Cole could only shake his head in amazement; either the woman was as stupid as a post or she simply didn’t care. In either case, Cole liked it.
Today he was feeling cocky, he’d played the scene over and over in his mind, and he was certain he knew how the conversation would go. He pulled Donna to his lap and kissed her. “Its alright honey, send him in,” Cole whispered as he slipped his hand under her white polyester blouse and squeezed her right breast. She smiled and whispered, “Later sugar.”
Cole then lifted a knee and tipped her onto her feet. “Okay, send him in; I’ve got a few minutes this morning.”
Donna smiled, kissed Cole once more and returned to her desk. “Mr. Prestcott will see you in a moment,” she said. It was always best to let them wait a little bit. She settled herself behind the desk, studied the banker for several moments, took a measured sip from her coffee cup, then picked up the phone. She listened intently to the silent line for a long moment then said, “He’s ready now.” Donna then escorted Wisecup into the office of her boss.
Returning to her seat she opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a Barbara Cartland novel. Her day had begun.
Chapter 23
Elaine Prestcott stepped out of the shower, pulled the towel from the heated towel rack and began to dry herself. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror she smiled. She liked what she saw. Her stomach was flat and firm. Her breasts large, but not overly large and, she was happy to see, they didn’t sag. She half turned and looked over her shoulder. No sign of cellulite.
Elaine had a secret. Not the kind of secret that brought down empires or ruined the lives of politicians that couldn’t keep their pants zipped, but a good one nevertheless. She knew exactly what the bank, or more accurately Alan Wisecup, was going to tell Cole. It really didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that any legitimate bank would refinance Cole. Even the corruptible bankers whom Cole did business with had their limits, and they’d reached them.
An afternoon in a Petoskey bed and breakfast had not only relieved her ‘tensions’ but also given her all the information she needed. Elaine had seen all the documents, all the finances of her husband’s business, and decided that now was the time to move on with the rest of her life.
The years since her marriage to the cheating SOB had been good to Elaine. She had her figure, her hair fairly glowed in the sun and the lines around the corners of her eyes were only just starting to appear. In the beginning Elaine had held out hope that this self-arranged marriage could become, if not a loving one, at least a tolerable one. She had envisioned children whom she could love, and possibly she would come to accept Cole as a lover. The years had proven her wrong. Happy, or at least acceptable, endings only happened in second hand bookstore novels. She would have to endure or get out.
Thinking about it now she could pinpoint the exact day she decided to screw the bastard. It was a Wednesday, just six weeks after they had returned from a honeymoon in Key West. A normal morning, a normal day. But by lunch she had stumbled into Cole’s hidden world. He had an early meeting and had rushed out of the house. Elaine had been dressing for a Pilates class when Cole left. Passing the kitchen table on her way to the garage Elaine spotted Cole’s cell phone. Deciding to take it to him she scooped the phone, along with her keys and makeup, into her purse and left the house.
When the class was over she gathered her things from her locker and walked to her Firebird. The cell phone buzzed just as she opened her purse to find her keys. It was the phone’s voice mail notification. Elaine swiped her finger across the phone then pressed the keypad. The cell phone immediately launched into a recitation of the date, time and phone number from whence the voice mail sprang. Then a woman’s voice, dripping with honey, asked Cole when he was coming by again, mentioned the ‘shivers’ his touch gave her and dinner. Elaine listened and knew exactly what had happened.
The previous night Cole had attended a Chamber of Commerce meeting, or so he had said. He had come home very late and taken a shower before coming to bed. It wasn’t the first bed Cole had been in that night.
Elaine opened the car door and got in. She sat there for several minutes letting rage and hatred build. Then, she began to relax. If she really thought about it she didn’t love Cole anymore than he loved her. This was a marriage of convenience.
Elaine then began a cold, dispassionate assessment of her life. She had failed at her dream of entering medical school. She had left college to marry. In truth she had married for money so it only seemed logical that she start getting it.
She knew from the first time he’d brought her to Petoskey that his business would be a cash cow. Even while they had dated she could see the business growing. It seemed to double every week in those days. Now, her husband of less than two months was sleeping around. Elaine had thought about that, he was a cheater. In truth she’d known from the start that he would, and she knew he would never stop. She had no prospects and she could see the business making them very wealthy, very soon.
Twenty minutes later Elaine had her plan. She drove home, opened Cole’s side of the garage and drove in. She then placed the cell phone behind the car’s front tire, got back in the Firebird and backed out of the garage.
When Cole came home that evening he would find the crushed cell phone and think he’d dropped the little unit that morning. All evidence that Elaine had listened to his voicemail would be gone.
The next day Elaine waited until Cole left for work. Then she drove to the home of a woman she had met at one of the numerous socials she attended. The woman, fifty-six years old, had divorced her husband, a modestly successful housing developer, six years ago. She lived in a large, seventy-five year old field stone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan, was a board member of two country clubs, a prominent member of the local Democratic Party and known for her philanthropic giving.
This intrigued Elaine. The woman had never worked a day in her life and the husband’s business hadn’t been that successful. Two hours later Elaine knew why the business hadn’t shown great profits. She left the big house and drove the sixty miles south to Traverse City. There she opened a bank account and visited her new friend’s financial advisor.
A month later Elaine put the second part of her her plan into motion. Over coffee and a bowl of Cheerios she mentioned to Cole that staying home while he was at work was boring. She thought it would be much better if she worked with Cole everyday. He resisted the idea at first of course, she knew he would. But she patiently explained what a bookkeeper would cost the company. Besides, she had the skills and they might as well keep the money in the family. Put that way, Cole couldn’t resist.
Elaine quickly took over all the company accounting and purchasing. On every purchase Elaine padded the price, adding a few dollars to small purchases, a few hundred to larger ones. She then skimmed the excess from the company books and sent the money to Mr. David McFain of Growth Financial Management on Front Street in downtown Traverse City.
Mr. McFain, of course, used only the back door of the building, he being the same disbarred attorney who once held the position of budget director for the Detroit mayor’s office. McFain had been convicted of violating Rule 10 of the Commodities and Exchange Act, trading based on insider information. Eighteen months of cutting the grass and raking leaves with Wall Street’s best at Maxwell Air Force Base’s minimum security prison earned David a Master’s degree in stock manipulation. McFain was now very good at avoiding detection, and still had his Rolodex. Elaine was very pleased with the results he was able to provide.
Chapter 24
Dinner at the orchard consisted of leftovers, beer, and chips. The barn, the boat, and the whiskey were the sole topics of conversation. Gerry and Sherrie couldn’t decide if they were suddenly the proud owners of an antique treasure or in need of a dump truck and several cans of termite spray. Jim and Eve were excited for them and curious about the boat.
“We’ve got a myste
ry here,” Jim said, sipping a bottle of beer from one of the local microbreweries.
Gerry nodded his head. “That’s for sure. I’d sure like to know more about that building. I don’t know anything about the property other than what the attorney said about it not being on the tax records.
And the boat! That is one cool boat. We should probably find out where the boat came from…and do Sherrie and I own the boat since it came with the building? I think we do but don’t really know the law.”
Sherrie handed him a cantaloupe and a large knife.
“I can’t imagine you don’t,” Eve offered. “But I think you have two big issues. First, ownership of the boat. It seems logical that you own the boat, you own the land, and it was part of the deal, wasn’t it? It should be yours.
Second, and I think your bigger issue, is the whiskey. It must be illegal to have all that booze? There aren’t any stamps on the bottles. I’m betting it’s moonshine.”
“I think you’re right hon, the boat is probably theirs. You guys better check with a lawyer though, which of course will cost you an arm and a leg. But still better safe than sorry. You’d hate to spend money fixing the thing up, getting it to the water and then have someone come along and claim it’s theirs. And, you’d really be in it if you sold the damn thing, then someone could come after you,” Jim said.
“Ahhh…I hate lawyers, they charge so much for everything and act like they’re doing you a favor! The regular guy can’t afford a lawyer anymore,” Gerry moaned.
“Suck it up buddy. It’s the way of the world,” Jim grinned. Turning to Eve he said, “Bet that isn’t moonshine. Those labels all look professionally printed. All the bottles are the same, all have the same logos in raised glass. I’m going to guess that those are legit Canadian Whiskey bottles, but they were smuggled in from Canada. No U.S. taxes were paid on those bottles.”
“Prohibition era booze?” Sherrie asked. “Woo…we’ve got Al Capone stuff here!”
“Sure, why not?” Jim replied. “Hidden booze, no tax stamps, the boat is from the right era, you’ve got to admit it all fits. It could be the real deal.”
Sherrie glanced at Eve, “You think he’s serious?”
“He thinks he’s Sam Spade but I must admit, he’s more often right than wrong,” Eve laughed.
Jim thought a moment then said. “Sherrie I never saw anyone over there when Dad and I hunted that side of the farm. Did you ever see anyone there?”
Sherrie traced her fingertip around the lip of her
wine glass. “No I didn’t. And I spent a lot of summer afternoons on that side of the orchard. We picked berries there and I played over there with my friends.”
“I’ll bet that boat has been there all these years,” Jim said.
“I wonder who we contact about illegal booze?” Gerry said.
“Gotta be the FBI,” Eve replied. “Prohibition was a national thing, it was in the Constitution, and the tax thing has to be the federal government. Is there an FBI office in Traverse City?”
Gerry shrugged. “I don’t know, probably not. Might be one in Lansing or Detroit, but I can’t imagine one in TC. I’ll go into town tomorrow and find out. I’ll stop by the police station and talk it over with them. Should be interesting, I’ll bet they’ve never handled bootlegger booze before!”
Conversation lagged as everyone tried to imagine the story behind the Chris-Craft in the barn. Finally Jim said, “It’s probably putting the cart before the horse, but I’d like to get a professional to look at the boat. It would be nice if it could be repaired. Maybe the engine can be started. But we may have to overhaul it. That cruiser would make a nice summer toy on the bay. The sooner we get a handle on the damages and the worth the sooner I can fix it up for you.”
“For us buddy, we’re going to run that boat together,” Gerry laughed. “I’ll check with the lawyer I had working on the land title about boat ownership on Monday. And, I’ll see if the state guy has any more information on the property, the barn and the boat.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jim said. “Know anyone that really knows boats?”
Gerry thought a minute, “Well, yeah, I do. I met a guy at a Chamber meeting awhile ago. He repaired boats or sold boats, something like that. From what we talked about the guy is really into antique boats. I’ve got his card someplace. I’ll find it, then let’s give him a call.”
Chapter 25
Cole sat alone in his study. On the walls were pictures of Michigan lighthouses, a picture of the Edmond Fitzgerald plowing through rough waters, its destiny not yet decided, and a marine chart of Lake Michigan. All were illuminated by subtle wrought iron picture lights. It was a beautiful room. Cole didn’t see any of it. He focused on the two bottles of scotch sitting in the middle of his desk.
It hadn’t gone like he’d expected; not even close. Wisecup had taken his seat, skipped any pretense of friendliness, opened a briefcase and began unloading a stack of papers. When the stack reached four inches he began reading parts of each document to Cole.
He spent several minuets on each and every one. He pointed to every place Cole had signed his own name, he pointed to dates, he highlighted past due payments, amortization schedules, current cash flow sheets, business expenditures and current billings. Then he went back to the sheet with payment dates, but no payment. After each and every paper the bastard would look Cole square in the eye and ask him if he understood what he’d just been told. Of course he understood, he wasn’t stupid, but where was the money going to come from? No one was buying boats; the whole damn state was laid off or about to be laid off or had been laid off. They’d been out of work for so long they’d forgotten what a boat even was.
Wisecup then opened a laptop and showed Cole pictures of similar buildings and what they were selling for. He could sell this building for X. He could sell that building for Y and the boats for Z. But X plus Y plus Z wasn’t enough.
Cole pushed for an extension on the loan, but Wisecup wouldn’t talk about that. Cole tried to refinance the entire load for a higher interest rate. Wisecup refused that. He kept putting that damned spreadsheet under Cole’s nose. He kept telling Cole that the small amount of cash the business generated from boat repair, storage and commission sales wouldn’t cover the current note. It barely covered the payroll and his house payment. There was no way it could cover a new note.
Cole argued. It did no good. He cursed. It did no good. He tried to reason. It seemed as if Wisecup enjoyed his pain. Finally, when there were no new forms, no spreadsheets showing the same debt in some different way, when all the contracts and papers had been examined, each and every one presented with just the right twist to pull the maximum humiliation from Cole’s gut, only then did Wisecup stop. He told Cole that unless a substantial payment was made and soon it would all come crashing down, he’d lose the company, the house, the boats, everything.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Cole reached out for the scotch. Gradually the two bottles in front of him merged into one. He fastened both hands around the bottle, found his glass and recharged. Raising his glass Cole muttered, “To renting God-damned runabouts again.” He slammed the scotch back in one quick, sloppy, shirt soaking gulp.
Chapter 26
In any war sacrifices are made for the greater good. At least that’s what Elaine told herself as she inserted the key into a heavily tarnished brass lock face. Information, especially important, sensitive information, didn’t come cheap. Margaretha Zelle, better known as Mata Hari, learned that. Still, Margaretha had been on to something, there were ways to learn things that didn’t cost money.
The lock secured the entrance door to room number six of the Torch Lake Waterfront Motel. The motel, built sometime in the early 1960s, had been family owned for three generations.
Elaine entered the room, pulled open the window and, had her purpose here not been so utterly boring, would have enjoyed the beachfront view. Turning back to the room she dismissed the starving artist painting over the bed. Elaine studi
ed the room with a practiced eye. It was apparent this generation of hotel ownership didn’t believe in fresh paint or, for that matter, carpet. The floor was dark linoleum. Probably installed by the original builder so that housekeeping could easily sweep up the beach sand tracked in by waves of vacationers.
She walked to the bathroom, ran the shower, the water was hot; flushed the toilet, it didn’t back up, then returned to the main room. The TV worked; sixty-five channels including the Adult Network. Turning to the bed, Elaine lifted the bedspread and stripped the sheets back to reveal the mattress. Then she inspected the mattress, sheets and pillows for bedbugs. Satisfied she remade the bed, picked up the ice bucket and went to the ice machine. Five minutes later she sat in the room’s one chair watching “Ellen,” a bottle of Southern Comfort soaking in the ice and a six pack of Coke waiting.
Thirty minutes later, and fifteen minutes early, a gentle rap sounded from the door. Elaine took a large gulp of her second drink, steeled herself and opened the door. Alan Wisecup immediately pushed into the room, and, without closing the door wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her fully, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hand pulling her skirt up at the same time.
“Close the damned door first you idiot,” Elaine hissed, pushing him away. The door slammed shut. Wisecup’s shoulders slumped. “I’m just glad to see you,” he whispered.
Elaine let disgust and triumph and pity wash over her for a moment then forced a smile. “I know, baby,” she cooed. “We just can’t let people see us and the door was open. Where did you park?”
H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy Page 9