Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  “I think they’ve put their suspicions to rest. Detective Flynn called the other day to let me know they expect a favorable ruling from the prosecuting attorney.”

  “I should hope so. Everyone they spoke with would have told them how much you loved your mother.”

  “I made a mistake, though.”

  “Mistakes happen.”

  It was the same thing Colin had said—but coming from Matt, it did nothing to comfort her.

  When she didn’t respond, he motioned toward the diminishing line of congregants. “Shall we tag on to the end and say hello to Reverend Howard?”

  “Sure.”

  He fell in behind her as she walked over. “School’s winding down, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Three more class days. The end-of-year party and art show are Wednesday evening. After that, I’ll clean out my classroom and gear up for the summer session.”

  “You don’t hang around down there at night, do you?”

  “Not usually. I’ll be leaving late Wednesday, but I expect a few of the other staff members will be too.”

  “I hope you’re careful. That’s a dicey neighborhood in the daytime.”

  “I’m always alert—and I’ve never had any trouble.”

  “Trish . . . Matt . . . how wonderful to see you both.” Reverend Howard took her hand and clasped Matt’s shoulder, but directed his next comment to her. “How are you holding up?”

  “Hanging in. I’m taking it a day at a time.”

  “A wise plan. You know I’m always available if you’d like to chat.”

  “I appreciate that. So far, prayer is helping me keep it together. God’s a great listener.”

  “The best.”

  “I can’t argue with that, but she’s still too stressed,” Matt interjected. “On top of everything that’s happened, she’s trying to bone up on the charitable foundation.”

  The minister wrinkled his brow. “I wish I could be more help to you with that, but my role was more of an honorary one. Your parents had a clear philanthropic vision, and your mother was very capable of carrying it out without my assistance.”

  “I’ll work it out, Reverend.” Trish shot Matt a disgruntled look, but he seemed oblivious to her displeasure. There was no need to put a guilt trip on this virtuous man who already worked sixty-hour weeks seeing to the needs of his flock. Her mother had never expected him to play an active role in the foundation. “Once school is out, I can give the foundation more attention. I’ll be fine.”

  “But you need that third trustee,” Matt said. “And my offer to step in on an interim basis stands. I’m more familiar than anyone with the inner workings, and it would buy you some breathing space.”

  “That sounds like an excellent suggestion.” Reverend Howard’s demeanor brightened. “Matt has impeccable credentials, and your mother trusted him implicitly. Letting him handle the foundation could relieve some of the pressure. It might be worth considering.”

  Trish looked from one man to the other. Had the two of them cooked this up, hoping a joint effort would sway her?

  No.

  Reverend Howard was the most aboveboard man she’d ever met. If there’d been a plan to enlist his support and gang up on her, it was all Matt’s doing.

  Yet Matt had never been pushy. Low-key and passive were more his style—or they used to be. But he was meticulous. Perhaps he was harping on this out of concern over the legal ramifications of being one trustee short.

  Whatever the reason for his fixation on the issue—and despite the minister’s endorsement—she was less inclined than ever to put him in an interim slot.

  “I appreciate your concern for me.” She encompassed them both with her comment. “And I’ll think about the offer. But for now, I want to leave things as they are. You gave a wonderful sermon today, Reverend.”

  “Thank you.” The man took the hint and let the subject of the foundation drop. “I hope to see you both next week.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Me too.” Matt echoed her sentiment—but with far less enthusiasm.

  She stole a glance at him. His face was taut, and faint shadows hung beneath his lower lashes.

  A wave of guilt washed over her. He’d had his own rough patch over the past few weeks, with the accident and injuries. Yet in spite of that, he was trying to relieve some of her burden. Her mother had thought highly of him. Reverend Howard had endorsed him. She ought to be grateful, take him up on his generous proposal instead of dragging her feet.

  But as she opened her mouth to tell him how much she appreciated his willingness to help . . . and that she’d give it some serious consideration over the next few days . . . he looked down at her.

  And her heart stumbled.

  His eyes were almost . . . scary. Whatever emotion lay in their depths, it sent a chill through her despite the warmth of the late May day. He wasn’t just hurt or angry because she’d rebuffed him. His reaction went deeper and darker than that.

  Why?

  All at once, as if he’d realized she was studying him, the tension in his features faded . . . his eyes softened . . . and the corners of his lips tipped up. “Can I walk you to your car?”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to, uh, detour back inside.” She exhaled, willing her pounding pulse to subside. “I could use a few minutes of quiet prayer.”

  “Take as long as you need.” Reverend Howard cocooned her hand between his. “I’m not a substitute for the Lord, but call if you need to hear a human voice.”

  “I will. Thank you. Matt, I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and reentered the sanctuary. Aptly named, since today it provided escape and refuge from reactions—both Matt’s and her own—that had left her off balance and uneasy.

  She walked halfway down the aisle and sank into a pew. What was going on with Matt? Where had the quiet, pensive man with the sad eyes, who’d taken on the foundation work with diligence and dedication, gone? The accident had changed him . . . and not for the better.

  Or was she overreacting? Could she be letting the stress he kept mentioning skew her judgment, as it had undermined her memory and concentration? Was it possible the ominous feeling that had swept over her a few minutes ago was due to fatigue and an overactive imagination rather than to any true menace?

  Trish took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Repeated the exercise.

  Too bad she couldn’t bounce her concerns off a certain handsome detective who was trained to separate fact from fiction and dig for the truth.

  Oh for pity’s sake, Trish. Get real. For all you know, the man is married. Not every guy wears a ring. You’re being foolish.

  Clamping her jaws together, she straightened up and fixed her gaze on the cross that was front and center. Better to seek guidance and insight from a much more steadfast and accessible source.

  And pray the days to come would hold answers rather than more troubling questions.

  9

  This was weird.

  Trish tapped a finger against the keyboard and did a second, more careful scan of the hits for Providence House Ministries that had popped up in her browser.

  Three screens in, she leaned back and frowned. No, she hadn’t missed anything on her first pass. None of the hits were an exact match in name or mission for the organization Matt had described during his last visit.

  Why wouldn’t a charity like that have a website? Or at the very least, why hadn’t it shown up somewhere in an article or news story?

  She reopened the spreadsheet of grant recipients Matt had provided. Most were names she’d heard. The few unfamiliar ones she’d googled all had websites—except Providence House Ministries.

  How had her mother found out about such an obscure organization?

  But it must be legit. Matt always investigated new charities, as had his predecessor—and he was very conscientious about his work. The 990s he’d sent over for her parents’ foundation had been impeccable . . . and far less p
ainful to pore through than she’d expected.

  Providence House was the only anomaly.

  Rather than stew about it all day, why not give Matt a call? Answering a couple of questions wouldn’t be a huge imposition on his Sunday. He could probably give her the scoop in two minutes.

  Phone in hand, she tapped in his number and pulled a soda from the fridge.

  After two rings, he answered.

  “Trish? I didn’t expect to hear from you again this soon. What’s up?”

  He sounded like the old Matt—friendly, gracious, obliging.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was going over the information you sent on the foundation and I had several questions, if you have a few minutes.”

  “Of course. Didn’t my numbers add up?”

  At his teasing inflection, she smiled. “You get an A in math. As far as I can tell, the forms are thorough and accurate. My questions are about one of the grant recipients on the list you sent. Providence House Ministries.”

  She popped the tab on the soda, the carbonation hissing as she waited for his response.

  When the silence lengthened, she wrinkled her brow. “Matt? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. I was getting a bottle of water from the fridge. What questions did you have?”

  “I googled some of the organizations I didn’t recognize, including Providence House. I found websites for all the others. I know you always vetted new charities, and I wondered what the story was on this one.”

  “It’s a little different than most. Hang on while I find the remote and mute the TV.” If there was background noise, she couldn’t hear it, but she waited while fifteen silent seconds ticked by. “Okay. I’m back. The bulk of their donations come from private foundations, like your mom’s. She heard about it through a friend and asked me to check it out. I was leery of their low profile at first too, so I reviewed their fact sheet, recent 990s, and Form 1023—that’s the application for tax-exempt status. Bottom line, they’re legit.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “Atlanta.”

  Trish took a sip of her soda. “I wonder why Mom chose an out-of-state charity when there are great needs here in our own town?”

  “That’s not the only out-of-state charity on the list.”

  “I know. I saw Angel Flight on there, and Patriot Paws.”

  “Right. She always sought out organizations that did unique humanitarian work and relied on private donations rather than government assistance. What she liked about Providence House was that it supported a number of groups around the country dedicated to providing foster kids with experiences they might not otherwise have. Educational trips, summer camps, Outward Bound programs . . . those kinds of activities. It’s an under-the-radar kind of group.”

  “Why the low profile? It sounds like they do admirable work. Wouldn’t they want to spread the word, increase donations?”

  “It’s a fairly small-scale operation run by an older couple who took in a lot of foster kids in their younger years and have a passion for the cause. They want to keep it to a manageable size.”

  That made sense.

  “I can see why Mom would support an organization like that. She and Dad always believed small, grassroots efforts were most effective. Did you keep the background material on it?”

  “I think so. I’ll look around for it.”

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t mind skimming through it. I can read up on the other organizations I’m unfamiliar with on the web.”

  “Shall I mail whatever I find or give it to you at church next week?”

  “Next Sunday is fine. I won’t have a chance to review it this week, with school ending and the art show to coordinate. Sorry again to intrude on your weekend.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was just doing some maintenance stuff around the place. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  As the line went dead, Trish took another swig of her soda and powered down the laptop. As far as she could see from the documents Matt had provided, the foundation was in excellent shape. He’d done a stellar job, transitioning seamlessly from where the previous accountant had left off.

  Maybe she ought to appoint him as the third trustee, after all. He was knowledgeable and willing—and she didn’t need any more on her plate. As long as she reviewed the monthly financials, the grants, and the annual 990s, everything should run as smooth as when Mom was in charge. Plus, letting Matt carry the burden of the foundation would take the day-to-day responsibility off her shoulders.

  If it hadn’t been for that unsettling experience at church, the decision would be a no-brainer.

  She wandered over to the back window. As always, the view of her mother’s rose garden was a balm to her battered soul.

  But it couldn’t chase away the lingering unease from this morning.

  Matt had sounded like his usual professional, buttoned-up, pleasant self on the phone, though. Perhaps she ought to cut him some slack. He might have had a headache at church, been out of sorts. He had looked tired and wan. It was also possible he wasn’t sleeping well, given his injuries. And hadn’t she read once that a concussion could cause personality changes for a few weeks?

  Tipping up the can, she finished the soda. Why not sleep on it . . . pray about it . . . and make her decision in a day or two?

  Besides, she could always change her mind. This wasn’t as life and death as the mistake she’d made with her mother’s medication.

  Nobody would die as a result of her choices about the foundation.

  Colin rolled to a stop in front of Trish’s house, set the brake on the Taurus, and straightened his tie. This might be an official visit, but now that the prosecuting attorney had concurred with their assessment that Eileen Coulter’s death was the result of a tragic accident, he intended to lay some groundwork for further, less professional, contact.

  God willing, the lady would be receptive.

  After hefting the plastic bag of seized evidence from the trunk, he followed the stone path to the porch and rang the bell.

  She answered at once.

  “I’ve been watching for you. Come in.” She pulled the door wide.

  He moved past her, stopping in the foyer to lift the bag of no-longer-needed evidence. “Where do you want this?”

  “You can set it there.” She indicated a chair beside a small table.

  “Everything’s in there except your mother’s medications. We generally destroy controlled substances and prescription drugs.”

  “That’s fine. I never want to see them again.” She shut the door. “Thank you for calling me with the good news from the prosecuting attorney—and for delivering Mom’s things. Is this part of your standard service?”

  He set the bag on the chair and turned to face her. “No.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Um . . . I appreciate the special treatment. Would you like a soda . . . or are you still on duty?”

  “My day’s over, unless something big breaks. A soda would be great. Thanks.”

  “Come on into the kitchen.”

  He followed her to the back of the house, taking a quick inventory while she busied herself retrieving a glass, asking his preference on soft drink brands, arranging a few Oreos on a plate. She’d lost weight in the past three weeks, and the shadows under her lower lashes spoke of sleepless nights. Worry and grief had also scored faint parallel lines above her nose, and her posture was taut.

  The lady was pushing her emotional limits.

  But Trish Bailey was strong. A lesser woman would have caved long ago under all the heartbreak that had been her lot. If she’d survived this long, she wasn’t likely to fold—assuming the worst blows were behind her.

  And how could they not be, given the magnitude of the tragedies she’d already endured?

  “Why don’t we sit on the terrace?” She motioned toward the back door. “It overlooks Mom’s rose garden . . . a very peaceful spot.”

  “Pe
aceful works for me, after the day I’ve had.”

  “I can’t imagine dealing with the kind of stuff that must cross your desk in the course of a week.” She handed him a glass and picked up her own, along with the plate of cookies.

  “Not every day is eventful.” He opened the back door and held it for her.

  “By your standards, maybe.”

  As she passed by, a faint sweet scent tickled his nose. Her perfume . . . or the heady aroma of the roses rimming the terrace?

  “Doesn’t it smell heavenly out here?” She sat at a wrought-iron table and drew in a lungful of the fragrant air.

  Question answered.

  “Yeah, it does.” He surveyed the well-tended bed. “This rivals the botanical garden.”

  “Mom took a lot of pride in her roses.” She wrapped her fingers around her glass. “This time of year, when they’re in their first burst of bloom, was her favorite season. She used to spend hours working in the beds out here before . . .” Her voice choked, and she took a sip of soda. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. You’re dealing with a lot—and have been for two long years. I think you’re holding up admirably.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I mean it, Trish.” He set his soda down, rested his elbows on the table, and linked his fingers. “I also meant what I said on the phone a few days ago. Things will get better.”

  “I hope so. It’s what I pray for every day.”

  Colin debated how to respond. In his interview with her pastor, the man had commented on Trish’s strong faith. Told him how she lived a life based on biblical morality and had a strong relationship with God. Every scrap of evidence he’d seen supported the man’s assessment.

  Unfortunately, that could be a sticking point between them. Despite frequent prodding from Rick and Kristin, he’d never embraced the notion of a loving God. There was nothing in his experience, personal or professional, to suggest the Almighty cared much for the everyday woes and sufferings of the fallen race he’d created.

  Now wasn’t the time to bring that up, however. No sense introducing what could be a deal breaker before he had a chance to test the waters.