by Mary Ellis
“Or you could have lost it all in a market crash.”
“We’ll never know now, will we?” Buckley set his mouth in a tight line and glared at the camera.
“Let’s talk about your meeting with Reverend Dean on the day he died.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, I didn’t go there alone. Bob Scott picked me up at my house and drove me. Paul looked surprised that I brought him along. The three of us hashed out more than one problem that afternoon.”
“Did this conversation take place in the barn out back?”
Buckley blinked into the camera. “No, it took place at his dining room table with my Excel sheets spread across the table.”
“What was the outcome of this meeting?”
“I agreed to pay back every cent within seven days. If I did, they would keep the matter quiet. I’d already cut up Tammy’s credit cards and told my son he could move into the basement.”
“What about this other evidence you found, regarding money missing from the building fund—the account Pastor Dean had sole control of. Tell us about that.”
“Bob Scott demanded an explanation from Reverend Dean, but Paul just sloughed it off. He said the money was currently in transit and would be posted soon. In transit—what did that even mean? But Bob was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, the guy is a landscaper. What does he know about financial transactions?” On camera, Buckley had grown agitated, his face mottled with sweat. “Both men knew I was leaving town for a bachelor party. I was given seven days to pay back the loan, but Pastor Dean was to produce a corrected balance sheet in the same amount of time.”
“Was Reverend Dean alive when you left, Mr. Buckley?”
“What are you talking about?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Of course he was alive when both of us left the Deans’ home. Bob Scott dropped me off in my driveway. Even my nosy neighbor saw me get out of his car. Most likely Mrs. Taylor was still spying when Tammy drove me to the airport an hour later. Check the airlines. I was on a flight from Baton Rouge to Las Vegas.”
“Oh, we will, Mr. Buckley. And thanks for coming in today.”
Lejeune switched off the camera and grinned at Michael. “Then the lawyer produced proof Buckley had indeed paid the operating account what he owed and yada yada.”
“So Buckley walks away from this free and clear?” Exasperated, Michael ran a hand through his hair.
“Nope. What the finance director did was illegal, but my guess is the DA will reduce charges to a misdemeanor. Buckley will be barred from similar jobs in the future, but I doubt he’ll spend another night in jail.” Lejeune stretched his arms over his head. “But the real upshot of this is that Buckley is off the hook for murder. That is, if there was any murder in the first place.”
A cat with his whiskers in a bowl of cream couldn’t look smugger than Detective Lejeune.
TWENTY-NINE
After leaving Detective Lejeune in the conference room, Michael drove to Calvary Baptist Church. He spent the next several hours poring over the church’s financials again without even plying Mrs. Purdy with another pie. He explained he had urgent business and headed straight to Reverend Dean’s office.
Urgent, indeed. With Buckley’s confession of an illegal loan of sixty K, half a million bucks was still unaccounted for. And poor Pastor Dean didn’t have his pockets full of cash when he took his last breath on earth. The longer the money floated in the ether, the less likely it would be returned to the congregation. Buckley’s alibi would most likely check out. Lejeune wouldn’t have called if he had any doubt about that. Which brought up another reason for urgency. Michael wanted something to show Beth when she got back to town, other than a morning spent consorting with the enemy.
Although Price Investigations and the Natchez PD were on the same side, Lejeune calling him to view the confession videotape might not sit well with Beth. The new partner getting chummy with the old partner? That smelled like betrayal, whether they were on the same team or not. So Michael was glad to have something good to report when she called on her way back from Vicksburg.
“Hi, Mike,” Beth said in a chipper voice. “Did you miss me today?”
“More than I thought humanly possible. How did it go up north?”
“Despite bureaucratic wheels turning at the speed of glaciers, if the ME receives Reverend Dean’s body by Wednesday night, she’ll start the autopsy on Thursday, Friday for sure. Certainly before snow flies in the Bahamas. I’ve got friends with their ears to the ground. What did you do today—work on a tan to go with your new body?”
“It’s hard to improve on perfection, so I spent the day looking for the missing half-million dollars.”
“Good idea. I’m sure Alice wants the funds for the new school tracked down. As soon as that autopsy is finished, we should be able to lock up Buckley and throw away the key.”
“Let’s just follow the evidence and not jump the gun. Isn’t that what you taught me from day one?”
There was a hesitation before Beth asked, “What’s going on? Did something weird turn up today?”
“Where are you, Elizabeth?”
“Just outside of town on Route 61.”
“Good. Why don’t you come straight to my place? I’ll have a deluxe pizza, plenty of Coke, and a six-pack of orange soda so you can take your pick of what you would like to drink when you get here. I prefer to discuss this in person.”
“My protégé has gone mysterious on me.”
“All will be revealed when my assistant drops the black cloth. Come alone and make sure you’re not followed.”
“You better not be referring to me as your assistant.” Beth laughed as she hung up.
However, Michael was no longer smiling. With his interim boss on her way, he needed to choose his words carefully. Twenty minutes later, Beth parked on the street and pressed his buzzer. Michael watched her from his window but counted to five before buzzing her in. He heard her clattering footsteps long before she appeared.
“You sure do make enough noise in those clogs,” he said once she reached his doorway.
“I’m a noisy kind of girl.” Beth strode inside and flung her purse in the direction of his sofa. “What did you find out, Preston?”
“First, let’s take our gourmet cuisine and something to drink out to my verandah.” He hooked a thumb toward the sliding glass door.
Without a word Beth walked into the kitchen, put two slices of pizza on a plate, and popped the top on a Coke. “Lead the way.”
Michael duplicated her actions and headed to his tiny balcony overlooking the alley. Fortunately, the Dumpsters had been recently emptied.
Beth sat in a webbed chair. “We’re on your verandah with our cuisine, so spill your guts.” She tucked a napkin into her shirt.
“Ladies first. Why don’t you want to tell me about your eventful day?” Michael had to sit sideways to fit his legs behind the railing.
Beth swallowed a mouthful of pepperoni, mushrooms, and hot peppers. “I told you my news on the phone. Either you explain why Buckley dropped off your radar or I’m cracking one of your ribs.”
He clucked his tongue. “Wait until Nate hears about your politically incorrect behavior. Things won’t go well at your next review.” When steam began pouring from Beth’s ears, Michael delivered his semirehearsed speech about the videotaped interview that Lejeune had been unable to postpone.
“That skunk preferred me being out of town. But it probably was better that way—less chance of gunplay in the conference room.” Beth spoke more to herself than to him. “So Buckley’s off the hook for swiping the mega-amount. I doubt he would kill his friend over sixty thousand dollars. Plus a solid alibi will remove that possibility altogether.”
“Lejeune would have called by now if it hadn’t checked out. You’re not sore at me for seeing him alone?” Michael relaxed his neck and shoulders.
“Of course not. Like I said—Jack and I don’t play well together.” Beth took another bite. “You im
plied on the phone you discovered something interesting about the missing school fund. Talk, Preston, while I eat. This pizza is delicious. I might eat the whole thing.”
“When I learned Reverend Dean controlled the building fund for the last six months, I got a hunch this could be the key to his murder. I went through the church accounts again but saw nothing I hadn’t seen before. Reverend Dean wasn’t keeping those files up-to-date like Ralph Buckley had done during his wheeling-and-dealing days.”
“Go on.” Beth sipped her Coke without taking her gaze off him.
“Then I found something in Reverend Dean’s saved emails under the tab ‘Social.’ The other files were videos of the church bake sale, the membership open house, and last year’s harvest party.”
“The threat of cracked ribs is still on table.” She wiped her hands on a napkin, wadded it into a ball, and bounced it off his chest.
“I discovered a string of emails between the pastor and a nonprofit called Spare the Children. When Reverend Dean took control of the four-hundred-seventy thousand, he apparently invested it with an international charity. The website states their organization aims to save kids from starvation and abject poverty, and to prevent teenagers from falling victim to human traffickers. All noble causes to be sure. They offered investors one- and two-year bonds at an interest rate of twelve percent. Being from the financial sector, I can say normal bonds don’t pay that much. Only junk offerings with a high risk factor do that.”
“Thank you, Warren Buffett. Now get on with it.”
“When I googled this charity, I found several complaints from small churches in the South. Every one of those churches was clamoring to get back their initial investment.”
“Hold that thought. I’m going inside for an Orange Crush. Care to join me?”
“Yes, bring out two. They’re in the fridge.” Try as he might, Michael couldn’t wipe the smile off his face before she returned. “Shall I continue, Miss Kirby?”
“By all means.” Beth handed him a beverage and sat back down.
“Reverend Dean wrote many emails to this organization before his death. At first he praised the good work they did and how Calvary Baptist was proud to help such a worthy cause.”
“So Paul believed he was helping a good cause while earning twelve percent on the investment.” Beth’s expression registered recognition of what was coming.
“Exactly. He had loaned the money for a twelve-month period before they broke ground for the new school. Reverend Dean didn’t steal the money or hide it away. He invested it in what he thought was a win-win situation.”
“And he was too naive to smell a scam,” Beth concluded. “He wasn’t a thief. He just didn’t know any better.”
Michael didn’t need to affirm her deduction as Beth’s eyes filled with tears. When she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed, he thought he might cry too.
“Do you need a break or should I continue?”
“Continue.” Beth wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Please ignore my emotional breakdown.”
“Reverend Dean suspected something wasn’t right when they stopped sending monthly statements as promised. None of his emails had listed a person’s name, only the charity as an entity. Then a week before he died, he demanded to speak with the person in charge and left a phone number. He threatened to contact Mississippi’s attorney general and every watchdog agency for nonprofits in the country. In their final email, Spare the Children indicated someone would be getting in touch with him shortly. That’s the abbreviated version of the story,” Michael concluded. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”
With tears streaming down her face, she met his eyes. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t steal the money, and you didn’t kill my pastor. You did well today, Michael—better than me. Tomorrow the waterworks will be gone, and then you and I will track down the real killer. Right now, I’m getting more pizza. This is the best I’ve had in a long time.”
Michael watched her until she disappeared into the kitchen. She was beyond a great mentor or the friend he never had. She was a unique human being, one he could easily fall in love with. And that scared the wits out of him.
THIRTY
Beth regretted crying like a baby in front of Michael last night. Nothing looked less professional than bawling in front of your coworker. She was supposed to be training him as a professional PI, but picturing Reverend Dean duped by an agency he would have naturally trusted broke her heart. Had one of those charlatans killed him over the scam? They would just have to wait for the second autopsy. If any evidence led to someone at Spare the Children International, she would take special pleasure seeing them brought to justice.
She arrived at the office of Price Investigations juggling three extra-large lattes: two plain and one mocha with whipped cream.
“Beth, you’re the best!” said Maxine, lifting the mocha from the carrier. “Nate never brings in morning treats.”
“That’s because he and Isabelle are saving for a house. Me? I’ll probably live with Mom and Pops my entire life.”
“Nonsense. Someday a handsome man will knock you off your feet.”
Beth wrinkled her nose. “Not unless he’s driving a bulldozer. Where’s Michael? He usually beats me here. We have that exhumation in less than an hour.”
Maxine wiped away a foam mustache. “He’ll be a few minutes late due to ‘an extraordinarily cool surprise.’ His words, not mine.”
Beth blew on her latte, but before it was cool enough to drink she heard a cacophony on the street. Some idiot was laying on his horn at nine o’clock in the morning. “What on earth?” She jumped to her feet.
“Your ride is here, sweetie,” crowed Maxine, peeking from between the blinds.
The assistant’s joke wasn’t far from the truth. When Beth reached the street, a shiny red convertible idled in front of the building with Michael Preston behind the wheel. “Whose car is that?” she demanded, shading her eyes from the sun glare.
Mike reached out the window and patted the door. “Mine, Miss Kirby. All mine.”
“No, it isn’t! You drive a little green Fiat—forty-five miles to the gallon, room for two people with a dog in the back.”
“Not anymore. I traded in that peanut for a man’s car. Jump in and we’ll go for a ride.”
Beth narrowed her gaze as she processed the information. “Did you forget today’s the day we disinter Paul’s body?” She pointed at her subdued black slacks and white blouse.
Michael immediately sobered. “Of course not, but the delivery date for the car had already been set. Please, Elizabeth, just a quick ride across the bridge and back. I promise we’ll be at the cemetery before anyone else.”
“Okay. A short ride, but no more horn blowing.” The moment Beth climbed in the passenger seat and clicked her seat belt, Michael peeled away from the curb. “Are you sure you didn’t steal this?” she asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Of course not. I have the bill of sale if you want to see it. This 2016 Dodge Charger SRT 392 is all mine.” Michael turned onto the road that followed the river.
“You paid cash instead of making payments like everyone else in America? Did you win the lottery, or maybe your rich uncle died?”
Michael kept his gaze fixed on the road. “Neither. Let’s just say I spent every year since college fiendishly saving money. I have more savings than the average sixty-year-old. One thing about an accountant, they know how to pinch every last penny.” His tone contained scorn instead of pride.
“That’s a good thing. Most folks can’t even save five bucks a week.”
“It’s only good if you have something or someone to save for. Since I don’t, my frugal days are behind me. You want a cup of coffee to take to the cemetery? I’ll even spring for a donut with sprinkles on top.”
“No, thanks. I already bought three lattes for the office. Yours and mine are getting cold while you burn more gas than that Fiat used in a week.”
Michael accelerated on the
ramp to the bridge. When he encountered surprisingly little traffic, he opened up the Charger for the entire expanse before turning into the riverside park on the Louisiana side. “Do you think I’m wrong to change my ways?”
Beth reflected before she answered. “I guess not, since you’re not hurting anyone. But what brought this on?”
He shrugged. “I woke up one day and didn’t want to be the skinny nerd who gets sand kicked in his face.”
“Which beach did that—”
“Metaphorically speaking, Elizabeth. I like myself better since I started getting in shape. This car is my reward.”
“I usually get a DQ sundae after a punishing workout. Have you considered the high cost of insurance or your likelihood of speeding tickets?”
“Wouldn’t a banana split defeat the purpose? I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am, but who goes out and pays cash for something this expensive?”
Michael shrugged and pulled a computer printout from the sun visor. “My personal trainer gave me this recently. I plan to take part in this competition eight weeks from now.”
Beth gazed at the fuzzy pictures, trying to make sense of them. “Looks like some kind of marathon, but I can’t tell if it’s running or biking or swimming in the ocean.”
“You hit the nail on the head. It’s sort of an Iron Man contest off the coast of Louisiana.”
“Have you lost your mind, Mike?” Beth swiveled in the bucket seat. “People train for years before participating in this kind of competition. I think you’re making great progress, but you could die trying something like this.”
“Stop worrying. Tony set this up over a three-day weekend for his clients, not for anyone else. It’s a personal best kind of race. But your concern touches me deeply.” Michael held his hand over his heart. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re starting to like me.”
“If you want to put yourself in a hospital, that’s your business. But Nate will be gone for another week and, frankly, we’re getting along fine, much to my surprise. So I would appreciate not having to train your replacement.”