Magnolia Moonlight

by Mary Ellis

  “That was just a ruse by a deceitful woman.” Isabelle’s chin quivered. “I was staking out Golden Magnolia Casino, watching for Craig.”

  Nate blinked like an owl under a spotlight. “Why would you sneak off to see your ex-husband?”

  “Because I was worried about him.” With a shaky hand she brought her coffee cup to her lips.

  “Did you find him?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and he told me lie after lie. He said Cassie encouraged him to come here, and that his gambling was under control. I know it isn’t. He’s fallen off the wagon or whatever they call a relapsed gambler. He’s lost weight, his hair hasn’t been cut in weeks, his face is scruffy, and the bags under his eyes could hold enough clothes for a month.”

  Nate struggled to keep his voice level. “That’s how he looked to me too.”

  “Craig said he’s fallen out of love with Cassie, but there’s no other woman. I think he’s flat broke and ashamed to go home.” Isabelle wrung her hands in her lap.

  “He has a right to mess up his life, Izzy.”

  “That’s what he said. He told me to butt out. I feel sorry for him.”

  “You can’t force a person into treatment. Craig must be willing to change.”

  “What about those staged interventions, where family and friends insert themselves between the addict and their compulsion? Are we not our brother’s keeper?”

  “Not this week we’re not. Enough, Isabelle. Craig is becoming your obsession.”

  That stopped her like a brick wall. “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s starting to sound like it. For the rest of our honeymoon, I want you to relax and have fun.” Nate threw his napkin down and pushed away his plate. “At home, you worry whether your clients can obtain financing. You worry about your coworkers’ money troubles. You worry about the ozone layer, global warming, and the country’s national debt.” Nate’s voice lifted with intensity. “Maybe carrying the weight of the world has affected your health.”

  “What do you mean?” Isabelle sipped her water, the ice cubes long gone.

  “I mean we’ve been married two years, and it’s still just the two of us.” Nate spotted Mrs. Russo dragging the hose to the front of the house. Must she water the begonias and pansies now?

  “I didn’t think you were ready for a family. We’re still renting, we need to replace my car, and I still owe three grand on a credit card from my divorce.”

  “If people waited until their financial ducks were in a row, the birthrate would drop to zero. I’m ready to be a dad. I can provide for us while you take some time off. And we can buy a house this fall as long as you’re not thinking mini mansion.” Nate wrapped his hand around hers. “What do you say?”

  Isabelle’s smile said it all. “I say forget the submarine ride under the ocean. Let’s go make a baby.”

  Mrs. Russo inched precariously close to the porch, eavesdropping shamelessly.

  “Simmer down, Mrs. Price,” Nate cautioned. “I didn’t collect these brochures for nothing. Pick something out for today.”

  “Had you going there, didn’t I?” She winked. “Let’s put on our swimsuits and head to Gulfport. I can’t wait to get water up my nose on the giant slide.”

  Nate carried their plates to the tray by the door. He couldn’t wait to spend a day alone with his wife. And it had nothing to do with rafts floating down a lazy river.

  SIXTEEN

  Natchez

  Michael slept like a baby last night, at least after he took two ibuprofen tablets and a dose of an over-the-counter sleep aid. Beth was right. If you exercised as though getting in shape took only five rigorous sessions, you ended up in the hospital. Even though he’d slowed down after her warning, every one of his muscles felt on fire. Today he would rest his wounded body. And when he went back to the gym, he would take her advice.

  Although conversation with his partner had turned ugly in the fitness room, dinner turned out better than expected. There was no more discussion about her personal trainer, doubtlessly a testosterone-driven caveman, and Beth didn’t criticize his appearance, choice of beverages, or the way he chewed his food. She talked about her meeting with the Natchez chief of police, and he described his enlightening peek at the church’s Excel spreadsheets. With Ralph Buckley juggling a half-million dollars like tennis balls, Mrs. Alice Dean no longer looked like a suspect.

  Michael swallowed several anti-inflammatories with coffee and headed for the shower. He hoped that by the time the pleasant effects of hot water on sore muscles wore off, the pills would have kicked in. Then he planned to call Beth. He had some ideas on tracking down Buckley, but wasn’t sure how far PIs could stretch the letter of the law regarding privacy issues.

  However, Calvary Baptist’s helpful assistant took that decision out of his hands. “Hello, Mr. Preston? Natalie Purdy calling to say that was the best key lime pie she ever tasted. It was so rich, especially with extra whipped cream on top. Thanks again.”

  Michael chuckled over her use of third person—a habit she shared with his mother. “You’re welcome, ma’am. Glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling so early, but guess who was here when I got to work?” she whispered into the phone.

  “I have no idea,” he said, pain muddling his imagination.

  “Ralph Buckley, that’s who. Weren’t you anxious to question him?”

  Michael missed the cup and poured hot coffee on his hand. “I am. Are you saying he just showed up unannounced?”

  “Yep. I asked what he was doing. He said the last time he checked, he still worked here. That was a little snippy, don’t you think?” Indignation sharpened her words. “If you still want to talk to him, I’ll make sure he doesn’t leave, even if I have to bar the door with my body.”

  “My partner and I will be there in twenty minutes. Please don’t put yourself in danger. Just try to act natural.” Michael hung up the phone and immediately called Beth.

  “How fast can you get to the Baptist church?”

  “Why?” she asked, with an audible yawn. “Good morning to you too, by the way.”

  “Good morning. Ralph Buckley is back in town, but who knows for how long. I think we should talk to him.”

  “I think so too. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.” Beth hung up before he could ask his list of questions.

  Fifteen minutes later, Michael pulled into the parking lot in wrinkled Dockers and loafers over bare feet because he couldn’t find clean socks. His partner was already there with her thick auburn hair still damp from a shower. It was the first time he’d seen her without makeup.

  “Wow, Kirby, you’ve got freckles, millions of them. Who would’ve thought?”

  “Pay no attention to my appearance.” Beth bounded up the church steps. “If I didn’t leave while Rita’s back was turned, you’d be getting another breakfast sandwich. Today’s creation was Eggo waffles stuffed with peanut butter.”

  Michael opened the door for her. “Is this your mother’s normal behavior—force-feeding your work associates?”

  “Not usually, but I told Mom you loved her bacon and pancake sandwich.” Beth smirked like a child.

  “You’re quite the fibber. I’ll keep that in mind.” Michael pointed down the hallway. “Come meet my new friend in town.”

  “I already know Mrs. Purdy. You’re the stranger in Natchez, Preston, not me.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He led the way into the main office.

  “Michael, right on time. Good to see you, but what are you doing with Beth?” The assistant’s smile faded.

  “Miss Kirby is my partner at Price Investigations. And a man couldn’t ask for a better mentor than Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, I suppose she would have plenty to teach someone young and impressionable.” Mrs. Purdy flipped through a stack of mail.

  “Could we talk to Mr. Buckley, please?” Beth asked politely.

  Without making eye contact, the assistant angled her head to the
left. “Last office down the hall, unless that crook saw you and crawled out the window.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Michael. He followed Beth but waited to speak until they were out of earshot of the assistant. “She sure doesn’t like you much. You used to be a member here. Any story you care to share?”

  Beth made a face. “None that’s important to our case.” She stopped in front of the closed door. “You were great with Madame Defarge, but I’ll take the lead with Buckley. We don’t want to tip our hand.”

  Michael saluted, something he picked up from his father, but Beth’s gesture was the real surprise.

  She applied a thick coat of lip gloss, fluffed out her hair, and then swept open the door. “Mr. Buckley? Might we interrupt you for a few minutes?” She crossed the threshold smiling like a beauty queen.

  A small, dark-haired man turned from his computer. “Certainly, and whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Beth Kirby.” Stretching out her hand, she shook energetically. “This is Mike Preston, who’s a trainee in my office. We’ve been hired by Mrs. Dean to sort out the pastor’s affairs after his unexpected death.”

  Trainee—what happened to partner? Michael swallowed back his disappointment. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Fine. How can I help you help Alice today? I felt so bad leaving right after the funeral.”

  “What was the reason for your sudden departure?” He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

  Buckley finally pulled his focus from Beth. “I was best man in a wedding. The bachelor party was my responsibility.” He didn’t look pleased with having to explain himself.

  “We understand perfectly,” said Beth. “When you make promises, you must hold up your end.” She shot Michael a glare. “We’re sorting through Reverend Dean’s finances, and they appear tangled up with Calvary Baptist’s. Apparently, money was moved from the school account to an unknown location. Folks in the congregation are pointing fingers at the pastor. If you could help us track down those funds, it would take the pressure off Mrs. Dean. She can’t settle his estate with church funds temporarily…misplaced.” Beth flashed another smile, the caliber of which Michael had never witnessed.

  Buckley nodded. “I’ve heard the rumors. Very sad for a respected man of God to fall from grace so quickly. But I’m afraid I have no idea where Paul invested the money.”

  “We checked your background, Mr. Buckley.” Michael couldn’t tolerate his lies another moment. “You’re the one experienced in buying and selling stocks, junk bonds, commodities—everything but pork bellies in Chicago. And you’re the one with a broker’s license, not Pastor Dean.”

  Beth pressed down on his instep. “Please excuse Mr. Preston’s exuberance. He hasn’t learned that things aren’t always how they appear.”

  Buckley rocked back in his chair. “It’s all right, Miss Kirby. He’s only looking out for Mrs. Dean. And yes, I’m the one who had been in charge of investments for the last two years. Thanks to me, the fund for a new school grew from less than a hundred thousand dollars into close to five hundred thousand.”

  Michael pulled his foot from beneath Beth’s smaller one. “Which now seems to be missing.”

  “The operative word being ‘had’ in my statement. Paul took a look at the books and didn’t like my investment strategy. Churning, he called it.”

  “Your choices were anything but conservative, even to my unsavvy eye,” said Beth, rather sweetly.

  “True enough, but look at the results. I took a pipe dream from a small church and turned it into a real possibility. Why does everyone think making a killing in the market is somehow unholy? Criminals do it all the time. Why can’t good people?”

  “The money, along with the pipe dream of a new school, seems to be gone.” Michael narrowed his eyes.

  “As I was saying, Paul didn’t like my aggressive strategy, so he took control of the building fund a few months ago. Check the books again, Mr. Preston. You’ll see no money transfers by me during that period. I have no idea what he did. I washed my hands of it.”

  Michael felt Beth’s eyes boring a hole in the side of his head. “We will look into this further, sir. On behalf of Mrs. Dean, thank you for speaking with us.”

  “Yes, thank you very much,” said Beth, offering her hand.

  The sleazy guy enfolded it inside his. “You’re very welcome. Say, didn’t you used to be a member here? I haven’t seen you in church in quite a while.”

  “I’ve been living in Vicksburg, but maybe I’ll pencil it into my Sunday schedule.” Beth slowly withdrew her hand. “Thanks again.”

  Michael couldn’t wait to get out of there. He waved goodbye to Mrs. Purdy and practically stomped out the door. When they reached their cars, he turned on his heel. “What was with the sugar-sweet routine? You all but batted your eyelashes at Buckley.”

  “You catch more bugs with honey than with vinegar.” Beth braced both hands on her hips. “If we alienate the guy, he’ll clam up and not tell us anything.”

  “It’s flies, not bugs,” Michael said after a moment.

  “Flies, bugs…you should worry less about analogies and more about learning interrogation techniques.” Beth jabbed a finger into his chest. “I told you to keep quiet and let me take the lead.”

  “I couldn’t stand his bald-faced lies. He was trying to pin this on Reverend Dean.”

  “Maybe they’re not lies. Were there any financial transactions in the last couple months by Buckley?”

  Michael felt blood rush to his face. “I might have stopped checking details too soon.”

  “Great. And Nate thinks forensic accounting is your strong suit.”

  “It is.” Michael lifted his palms. “I just got overexcited with my discovery. It won’t happen again, Elizabeth.”

  “Okay. I’ll say nothing to Nate as long as you say nothing about me flirting with Buckley.” She clicked open her car door. “I hate it when I use my feminine wiles like that. Maybe I should rethink my own interrogation techniques.”

  “Feminine wiles? I must have missed that part.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Playfully, Beth punched him in the arm.

  “Ouch. My arms are sore.” Michael exaggerated his grimace.

  “Sorry, but I did try to warn you.” Beth climbed in behind the wheel. “Go home and study those police reports I gave you and the financial records you pirated from Mrs. Purdy. Let’s see if Buckley is telling the truth. Tomorrow you might have to pay Mrs. Dean another visit and look deeper into their finances.”

  “Will do, but where are you going?”

  “To the firing range to log in some hours. Give me a call after supper.”

  “Aren’t we both still on the time clock? I know that the cat’s away, but I could use a few pointers on handling firearms.”

  “I don’t think so.” She put the car in reverse. “You weren’t very receptive to my advice.”

  Michael leaned level with her car window. “You blindsided me at the fitness center. This time I’m asking for your expert guidance.”

  “Sign up for classes at the firing range. Professional instructors are better prepared to handle newbies without insulting them.”

  As she started backing up, Michael trotted alongside her car. “I’ve taken classes on cleaning and maintenance, safe handling and transport, and the laws governing open carry in Mississippi. What I need is someone to let me shoot.”

  Beth rammed on the brakes. “You have never fired a gun? Not even a BB gun as a child?”

  “Never. My mom wouldn’t allow them in the house. Seems like we each have crosses to bear with our parents.”

  She burst out laughing. “That’s for sure. Okay, Wild Bill, but an indoor range is no place to shoot for the first time. Have you bought a gun yet?”

  “No. I’ve studied them online, but I can’t decide what would be a good fit from pictures.” He flexed the fingers on his right hand.

  “No problem. You can work on your computer tomorrow.
Today, let’s go out to my aunt and uncle’s farm for your first lesson. That way no one will witness you shooting yourself in the foot.”

  “What I love best about you, Beth, is your total confidence in me. I’ll follow you to the farm.”

  Michael sprinted to his car and then practically crawled up her bumper several times along the way. He didn’t want to chance losing her either in Natchez traffic or on twisty country roads. And he didn’t want to do anything else to annoy her. He was starting to like Elizabeth Kirby. As long as he could laugh at himself, they might survive the all-thumbs stage of his transformation.

  SEVENTEEN

  Beth checked her rearview mirror several times, but her partner had no trouble keeping up. At least his driving was top-notch. He didn’t ram on the brakes before a hairpin turn like most city slickers. He coasted into the curve and then accelerated midway to maintain optimum control. Thirty minutes later, they reached the pothole-riddled driveway of her Uncle Pete and Aunt Dorrie. Surrounded by two hundred acres of low-lying delta farmland, suitable for rice and little else, the rural Kirbys enjoyed complete privacy. The sound of gunfire on a Wednesday afternoon would draw no attention whatsoever. Beth parked in the shade under a sycamore, leaving just enough room for his Fiat.

  “I’ll leave my guns in the trunk while we go say hi to my kinfolk.”

  “Guns?” Michael asked. “You carry an arsenal of weaponry?”

  “Not normally, but I’d planned to shoot a variety at the range today. By the way, keep your hands where my uncle can see them and don’t make any sudden moves,” Beth teased as they climbed the wooden steps.

  “Hey, y’all. It’s me,” she called through the screen door.

  “Are these your father’s relatives or your mother’s?” he asked.

  “Pete is my dad’s brother. Why?”

  But the sudden appearance of the pair curtailed any response. “Good golly, girl, you know better than to knock.” Aunt Dorrie wrapped her muscular arms around Beth and squeezed. “It’s been way too long, child.”

  Beth spotted her uncle over her aunt’s shoulder. He was leaning against the refrigerator with a big grin on his face. “What’s up, Uncle Pete. You get your crop in?”