by Mary Ellis
“Thanks, Beth. You and I are better off without those two losers.”
She laughed. “You’ve got a cool car. And I found someone to shoot Coke cans with. It don’t get better than that in Natchez.”
Their good mood lasted throughout the flight to Denver, up until they reached the offices of Spare the Children International. Michael took one glance at the slick furnishings, the expensive prints on the wall, and the view of the Denver skyline from the twenty-third floor, and he smelled a scam. Doubtlessly everything they saw had been rented or leased. He’d seen fly-by-night operations before where the operators packed up and disappeared within a twenty-four-hour period. Vanished, right down to shredding the documents into the trash. His partner, however, gazed around the executive suite as though in awe.
“Miss Kirby, Mr. Preston? I’m Elliott Rayburn, director of Spare the Children.”
“What a lovely view you have, Mr. Rayburn,” said Beth. “I could get used to Denver if I didn’t need to breathe so often.”
“Ah, my assistant mentioned you’re from the Mississippi Delta. Yes, quite a difference from sea level, but trust me when I say you grow accustomed to the thin air after a while.”
“And you can always rent an oxygen tank in the meantime, right? Mike Preston, sir.” Michael extended his hand. “Kind of you to see us on short notice.”
Rayburn shook halfheartedly. “Not at all. Please have a seat.” The silver-haired man gestured toward the two leather chairs in front of his teakwood desk. His work surface contained no business accoutrements other than a sliver-thin laptop and one folder of papers. “My assistant said you’re here on behalf of Mrs. Alice Dean, widow of the late Reverend Paul Dean. I was very sorry to hear of Reverend Dean’s passing. Such a tragedy when a pastor succumbs to depression. What hope do the rest of us have in dealing with life’s sorrows? Mrs. Dean has my sympathy.”
“Thank you,” said Beth. “His passing affected the congregation deeply.”
Rayburn straightened his tie. “May I ask in what capacity you represent Mrs. Dean? Are you the attorneys who will settle the estate?”
Beth shook her head. “No, nothing like that. We’re brand-new private investigators, but we’re here as friends of Mrs. Dean more than anything else. Reverend Dean had been my pastor.”
“Then you have my sympathy as well, Miss Kirby. Ask me whatever you like.” Rayburn folded his hands, his nails trimmed and buffed.
“We understand Calvary Baptist had invested our building fund with your charity. Was that like one of those bond funds?”
Michael glanced at Beth. Her expression rivaled that of a ten-year-old auditing an applied calculus class.
“In a manner of speaking, the investment was similar to how a bond fund works. Reverend Dean was promised a decent rate of return for funds that the church didn’t need for a while. If I recall, construction of a new school was eighteen months away at the time of his initial investment. Twelve months is the minimum term required for the work we do.” Rayburn’s smile revealed straight teeth, bleached to perfection.
“Why is that, Mr. Rayburn?” Michael was unable to remain silent any longer.
“Elliott, please. Our charity operates on a global level. The demand for money is often urgent and substantial. At the same time, fund-raising efforts take place at sporadic intervals. Our war chest can swell or shrink tremendously on a daily basis.”
“What do you mean by war chest?” Beth leaned forward in her chair.
“Make no mistake about it, Miss Kirby. Drug lords, human traffickers, and political despots who commit genocide have declared war on decent human beings. If we are to spread the word of God’s love, we must first provide safe haven for those who suffer. Whether it be from starvation, forced prostitution, or landmines left behind after a forgotten war.”
“Spare the Children fights against all that?” asked Beth.
“Our aim is to protect God’s most vulnerable creatures, His children. Let me show you what we’re all about.” With the press of a button beneath his desk, a panel opened in the wall and a video began to roll.
Michael sat mesmerized by an audio/video extravaganza that would bring a tear to the most jaded eye. As proof positive, Beth was soon dabbing her baby blues. He wasn’t quite as overwhelmed because he didn’t believe a word of what he saw and heard. If this charity accomplished what they claimed, why hadn’t he heard about it on Sixty Minutes or the nightly news?
When the montage concluded, Rayburn waited to receive the usual kudos. “As you can see, for our global work to continue, benefactors must commit to a specific time frame. All of this was explained to Pastor Dean before the initial investment and during subsequent conversations. I hope our inability to pay early dividends didn’t exacerbate his depression.”
Beth was quick to answer. “Oh, surely not. Mrs. Dean just wants to tie up loose ends. According to emails from Spare the Children, her husband was supposed to receive regular statements.”
Rayburn’s mouth dropped open. “That is absolutely correct. Calvary Baptist should have received quarterly statements, including the account balance at that point, along with an update on recent success stories.”
Michael cleared his throat. “I found nothing like that in Reverend Dean’s papers. Could you furnish Mrs. Dean and Calvary’s board members with copies of those statements?”
Rayburn’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, I use several different accounting firms for record keeping. With contributors spread across the globe, people prefer to get statements from someone closer to home. If I remember correctly, a Mississippi firm handled that state along with Louisiana, Tennessee, and Alabama. I will get you their name.”
“You don’t keep copies here at headquarters?” Michael asked.
“Yes, I’m sure we do, but it’s my job to see those funds get where they’re needed to save young lives.” Rayburn stood and glanced at his watch. “I will have to text or email you that company’s name. Right now, I’m late for a teleconference with Asia.” He rounded the desk to take Beth’s hand. “My assistant will provide copies of those statements if we have them. Please pass my condolences on to Mrs. Dean.”
“I sure will.” Beth pumped his hand. “Thanks for making time for us, Elliot, and keep up the good work. The world needs more men like you and fewer pimps and drug dealers.”
With a final smile, Rayburn vanished through the door behind his desk. Moments later, his gracious assistant appeared to hustle them out of world headquarters.
In the elevator for the ride down to the first floor, Michael cocked his head to the side. “I take it you weren’t as mesmerized as you seemed.”
“By that snake oil salesman?” Beth hiked her purse up her shoulder. “I wouldn’t invest a dime with someone who claims he saves kids yet wears a suit that expensive. I bet it cost a thousand bucks. Lesson number seventy-eight, partner: Never let the bad guy know you’re on to him. You find out more if they think you’ve been buffaloed.”
“Good point, but that suit was closer to three grand. And as heartbreaking as those videos were, it looked like a cut-and-paste job to me with a movie soundtrack.”
The elevator door opened onto the plush lobby. “What if the whole thing’s for real?” asked Beth, grabbing hold of his sleeve.
“That assistant promised she’d track down those statements, and I believed her. With any luck, your church can get its original investment back. What’s the plan? Are we heading back to the airport?”
Beth shook her head. “Didn’t you check our return tickets? Eight o’clock tomorrow morning was the best Maxine could do. We’re booked into the Hampton Suites by the airport. We have a free night in the big city, along with two hundred bucks expense money.”
“Did Maxine book two rooms or one?” Michael asked as he tried to hail a taxi.
“Two, of course. Don’t be stupid. And the two hundred is for both of us, so google something appropriate for dinner.” Beth perched on the curb, waving at every taxi that passed.
“How about Japanese at one of those hibachi tables—the kind where you sit on cushions?”
“Sounds good. Since it’s my first time west, I’m ready for anything. I’ll even try those tidbits of raw fish.”
“You’ve never eaten sushi?”
“Didn’t you hear the part about never leaving Mississippi?”
Michael smiled. “You are in for a treat, Miss Kirby, because I’m ready for just about anything too.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Friday
Beth walked into a kitchen she barely recognized. Every flat surface was covered with green beans, Mason jars, or some sort of cooking utensil. Her mom’s usually tidy kitchen had been turned upside down.
“What happened in here?” Beth pivoted in place to assess the disaster. “Did you have a fight to the death with vegetables and the green beans won?”
Startled, Rita pressed a palm to her chest. “Gosh, you scared me, Betsy. It’s canning day. I plan to put up twenty quarts or die tryin’. What on earth are you doing here?”
“This is where I live unless you carried my stuff to the curb in the last twenty-four hours.” Beth pulled the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge.
“Why are you home at one o’clock in the afternoon?” Rita resumed snapping the ends off beans, the floor already littered with stems that had missed the trash bag.
“Mike and I had a very early, very long trip back from Denver, thanks to a layover in Dallas. Don’t they have direct flights anymore? Then we were stuck behind every slow-moving vehicle on Route 61 from Baton Rouge.” Beth pressed an icy glass to her forehead. “I told Mike I’d complete my report and update Nate from home. Besides, we had a late night. Dinner at a hibachi restaurant takes forever. They cook your food one piece at a time. If you give me some beans, I’ll make myself useful.”
Rita dumped a pile in front of Beth and added more to her own heaping mound. “Did you catch Reverend Dean’s killer in Denver? I hope you slapped the cuffs on him.”
“I don’t even own cuffs because I’m no longer a cop. But now we know where the church’s money went. And who knows? The director of that charity might turn out to be a murderer as well as a thief. Mike didn’t believe a word the guy said. Elliott Rayburn was far too slick to be a humanitarian.”
Her mother arched one eyebrow. “Why were you out late at a fancy restaurant? I thought this was a business trip for your murder investigation.”
Beth looked up from her pile of beans. “It was a business trip. We went to the charity where Reverend Dean invested the money for the new school. All restaurants in a big city are fancy. Denver isn’t like Natchez. Not my fault the meal took hours. As soon as Save the Children sends Mike the quarterly statements, we’ll have a better idea of their scam.”
“Mike, Mike, Mike. Do you realize you mentioned his name four times since you walked in the door?” Rita dumped her colander of beans into a pot of boiling water.
Beth stopped zealously snapping ends. “What’s the matter with you? He’s my partner. If I’m talking about an event he was part of, of course I would mention his name. I thought you liked Michael.”
“I do like him. That’s why I don’t like where this is headed.” Rita emptied the basket in the center of the table, burying them in a mountain of beans.
“Are you having some sort of menopausal episode? Where what is headed?” Beth’s voice rose with agitation.
“You two play nice in there,” Stan Kirby called from the other room. “Or I’ll send you both to your rooms.” Roused from his nap, her father padded into the kitchen. “Hey, daughter, we don’t usually get to see you in the afternoon.” He planted a kiss on Beth’s head and headed outside.
“Hey, Pops, I hurried home to help Mom on bean day,” Beth called after him. Then she locked gazes with Rita. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
Rita softened her tone. “Where your relationship with your partner is headed. I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen this with you before.”
Beth wiped her hands on a towel. “Mike and I are friends. This is nothing like what happened with Chris.”
Rita snapped a dozen ends before replying. “I know you believe that, and it might even be true. But I’ve lived long enough to know men and women can’t be friends.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”
Surprisingly, her mother laughed. “I would have said that too at your age.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having an amicable relationship with people at work. Partners have to get along to make an effective team. But I couldn’t become romantically involved with Michael in a million years. We’re from opposite ends of the spectrum.”
Rita shrugged. “Perhaps I’m wrong and times have changed. If you can honestly say Michael Preston isn’t seeing something more to this, I will butt my nose out.”
“He’s not, Mom. Mike just came off a bad relationship. He’s all about self-improvement, not falling in love on the rebound.”
“Good to hear. Now be a dear and pick the last two rows of beans. That afternoon sun will give me a migraine.”
“You have more beans in the garden? This is already enough for every family in Natchez.”
Rita patted her arm. “Seeds were on sale last spring. Then we got perfect weather for a bumper crop. I’ll fill jars with what I just blanched.”
“Sure, I don’t mind.” Beth swept her stems into the trash and grabbed a hat by the door. The afternoon sun could give anyone a headache, but she didn’t mind a couple of hours in the garden. It would give her time to think. Although she had protested her mother’s allegations, deep inside she knew Rita was right.
It was something about Michael’s behavior at dinner: He listened to her every word as though she spouted pearls of wisdom instead of offhand comments from someone who had never eaten Japanese food. He insisted on paying for the taxi, tipping the van driver, and buying her snack during the flight, even though she had their expense money. Any one of those niceties could be written off as simple kindness, but if she added them together, along with a few surreptitious glances in her direction, she reached a frightening conclusion—her mother was right. Michael might be developing a crush on her. And she’d found out the hard way that work relationships don’t end well.
Beth knew she needed to reconcile herself to snapping beans in her mother’s kitchen for many years to come. Her father would totter in on his walker, ordering them to behave or suffer the consequences. The mental picture made her laugh, but Beth knew there was nothing funny about the situation. She really liked Michael. He was twice the man Chris was. He just wasn’t the right man for her.
THIRTY-SIX
Saturday
Michael punched in Beth’s number the moment he started his powerful engine. Just as voice mail was about to pick up, a sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”
“Elizabeth? It’s Mike. Want to meet me for breakfast? I’ve got a rather interesting development to share.” He switched the phone to Bluetooth and pulled onto the street.
“What time is it? Why are you bothering me so early?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight fifteen, Miss Sunshine. How about getting a head start on the day over blueberry pancakes and turkey bacon?”
“Better stop throwing your money around, Preston. Premium gas for your fancy car can eat through a paycheck in no time.” Beth’s tone had morphed from sleepy to irritable.
“Who are you, and what have you done with the nice person I had sushi with in Denver?”
“That person stayed up past midnight canning green beans with her mother. I hope you like veggies because you and Maxine are each getting six jars.”
“I love healthy food. Green beans have few calories as long as they’re not dripping in butter. But what about breakfast? I promise not to order anything green.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to pass. See you at the office later.”
She hung up before Michael could ask if she wanted takeout. So instead of wa
sting time at a restaurant, Michael picked up a dozen multigrain bagels with low-fat cream cheese and drove straight to Price Investigations. He and Maxine were on their second bagel when Beth strolled through the door forty minutes later.
“Sorry I’m late. I overslept.” Beth opened her tote bag and lined up six jars on Maxine’s desk. “Six for each of you, courtesy of Rita. And, Maxine, why are you here on a Saturday?” She handed Michael the bag before reaching for a bagel.
“I wanted to catch up on paperwork. Yummy, home-canned are the best,” enthused Maxine. “Tell your mama thank you.”
“I will, Maxine. Could someone pass me the cream cheese?”
Michael picked up the cheese spread and a stack of napkins. “Thanks for the beans, but could you bring that bagel to my cubicle? I’m eager to show you the last three statements for Calvary Baptist’s investment.”
Beth scrambled to her feet to follow him down the hall. “They actually sent copies? I thought we’d need a court order before Rayburn complied, especially if it’s a scam.”
“See for yourself.” Michael tapped a few keys and three statements appeared side by side on his monitor. He moved away as Beth pulled up a chair.
“Spare the Children sent these?” She leaned in to study the screen, her bagel forgotten.
“Rayburn’s assistant first emailed that their in-house bookkeeper had left on vacation, but she gave me the accounting firm who prepares the Mississippi statements. ‘Left on vacation’ sounds fishy, doesn’t it?”
“Like a boatload of catfish left in the sun.”
“Then she emailed back with these statements attached. Rayburn left strict orders she should be helpful, so she found them herself.”
“Could you explain what I’m looking at?” Beth rolled back from his desk.
“It would be my pleasure.” Michael handed her the cream cheese. “Reverend Dean invested almost half a million dollars, just like he said he did. These quarterlies were furnished by a company called D.K. Financials out of Jackson. I don’t know if they have a brick-and-mortar office or just an Internet operation, but their address is a post office box. These statements were attached to a generic email from the company. No particular employee seems to be in charge, which I find unusual. From what I learned, D.K. Financials handles investments for Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, and Louisiana, just like Rayburn said.” Michael tapped figures on the screen. “Take a look at the weekly fluctuations in the account.”