Pool of Lies

by J. M. Zambrano

  Rae listened to the rest of Freddie’s message.

  “What happened was I got sick on that Friday…the flu, I guess. But I had already written my paycheck that morning, like always. I forgot. I’m really sorry.”

  In a pig’s eye! Rae pressed call return. After five rings, she got Freddie’s generic voicemail. Shit!

  Dueling alternatives vied for control in Rae’s head. This is the key. They got to her and made her lie about it. Rae, you’re being paranoid. It’s a little thing. It means nothing.

  When in doubt, sort it out.

  Thanks, Grandma.

  Rae sorted. If the check was no big deal, why did Freddie get so flustered in the first place? Why even bother to call? Why not just wait until Rae asked again?

  What reason was there to want the check to appear to have been written on Friday? No stretch. Sam was on record as having admitted that Kevin was in the office on Friday, the 25th and that the boy picked up a check for $100,000.00.

  Reason for not writing the check to Kevin on the 25th: Dead kids don’t need checks. Reason for going back, after the fact, and writing the check: Oops, somebody might want to see the canceled check. But there is none. Next best thing, at least dummy one up in the check book.

  On the other hand, maybe Freddie was an airhead who really didn’t remember until later that she’d written her check before she took the rest of the day off. Maybe she really had been sick, feverish even. Bunch of crap!

  You don’t know that. You’re just trying to make it something sinister to put a feather in your own cap.

  God, when had she heard that old saying? A feather in your cap? Not since Grandma. And then the loneliness dropped on her, unexpected, like a summer snow. One minute it’s hot, the next you get dumped on. Everybody’s gone. Parents, grandparents, kids out living their own lives. As they should.

  Anthony.

  Rae stood up and shook herself. Shaking off the self-pity was a constant battle.

  Get a life, Rae.

  I’ve got one, Grandma.

  To prove it, Rae went to her office and pulled out the Bayfield file, all the stuff she’d accumulated and was supposed to be drawing conclusions from.

  She took another look at the page from the three-ring check stub binder that she’d scanned into her computer, then printed it out.

  Kevin’s was the third check on the page, Fredricka’s the second. She’d ignored that first check stub with Void printed diagonally across it.

  Rae ran a fingernail over a couple of small specks on the void check stub, though it was a printout and not the real thing. Damn flies. Then she took a closer look, remembering the papers had been inside one of those legal file boxes.

  About halfway up the check stub were two tiny black dots, maybe half an inch apart. Staple holes.

  What did the bookkeepers do in the olden days before computers? She knew from watching her mother keep books for clients part-time, when Rae was growing up. They were so precise, those old-timers. When they voided a check, they carefully tore off the signature if it had been signed, folded the check in thirds, so that when stapled to the back of the stub, the check number would be visible, and the boss would know they hadn’t played hanky-panky with the check—it really was void.

  The key concept here being: When stapled to the back of the stub.

  Rae stared at the printout of the stub as her imagination went into overdrive. Why would someone go to the trouble of stapling the void check to the stub and then remove it so carefully that there were no tears on the sheet?

  Habit. Either Sam or Freddie. Both appeared to be from the generation that would have this habit. But Freddie would never take it upon herself to destroy a check. It had to have been Sam. There had to be something on that check he didn’t want anyone to see. Like that check was made out to Kevin, but void because Kevin didn’t need it any more. Because he was dead.

  The trouble Rae found with this scenario was that Sam didn’t come off as hasty. Meticulous to a fault. That’s how she pegged him. Not a person to write a check, void the check, then, oops, destroy the check and write another. It had to be something inconsequential, and she, with nothing else to do at night but let her mind run wild, let it kick over the traces.

  When Morgan knocked on the door of the guest room and called his name the night before, Nate had pretended to be asleep. Then he’d watched the door knob turn futilely, glad he’d called the locksmith earlier. He’d also had the guy install a lock on the patio sliding door—a cover in case Morgan came out to see what was going on.

  But the locksmith had been quiet, knowing that there was illness and bereavement in the house.

  That morning, Nate had called the office and left a message for Sam: He wouldn’t be in until late afternoon, maybe not at all.

  He’d made breakfast for Beth. Well, he’d set out the package of Special K and the cartons of milk and orange juice. School was out. They’d made small talk. Beth appeared preoccupied. He wanted to draw her out, to ask her when she’d last seen Kevin alive. But that seemed cruel, almost as bad as mentioning Deidre.

  “Have you talked to, uh, Aunt Morgan this morning?” she asked in a peculiar, tight voice.

  “I knocked on her door but she didn’t answer,” he lied. He’d knock later.

  “I think you should try again,” said Beth, pushing her bowl of cereal away, half-eaten.

  “What’s up?” Something in his niece’s manner this morning was off kilter.

  “Oh, I 'm just going to meet some friends and hang out.”

  That wasn’t what he meant, but he wasn’t going to push it, not today. “You want to leave me a name and number where you’ll be?”

  “No.”

  She got up and headed toward the bathroom to get ready. Probably brush her teeth. She paused in the doorway. “If you need me, you’ve got my cell number.”

  How could she know? He hadn’t discussed his decision with anyone. But Beth seemed to know something was in the air.

  When Nate heard the front door close, he headed for the garage. He still wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could go through with it. But then when he opened the door from the house, he saw Morgan’s Jag was gone. He’d never heard a thing. Maybe she’d left when he was in the shower.

  This really could give him an advantage. He retraced his steps back to the guest room closet where he now kept most of his clothes and a few pieces of luggage. There he retrieved the bag he’d packed in the early morning hours.

  On a whim, he set the bag down just inside the guestroom door and made his way stealthily down the hall, across the house to Morgan’s room. Why the stealth? he asked himself. Her car was gone. That meant she was out. He still felt like a thief, stealing into the room he once shared with his wife, in the house that was really half his.

  He went straight to the medicine cabinet. The usual array was still there. Some of his stuff, too. Where was the packet of syringes and the small vials of liquid? If she’d just filled her prescription, why would she take the whole thing with her?

  Nate picked up a small, plastic bottle of pills. Percocet? He read the remainder of the label. This was her old prescription—but it had just been refilled yesterday. Where was the stuff she injected?

  He pawed through the articles in the cabinet, then went through the drawers. Nothing. He’d seen her inject herself dozens of times, assuming she’d gotten the stuff by prescription. What if…

  He dropped a bottle of cough syrup. Crap! Fortunately it landed on the rug and didn’t break. Quickly Nate tidied up the area, trying to remember how, exactly, he’d found all the articles he’d moved. Maybe, in a few hours, it wouldn’t matter.

  As he stopped at the guest room to pick up his bag, he noticed it. Light—a scarce commodity in that house—reflected off metal. He stooped and looked closer. Almost buried in the carpet fibers a hypodermic needle nestled. Remembering the door handle turning in the night, he broke a sweat as he hurried toward his car.

  *****

 
As he parked in the Lakewood Civic Center visitors’ section, Nate was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. Could he really do this? He sat for a few moments, looking forward and backward at his life choices. The stagnant status quo was totally not an option.

  Morgan had never shown much passion toward him, but he’d been willing to accept her reserved nature. What would it be like to go to bed with a wife who wanted him? One who didn’t always have a headache. Who was he kidding? Even on her good days, Morgan’s desire had been practically non-existent. She’d gone through an early menopause, but, hell, he hadn’t really noticed much change.

  What would happen if the whole thing backfired? What if Morgan hadn’t killed Kevin? Worst case scenario, he’d get a decent settlement in a divorce.

  While it wasn’t an absolute slam-dunk, judges usually divided the marital property equally, and that would cover everything they’d acquired during their marriage. Including the ugly house—he’d take his half of that in cash, thank you very much.

  If Morgan wasn’t guilty—or wasn’t convicted, he could kiss his job goodbye. If she was guilty, that conversation between her and Sam, the puzzler he’d agonized over, the catalyst that had brought him to this point, was a strong indicator of Sam’s complicity in it. It wasn’t just about a murder. If they were playing games with the money—Beth’s money, too, now that her mother and brother were dead—that could mean the appointment of a new guardian for his niece, and a new trustee for the trusts. Guess who stood ready, willing and able?

  He’d gone over this course of action and its likely consequences at least a dozen times now. But not sitting in his car in front of the Lakewood Police Department at eight in the morning.

  Nate removed Veronica Sanchez’s card from his pocket, lifted his cell from the car’s console, and pressed in the detective’s number.

  The message Fredricka Halperin had left on Rae’s voicemail the afternoon before had stuck in her mind like a goat head bur on a tennis shoe.

  She remembered the stress she’d heard in Freddie’s voice. Maybe her theory wasn’t so far-fetched. Then again, the out-of-order check and the staple holes paled in comparison to the GST tax omission. There could be a logical explanation. Maybe Freddie was telling the truth. Rae would have to look her in the eye to find out for sure.

  It was nine-thirty the next morning when she drove into the empty Bayfield parking lot. Could be cars in the back, she thought.

  Rae glanced across the street as she walked toward the front door. A couple of cars in the Adult Books parking lot. Scum at work. In light of the porn site visits on his laptop, Rae wondered if Nate was one of their customers.

  She’d been prepared to wait, but the front door of Bayfield Enterprises was unlocked. She walked inside, noticing that the reception area was unoccupied. Fredricka’s desk was not only neat, it was empty of any work in progress. No handbag on or around the work station.

  “You’re here early, Mrs. Esposito.”

  Sam’s voice spun her around toward the hallway that led to his office.

  “I needed to follow up on a phone message from Fredricka. Where is she?”

  “On vacation.” Sam walked to the empty outgoing mail basket on Fredricka’s desk and deposited a small stack of mail.

  “When will she be back?”

  “I know about your confusion concerning the checks.”

  “My confusion?”

  Sam offered her the bare flicker of a smile. “Fredricka’s confusion. The matter is resolved. You may direct any further questions about those checks to me.”

  “Fredricka’s not coming back?” Rae felt alarm creeping into her voice, the last thing she wanted Sam to detect.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The sound of the front door opening drew their attention.

  The woman in the doorway, a full-bodied platinum blonde, was straight out of a Turner Classic Movie. Designer sunglasses hid her eyes.

  Morgan Bayfield-Farris, in the flesh.

  An electric moment. Rae could feel it as she looked from the woman to Sam, and watched the elderly accountant metamorphose into an entirely different person. The man appeared to grow in stature before her eyes. No longer stoop-shouldered, he seemed to fill out like a reconstituted raisin. Even the lines in his face softened, as if airbrushed away by the broad smile that now softened the angular lines of his face. Rae saw dimples in those sunken cheeks.

  “I should have called first. I see you’re busy.” Morgan’s tone was self-effacing, not at all what Rae had expected.

  “No, uh…” Like a smitten schoolboy, unflappable Sam Garvin was tongue-tied.

  Rae stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Rae Esposito. You must be Mrs. Bayfield-Farris.”

  Morgan grasped Rae’s hand firmly and flashed a smile. “Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting.”

  Rae noted Morgan’s camel-colored pantsuit with matching silk scarf. Definitely not off the rack at Kohl’s. And the pale beige gloves. Unusual summer accessory.

  “Mrs. Esposito came in to re-interview Fredricka,” Sam explained.

  “But she’s on vacation, isn’t she?” said Morgan.

  Sam placed a hand on Morgan’s elbow and steered her toward the hallway that led to his office.

  “If you’ll have a seat,” Sam said to Rae, “we just have a few things to go over. Then I’ll be at your disposal.”

  As the two left the room, Rae was almost certain she detected a tremor in Sam’s hand as he touched Morgan.

  At the sound of Sam’s door closing, Rae let down her guard. She shook her head to clear the thoughts that were pouring in. Then she glanced at that picture she’d noticed on the wall beside the entrance. The one that had been so puzzling on her first visit. Jerome Bayfield, the patriarch, with an arm around his daughter, Elisabeth, and teenage granddaughter, Morgan. The caption: Groundbreaking—Bayfield Commons—1966.

  The dark-haired young man with the widow’s peak and the dimples whom she’d wondered about—that was Sam Garvin.

  And the years of pent-up longing in the man’s eyes as he’d looked at Morgan told the tale. Rae wondered what ghosts of the past, what feelings spilled from Morgan’s eyes when she removed those Serengetis.

  Moving closer to the picture of the Bayfield Commons groundbreaking, she stared intently at the images. An eerie familiarity prickled her spine. Familiarity with what? What could those inert figures tell her? More to the point, what would they tell her—those still alive?

  “Worth a thousand words.”

  Sam’s voice right behind her startled Rae. No telltale sounds of doors or footsteps. She glanced around and beyond Sam.

  “Where’s Mrs. Bayfield-Farris?”

  “My office has a rear entrance. She was feeling a bit emotional. She knows you’ve seen the tape. Deidre’s tape.”

  “Oh.” Rae distanced herself from the picture on the wall as if this could prevent Sam from guessing her thoughts. What did it matter if he knew that she’d figured out he was the young man in the picture? Somehow, instinct told her it did matter.

  “She loved her daughter.” Sam’s voice, like fine sandpaper on her ears.

  She had a pretty strange way of showing it. Rae bit back the sarcastic remark. She really didn’t know these people. Besides, it would be unprofessional. Just do your job, Rae.

  “Can we just cut to the chase, Sam?”

  She thought she detected a slight intake of breath as Sam looked a question at her.

  “I mean, how long have you known about Deidre’s true parentage?”

  A bony hand hid his crooked smile, muffled something like a laugh devoid of humor. “As you’ve seen by that picture,” Sam gestured toward the wall behind her, “I’ve been around a long time. I’ve known Deidre all her life…known who she was.”

  Rae resisted the urge to turn back toward the photograph as she focused on Sam’s pale eyes. “Then you’re aware of the implications,” she continued.

  “I am.” His voice was barely above
a whisper. Soft, as it may once have been before something sucked all the juice out of him. “But are you, Mrs. Esposito?”

  The pale eyes, the angular face, the black hair, the widow’s peak coalesced in her brain. Ohmigod. He’s Deidre’s father.

  “Mrs. Esposito?”

  Rae struggled for composure. “The implications…I think so. The GST tax.”

  Sam took a step back, again giving her the lop-sided grin, this time not bothering to cover it. “The GST tax?”

  “It must have been a whopper. I’ll need to take a look at Jerome Bayfield’s 706.”

  Sam had stopped smiling and was looking through her.

  “I can understand your wanting to protect Mrs. Bayfield-Farris by not putting a disclosure like that on her grandfather’s estate tax return. Who could fault you for making a mistake? Worst case scenario, you’ll pay a preparer penalty.” Rae backtracked, hoping her panic didn’t show. People didn’t kill over a tax return error, did they?

  “Are you wearing a wire, Mrs. Esposito?”

  “A…whoa…you think I’d tell you if I was?” Rae backed toward the front door. Too late, she realized Sam wasn’t looking through her, but at someone behind her.

  “I’ll bet she’s not.” Morgan’s voice fanned her ear, chilled mint on the stale office air.

  Rae whirled around to face Morgan. “How do you know that?”

  “They don’t send accountants in wearing wires.” Morgan’s voice sounded frayed at the edges.

  Rae watched a cloud pass quickly over Sam’s expression as he asked Morgan, “Did you forget something?”

  “The books are clean. You can’t blow that check all out of proportion,” Morgan continued, ignoring Sam’s question.

  “Fredricka has explained about the check.” Rae fought for calm as she watched Morgan clench and unclench her hands on the handle of her beige leather handbag.

  Then, Rae decided calm wasn’t going anywhere. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned with the GST tax omission.”

  “GST tax?” Morgan’s volume cranked up a notch, a decibel away from completely doing in her serene image.