by Leslie Nagel
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said briskly. “We are going to sit down and make a list from memory. Try to think of every single item in those files. Names of purchasers, even if you don’t remember what they bought. Write down every last detail you can recall from the Mulbridge House sale, no matter how insignificant.”
“Why? What good will that do?” Pamela demanded, her upset turning to anger in an instant. “Why do you need to know any of that?”
Charley strove for patience, reminding herself that this woman had just lost someone very close to her. “If we know what the thief took, perhaps we can figure out why he took it.”
Pamela folded her arms, her expression mulish. “Shouldn’t we call the police? After all, I have been robbed.”
Charley shifted and glanced at Frankie, who mouthed “Oops” but remained silent, well aware of how Marc was going to react to their presence here. “Uh, not until we’re sure exactly what’s been taken. Then you can decide if that’s the right next step.”
Forty-five minutes later they had filled three pages of a legal pad. “I can’t remember anything else,” Pamela said at last, throwing down her pen.
Charley glanced through the list. “You’re positive this is everything that was in the missing files?” she asked. “There was no cash, no checks, no credit card numbers? Nothing negotiable?”
“Nothing. I took everything like that home with me Sunday, then went straight to the bank first thing Monday morning.”
Charley nodded. “This is an excellent start. If you think of anything else, you can always add it later.” She hesitated before finally broaching the subject that had been on her mind for the past hour. “Pamela, I wonder if you think it’s possible that this theft has something to do with the missing will Millie Peache was searching for last Friday.”
Pamela scoffed. “That loony old woman?”
“She didn’t sound loony to me.”
“Trust me,” Pamela said dismissively, “you can’t believe half of what comes out of her mouth. Millie Peache is an obsessive estater. Those types are all the same, convinced they’re going to discover a hidden Rembrandt. She never misses a sale and she haggles over every penny. Thinks she knows more about antiques than Calvin or I do. She collects everything, most of it trash.”
“Be that as it may, it’s just too much of a coincidence not to be connected. Didn’t Calvin promise Millie that he would keep on searching for the will?”
“He did, yes, but—”
“Think about it. Wouldn’t a missing will be a motive for murder?”
“Oh, come on, Charley.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “You cannot honestly believe Millie…But that’s absurd. She’s seventy if she’s a day. Annoying, yes, but she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Maybe it wasn’t her,” Charley countered. “SOAP has other members, and most of them are as nutty as she is.”
“And as old. SOAP is dead,” Pamela said flatly. “Or it will be once Mulbridge House is gone.”
Charley spread her hands. “Exactly what I’m saying. It’s their last rallying point. They’ve got motive to find that will and stop the development.”
“So you honestly think”—Pamela’s words were heavy with sarcasm—“an elderly preservationist broke in here to steal a missing will? A will that probably doesn’t even exist? And that this person killed Calvin?”
“It doesn’t matter if it exists or not,” Charley insisted. “All that matters is that someone in SOAP thinks it does.”
Frankie raised her hand. “Why would they think Calvin had it?” she asked. “I mean, if he found something like a will, wouldn’t he have said something? He wouldn’t have just shoved it in with those other papers, would he?”
“Calvin once found a quarter in an old purse. He added twenty-five cents into the sales receipts for the estate.” Pamela smiled at the memory. Then she scowled. “If he had found a will, or any legal document, for that matter, he would have told Holland immediately,” she snapped. “Please don’t try to imply otherwise.”
Charley suppressed a sigh. “Of course not. And I agree the whole idea is far-fetched. But remember how upset Holland was that day? She literally knocked Millie on her butt. For all her protestations, I think there’s at least a chance she’s worried about the will, too.”
“So now Holland Mulbridge killed Calvin?” Pamela’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It sounds to me like you’re saying Calvin was involved in some kind of conspiracy to conceal this theoretical second will. Is that it? You think Calvin was lying to Millie? That he lied to me?”
“No, but I do think we should consider—”
“What’s your real agenda, Charley? Your gravy train is dead, so now you want to discredit his memory? Maybe you’re planning to move in on his territory.” She waved her arms, taking in the entire building. “My territory. Estate liquidation is certainly more lucrative than peddling secondhand hats.”
Charley and Frankie both gaped at her. “That is not what I’m—” Charley began, but Pamela cut her off.
“Or maybe you have another motive for showing up and pretending you wanted to help.” She had begun to cry, an unattractive display that seemed more than a little forced.
Charley tried again. “Please, Pamela, you misunderstood. I only—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. You’ve helped the police a few times, so now you think you’re a private detective. That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? To snoop into Calvin’s murder case?” Charley flushed as Pamela rushed on. “I wanted to call the police, but you wouldn’t let me. That’s because these missing papers have nothing to do with what happened to Calvin and you know it!”
She was wringing her hands as she paced the tiny office, bright red spots on her cheeks. Charley remembered her comment about taking antianxiety medication and wondered if she’d gone off her meds since Calvin’s death.
“Pamela, please.” Frankie spoke calmly, her hands held palms outward in a gesture of peacemaking. “We’re all tired and sad. Let’s rewind and think about what we’re saying. Arguing isn’t going to help anyone.”
“Get out.” Pamela snapped back the locks on the rear door and wrenched it open. “And don’t come back.”
Chapter 6
Charley threw back the covers and yawned hugely. Despite a deliciously late night, she was determined to get some work done before heading to her shop. A few hours ago, she’d tried to slip out of Marc’s warm, drowsy embrace without waking him, as she did every night, usually managing to catch a few more zzz’s in her own bed. But this morning, Marc had pulled her back down into the tangle of sheets, kissing away her halfhearted protests and making slow, sweet love to her until dawn. Then he’d joined her in the shower, where they’d tested the limits of his hot water tank—among other things. By the time she got home, she barely had the energy to drag off her clothes before crawling under the quilt. She was in dreamland within seconds.
As she dressed, she wondered, not for the first time, where the two of them were headed. Their journey thus far had certainly had its ups and downs. From the moment she’d first set eyes on Marc when he was seventeen, she’d felt the pull: powerful, animal, dangerous. At thirteen, she hadn’t fully understood what she was feeling. She only knew that here was something she desperately wanted. That instinctive attraction had simmered for years, finally igniting with passion and heat into a connection that had the potential to become serious and long-term.
Until she did something to screw it up. Truth was, her track record with men sucked. Their fault, if you believed Frankie’s “Team Charley” version of history. Her best friend contended that most of Charley’s failed relationships began with choosing the wrong man. Love was always complicated, and never more so than this time because…well, because this time it was Marcus Trenault. Charley was proceeding with extreme caution. She knew Marc thought she was nursing wounds from some doomed love affair, an impression she’d done nothing to dispel. She’d been holding back, but not
because of a tragic past. She was absolutely determined not to blow it this time.
And so far, so good. She was happy in her affair with Marc, happy with things as they were. Well, mostly happy. Sneaking into the house like a teenager busting curfew had begun to get a teensy bit old.
Lawrence slept with one eye and both ears open, ever vigilant for a call in the night from Charley’s father. Though neither of them mentioned it openly, she suspected Lawrence knew exactly when she crept up the stairs. As for Bobby, he never asked questions of his twenty-eight-year-old daughter, never made any demands. He had to know there was more going on than hand-holding under the front porch light. Charley blushed as she imagined her father asking her, point-blank, what she and Marc were up to.
With an impatient roll of her shoulders, she set her personal life aside and fired up her laptop. After worrying half the night about whether or not Pamela would call the police, thereby outing her semi-intrusion into Marc’s murder case, she had come to three important conclusions. First, worrying about something she couldn’t control was a waste of time and energy. If Marc learned about her visit to Prescott’s, she’d deal with it. Second, despite Pamela’s paranoid delusions, Charley was more convinced than ever that a connection existed between Calvin’s death and the theft of the Mulbridge estate sales records. Coincidence, as Marc liked to say, was for amateurs.
Third, she intended to break her promise to Marc. Technically, she told herself, she wasn’t investigating Calvin’s murder. She was looking into Augusta Mulbridge’s missing will and who might have motive to want it found—or concealed. If her research happened to turn up anything the police could use, well, that would be good for everyone, right?
Charley harbored no illusions about Marc’s reaction if he learned what she was doing. He would be furious. But as she’d lain in his arms listening to his steady, even breathing, she had come to the realization that she had no choice.
Marc would do what he did so well. He would follow the forensic evidence, take witness statements, hope for a fingerprint match, analyze Calvin’s finances, work the official databases, and try to identify a suspect.
And she would do what she did, what the police couldn’t do. She would follow the gossip, have chats with various interested parties, keep her eye peeled for patterns, discrepancies, or outright lies. She would lay her hands on as much information as she could without official access, and she would examine every word. She would think about what people did and why they did it. Most of all, she would listen. People told her things they’d never tell the police, things they didn’t realize were important or relevant. And if someone out there knew something that would lead to the killer, they just might tell her. If she had any talent for discovering hidden truths, she owed it to Calvin Prescott to give it her very best shot, even if it meant placing her relationship at risk.
Since the only solid fact she had was the missing sales records, Charley decided her first line of investigation was the Mulbridge family. A quick Google search produced an avalanche of information. Mulbridge Shipping Lines, Ltd., was founded in 1901 by Holland’s great-grandfather, Emerson Mulbridge. Holland’s father, Jameson Mulbridge, Sr., had used post–World War II prosperity and the opening of vast new global markets to parlay a small fleet of ships into the eighth-largest container shipping corporation in the world, and the second largest in the United States.
Upon Jameson Senior’s death seven years ago—in the company of an Atlantic City hooker and a considerable amount of cocaine, if you believed the Internet gossip—his daughter, Holland, had, at the tender age of thirty-five, stepped smoothly and elegantly into his shoes. Armed with a law degree from Stanford and an MBA from Harvard, she had streamlined and modernized operations, restoring a flagging bottom line to robust health. Mulbridge Shipping operated chiefly out of the port of Long Beach, California, where Holland lived.
Conspicuously absent from most of the stories online was Holland’s younger brother, Jameson Mulbridge, Jr. He appeared to live in Miami, working as a junior executive at the much smaller East Coast branch of the family business. It was hard to tell, however, since Jamie didn’t seem to do anything newsworthy. Unless you counted getting into a drunken brawl at a Miami racetrack and breaking some other guy’s jaw as a newsworthy accomplishment. In Charley’s opinion, the lack of a follow-up story smacked of a payoff. Sounded like Jamie was a chip off the old block.
Scrolling down, she found an old news item from the Oakwood Register announcing the graduation from St. John’s Preparatory Academy by Jameson, Jr., and his intention to matriculate at Dartmouth College. The story was accompanied by a formal portrait of a young man with a long face, wide, staring eyes, a mop of pale hair, and a lopsided smile. She noted Jamie had graduated the same year as herself, meaning he’d been held back twice. Somebody had a bit too much fun in high school. Despite searching online for several minutes, she could find no mention of Jamie graduating from college. Figures.
She studied his official photo on the Mulbridge Shipping website. Red-faced and jowly, with thinning blond hair arranged over a hairline that was rapidly becoming MIA, his now sunken eyes and incipient double chin, in sharp contrast to Holland’s flawless complexion and clear, penetrating stare, indicated an unhealthy lifestyle. Charley could hardly identify the skinny high school kid in this image of dissipation.
“Drinking, gambling, flunking out of college, and public brawling? I can’t imagine Holland approves. Did Big Sis banish you to the boondocks?” Charley asked his photo. “Bet that ticked you off. Is that why you’re not here now, when your childhood home is about to be torn down? Is all this Holland’s doing as well?”
Charley recalled Holland’s assertion that she, her mother, and her brother had discussed the teardown of Mulbridge House and the redevelopment of the property. While that was plausible enough, in her opinion Jamie’s absence spoke volumes. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn Holland had been lying about her brother’s agreement with the plan.
She clicked on the news tab and was presented with a series of short press releases, each with an accompanying photo, virtually all featuring the capable, unsmiling Holland. What did Jamie do all day? She scrolled down the page, stopping when she found a story about a recent ribbon-cutting ceremony. In the center of a group of Japanese businessmen stood Jamie Mulbridge, preparing to cut through a broad blue ribbon. An expensively tailored tuxedo failed to hide a sizeable paunch. She studied Jamie’s pallor, his haunted expression, the dark pouches beneath red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re hungover, you dog,” she murmured. “Holland must’ve been unavailable for this photo op.” When she read the accompanying article, she noted with a pang that the black-tie event had taken place the evening of Calvin’s murder. She wondered if Jamie had known Calvin, if he even cared that the man who’d served the Mulbridge family so faithfully was now dead.
As she studied the picture, something struck her as slightly off. In fact, she realized, a sense of discordance had been tickling the base of her brain for several minutes now. She quickly scanned back through the articles and photos, but couldn’t put her finger on the cause of her unease. Was it something to do with Holland? With Jamie? With Mulbridge Shipping? Shrugging philosophically, she accepted that the answer would come, as it so often did, when she was thinking about something else.
Since nothing she’d learned brought her any closer to Calvin’s killer or the missing will, Charley decided that she needed to arrange another conversation with Holland Mulbridge. The woman seemed pretty driven to sell off the family estate as quickly as possible. Was the shipping business as robust as she claimed, or did Holland need the money? Arrogant CEOs didn’t take calls from shopkeepers, so Charley’s approach would need to be extra creative.
Less difficult to arrange but just as critical was the need to question Millie Peache. Was there anyone else in SOAP with the physical size and strength to have carried out the attack on Calvin? And why was Millie so certain Augusta’s will was hidden in a
book? Charley remembered the two old ladies at the auction. Who else had Millie told?
Switching off her computer, she headed downstairs and followed a murmur of voices toward the family room. Bobby was bent over the worktable that fit across the arms of his wheelchair. The series of strokes that had affected his speech and ability to walk had not, thankfully, diminished his mental acuity. Charley recognized the object of his scrutiny, a tattered black binder that had served as Bobby’s playbook during his twenty years as a defensive coordinator for the University of Dayton Flyers.
Seated beside him and hanging on every word was their very own six-foot-nine-inch, 230-pound teddy bear. Lawrence Whittman had been one of Bobby’s star players at UD, and he worshipped his former coach. The day he’d joined their family as live-in caregiver, physical therapist, and chief cook and bottle washer had been a blessed one for all of them. She could never pay this man, this gentle giant, a fraction of his true worth.
She watched the two heads, curly black and grizzled ginger, almost touching, engrossed in their task. Lawrence scribbled as Bobby pointed with his good left hand. Thick as thieves, she thought fondly.
“Plotting strategy for the neighborhood bloodbath?” She stepped over and examined the circles, crosses, and arrows that filled the page. Bobby Carpenter’s daughter could read a playbook the way other women read fashion magazines. She flipped the page and ran her finger down a list of names in Lawrence’s careful block printing. “Marc, Mitch Cooper, John Bright, Dave Hobbs, Brad Landry. Looks like the roster is coming together.”
“We need more speed on the outside,” Bobby said, his speech remarkably clear. “You know anybody who can run and n…not land on his keister?”
“You’ve already drafted half the Safety Department.”