She mumbled, “Hello, Mr. Manning,” but remained at several steps’ distance.
“You know my partner, Neil, of course.” I gestured to him.
She nodded, but did not step forward to greet him or shake hands. She said nothing, as if embarrassed and tongue-tied.
Hoping Glee would offer some explanation for their meeting, I asked obliquely, “Nice lunch?”
“As always.” Chipper as ever, Glee turned to Nancy at the hostess stand, telling her, “The fritters were marvelous.”
Nancy gave a deferential bob of her head. “Thank you, Miss Savage.”
I made no move to go, telegraphing to Glee, I’m waiting …
She got the message. “Thanks for the lead on that story, Mark. It ought to be a good one. I asked Tamra to lunch in order to get some background on her new, uh … yoga parlor.” Glee’s awkward phraseology indicated that she had not even scratched the surface with Tamra regarding the intended scope of the institute.
“In that case,” I said, “let me take your tab—it’ll save you the trouble of an expense report.”
“You’re the boss,” said Glee, bright-eyed. She handed over the leather folder that contained her check.
“I’ll square up with Nancy. Will I see you back at the office?”
“Sure thing, Mark. Thanks for lunch.” And she opened the door. Tamra slunk past all of us without a word. Glee followed her out to the street, and they walked away together, huddled in conversation again.
Under his breath, Neil told me, “Very strange,” as I stood at Nancy’s podium, signing the second lunch check.
“Thank you, Mr. Manning,” said Nancy. “I hope everything was to your liking today.”
“It’s always to our liking, but today was exceptional. Thank you.” I closed the folder and handed it to her.
“My pleasure.” As I checked my pockets, preparing to leave, Nancy added, “I’ll look forward to seeing you again this evening at seven.”
“Oh?” I turned to Neil with a blank expression. “Do we have plans? Fine with me, but I don’t recall—”
Nancy tapped her pencil on a line of the ledger spread out before her. “Sheriff Pierce made the reservation. Party of three.”
Neil reminded me, “It’s one of Doug’s payback dinners—for breakfast every day.”
“He shouldn’t do that.”
“But he likes to.”
“I mean, what ‘breakfast’? We make coffee; he brings kringle.”
Nancy struggled to conceal her grimace with a tight smile.
Neil told her, “We’ll be here, and we’re looking forward to it.”
I added, “But we may be four instead of three.”
Neil nodded, thinking aloud, “We can’t very well abandon Todd.”
“No problem at all,” Nancy assured us.
Then she turned her pencil on end and went to work with the eraser, neatly amending the reservation.
Chapter Seventeen
When I arrived back at the Register, Connie yoo-hooed me from behind the receptionist’s window in the lobby. “Mr. Manning? Glee came in about two minutes ago. She said to let you know she’d like to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Connie.” I gave her a wave and climbed the stairs to the editorial floor, taking them by twos.
Activity in the newsroom was at its midday high—phones rang, editors called from desk to desk, writers rushed to and from assignments—but I had no trouble spotting Glee, as she hadn’t yet had time to remove her big red hat. She was standing with our senior photographer, choosing from a series of digital pictures that flashed on a monitor. Even from a distance, I recognized on the screen the copper saucepan I’d seen her carrying on Tuesday. In the photos, it was brimming with a colorful, seasonal assortment of squashes and gourds, far too pretty to eat (for all I knew, they might have been plastic).
Glancing up from the monitor, Glee saw me and gave a high sign. I returned the signal and pointed to my office, then headed in that direction, working my way around the city desk.
I had just entered my inner office and removed my sport coat when Glee rapped on the glass wall. Standing in the doorway, she asked, “Got a minute?”
“Sure, Glee. What’s on your mind?” I sat at my desk.
She sat across from me, removing a huge pin from her hat. “I suppose you’re itching to know what’s up with Tamra Thaine.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I grinned.
“Well”—Glee removed the hat and set it in her lap, shaking her hair—“as I told you, I set up the lunch date in order to do some initial research for the story.”
“On the yoga parlor?”
“Whatever it is.” Glee stuck the pin into the crown of her hat. “Point is, Mark, we never got that far. I intended to conduct a structured background interview, but Tamra just wanted to … talk.”
“She didn’t have much to say when we ran into you at the door.”
“Trust me—she had plenty to say at the table, and she started in again as soon as we were out on the street. She’d still be talking if I hadn’t fibbed about a pressing deadline.”
I laughed, sitting back in my chair. “I’ve used that one myself.”
“You, Mark? Nonsense. You’re far too principled.”
I blinked. Now that Glee mentioned it, I couldn’t recall that I had ever used the reporter’s classic white lie: Can’t talk now, I’m on deadline. I had doubtless said those words, but I would have spoken them honestly, while in the middle of filing a story.
Glee continued, “I’d prepared some background questions, but since my knowledge of Eastern studies is so scant—heck, it’s nil—I merely wanted to prime the pump and let Tamra take the lead.”
“Your plan must have worked. You said she talked her head off.”
“She did, but it had nothing to do with my prepared questions. In fact, she never even gave me a chance to open my notebook. She just plunged in and kept going. Honest to God, I don’t know how she managed to eat.” Glee paused in thought before adding, “She is a vegan. I guess eating doesn’t really matter.”
Trying to keep Glee on track, I asked, “If Tamra wasn’t telling you about the institute, what was she blabbing about?”
Glee sat back. Her slick red lips stretched with a smile. “Esmond. She was talking about Esmond Reece.”
“Gillian, too?” I leaned forward with interest.
“Uh-huh. Though the purpose of our luncheon was to discuss business, Tamra used our meeting as an opportunity to vent decidedly more personal matters. I know you’ve been wondering whether Tamra and Esmond’s relationship is based on anything more than a shared interest in Eastern studies. Well”—Glee leaned forward over my desk, her face only a foot or so from mine—“I have at least half of the answer for you.”
With a wry smile, I asked, “Should I be taking notes?”
“They’re all up here.” She tapped her noggin. “Here’s the gist of Tamra’s gabfest: From the beginning, she and Esmond recognized each other as soul mates, but Tamra confided to me that her feelings run deeper. She has long harbored a romantic interest in Esmond. She’s quite certain, though, that his interest in her is only platonic.”
“So they’ve never been intimate?”
Glee shook her head. “Tamra was blunt on that point—she regrets that it’s never happened. I suppose she could’ve been lying to me, but my instincts tell me she was sincere.” Reading something in my face, Glee asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I suspected all along there was some romantic chemistry between them, but if it was a one-way crush, I’d have thought their roles would be reversed. After all, Esmond was the one living with a harpy. It’s easy to imagine that Tamra’s serene manner and mind-set would appeal to him.”
“That’s what Tamra thought, too. She couldn’t imagine why Esmond stayed with Gillian—other than the obvious financial considerations. Now, though, with Gillian dead and Esmond in control of a considerable fortune, Tamra seems obsessed with takin
g their relationship to the next level.” Glee exhaled noisily, concluding, “I heard way more than I was planning on, Mark. Who does she think I am—Dear Abby?”
I laughed. “Did she want your advice, or was she just dumping?”
“Dumping, mainly, but that didn’t stop me from offering advice.”
“Yes, Abigail? What’d you tell her?”
She flipped her hands, as if the answer were self-evident. “I warned her against pursuing Esmond.”
“Why? He’s a free man.”
Glee countered flatly, “He’s a nut. He showed the supreme misjudgment to marry Gillian in the first place—enough said.” Having made her point, Glee stood.
I stood as well. There was no purpose to be served in defending either Esmond or Gillian, as Glee’s attitude stemmed from emotional wounds too deep to allow reasoning. I simply noted, “If Tamra intends to make her feelings known to Esmond, she should at least give it some time. Gillian isn’t even buried yet.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Glee’s tone conveyed that she couldn’t care less about social proprieties insofar as they applied to Gillian Reece—dead or alive. Getting back to business, she asked, “Do you want me to stay on the story? Regarding Tamra’s institute, I mean.”
“Sure, it’s worth pursuing.” Stepping with Glee to my outer office, I suggested a tack or two she might take in following up with Tamra. We both acknowledged that we were stumped as to whether Tamra’s venture was on the level, so Glee’s first priority was to determine whether she was writing an informational piece or an expose.
While discussing these particulars with Glee, however, my mind was focused not on the legitimacy of Tamra’s institute, but on another thought, one regarding a motive that might have been relevant to a suspicious death currently deemed accidental. I now had confirmation that there was an element of sizzle to the relationship between Tamra and Esmond, and this provided a clear, plausible motive for Gillian’s demise. What’s more, if Tamra was correct that Esmond had not previously been inclined to explore romance with her, she was naming herself as the most likely suspect.
“I’ll set up another meeting with her,” Glee was saying, moving to the door.
“Try it on her own turf this time. A drive out to the ‘compound’ might prove enlightening.”
“Good idea. I’ll let you know—”
“Mark,” said Lucille Haring, rushing in, “sorry to interrupt, but—”
“I was just leaving,” said Glee, stepping behind Lucy at the door. “Next!” And she disappeared into the crowded newsroom beyond my glass wall.
“Sorry to barge in,” said Lucy, sounding breathless, “but I thought you’d want to see this.” She carried a sheet of paper, holding it by the corner with her thumb and index finger—a dainty gesture that looked ridiculously out of character for Lucy, whose drab green pantsuit never failed to remind me of a Texaco uniform.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping toward her and reaching for the paper.
“Uh-uh-uh,” she clucked. “Don’t touch.” She moved to the round conference table and, setting down the paper, suggested, “Better get your glasses.”
Ducking into my inner office, I grabbed the glasses from my desk, put them on, and joined Lucy at the table, sitting next to her.
“It’s a letter,” she said, “that came in today’s mail, postmarked late yesterday in Dumont. The envelope has been on my desk since this morning. I just got around to reading it.”
Leaning over the table, I saw at a glance that the single-page missive, folded in thirds to fit in an envelope, had not been signed. It had been typewritten, single-spaced, on an old machine with a worn cloth ribbon. The individual letters were not only fuzzy, but misaligned, forcing me to adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose. The letter said:
Wednesday, October 22
To the editor:
The death of Gillian Reece today was the direct result of actions she herself had taken. She was guilty of a one-woman conspiracy that would have had devastating consequences for Dumont.
The planned merger between Ashton Mills and Quatro Press was never intended to be an equal partnership benefitting both companies. Rather, Mrs. Reece had carefully concocted a hidden scheme to take control of Quatro, then establish a competing printing plant offshore. Quatro’s assets, technology, and customers would be transferred to the other plant, wholly owned by Ashton/Quatro Corporation.
The net effect of this trickery would be to greatly enrich Mrs. Reece and AQC while destroying Dumont’s principal industry, Quatro Press. More than a thousand local families would lose their livelihoods. The resulting high unemployment in Dumont would further benefit Ashton Mills by allowing the company to pay less for labor in a deflated market.
Gillian Reece deserved her fall from power and her fall to death. For obvious reasons, this letter must remain …
Unsigned
Looking up from the typewritten page, I found Lucy’s eyes staring into mine. “Unless I’m mistaken,” she said, “this puts an entirely new spin on things.”
Still trying to absorb the full meaning of what I’d read, I said, “She meant to bleed Quatro Press … bleed it, gut it, then trash it. I just can’t believe it.”
Lucy, at the moment, was more objective than I. “That’s assuming the letter writer knew what he—or she—was talking about. The letter accuses a woman who’s not here to explain herself.”
I slowly shook my head, appalled by the magnitude of Gillian’s scheme. “After what I’ve learned of the woman in the last few days, I shouldn’t be surprised she would stoop to such betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” asked Lucy. “You’re not the type, Mark, to take business dealings so personally.”
“I backed this merger from my position on both boards, Lucy. I put my own reputation on the line. What’s more, my uncle founded Quatro Press, and I inherited a good deal of interest in that company, as did Thad—my kid’s financial future rests on Quatro’s corporate well-being.”
She grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“If the merger had gone through today, my Quatro stock would be replaced with new AQC shares. My ownership of the Register is highly leveraged by that stock. Even if the stock retained its value, there’s a booby trap, and it’s deadly. Sudden, astronomical unemployment in Dumont would have a devastating ripple effect throughout the local economy. For starters, our advertising and circulation revenues would plunge. Then where would we be?”
“Up a creek?”
“Big time. But there’s more. If the Register started losing money, I’d be forced to sell my stock in order to keep the paper afloat—for a while. But a continued decline would ultimately force the paper to fold, leaving me with squat.”
Lucy gave a pensive whistle. Then she jerked her head toward the letter on the table. “Even though it’s addressed ‘To the editor,’ I assume you don’t plan to run it on tomorrow morning’s op-ed page.”
“No,” I replied, mustering a half laugh, “I think this one qualifies as physical evidence. Doug Pierce will surely find it of interest.”
Lucy stood. “I’ll find a plastic sleeve for it.”
“Good idea. And I’ll call Doug.”
Though there was a sprawling, many-buttoned speakerphone right there on the table, I reached inside my pocket, pulled out my cell phone, and punched in the sheriff’s direct number.
Twenty minutes later, Lucy escorted Sheriff Douglas Pierce into my office, and the three of us sat around the table, where the letter was sandwiched between gleaming sheets of acrylic. After reading it, Doug asked, “Who’s handled it?”
“I’m the only one,” said Lucy. “I opened it.” The torn envelope was on the table as well, protected by a second plastic sleeve.
“Good. The envelope may have been handled by dozens of people, but chances are, the letter itself was handled only by you and the writer.” He took the letter from the table and held it up to a fluorescent fixture in the ceiling.
“I
s there a watermark?” I asked.
“Yup. Ashton Classic Bond—twenty-five percent cotton.”
I recalled the slogan “‘The sterling standard of serious stationers.”’
Lucy wondered, “Do you suppose someone from Ashton Mills sent it?”
I paused in thought. “Ashton’s stationery is available everywhere, especially around here. I wouldn’t make too much of the paper. Besides, why would someone at Ashton tattle on Gillian? They had everything to gain from her scheme.”
Doug noted, “Not everyone at Ashton was involved in Gillian’s plot. It may have been her doing alone.”
“True,” I allowed. “We don’t even know if the letter is trustworthy.”
“‘Trustworthy,”’ Doug repeated with a chuckle. “It’s an odd description for a document that may have been written by a killer.” He put the letter on the table.
Lucy asked him, “You’re thinking Gillian’s death may not have been an accident?”
“The circumstances of her death were suspicious from the outset, but there was no physical evidence suggesting otherwise. This”—he tapped the letter with his finger—“is more than a subtle suggestion. It’s safe to say this investigation has just entered a new phase. Gillian’s death may well have been a homicide.”
I surmised, “You think the letter is credible.”
“This is conjecture, and the investigation will have to sort through it item by item, but here’s my current take on the letter.” Doug sat back, explaining, “The central contention of the letter, that Gillian was plotting to destroy Quatro Press, strongly suggests that her death was tied to the merger. The writer, of course, may have fabricated this to conceal some other motive for Gillian’s death, but the fact that the letter was written at all is a clear indication of foul play—if Gillian had died accidentally, why would the writer stir the waters? Bottom line: regardless of motive, the writer of the letter may well be the killer.”
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