid of him. I’m jumping in the shower. Then I’ll take breakfast to go. Thanks, Ma.” Beth kissed her cheek on her way into the bathroom.
“What should I do in the meantime?” Rita whispered as though Michael might be within earshot.
“Nothing, trust me. Like a cockroach at a garden party, just pretend you don’t see him.”
When Beth emerged twenty minutes later, Michael was in the porch swing, his laptop propped on one knee. “How did you find me?” she asked.
“Maxine gave me your address. She made sure I had everything before she left on vacation. Did you need anything from the office?” He slipped his laptop into his bag.
“If I do, I have a key.” Dropping into a chair, she opened a waxed paper packet and handed him one just like it. “Breakfast from my mom. Don’t get used to it.”