by Mary Ellis
Michael frowned. “You do realize hacking into bank accounts is illegal—”
“Stay within the gray areas of the law. We have Mrs. Doyle’s signed permission to delve into their private affairs. Finances of a married couple would fall into that category. Stay away from any accounts connected to his employer. The file we’re compiling will be for civil or domestic court, not criminal. There won’t be any defense attorney eager to toss out evidence on a whim.” Beth took a spoonful of oatmeal. “I’m no expert on divorce, but my guess is the Doyles will want to settle out of court and stay out of the newspapers. The more ammunition Mrs. Doyle has, the better off she’ll be in negotiations.”
“Wow, for a woman who doesn’t like hunting, you sound like you’re gunning for a bear.”
“I’ve finally found a varmint worthy of bringing out my gun collection for. We have a two o’clock meeting with our client at her home. I’ve already printed out eight-by-tens of those photos from last night. With what you discover today, we should have an impressive file to present. She can either keep us on retainer to maintain surveillance or simply call her lawyer to begin proceedings.” Beth plucked a strawberry from his bowl as she popped to her feet. “I’m on my way to talk to Bonnie’s fellow baristas.”
Michael pulled her down by the arm. “Sit. You’re not going anywhere until you eat your oatmeal. Consider it your penance for last night. I won’t have you skipping healthy food and pigging out on donuts later.”
“Yes, Dad,” Beth said as the server checked their carafe. The woman glanced from one to the other curiously.
Michael smiled—a sure sign that she was forgiven. For the life of her, Beth couldn’t understand how she could be cross with him. Maybe she didn’t deserve a partner so nice.
After finishing breakfast at a time of day when most people were thinking about lunch, Beth changed into her most youthful outfit. She wanted to look as if she needed a job without having the savvy to dress properly for an interview. In capris, a tank top, and a silky cardigan, she marched down to the coffee shop in high-heeled sandals. She could have driven, but Michael’s flashy car stood out from the pack, which wouldn’t help on future stakeouts.
Beth plastered on a vapid expression and stood in line for a caramel apple latte with extra whipped cream. Fortuitously, Miss Loose Morals was nowhere in sight. Two young women manned the espresso machines, while an older woman took orders and accepted payment. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Beth drawled while paying for her coffee with cash. “Y’all accepting applications here?” She tried to look as earnest as possible.
“Yes, we’re always hiring. But the manager’s not in today.” The woman pulled a single sheet from under the counter. “Please fill this out completely, either here or at home. Leave it at the register, and then Mrs. Fletcher will give you a call.” The woman offered a patient smile.
“Thanks. Could I borrow one of your pens?”
“Here, but make sure I get it back.” Her smile slipped a notch.
Beth took the pen, the application, and her latte to a table in the center of the room. From there she could study everyone who entered and exited. More importantly, she knew exactly when one of the young employees went on break. When the girl manning the pastry counter slouched into a booth with a cold drink and sandwich, Beth scribbled in a few lines on the application and sauntered toward her.
“Hi. Mind if I ask you a few questions?” She held up the application with a sheepish grin.
“Have a seat.” Crystal Callahan, according to her name tag, pointed at the other bench.
“Thanks. I only filled out one of these in my life, and it’s been three years since my last job.” Beth slurped her latte. “Do ya think they’ll wonder ’bout that?”
Crystal shrugged. “The boss might ask what you’ve been doing.”
“I was living in Florida. My boyfriend made oodles of money. My work motto is ‘If I don’t need to, I don’t want to.’ ”
The girl lifted her soft drink in salute. “I’ll drink to that. What happened to your boyfriend?”
“I’d rather not say, but I did leave Jacksonville in a big hurry.” Beth dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Well, this is a great place to meet a new guy. Better than the mall or the gym or a bar. Look around. Lots of great-looking men stop in every day.” Crystal leaned forward as though to impart an important secret. “I’d forget about the young ones if I were you. Set your sights on mature men.”
Beth looked confused. “Why would I want some old guy?”
“Who do you think has all the money? Not some young lawyer just out of college. He’s up to his eyeballs in student loans.”
“Yeah, but a lawyer has a great future.”
“Depends on what you’re looking for. I don’t want to sit around for five years to see if he’ll propose.” Crystal shrugged a second time. “Someone I know is doing it right. She latched onto some old guy from Tybee. You can’t believe the apartment he put her up in, and he gave her a credit card for whatever she needs. She has the weekends for her friends since he’s with his wife.”
“He’s married?” Beth didn’t need to feign a scandalized expression.
“Well…yes.” Crystal sounded only mildly abashed. “That way she has enough time for what she wants to do.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “If she gets pregnant, she would get child support checks for the next eighteen years. Her job here would just be mad money.”
Beth stood, her stomach churning with disgust. “I’d better let you finish your lunch.”
“Fill out that application and call Mrs. Fletcher. You’re not bad looking. This could be a stepping-stone to something big.” Crystal winked one overly made-up eye.
Beth mumbled her thanks and walked out the door, tossing the rest of her latte in the trash. She couldn’t wait to get away from her mentor and back to the hotel. Was this a new career goal for some young women—latching onto a rich baby daddy? Revulsion turned the caramel apple concoction into something that felt more like battery acid.
FIVE
Shortly after one o’clock, Michael picked up Beth in front of the hotel. With the file safely tucked in his briefcase, he was eager for this particular meeting to be over. Facing their client with evidence that her husband had been unfaithful couldn’t possibly go well. What if Mrs. Doyle starts crying? What would be proper decorum? He couldn’t picture his mother or grandmother in such a predicament. He decided to let Beth take the lead during any emotional episodes.
“Ready to go, partner?” he asked as she climbed into the passenger seat. She had changed into a long skirt and sleeveless blouse.
“As much as I ever will be. What did you find out?”
“I found Lamar Doyle’s secret checking account. He keeps less than ten grand in it and uses it to pay for the apartment, its utilities, and a credit card with Bonnie Mulroney as an authorized user. American Express sends the bill to his office.”
“Yeah, I heard that Bonnie has a slush fund for clothes, shoes, and pedicures.” Beth pulled a sour face.
Michael glanced sideways at her. “Somebody at the coffee shop actually talked to you?”
“Why not? After all, I’m a prospective employee trying to get the lay of the land at my new job.”
“You applied at Cool Beans? Don’t use me as a reference. I’d have to mention your combative attitude late at night.” He couldn’t stop chuckling.
“I picked up an application and talked to Cappuccino Girl, Crystal, on her lunch break. But after hearing her blueprint for financial advancement, I won’t be interviewing anytime soon.” Beth peered out the side window. “Crystal thinks Bonnie should get pregnant so she can have a reliable income for the next eighteen years from child support. Sleaze Incorporated just sank to a new low.”
“Oh no. I didn’t expect Bonnie to be madly in love with Doyle, but the woman is motivated solely by money? This is worse than we thought.” Michael turned onto the Islands Expressway.
“Honestly, I’m ash
amed of the low morals of certain members of my gender.”
“I’m sure they are not indicative of most women in Savannah.”
She glanced in his direction. “We can only hope. But now I must include Bonnie’s potential aspirations as part of our evidence for Mrs. Doyle. Do you have the file ready?”
He nodded. “We have pictures of them at the coffee shop, during drinks on the rooftop, the candlelit dinner, and the kiss on the doorstep. I made copies of his lease agreement and proof that he has another checking account, although I’m not happy about that.”
“He’s a married man with a lifetime of joint finances with his wife. Who’s to say the account didn’t turn up in a normal search of their social security numbers? Everyone knows there is no longer any privacy online.”
“I also have copies of the utility bills and the American Express card for the last several months. We can rest assured Mrs. Doyle doesn’t buy her clothes at Abercrombie and Fitch or Forever 21, and her music from iTunes. Nor does she wear perfume called Pink Sugar.”
Beth wrinkled her nose. “This better be enough proof for our client. I truly don’t want to climb a tree with a telephoto lens to take candid shots of those two. I’m a nice girl from a good Christian family.”
“What would you do? Tell Nate we quit and we’re on our way home? All part of the job, partner.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Beth leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Not knowing what else to say, Michael turned on the radio to mitigate the tension in the air. When they pulled into Mrs. Doyle’s driveway, he and Beth walked to the front door as though ready to face an executioner.
A maid answered their knock, but Mrs. Doyle stood three feet behind her. “Hello, Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby. Come in, please.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Is Mr. Doyle home?” Michael peered left and right.
“No, Lamar left town on business. I was about to have a cup of tea. Will you join me?”
“Sure,” they both answered.
“We can talk privately in the living room.” As the uniformed maid hurried to the kitchen, Mrs. Doyle led them to the art-filled room.
“We have prepared a report with the information you requested.” Michael laid the manila folder on the coffee table.
Mrs. Doyle’s pleasant smile vanished as she eyed the file. “Please tell me what you discovered before I look at any photographs.”
“Why don’t you get us started, Michael?” Beth asked when he looked her way.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, ma’am, that Mr. Doyle has a second residence in Savannah, close to Forsyth Park. It’s a condo or loft apartment in a converted mansion with rather expensive rent.”
A slight flare of the nostrils was Mrs. Doyle’s only reaction.
“A Miss Bonnie Mulroney lives at this address. Is that name familiar to you, ma’am?”
“I assure you, it is not. Continue, Mr. Preston.”
“Expenses for this residence are paid from a checking account separate from your joint account. I have copies of Mr. Doyle’s deposits and withdrawals for the past six months. Correspondence regarding this apartment is sent to his office, but your husband’s name is on the lease, not Town and Country Insurance.”
“Ah, here is our tea.” Mrs. Doyle interrupted his narrative as the maid carried in a tray. After the girl disappeared down the hall, Mrs. Doyle busied herself with the tea ritual. Cream? Sugar? Lemon? “Please continue, Mr. Preston,” she said, once everyone had their beverage.
“Mr. Doyle apparently met this young woman at a coffee shop near his office. The woman works thirty hours a week there. We observed them having lunch yesterday while Miss Mulroney was on her break.”
“At the Cool Beans near Reynolds Square in broad daylight?” she asked.
“Yes, but there was nothing untoward in their behavior at lunch. They could have been family friends who’d accidentally run into each other.”
Evelyn clutched her cup with both hands as she sipped her tea.
“Mr. Doyle returned to his office for the rest of the afternoon. When he left his office around five thirty, we followed him. He drove to a restaurant at the other end of Bull Street.” Michael stole a glance at Beth, who didn’t seem inclined to pick up the ball, so he continued. “Miss Mulroney was waiting at the restaurant when he arrived. They had drinks on the rooftop and then had dinner in the main dining room. Our photographs will show their relationship is not what you’d expect between casual friends, but at least their table was against the back wall with no diners on either side.”
Mrs. Doyle turned very pale. “Are you talking about the bistro, Local Eleven Ten?” she asked, her tone icy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lamar took this…strumpet to a restaurant where our friends or his business associates could easily have been?”
Michael had never heard anyone use the word “strumpet” before. He’d only seen it in a book during a British literature class in college. “Yes, I’m sorry to say.”
“Hopefully, your friends don’t go there on Tuesdays,” Beth interjected.
Mrs. Doyle looked at Beth as though she were a bug on the wall. “Continue, Mr. Preston.”
“Dinner lasted more than two hours, after which Mr. Doyle drove Bonnie back to the apartment. We have photos of a passionate embrace on the front stoop.”
With a shaking hand, Mrs. Doyle set her cup in its saucer. “Then Lamar must have headed home. I thought I heard him come in last night, but I’d fallen asleep in my chair watching something inane on TV.”
“That’s the only kind of shows they have anymore,” Beth added.
Michael had been waiting for Beth to jump in and help. And that’s all she has to say? She was staring at a Jackson Pollock painting as though the spatters held the secrets of the universe.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Mr. Doyle entered Miss Mulroney’s apartment, where he remained for ninety minutes. Then he exited in a hurry. Miss Kirby and I followed him until he was on the Islands Expressway. We have no knowledge of what happened once he reached Tybee Island.” Michael clamped his lips shut, knowing he sounded like a courtroom prosecutor.
Mrs. Doyle focused on the floor. When she lifted her chin, her eyes were moist and glassy. The woman seemed to have aged ten years in the last few minutes.
“Do you need a break, ma’am?” Beth asked. “Maybe we could go out on your deck for some fresh air.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she said, straightening in her chair. “I hired you to do a job, and you’ve performed it quite efficiently. Perhaps a small part of me still believed this was all my imagination.”
“That’s certainly a normal reaction to a situation like this,” Beth murmured.
“You’ve compiled a file for me?” Mrs. Doyle picked up the folder from the table and withdrew papers from it one at a time. She examined the hidden bank account printouts, utility statements, and rental agreement. When she perused the credit card statement, her expression changed from sorrow to sheer confusion. “What is this?”
Michael scooted forward on the couch. “Your husband gave Miss Mulroney an American Express card. She appears to spend quite a bit of money at Express, Claire’s, and The Limited at the Oglethorpe Mall on Abercorn, plus she patronizes a few boutiques and nail salons on River Street.”
“Express and The Limited? Why would she shop there when a Belk and Macy’s are available in the same mall? Is she buying for other people? Let me see a picture of this woman.” Mrs. Doyle spread the papers and photos across the table and then picked up a candid shot of the strumpet at the milk steamer. Bonnie wore her ruffled smock, a felt beret, and a stunning smile.
Their client broke into a fit of laughter.
Michael was flummoxed, while Beth arched her back like a cat. “All employees are required to wear that uniform, no matter what their age,” she said.
“I’m not laughing at her attire. Goodness, I wore a cardboard crow
n while flipping burgers during high school, and a poodle skirt with roller skates to deliver milk shakes in college.” She smiled patiently at Beth. “I’m amused by the age of my competition. What is she…twenty-one?”
“Twenty-four, according to her driver’s license,” Michael interjected.
Mrs. Doyle’s focus remained on Beth. “I was afraid she would be someone in her thirties or early forties—a viable candidate to replace me. This”—she tapped a finger on Bonnie’s image—“is nothing more than a midlife crisis, a passing fancy. Lamar would never divorce me and take Bubbles to our country club’s Christmas party.”
Michael looked at his partner. Beth seemed equally stunned by the client’s change in attitude.
“Don’t misunderstand me. This affair upsets me a great deal. I’m a Christian who takes the sacrament of marriage very seriously, and I thought my husband felt the same. But some men have feet of clay when they reach a certain age. This flirtation will pass for Lamar. Hopefully, he’ll come to his senses and with counseling our marriage will be stronger than ever.”
“You’re going to let him off the hook? Just like that?” asked Beth shrilly. “Most women in your position would take these pictures to an attorney and file for divorce.”
“Divorce the only man I’ve ever loved after one transgression? That would be an impulsive reaction from wounded pride. Have you ever been married, Miss Kirby?”
“No, but if I ever do walk down the aisle, it’ll be for better or for worse until death do us part, with special emphasis on the ‘forsaking all others’ part.” Beth crossed her arms.
“That’s what I thought too, and basically I still do. I’m not condoning infidelity, but Lamar has never strayed before. People make mistakes in life. They say and do things they shouldn’t. Are you saying we shouldn’t forgive?”
“Only those who are repentant deserve forgiveness.” Beth pulled out the photo of Lamar and Bonnie locked in a passionate embrace. “Your husband doesn’t look sorry to me.”