4 A Dead Mother

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “Sit,” I commanded. “I’ll make your tea.” Leslie dropped down onto the comfortable sofa.

  “I want something stronger than tea. There’s a bottle of single malt in a cupboard in the butler’s pantry. Do you mind pouring me a glass of that instead?”

  “No, since Peter’s going to drive you home.”

  “I’m glad I’m not driving with or without that drink. The only good news all day is that my mother died quickly when some murderous woman bashed her brains in with the butt of a gun!” Her face took on that sickly pallor again.

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.” I dashed into the butler’s pantry, found the scotch, and poured two thumbs of it into a glass. I was back at Leslie’s side as fast as I could get there. She had sort of slid sideways, slumped against a pile of throw pillows.

  “Here’s your drink,” I said as she pushed against those pillows, struggling to sit up. Once she had taken the glass from me, I sat down beside her. Leslie must have slipped past the early stage of denial. Shields down, reality had hit her hard.

  “How are they ever going to find out who did this to Mom even with that fingernail? Almost every woman I know has her nails painted red some of the time, including me. That first day I met you at Paul’s office in LA yours were red. I remember because they were such a perfect match for the gorgeous Max Mara dress you had on.”

  “I hear you. The shade of red might be a clue, not to mention that they might be able to get DNA from the nail fragment.” She paled again, nodded, and looked at her perfectly manicured nails. Close-clipped, they were painted in a pale pink that was almost a natural flesh tone. Leslie was silent for a few minutes sipping her scotch.

  “This is all overwhelming. Are you okay with the idea of keeping Anastasia a little longer? I don’t know what to do about her. I need to go back to my office in LA and my condo there is way too small for a dog that big. I’ll try to arrange for more time off so I can get back out here at least until after Mom’s funeral.”

  “No problem. She’s sweet. Bernadette dotes on her when I’m not there. It’s good exercise for me to take her out for a walk when I get home. I never had a dog or a pet of any kind growing up. It’s surprising how much I enjoy her companionship.”

  “That’s good to hear. It doesn’t feel right to move her to my house out here, and then leave her alone or with a sitter while I go back to LA. I’ve got a couple of things to deal with there that I can’t avoid.” Leslie suddenly picked up one of the throw pillows next to her and tossed it across the room. “Why did Mom keep so much hidden from me? What good does it do to have a daughter if you don’t confide in her or take her advice?” She threw another pillow and stamped her feet.

  “I wish I knew the answer to that question. After Alexis’ recent revelations, I’ve asked myself that or something like it more times than I can count. Beverly must not have believed she was in danger from anyone or I’m sure she would have asked for your help.”

  “What am I going to do without Mom?” That was it. Anger had fled when she sent that pillow flying. The floodgates opened and Leslie, one of the first women CEOs of a Fortune 500 firm, abandoned herself to the role of grieving daughter. Amazing that no matter how old we get, moms can still shake us up. Losing them, especially hits hard at the core of who we are as daughters.

  I picked up the pillow Leslie had thrown. The plush, silky surface offered instant comfort. The vibrant colors countered the darkness of the moment. I wonder where she bought it? For the first time all day, the urge to bury my sorrow by plundering my way through items in local shops or on the Internet felt overwhelming. Before I could figure out how to squeeze in a shopping spree on my way home to pitch the idea of another Cat Pack dinner to Bernadette, and take Anastasia out for a walk, the doorbell rang again.

  “That must be Peter,” I said, as I raced to the door. “I’ll be right back.” I hated to leave Leslie alone even for a minute in the shape she was in. I barely recognized the shattered woman curled up on the couch almost in a fetal position.

  21 Money Matters

  “Jessica, check your messages right away, will you?” Amy was on pins and needles when I walked into the office Thursday morning. She was dressed as usual in her understated but elegantly stylish manner. That and her note-perfect make-up and hairstyle stood out in stark contrast to the worried expression on her face.

  “Sure,” I said. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Urgent, at least. David Madison must think so anyway. He left a message before I arrived and has called twice asking to speak to you. He’s Beverly Windsor’s accountant, right?”

  “Yes. Contacting him was already on my to-do list. Money matters have taken a backseat to the other issues swirling around Beverly’s death.”

  “I understand. There’s so much to do when a loved one passes. I did as you asked and managed to get a death certificate sent to the funeral home yesterday. They’ll pick up the body when the morgue releases it today or tomorrow. That means Leslie can complete the arrangements for her mother’s burial.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let Leslie know. I figured we’d discuss the disposition of Beverly’s money and property after her funeral. David Madison has plenty to do to before her estate can be settled.”

  “Maybe Leslie got in touch with him already and asked him to call you,” Amy suggested.

  “You could be right. She told me she spent most of the morning, yesterday, notifying family and friends, and that could have included David.”

  “That makes sense. I’m sure Leslie didn’t want him to hear about Ms. Windsor on TV. KMIR 6 had a short piece on the late news about her last night once the police had released her name. They also said they were treating her death as suspicious. When Detective Havens visited, I figured that meant the case had been turned over to homicide.”

  “Yes. As hard as that is to believe. It would be horrible to find out about Beverly Windsor’s death on TV. Even worse, if they get around to calling it a murder.”

  “I don’t suppose they know why, do they? Although she was rich enough for money to be a motive.”

  “No one has proposed a motive yet. Maybe it’s about money,” I responded as bits and pieces of my conversation with Leslie at lunch the day before came back to me. Our discussion about Cedric Baumgartner and his affiliation with an investment firm was flashing like a big red warning sign in my mind.

  “Maybe what’s about money?” Kim asked as she stepped from an associates’ office and shut the door behind her.

  “Beverly Windsor’s murder,” I said.

  “The police ruled out a carjacking and robbery at the scene. Did Leslie find money missing from her mother’s home?”

  “No. So far, the only item of significant value that’s missing is Beverly’s laptop. A brooch Leslie thought was missing has turned up. The rest of her jewelry and other valuables are still there.” I took a minute to explain about the break-in that had occurred at Beverly’s house after her murder. Amy shook her head in dismay.

  “Somebody’s obviously after something, don’t you think?” Amy’s question was a spontaneous one.

  “My first words, almost verbatim. It’s still my best guess after going through the house with Leslie and two detectives and finding so many valuable items just lying there. The police seem to be on the same page, at this point, and are searching for a connection between Beverly’s murder and the burglary. Money’s on our minds now, Kim, because her accountant called first thing this morning,” I said.

  “When you have time, I have an update for you about one of the people you asked me to check up on.”

  “Sure,” I replied, eager to hear what Kim had discovered. “I have news, too, although I don’t have much time before my back-to-back meetings with clients. I need a little time to prepare before they arrive.”

  “Oh, please, Jessica, call David Madison back first. He has been so insistent about speaking to you.”

  “I will. Give me twenty minutes, Kim. I’ll cal
l David, and then we’ll meet.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I’ll bring us fresh coffee.”

  “Shades of Bernie Madoff,” I muttered about ten minutes into my phone call with David Madison.

  “My sentiments exactly,” David said.

  David Madison was obviously upset when he picked up the phone. Not just about Beverly’s death, but also about the fact that his last contact with her had been in response to a recent inquiry she’d made about investing in a new venture. A private investment venture looking for “accredited investors.” Sometimes also referred to as a qualified investor, the designation refers to someone deemed to have sufficient financial sophistication to be excluded from certain U.S. regulations that are designed to protect most investors. Rich and savvy doesn’t mean a woman like Beverly was beyond the reach of predators. Beverly had asked her accountant to go through the materials she’d sent him.

  “She did the right thing asking you to check it out,” I said in a calm voice, hoping to soothe the distress oozing from the man on the other end of the phone. No wonder Amy was wired!

  “They targeted the right person given her interest in alternative energy, clean water, and the environment. It’s no wonder she was concerned, though. The prospectus is poorly written. Lots of weasel words, confusing details that could be intentional, and I even found typos.”

  “Wow! Beverly would have noticed. That must be what made her uneasy.” I wondered why she hadn’t dropped the investment opportunity like a hot potato and gone to the authorities right then. Before I could ask, the anxious accountant moved on.

  “There’s another red flag. The supposed annual returns were modest, but too regular, although the fund hasn’t been in existence that long.” That’s the point at which I’d uttered the comment about Bernie Madoff.

  “Here’s the clincher for me. When I checked into the accounting firm that audited the fund, it wasn’t one I recognized. I did a little snooping and discovered the firm’s a small local company in Boca Raton that has been investigated more than once by Florida officials. That was it! Three strikes and you’re out in my book.”

  The mention of Florida had given me goosebumps. Palm Beach and Boca Raton aren’t that far apart, are they? I Googled a Florida map on the laptop in front of me. Holy smoke! Almost next door neighbors—less than thirty miles between them. That analogy to “neighbors” was an uncomfortable one given how much trouble such supposedly friendly folk had caused my friend before her untimely death. I wasn’t sure that physical distance mattered, although it certainly made it easier to meet, in person with your co-conspirators without leaving a trail behind you in cyberspace. When I didn’t respond right away, David Madison spoke again.

  “Didn’t she say anything to you about it?” David asked. “I suggested she go over the materials with you and consider taking legal action. I felt she should at least contact the SEC or file a complaint with the California State Attorney General’s Office or some other watchdog organization.”

  “No. She didn’t say anything, but she did ask to meet with me this week. Maybe that’s what she had on her mind. When did this happen?”

  “Someone sent her the prospectus after she was introduced to him at a local fundraiser for Desert Park Preserve. That was before Christmas. She didn’t contact me about it until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I don’t suppose she gave you the name of the man she was introduced to at that fundraiser?” I asked, figuring that was way too much to hope for since David Madison would have used the man’s name already if he had it.

  “I’m not sure she told me his name. The fund manager is named in the prospectus. No one I’ve ever heard of before, but that’s not odd. There are so many fund managers, and most aren’t household names or even that well-known in the finance industry. The Alpha Advantage lists the names of management and associates on their website, but Beverly didn’t mention any of them. Sorry,” he added.

  “Did she say what had prompted her to contact you?”

  “No, but she had a cash disbursement coming up that she was going to be forced to take. She asked me for details about that distribution and the account in which it’s held. Maybe she was considering putting that cash into this deal and decided to check with me first.”

  “That makes sense.” As much sense as anything in this crazy mixed-up world. I smiled to myself as I heard Paul’s voice uttering those words—or was it Frank’s? One thing tiramisu and lemon meringue pie have in common is that they’re both fans of those old Bogart films and not above borrowing a line from Bogey to use in our conversations. What are the odds? I wondered as I forced myself to face the more unsavory subject of men trying to rip off Beverly Windsor.

  “It took me a few days to review the documents before I replied to her inquiry. I did that about a week ago. I can forward the email I sent to her if you’d like. That will have the original date of contact on it as well as the date of my response.”

  Had someone pilfered Beverly’s laptop to get rid of whatever David had sent her? How could anyone have known her accountant had sent her that report? I felt a mild wave of nausea as Cedric Baumgartner’s deep-set eyes appeared before me and a grunt of disgust escaped my lips.

  “Excuse me? Did you say something?” David asked in response to my grunt.

  “No, please go on.” I doodled with the pen in my hand, writing Cedric Baumgartner’s name in big, block-print letters, followed by three stabbing capital letters, “I’s” for the third.

  “I called her with the information I just gave you and then emailed it all to her. I also wanted her to have a summary of my findings in writing, so I sent a package with documents signed by me. That package was delivered by courier and I got a return signature to be sure she received the written report.”

  “What about the original documents she sent to you? Do you still have those?”

  “Yes. I’ll make a copy of them for my files and have a courier take the originals to you. That’s what I planned to do anyway once she met with you and decided what legal action to take. I offered to return them to her, but she suggested that I hang on to them. I was sure she’d contact you immediately. I can’t believe she didn’t do that.”

  “I’m as surprised as you are that she didn’t discuss this with me.” The timing would have put this whole interchange between Beverly and David smack, dab in the middle of the personal dramas going on in my life. Had that stopper her? I wondered. “Given the chaos in my life over the past several weeks—so much of it on public display as you probably know—she might have felt uneasy calling me. I’ll make sure someone’s around to receive the documents from the courier when they arrive.”

  “You’ll have them within the hour,” David Madison said. I detected a note of relief in his voice. Was it the prospect of getting rid of those papers? “I don’t mind telling you that Beverly’s death has me freaked out. Maybe I should have had her go straight to the police about this.”

  “They would have told her to do exactly what you told her to do—take it to the authorities who handle financial fraud investigations. You had no reason to believe anyone involved with the fund would harm her or anyone else. Before I let you go, though, can you tell me if a gentleman by the name of Cedric Baumgartner ever came up in your discussions with Beverly about this investment opportunity or anything else related to her finances? Did she say anything to you about his involvement with the fund?”

  “No. She said the prospectus had come from a reputable source—a Registered Investment Advisor had recommended it to her. You’ll see when you read the materials I’m sending to you that the fund’s called the Eco-Energy Ascension Fund, but it’s not affiliated with The Alpha Advantage directly. Beverly didn’t say, but the Registered Investment Advisor could have been an associate with that firm. Considering she’s dead and you can’t ask her this is disturbing, isn’t it?”

  After I heard him mention a Registered Investment Advisor, I felt disturbed all right. “Oh, yes, it is. ‘Three str
ikes and you’re out’ applies not just to that firm but its representatives or anyone who solicited Beverly to invest in a bogus fund,” I said, as I thanked David Madison and hung up the phone in my office.

  I underscored Cedric Baumgartner’s name on the piece of paper in front of me. Tuesday night after I reported the break-in, Detective Hernandez had reminded me of a favorite quote about motives for murder from the mystery writer, PD James: the four ‘Ls’—love, lust, lucre, and loathing. Had lucre just reared its ugly head?

  I printed two “L’s” beside Baumgartner’s name—“love” and “lucre” were now possible motives associated with him. Cedric hadn’t given me any reason to suspect that he’d resort to violence toward Beverly. He struck me as the sort of man who preferred to do the jilting rather than be jilted as a lover or a business partner. If he had been the one pushing her to invest in that fund, had Beverly’s inquiry signaled a shift in her relationship with him?

  I added a third “L” with a question mark beside it. This one for “loathing” given the savage way that woman seated behind Beverly had attacked her. And, only minutes before she and an accomplice had dumped my client on the side of the road like so much litter. Was Cedric Baumgartner driving the car?

  22 A Diva Delivers

  My skin crawled as I placed another call. “Detective Havens, please.” It rang several times before I heard Rikki’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “It’s Jessica Huntington. I’m likely to have more information for you after I meet with the Ca… uh, with my investigative team.” I felt quite sure using the term Cat Pack would insight derision, so I stopped myself. “There are two matters that I wanted to put on your radar quickly, though. Two possible motives for the murder of Beverly Windsor.”