by Lois Winston
Madonna came over and leaned against my leg. I squatted down and gave her affection. In return, she licked my face. She didn’t like being apart from me, and I felt the same way about this big dog. We’d both been vulnerable when Charlie had brought her here to live, but the fit was perfect. I hadn’t known I needed a dog until I had Madonna.
I straightened and examined the phone. Compared to my old phone, this one was the Rolls Royce of phones. Smarter than I was, for sure. I quickly added Jonette and Mama’s numbers from memory, and texted them my new contact information. Jonette replied she’d stop by after she ran a few errands. I texted back that I would be at the office.
In light of what I’d been through, I’d been fortunate. A killer had struck, and I’d walked away with only a faulty memory. I was safe. My kids were safe. Those were pluses. Catching the killer before he or she struck again was my priority.
A quick check of the closets in the house revealed no plaid jacket and no briefcase. I needed to check the office for both. I grabbed an old parka, and Madonna and I hurried through the brisk backyard to the office. Using the spare key, I let myself in.
Locks. That was another thing I needed to have changed. My house wasn’t secure until I did. Although with Rafe and Charlie sleeping in the house and my St. Bernard, an intruder would have his hands full getting to me again.
The office felt chilly. I turned up the heat, keeping my parka on as I searched the closet and every place I might have stashed a briefcase or my plaid jacket. Neither was in my office. I should let Martinez know my findings and my new cell number, but he’d probably be calling me on the house line soon anyway. My news would keep until then.
As my computer booted, my gaze touched on the familiar items in my office. The photo of my father, the cluster of frames of the girls, my books, even the silly pet rocks Jonette and I painted as teens. It felt good to be in my world surrounded by the things I loved.
I studied Mrs. Taylor’s tax returns, cycling back through the years, and making notes about her relatives and her net worth. She’d done well for herself. The payout from Harm’s life insurance had doubled her portfolio. She’d been Daddy’s client then, but he’d made a note of it. He’d also suggested a brokerage firm for her, one she still used as of last year.
Hmm. She had nearly a million in the bank before Harm’s death and a million and a half afterward. Those invested funds had grown to two million dollars, which we documented faithfully on her tax records. Now, Detective Martinez said the money was missing.
Martinez had identified three suspects: granddaughter Melanie Bean, imposter Rene deMornay, and neighbor Page Browning. If only I could remember what happened Monday. I tried again to summon memories from the blankness of Monday and failed. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I remember?
At the sound of a key in the lock, my breath stilled. I locked the door once I entered because I didn’t expect clients today. What if it was the person who stole my identity? I ducked behind my desk, Madonna at my side. A low growl sounded in her throat. “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t give our position away.”
The cell phone rested out of reach on the desk. My guns were under my bed. I needed a weapon. I quickly groped in a drawer for a letter opener, my fingers tightening over the narrow blade.
Whoever had the nerve to come after me would get a big surprise. I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
EIGHT
“Cleo?” a familiar voice asked. “You in here?”
Mama. I sank down on the floor, sweat beading in the hollow of my spine. I should have removed my parka when I came inside. My hands shook so much the letter opener clattered to the floor. I reached for Madonna and buried my face in her warm fur. “I’m here.” My voice croaked like a frog’s. I let go of Madonna, but I didn’t trust my legs to stand.
Footsteps approached. “Land’s sakes, child. What are you doing on the floor?” Her voice softened. “Did you fall? Should I call an ambulance?”
Madonna shoved her nose toward Mama, but Mama kept her all-seeing gaze on me. I did my best not to sound like a neurotic wreck. “I’m okay. I got scared. That’s all.”
“Oh, honey. You shouldn’t have tried to work today. It’s too soon. You need to be home in bed.”
Dashing the tears from my cheeks, I tried to explain. “I heard the key in the lock, and you had already begged off work for the day, and all I could think about was the person who stole my purse and my car had my keys. I wasn’t expecting such excitement.”
Mama reached out with both hands to help me off the floor. She didn’t do floors, but I didn’t much want to be on the cold floor, either. I embraced her, needing that little girl moment with her mother to soothe my shattered nerves. Afterward, she wiped the tears from my face and sat us both down in the guest chairs.
“Sorry,” I said, sniffling. “You may be right about it being too soon to dive into accounting again. All I can think about is the case. When I heard the door, I thought my attacker had returned.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you, and I called out of work today because of a secret mission.” Mama clapped her hands and clasped her fingers. She peered over the top of them, mischief alight in her eyes. “I’m not supposed to tell you yet, but you need good news after that scare. Bud found another Volvo, same model as yours. He and a mechanic friend drove over to the Eastern Shore to check it out.”
My jaw dropped. “Oh, Mama! How thoughtful. I was so disappointed that Charla wouldn’t be driving our Volvo.”
Mama smiled in an all-knowing way. “I know, dearie. Isn’t this perfect? It was Bud’s idea, and if this particular car isn’t in good condition, we’ll keep looking. Bud and I want the best for our grandkids.”
Technically attorney Bud Flook wasn’t my dad, but he’d been my father’s best friend his entire lifetime. He’d never married because he’d never found a woman who measured up to Delilah Sampson in his eyes. A few months ago, they’d tied the knot and were still in that first flush of newlyweditis.
“It certainly will be a relief to me to have another Volvo. Then I can focus on getting a safe used car for me to drive, but I won’t have to take that on right away. That’s the nicest present you could’ve given me.”
“Thank Bud when he surprises you with the car. Be sure to act surprised.”
“I will.”
The office phone rang. “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Mama exclaimed. “I already rescheduled your appointments for the week. Can’t people leave you alone for a few days?”
It wasn’t family or close friends calling; they had my new cell number, so it was a client, and I didn’t want to talk to any of them today. Or the call might be from Martinez. He didn’t have the new cell number. There might be a break in the case.
“I’ll get it.” Mama reached across my desk and picked up the phone. “Sampson Accounting, how may I help you?”
I couldn’t hear what the other person said, but right away, Mama put the caller on hold. “It’s your doctor. From the hospital in Virginia. He wants you in his office today.”
I retreated physically and mentally. “Out of the question. I’m not returning unless I have to, even for Dr. Cutie Pie Garwood.”
“Cutie Pie?” Mama asked, an eyebrow arched.
“He’s cute, and I noticed because I’m not dead.” I nodded to the phone. “Put him on speaker.” She did, and I identified myself and announced he was on speakerphone with my mother also listening.
“Mrs. Jones, your test results are finalized. I would like you to come in so that we may review them.”
“Can’t you tell me over the phone?”
“I prefer to discuss health information in person, in case you have questions.”
All kinds of terrible thoughts ran through my brain. It must be cancer. Why else would he sound so concerned? “Am I dying?”
“No. Nothing like that. Are you sure you want to do this over the phone?”
“Yes. Please tell me.”
“I ordered the test r
epeated and crosschecked with the morgue. Their findings corresponded with ours. You and Lettie Taylor were dosed with rohypnol.”
I’d heard of that drug before. But where? “I’m at a loss here, doc. What does this drug do to people?”
“It explains many of your symptoms,” he said. “Memory loss is a common complaint, and sometimes the memory doesn’t return. The other element common to this drug is paralysis. You may have heard it called a date-rape drug. It has other street names, such as roofie.”
The words filtered into my brain like snowflakes except for the word rape. It arrowed into my mind like an angry hornet. My gaze met Mama’s. “Was I . . . ? Did I . . .?”
“You’re fine. You weren’t assaulted in that way. It’s standard procedure to assess Jane Does with a rape kit. There were no signs of trauma or vaginal penetration. In this instance, the most likely purpose of the drug was to incapacitate the two of you.”
After the word fine I didn’t hear anything else, but the questions in Mama’s eyes made me realize I’d missed something. I asked him to repeat the information and this time heard what he was saying. They checked me out thoroughly at the hospital. I’d been drugged to put me out of commission.
“As terrible as this sounds,” I began slowly, “I feel better knowing there’s a reason why I can’t remember Monday. How’d they do it?”
“No injection marks were observed on your body, so I believe it was in something you ate or drank. That’s the most common dosage route.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t remember what I ate or drank there.”
“I can help with that. You threw up in the exam room, and your stomach contents included coffee and sweet rolls.”
Did I sit down in my client’s house and ingest drugged food? Was someone else there? I cleared my throat. “It sounds possible. I drink coffee, and I have a sweet tooth.”
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“What does this mean? Will the drug linger in my body and cause other problems?”
“No, it clears quickly, usually within a day or two. However, one more thing I should mention. Impairment of driving skills is common with this drug.”
I worked to unclench my jaw. “Thank you for that. I couldn’t believe I’d been in a car accident, but if I was drugged, that explains a lot. In an odd way, I feel better knowing I wasn’t responsible for my actions. Thank goodness no one else was hurt as a result of my impairment.”
“You should be fine.” He paused. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
My brain started to work again. “I need a copy of those test reports. And so does Detective Martinez. They may help solve Mrs. Taylor’s homicide.”
“Will do. I have your contact information.”
We ended the call with a round of goodbyes.
Mama harrumphed. “Dr. Cutie Pie is interested in you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls again. How nice.”
“Don’t add complications. I already have a boyfriend and a fiancé.”
“As much as we both love and hate Charlie, I know you don’t intend to marry him. In the bottom of his heart, he does, too.”
She had a point. “I could blame the drug in my system for impaired judgment, but that’s not why I accepted his proposal.”
“Oh?”
“Despite his straying, overall, he’s a safe choice for my future.”
“A boring choice.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “I thought you’d awakened from the slumber of your divorce.”
“You people who crave excitement terrify me. I am a boring accountant. I like same-old, same-old.”
“Think about it, Cleo. You’re not the person who married Charlie. These days you’re good at solving crimes, you’re a dog person, and you have adventures. That doesn’t sound like the woman you used to be.”
She meant well, but I didn’t want to hear it. “It’s my decision, and nothing is set in stone at this point. Let’s focus on the case.”
“The case. Oh, if you insist,” Mama said. “Let me switch mental gears to Lettie Taylor. With the date-rape drug now in the picture, Lettie wouldn’t have dosed herself. Someone else did it. They had access to either the coffee or the sweet rolls.”
Mama excelled at following case breadcrumbs, too. “The doors and windows of Mrs. Taylor’s home were intact,” I said. “Either she let the person in, or they used a key.”
“Family members often have keys, so do neighbors and close friends.”
“I don’t know who her friends are.” I thought for a few minutes. “Wait. What about her church donations? Surely someone at her church would know if she had a best friend.”
“I can look up her charitable donations to find the church name,” Mama said.
I stood. “No need. I have her taxes pulled up on my computer.” A few keystrokes later, I had her charitable donations onscreen. “Episcopalian, like us. Imagine that.”
“What’s the name of the church?” Mama asked.
I told her, and she found the contact information using her smartphone. She tapped the link and handed me her phone. A church receptionist answered. I explained the situation to her and asked if she knew anyone who was close to their late parishioner.
“I don’t understand,” the woman said. “We don’t have a Lettie Taylor on our membership roster.”
“Maybe she is inactive or lapsed?”
“No. I’ve worked here for ten years. This is the first time I’ve heard her name.”
I thanked the woman and hung up. “That’s odd.”
“Sure is,” Mama said. “Lettie lied to us and the IRS. She falsified her receipts.”
“She seemed so meticulous. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Tell the cop in charge of the case,” Mama said. “This changes everything.”
My call to Martinez went straight to his voicemail. I left a message saying there was new evidence and gave him both the office number and my new cell number for a call back. “Now what?” I wondered aloud.
“Now we create a murder board?”
“Real cops don’t use those. Besides, Britt never likes it when we nose into his cases. I doubt Martinez will feel kindly, either.”
“Great. Let’s go shopping,” Mama said.
“I’m supposed to be taking it easy. Shopping is stressful.”
“We should bake cookies. Everyone likes cookies.”
Oddly, baking cookies was exactly what I wanted to do. The girls would love them. “Okay.”
We locked the office and headed into the house, Madonna padding at my side. We were soon up to our elbows in flour, sugar, and chocolate chips. The first batch went in the oven. As we doled out blobs on a second cookie sheet, a van pulled into the drive. A lady in a brown puffy coat exited the minivan. Mama and I both drifted to the kitchen window.
“You know her?” Mama asked.
“No, or at least I don’t think I know her.”
“Where’s your gun?”
“They’re all upstairs.” I gave her a quick glance. “You think we need one?”
Mama planted her hands on her hips. “It pays to be prepared.”
“Good point.”
“I assume they’re still under your bed?” At my nod, Mama hustled out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”
The woman lay on the doorbell. Fearful of the racket triggering another cluster of headaches, I answered the door. “Yes?”
NINE
The woman was shorter than me, thicker than me, and from the rigid set of her jaw, meaner than me. She brushed me aside and stood in my living room, cold air huffing from her red nose.
“You have some nerve.” Her eyes blazed fire as she gestured with her hands. “Cozying up to my mother all this time, poisoning her against us. Over and over, I heard what a paragon of a daughter you were. I could never measure up in her eyes because of you. And to rob her on top of that? You’re gonna pay for ruining my life.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Give
n your threats, you must be Mrs. Taylor’s daughter,” I said, leaving the door wide open despite the heat loss. I kept a firm hand on my dog as I watched the angry woman.
“Yes, I’m Shea Leigh Bean, and I’m your worst nightmare. I’m gonna sue you for every dime you’ve got.”
“Take a number,” I said. “Scratch that. Leave. This is private property.”
Years ago, Mrs. Taylor told my father and me how disappointed she was in her daughter. Shea Leigh got pregnant from a one-night stand, and with each opportunity that came her way, she chose the option that created more hardship. Now she blamed me for the loss of her inheritance.
As I saw it, Shea Leigh was high drama and hot air. Setting aside the theatrics, did I recognize her? I couldn’t say for sure. But she needed to leave immediately. I would not let her endanger my family.
“Get out. You are not welcome here. I called the cops.” Mama swept past Shea Leigh and stood beside me, pistol gripped in both hands. “You can’t come in our home and threaten us.”
“Bull.” Shea Leigh reached around and shoved the rocking chair so hard it tipped over. “I can do anything I like. I got rights, and you stole from me.”
Thoughts were firing at warp speed through my head. Crazy woman dead ahead. Cops on the way. Confrontation wasn’t working. Would she respond to kindness? “Mrs. Bean, the police will be here any minute. If you leave now, I won’t press charges.”
Shea Leigh waved an arm dismissively. “Let ’em come. You can’t scare me with jail. Been there, ate that crappy food already.” She shook a finger at me. “I know you stole my mother’s money. Mom emailed me her offshore account numbers and the passwords early Monday morning. I checked, and the money is gone. Give it back. Every cent, including the Bluebird Fund. Now. And then I’ll walk away.”
This woman had a one-track mind. “I don’t have your mother’s money, and if you repeat your accusation in public, I’ll sue you for slander and defamation of character.”