Paws For Murder

by Annie Knox

  I could see the emotions playing across Sean’s face. Going to Dru first or to Carla first . . . his decision would reflect how deeply he trusted Carla to give us the straight story. It was an implicit test of his relationship.

  He sighed. “Fine. We’ll let Dru have the first crack at them.”

  I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until it left my body in a rush of relief. And a tiny part of my brain wondered whether all that relief was for Rena’s benefit.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  Sean, Rena, and I approached Dru that very night with our questions about Sherry’s bank statements in the most civilized of all settings: an emergency dinner with my family.

  My parents had moved into their split-level home three weeks before I was born. My mother had often regaled us with the story of her hugely pregnant self trying to keep my sister Dru—then just learning to walk—from tumbling down the steps, while sweet-talking the movers into rearranging the living room six times despite the sweltering late-July heat.

  A year after the move, my parents got Lucy and air conditioning.

  Though I hadn’t lived there in over a decade, I still thought of the tidy house, tucked amid a stand of elm trees in a middle-class neighborhood just a mile from Merryville’s historic downtown, as home. In fact, my sisters and I had all moved into places of our own, leaving my parents with an empty nest, but my mom’s elaborate Sunday dinners brought all of the chicks back to the nest. We even brought the occasional cuckoo into the nest: Rena, Xander, Taffy, and Lucy’s bestie, Bethany, were regular features at the table. And while Sunday was the official day of feasting, my mom could always be called on in a pinch to whip together a homey meal. Given our current predicament, Mom was willing to offer a midweek version of her weekend spread.

  Although she had technically worked as a high school English teacher, mom had also filled in as the home ec teacher. Out of necessity, she’d learned to cook like a champ. That evening, the house was redolent of fresh-baked bread and simmering gravy, a hint of cinnamon promising apple pie for dessert.

  “Lucy, it’s your turn to set the table,” my mom directed. “Use the china.”

  “First, it’s Dru’s turn to set the table,” Lucy said, “and, second, what’s the occasion?”

  “First, it is most definitely your turn,” Mom said, “and, second, why do we need a special occasion to enjoy the beautiful china? It may be fancy, but it’s still meant to be used. Besides, we have guests.”

  “Sean and Rena are hardly guests,” Lucy grumbled. “They basically lived here for nine years.”

  “Still, we use the china. Now hurry up, Sean and Rena will be here any minute.”

  My grandparents—my mom and aunt Dolly’s parents—had hoarded away all their nice things, insisting they were too good to use. When they passed, we found years of Christmas and birthday gifts, everything from nightgowns to silicone bakeware, tucked away in cupboards and drawers. My mom had sworn she would not deprive herself of the pleasure of her possessions. Still, eating on my parents’ wedding china was a rare event.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.

  She finished rinsing out a mixing bowl and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I don’t know. I guess this thing with the Harper girl has me thinking even more about how short and uncertain life can be. ‘Out, out, brief candle,’ and all that.”

  I fished the silverware from the drawer, carefully counting out the spoons. “Is that all?”

  Mom clucked softly. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just happy to have all my chicks back in the nest. I’ve missed having Sean and Rena around.”

  “Rena’s probably been to more of your Sunday dinners in the last decade than I have.”

  “But not Sean. You two were so close. I just don’t understand why your friendship didn’t last through college.”

  I felt heat licking my cheeks. I’d never confided in my mom or anyone in my family about the night of Sean’s proclamation.

  “It’s complicated,” I muttered.

  Lucy set out the plates as I followed behind with the silver.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Lucy whispered. “The reason Sean’s been MIA isn’t complicated at all.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Sean and Izzy, sittin’ in a tree . . .” she sang softly.

  “How do you . . .” I cut myself off before I could say anything more incriminating.

  “Are you kidding me? You two made such a racket that night, I can’t believe the whole neighborhood doesn’t know.” Lucy shrugged one shoulder. “I’d been, uh, out that night myself and happened to be making my way in through the backyard—”

  “Sneaking in, you mean.”

  “Well if you want to split hairs, yes. I was sneaking in through the backyard and heard it all.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I always meant to. I was saving it up for some time when I really needed some leverage against you. But that time never came.”

  I stopped in my tracks, my hands still full of salad forks. “Lucy McHale. I knew you were devious, but I had no idea. How could you have kept such a juicy secret for so long? And, good heavens, what else do you know? What else can you use to blackmail me in the future?”

  She smiled, her expression remarkably like Jinx’s after she hides one of Packer’s toys.

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said.

  Dealing with my sister was like dealing with a very smart, very worldly six-year-old girl. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or give her a noogie.

  “What are you two whispering about?” Mom called.

  “Nothing, Mom,” Lucy said in her sweetest, most innocent, singsong tone. She dropped her voice again. “For what it’s worth, I think he was right.”

  “Who?”

  “Sean. When he said that you just thought you were in love with Casey.”

  I was flummoxed. Floored. Flabbergasted.

  “But you were right, too, when you sent him on his way that night. High school romances almost never last. If you’d had a fling with Sean that summer, it would have burned hot and fast but then it would have fizzled, and you wouldn’t be getting this second chance now.”

  “Second chance?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “I see the way you two look at each other. The chemistry’s still there.”

  “Nonsense,” I huffed. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

  Lucy laughed. “Yeah, so? He’s been dating her for a year and still hasn’t put a ring on her finger.”

  True enough. And Sean had been pretty cavalier when he talked about his relationship with Carla, as though it was fairly casual even after all that time.

  “Sister, I may be the youngest, but you know I’ve always been the wisest. At least when it comes to boys.”

  “Is it wise to torture poor Xander the way you do?”

  She chuckled. “Ever hear of a long con? Biding your time? Trust me; I know what I’m doing with Xander. And you should also trust me on this one. Sean’s not over you.”

  I was saved from having to respond by Sean and Rena’s arrival. They’d been laughing together, and they all but tumbled through the door, red-cheeked and smiling, blowing into their cupped hands and stamping their feet to drive off the chill.

  “I think we’ll get our first hard freeze tonight,” Sean said.

  We gathered around my parents’ table, gorging on mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, roasted Brussels sprouts, and pot roast for the omnivores. We kept the conversation light—the Packers and the Vikings, the best snow tires, a few casual “remember whens”—and carefully steered clear of any talk of murder until after the dishes had been cleared and my parents retired to the kitchen to hand wash the fine china.

  At that point, we pulled out Sherry’s tax forms and bank statements and handed them to Dru.

  “Anything seem out of place? Unusual?” I asked.

  While we l
ooked on, Dru pored through the stack of papers. Every now and then, she’d mutter something under her breath or tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but the rest of us sat in absolute silence.

  Finally, she rapped the papers on the table to straighten their edges and looked up.

  “Well. This is intriguing.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  She flipped through the stack of papers until she found what she was looking for, turning it so we could all see.

  “Sherry is getting large monthly checks from the Harper trust. See here, these deposits? But her overall balance is pretty low. I know she had a reasonably nice apartment, and she spent money on clothes and stuff, but compared to what she was bringing in, I don’t see how Sherry could be going through money that fast.”

  “She didn’t live entirely on the cheap,” I said. “She had a cleaning service, and she must have had some camera equipment. And she had a really nice computer setup on that desk in the corner. Besides, those hippie clothes she wore cost a pretty penny.”

  “But,” Rena said, “she didn’t take lavish vacations, didn’t even own a car. She might have been spending more than you or I could afford, but nothing even approaching her income. I mean, did you see the luxury cars Teal and Tarleton Harper drove to the funeral? They were worth more than the GDP of several small countries, and you know Teal and Tarleton have never worked a lick in their lives. Sherry didn’t live as lavishly as she could have.”

  “Rena’s right,” Dru said. “The income from the trust must have gone straight into this bank account, because the deposits are huge. But so are some of the withdrawals. Most of the big withdrawals are here.” Dru pointed to a number of check withdrawals that were too big to be rent or utilities, even if Sherry was paying those things a year at a time. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, even one hundred thousand dollar checks. Looking back to the earlier statements, there were only a few per year, but they’d become increasingly frequent, and in the past few months, they’d taken a sizable chunk out of the account’s bottom line. “I mean, she’s not broke by any means, but her balance isn’t consistent with her income.”

  “Investments?” Sean asked.

  “Maybe,” Dru said, her tone skeptical. “But the checks themselves are not regular, you know? It’s not like she was paying a certain amount per month into a retirement account. And if she was working with an actual investment banker—which sounds decidedly un-Sherry-like—we’d probably see larger withdrawals. Or electronic transfers. And”—she paused to pull out the most recent tax return—“we’d probably see her paying at least some capital gains tax. But she hasn’t paid a dime in capital gains taxes.”

  “Maybe donations to nonprofits,” I said. “Sherry was involved in so many causes. Maybe she was supporting some of those groups with large donations.”

  Dru shrugged. “Again, it’s possible. But then we would expect to see deductions for charitable gifts on her taxes. And again, not a single deduction.”

  “But if she was making the donations in cash,” Sean argued, “maybe she didn’t get receipts.”

  I shook my head. “These were check withdrawals, not withdrawals straight from the bank. They weren’t even counter checks because the check numbers were right there next to the withdrawals, and weren’t all sequential. Sherry didn’t have her checkbook; Carla did. If Sherry was asking for this much money, it seems like Carla would have asked about it and then made the appropriate adjustments to Sherry’s taxes when she prepared them.”

  “Exactly,” Dru said. “So all that money, Sherry wasn’t spending it, at least not in any obvious way. It should have been going into a savings account or a mutual fund or something. Something that would generate interest that Sherry would have to claim on her taxes. Yet there’s no interest income, no capital gains, no nothing. So the money wasn’t invested. At all. Not even in a Christmas club account.”

  “And that,” I said, “leaves us with the question of where the money is. Unless she was hiding large sums of cash in her freezer. . . .”

  “I wouldn’t rule that out,” Sean said. “She was an odd duck. Besides, as long as her bills were getting paid, what would Sherry care about interest income?”

  Dru held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not saying there was anything hinky going on. I’m just saying that’s how it looks. And all the question marks Sherry drew all over these papers lead me to believe that Sherry thought there was something hinky, too.”

  But what did it all mean?

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-five

  The following day, I set aside all thought of investigation of Sherry’s death and focused on my business. The Halloween Howl was a mere day away, and Rena and I had to put together hundreds of favor bags—both canine and feline—stuffed with toys and treats, and we needed to do it before Ingrid Whitfield’s going-away gathering that evening.

  But, first things first, I got myself up at the crack of dawn, put on my Sunday best, and headed to the courthouse, planning to be there right when they opened so I could obtain the forms I needed to counter Richard’s challenge of the rezoning on 801 Maple Street. The Halloween Howl would hopefully increase goodwill in the community and traffic in the store, but if I didn’t get the zoning issue straightened out, there would be no store at all.

  Winter’s cold had settled into Merryville’s bones, and we wouldn’t shake it until spring. But so far, the snow had been relatively light, not enough to make driving hazardous, and the weather forecasters promised the first big blizzard—currently sweeping across the Dakotas—would hold off until after the Halloween Howl.

  I bundled Packer into a studded leather jacket lined with faux fur and put on his “motorcycle” boots before leashing him and heading out into the elements. Given Packer’s penchant for outdoor romps and sniffing new places, I tried to take him on as many errands as I could.

  We arrived at the courthouse at five past eight, just after they opened, but already the place hummed with activity. A long line of haggard-looking men and women lined the benches outside the courtroom. I knew from Lucy’s work tales that they were likely the folks who had been picked up overnight for DUI, drunk and disorderly, or domestic violence, all of them hungover and exhausted from a night on a jail cot, and now awaiting arraignment. Beyond them, at the clerk’s office, a line had already formed, both citizens and attorneys waiting to file court documents.

  But the real action was down the hallway in the city offices, where I was heading. Just past the doorway to the zoning and planning board’s office, a cluster of men had gathered. Someone beyond them, whom I could not see, was rattling off prices while the crowd hooted and yelped to designate their bids—an auction.

  Curious, I looked on for a few minutes. Packer, at my side, would occasionally yip along with a bidder, but I tugged gently on his leash to hush him up. Whatever they were auctioning off, I didn’t want my dog to inadvertently place the highest bid.

  Finally, someone in the center of the small crowd whooped with delight, and the rest of the men started to peel off, their expressions ranging from dejected to downright hostile. When the dust settled, one man remained:

  Hal Olson.

  He looked like the cat who swallowed the canary, his lips thinned in a smug smile and a light of pure glee in his eyes.

  “What was that all about?” I asked, sidestepping a disgruntled bidder to reach Hal’s side.

  “I just bought the Anderson property for a song,” he crowed.

  “The Anderson property?”

  “The old Soaring Eagles campground. The Andersons stopped maintaining the place and paying their taxes years ago. I was able to pick it up for back taxes and a measly few thou.” He waved his hand toward the rest of the group, now trudging unhappily down the corridor, hands in pockets and heads down. “Those guys, they were total amateurs. None of them had the cash to make serious bids.”

  “The Anderson place, huh? So are you and Pris moving out to the lake?” I asked.

&
nbsp; Hal laughed, his big booming laugh. “Ah, heck no. Pris doesn’t really do nature.”

  “What about her gardening club?”

  “Aw, that doesn’t count. She goes to those meetings in full makeup and mostly shows off what our landscapers have done while she’s been safely tucked away in our climate-controlled house. When she does go with them to plant bulbs and such, she wears full makeup, padded gardening gloves, and takes a waterproof cloth to kneel on. No, right now the place is nothing but weeds and dilapidated cabins, not exactly Pris’s scene.”

  “Then why buy it?”

  Hal gave me a sidelong look, as though I was maybe just yanking his chain with my question. “Well, right now the place is a disaster, but in about two years it will be The Woods at Badger Lake, a high-end resort community complete with spa and five-star restaurant.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I’ve got a couple of investors who are itching to throw in with me. Should make us a mint.”

  And, I thought, if Hal won his bid to be mayor, his political pull might grease the wheels to ensure that nothing derailed the new development.

  “I’ve already lined up Ken West to be our executive chef at the restaurant. I know it’s been a while since the Blue Atlantic closed, but he’s still got a reputation. Having him on board means instant publicity for The Woods.”

  Here was more evidence to back my theory about why Ken West lied to cover up Hal and Sherry’s affair. Hal was Ken’s ticket out of catering and making pastry and back into the world of fine dining. With Hal’s backing and a little help from Aunt Dolly, maybe a few others, Ken would have all the capital he needed for a smooth start on a new restaurant.

  I wondered whether Hal knew about the personal issues Ken had alluded to—the ones that had led to the Blue Atlantic’s demise. I figured it wasn’t my place to mention any of that, so I simply smiled and nodded.

  “Well, congratulations on the purchase. I’m surprised there weren’t more people here to bid on the property. Lakefront property, even out here in Merryville, has to be worth a pretty penny.”