The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

  Anyway, he’s always been a master at digging for information, So, I might have mentioned that there were some inconsistencies in the Samuel and Amanda Rawls case.”

  Claire sat her coffee cup upon its saucer. “Because… you often bring up old homicide or suicide cases during lunch break?”

  “I might have also mentioned you and your ex, but I promise, Lee’s professional. I told him about the ballistics and the reported COD. He agreed, it seemed—well, fishy.”

  “Is that supposed to explain why we’re going to Santa Monica?”

  Harry remained silent as the waitress interrupted their conversation, delivering food. The smell of sand and salt disappeared into a cloud of decadent aromas. Claire noticed the attentiveness of the cute voluptuous blonde, all directed in Harry’s direction, of course.

  She watched as Harry returned the server’s adoration with restrained politeness. Momentarily, Claire remembered being at restaurants with Tony. There were times when waitresses or hostesses blatantly flirted; however, as red hot sexy as People Magazine said he was, Anthony Rawlings was also intimidating. More often than not, Claire witnessed shy smiles and platitudes from servers, “Thank you, sir.” “If there is anything else I can do…”

  Harry, on the other hand, screamed sexy, with his tight V-neck, relaxed 7 For All Mankind jeans, and tussled blonde hair. She thought about his free coffee that he received after their article appeared in popular publications. Grinning into her quiche, Claire inadvertently shook her head.

  Harry looked up from his eggs Benedict to see Claire’s actions. “What?”

  She looked up with big bright emerald eyes, trying for her most innocent, I have no idea what you’re talking about look.

  After a bite of his eggs, complete with Hollandaise sauce, Harry continued their conversation, “Well, Lee is thorough. He, on his own, decided to do a better investigation of the neighbor, Patrick Chester.”

  Claire nodded, interested in Harry’s information; almost as much as her fresh fruit.

  “It seems Chester was awarded a settlement in November of 1989.”

  “That’s not long after Samuel and Amanda’s death. What kind of settlement?” she managed between bites of succulent pineapple.

  Harry went on to explain the origin was fuzzy. At first glance, it appeared as though Chester was a litigant in a class action suit, however, upon further investigation, the beneficiary seemed to be an independent international company, based in the Cayman Islands. The actual funds were siphoned through a law firm in Los Angles. Of course, this law firm refused to answer questions or divulge any information.”

  “What kind of settlement are we talking? How much money?”

  “The first installment was only 20K.”

  Claire had to ask, “The first?”

  “Well, his bank account has received infusions every year. I want us to go to him with the pretense of justifying his story.”

  Claire looked puzzled.

  Harry explained, “You’re newly involved in the distribution of wealth. You’re just checking your beneficiaries, making sure they deserve your annual supplement.”

  “I have no idea what you’re saying, so if I’m supposed to be clueless then I’ve got this!”

  “Follow my lead. I used to be very good at this kind of thing. Patrick Chester still lives in Santa Monica, but not on Mongolia Drive like twenty-five years ago.”

  While heading east on Highway 10 toward Santa Monica, Harry asked Claire if she wanted to drive by the bungalows owned by the Chesters and Rawls. She declined. What benefit would she gain from seeing the home where Samuel and Amanda Rawls died? She wasn’t a pathologist, and what clues would be available twenty-five years later?

  Exiting Highway 10 onto Lincoln Avenue, they wove around side streets on their way to Riviera Estates. It was a posh neighborhood with an amazing view of Riviera Country Club. Claire revisited their plan, “Did you actually speak with Mr. Chester?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s willing to talk to us?”

  Harry turned toward Claire. “Yes. Well, kind of.”

  “What do you mean, kind of?”

  “He was hesitant until I told him you’re a Rawls, and you needed to talk to him.”

  “I wasn’t a—”

  “Theoretically you were.” He interrupted. “Just let me do most of the talking”

  Claire looked at him pensively.

  “Do you think you can do this?”

  Claire exhaled. “I guess.”

  Harry squeezed her hand again. “It’ll be fine, I promise, and, if my gut is right, this could be enlightening.”

  Claire laid her head back, closed her eyes, and fought the onset of a headache. “All right, are we almost there?”

  “A few more minutes.”

  Claire watched as the houses grew and the yards became expertly landscaped. Slowly, Harry pulled the Mustang up to large iron gates and stopped at a guardhouse.

  “May I help you, sir?” the uniformed man asked.

  Harry removed his Ray-Bans and responded, “Yes, Harrison Baldwin here to see Patrick Chester.”

  The man in the small building referenced an electronic tablet and nodded. “Yes, sir, 100023 Fairway Drive. You’ll just need to continue left, then right at the roundabout.”

  Harry thanked the man and eased the car forward.

  Claire leaned toward Harry. “This is a very nice neighborhood. What does Patrick Chester do?”

  Harry hadn’t replaced his sunglasses. Claire saw the twinkle in his eye as he answered, “He’s retired, but before that, he was in retail.”

  “Retail? Like he owned some amazing chain or overpriced boutique.”

  “He didn’t own anything. He was middle management at a mid-priced chain.”

  They pulled onto a wide stone and slate drive. A sprawling, stone and stucco house created an “L”, with a four car garage perpendicular to the street. One bay of the garage was open. Harry put the car in park, in front of the open door, behind a sleek silver Audi S5.

  Claire continued in a low whisper, “Then how did he end up with this house with that car?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.” Harry’s light blue eye disappeared momentarily as he winked in Claire’s direction. “I’m thinking it has to do with that mysterious settlement. Let’s give my theory a run?”

  She smiled. “Okay, but if I forget my name is Rawls, elbow me in the side.”

  “If you say so,” Harry teased as they both stepped from the Mustang and moved toward the front door.

  Before Harry and Claire could reach the stoop of 100023 Fairway Drive, the wide front door opened. A balding gentleman wearing a black Burberry Brit Zip Hoodie, gray t-shirt, and sweat shorts, stepped outside. If he’d been wearing running shoes instead of flip-flops, he might look as if he was about to jog around the neighborhood. Harry and Claire stopped. The man hastily closed the large front door and rushed toward them.

  As the distance narrowed between them, Harry spoke, “Mr. Chester?”

  Glancing right and then left, the man answered, “Yes, yes. You must be Mr. Baldwin and Miss Rawls?”

  Claire extended her hand. “My name is now Nichols.”

  Patrick Chester took her hand and assessed the woman before him. “So are you Anton’s daughter or his cousin?”

  Claire’s back straightened. She saw the smile sneak from the corner of Harry’s lips. Yes, she could chronologically be Tony’s daughter, but no one had ever said that to her before. While she fought with her answer, Harry spoke, “Mr. Patrick, Ms. Nichols has been given the responsibility of overseeing certain funds. She’s here today to confirm the need to maintain one of those funds.”

  Patrick glanced back toward his house. “Let’s go around to the pool, my family’s in the house. They don’t know anything about my settlement. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Harry replied, “Of course. We’ll follow you.”

  He briefly reached for Claire’s hand and sq
ueezed. She chose not to reciprocate, deciding instead to press her lips together and exhale. If he’d known her better, he would’ve understood the displeasure screaming from her eyes. Instead, he goaded, “How’s Daddy?”

  She leaned closer. “So far, I’m not enlightened!”

  They followed Patrick Chester through a large wooden gate situated within the tall stone wall. Entering the rear yard, Claire’s step stuttered at the majesty. A kidney shaped swimming pool surrounded by lavish furniture served as the feature of the lower level. It was a three tiered yard. A few steps up, the next level contained an outdoor living room, complete with fireplace, sofa, chairs, and encased technology center. Currently, country music lofted from the speakers. Claire looked even higher and saw an orange grove on the upper level.

  “Your yard is beautiful, Mr. Chester,” Claire said as she sat at an umbrella covered table near the shallow end of the pool.

  “Thank you, Ms. Nichols. I don’t mean to be impolite, but let’s get this over with. This is very unusual, and quite frankly, it makes me uncomfortable.”

  Claire went on, “I was in the area and decided today would be as good as any. Thank you for seeing us.”

  Patrick nodded.

  Harry said, “We’re here to confirm you’re the true recipient of the ongoing settlement.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? I’ve kept my end of this bargain.” He turned toward Claire. “Your family better keep theirs.”

  Without missing a beat, she replied, “Let’s not get hasty. We just have a few questions.” She looked toward Harry.

  Harry asked, “Are you certain your original testimony involving the presence of Samuel’s sister has been contained.”

  Patrick looked skeptically toward them, and finally answered, “I think I need to see some identification. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  Claire reached for her purse and grabbed her wallet. Before she could open it, Harry took it from her hand and spoke, “Mr. Chester, how do we know you deserve to see identification?”

  “You contacted me.”

  “True, but give me something. How do I know you’re the Patrick Chester who Ms. Nichols needs to contact?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell us exactly why you deserve your annual settlement.”

  With sarcasm dripping from his voice, Patrick answered, “I don’t remember.”

  Harry pushed, “What don’t you remember?”

  “You see, that’s the problem. If I remember—your mom…” He looked toward Claire. “…or your aunt? Well, there’s no statute of limitations on murder in California.”

  Claire remained silent while Harry opened her wallet and handed Patrick her American Express credit card with Claire R. Nichols embossed on the front. Patrick took the card, read it, and handed it back to Harry. Claire watched as each man’s eyes glared back and forth.

  She reached for her credit card and placed it back in her wallet. Breaking the silence, Claire said, “Thank you, Mr. Chester, I’ll relay your information, but I can’t make you any promises regarding future installments.”

  His glare turned toward Claire. “I think you can, and you will. Tell Anton my memory’s not so bad for an old man.”

  She sat taller. “I will.”

  Harry interjected, “Do you really want to threaten the man who’s provided you with all of this?”

  Patrick sat back against the chair. “I agreed to meet with you because I wanted to see you.” He tipped his head toward Claire. “I haven’t been able to find or contact Anton in twenty-five years. I wanted confirmation he still exists.”

  Harry replied, “Your yearly payments weren’t enough?”

  “No trace of their origin. Glad to know he’s still kick’n. He was a good kid.”

  Claire asked, “So, what message do you want me to give that good kid?”

  Patrick stood and the others followed. “Tell him to contact me only through the suits in L.A., I don’t want any more surprise visits.”

  Claire nodded, and Harry extended his hand as he spoke, “Goodbye, Mr. Chester. I believe Ms. Nichols has enough information.”

  Going in the direction they came, Claire and Harry silently made their way back to the blue Mustang. It wasn’t until they were outside the iron gated community that Claire finally spoke, “Why did you show him a credit card?”

  “I didn’t want him to know your address.”

  His words added to the unease she’d been feeling at the end of their interview. “Oh, thanks, I didn’t think of that.”

  Making their way back to Highway I-5 North, they settled in for the almost six hour drive. Claire inclined her seat, listened to the music from the speakers, and absorbed the sun’s rays.

  Her mind wandered from Patrick Chester to Tony. Claire still didn’t know who this mystery woman was, but now, they’d confirmed she exists, or existed. Who would Tony be willing to protect with annual payments? He never mentioned another woman. Actually, he said he never wanted to be with anyone else, but could she believe anything he ever said? Maybe the woman really was his aunt; however, she never heard of any family members. Even the Vanity Fair article said he had no other relatives. Could that woman be the one who sent Claire the box? Why would she willingly upset the man who’d financed her freedom from prison for murder? Or did she or someone else have another motive for sending Claire that information? Maybe the person wanted the box to affect Claire differently? It seemed the new information did nothing but create more questions.

  Claire closed her eyes under the sunglasses and fought the ache threatening her temples.

  As she was about to drift away, she heard Harry say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have exposed you to that creep.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve met a creep or two before. No harm, no foul. I’m just not sure what we gained.”

  “We now know for sure there was a woman; someone that Patrick believes is Samuel’s sister. I’d put money on the fact she killed Samuel and Amanda.”

  Claire added, “And Tony is willing to pay yearly to keep that knowledge hidden.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “That seems to be the million dollar question!” she said as she watched the beautiful scenery.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Compromise - better bend than break

  —Scottish Proverb

  Leaning against the countertop in the kitchen of their new condominium, Sophia traced the edge of the cool granite as her mind wheeled in disbelief. She desperately tried to make sense of the voicemail she heard for the second time. Mr. George, from the Civic Center Art Studio in Palo Alto, received a call from a buyer, representing an anonymous customer. This mysterious person wanted to purchase three of Sophia’s pieces, the entire collection Mr. George commissioned from her Provincetown studio. During their earlier discussions, she agreed to three of her older works, after painstakingly debating the pieces on her website. The paintings were still in Massachusetts and had only been on Mr. George’s website for twenty-four hours. Now, they were sold.

  Mr. George wanted Sophia’s entire portfolio—yesterday. Apparently, the buyer was enthralled. Yes, Sophia couldn’t believe it. That was the word Mr. George used—enthralled with her art. The mysterious buyer may even be interested in additional works. Mr. George wanted to know how soon Sophia could fly to Provincetown and ship her entire studio to Palo Alto. He promised to make it worth the expense.

  Although Sophia and Derek had recently reached an understanding—well, more than an understanding: a coming together of monumental proportions—she wasn’t picking up and flying east without discussing it with him. Looking at her calendar, she realized the only conflict, if she suddenly flew to P-town, would be some fundraiser dinner they were supposed to attend. Some top executive wanted Derek to attend this dinner as a representative of Shedis-tics. Apparently, this was an annual big deal.

  Sophia wondered if she could possibly do both. Considering the probability, she realized she would either
need to tell Mr. George to wait, or tell Derek she couldn’t do the dinner. The timing was just too unfortunate for both. Packing the art work would take days, possibly a week, and the event was in five days. This was one of those compromises they’d discussed. The concept was much easier in the figurative sense.

  Like a child, she crossed her fingers, unconsciously bit her lower lip, and dialed the phone.

  Danni’s voice on Derek’s private line no longer surprised Sophia. Sophia even shamefully felt a twinge of superiority with Derek’s recent confession. He swore total ignorance regarding Danni’s hidden agenda. Perhaps part of Sophia even felt a bit sorry for the pretty young blonde. No, given the circumstances, she didn’t.

  “Hello, Danni, it’s Sophia.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burke, Derek is in a meeting right now. May I take a message?”

  Sophia noticed, despite many attempts to change Danni’s salutation, she was still addressed as Mrs. Burke and Mr. Burke was still Derek. “Yes, please let him know I need to speak to him as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, I’ll be going out later and can come by his office this afternoon.”

  “Yes, well, his schedule is quite full. Perhaps I can have him call when he’s available?”

  A week ago that would have stopped Sophia, but not today. As soon as she hung up with Danni, Sophia would text Derek’s cell phone. When Sophia explained her insecurities during their reconnection, Derek promised only he would answer his text messages.

  Sophia smiled into the phone and replied, “You can let him know I’ll be in the area from one to three. Please call me with the best time to stop by.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burke.”

  “Bye, Danni.”

  She hung up and sent the text. Seconds later her telephone buzzed. She swiped the screen:

  “I ALWAYS HAVE TIME FOR YOU! CAN’T WAIT. GOT A WEB CONFERENCE AT 11:00 AM. BE DONE BY 12:30 PM, ANY TIME AFTER AND I’M ALL YOURS.—NOT TRUE, ALWAYS YOURS! LOVE YA BABY.”

  She grinned. Technology was wonderful! She wouldn’t let Danni, or anyone else, make her feel insecure about her husband. After swallowing the final drops of Jasmine Tea, she stowed her tea cup in the dishwasher, wiped down the breakfast bar, and began contemplating the extent of art in the Provincetown studio. Her mind spun with displayed and stored artwork. Suddenly, the ring of her cell phone brought Sophia’s thoughts back to Santa Clara. Looking at the illuminated screen she saw: Derek’s office.