Sure enough, the copy of Fast Money was still there, tucked in with the Dick Francis book Scooter had brought to the register. I reshelved the Francis book in the signed books/first editions section, then headed back upstairs with KT Anderson's latest in my hand.
I grabbed a cookie and took it to bed with me, trying not to get crumbs on the percale sheets as I took a bite and cracked open the thick book.
I turned first to the title page, on which Kirsten had written a dedication in a controlled, neat hand.
To Scooter, she'd written. Without you, this story never would have been written. Thanks for inspiring me. — KT
Inspiring her? I didn't know Kirsten and Scooter had ever met, much less that he had been a muse for one of her bestselling books. I turned the page and started Chapter One. Kirsten's protagonist was a scrappy young investigator named Megan Garcia, and the case in question involved some untimely deaths at a horse-racing track in New Hampshire. No wonder Scooter had picked up the book, I thought to myself; the topic certainly was up his alley. Had he told her about the world of horse racing? Had that been what inspired Kirsten's story?
I spent the next few hours devouring the book; Kirsten was a fluid stylist, and the pace was relentless. The story focused on a horse-racing scandal in a small town in upstate New York. Someone was hiding something... and people and horses were dying, in the most gruesome way. It wasn't until the last few chapters that I understood what the dedication meant. My blood ran cold as I read the last chapter.
Then I grabbed my phone and googled a name. It popped up immediately, in a flurry of news articles that dated a year before Kirsten's book was released... no doubt when she was writing. I searched the community pages for pictures of Kirsten and Cal. The last one appeared a month after the news stories hit. Had they broken up? If so, why?
I had a theory. If Kirsten came to, I could confirm it with her... but barring that, there was one place I might find what I was looking for.
The problem was, I had to get in and out unseen.
I hardly slept at all; I spent the night searching the internet, rereading sections of Kirsten's book, and piecing together what I suspected. Bethany arrived at 8:30 the next morning, right on time, thankfully.
"You look exhausted. What's wrong?"
"Someone attacked Kirsten last night," I said.
"Oh, no!" Bethany's hand leapt to her mouth. "Is she okay?"
"Ted and I have been texting; she's stable, but she hasn't come to. I hope she wakes up soon. I think the solution to Cal Parker's murder is in this book, but I want to talk to her and make sure I'm on the right track." I held up a copy of Fast Money.
"Wait, what? A fictional mystery solving a real-life mystery?"
"Yes," I said. "I can confirm it with her when she wakes up... but I'd like to find out sooner than that, so that no one else gets hurt."
"What's your plan?"
I told her.
"I don't like it," she said.
"I'll take my phone and I'll be in and out," I said. "If I find something, I'll tell the police."
"Why don't you tell the police first?"
"I just need to find one thing first," I told her.
Nine o'clock found me sitting across the street from Dempsey Development, a tumbler of coffee in my hand and adrenaline coursing through me. The doors were closed and locked until Rupert sauntered up at 9:12, coffee cup and keys in hand, and let himself in. He turned on the lights, flipped open his computer, and busied himself at his desk for a few minutes before picking up the phone and launching into a long, apparently very engaging conversation. I hoped he'd finish soon, or have enough coffee that he needed a trip to the facilities. Preferably before Scooter Dempsey turned up.
Finally, at 9:38, Rupert stood up and headed down the hallway. He opened a door in the hallway, turned on the light, and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
I sprinted across the street and eased the door open, then trot-tiptoed down the hall, past the closed door, to Dempsey's office, praying the door wouldn't be closed and locked.
It wasn't. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me most of the way. As I hurried over to the desk, I heard the sound of a toilet flushing; a moment later, the door in the hallway squeaked open, and footsteps headed back to the front, away from Dempsey's office.
I scanned the desk first; there was an untidy pile of open mail on the corner, in an overflowing wooden tray. I flipped through it; there were several past-due bills, as well as a letter from an investor that caught my interest:
* * *
Dear Mr. Dempsey:
* * *
It has been some time since you proposed the Cottage Street project in Snug Harbor. Although we are interested in investing in the project, the delay in beginning the project is proving to be a major concern. Unless the properties in question required for the development have been acquired and the permit process begun by the end of July of this year, we will have to divert the funding to a different project.
* * *
Kind regards,
Phoebe Floyd
Vice President
Coastline Recreational Investments
* * *
Well, that was good news for me; if I held out till August, the threat of development would apparently no longer be an issue. I took a quick picture of the letter and moved on.
There were several bills from contractors for projects in Bangor and Kennebunkport; they were all marked ninety days or more past-due. Scattered through the stack were a number of little scraps of paper that looked like receipts. They were receipts of a kind, I realized. Blazoned across the top was SCARBROUGH DOWNS TRACK. Each slip of paper was a bet... some for fifty dollars, some for three hundred, one for as much as two-thousand dollars. There were several bets per day; I found five, totaling $5,000, for the previous weekend. Had any of them won? I wondered.
I looked at the stack of unpaid bills. Was Scooter gambling away all the money he was supposed to use to pay contractors? I snapped a few pictures of the racing stubs and looked back at the letter from the development company. Glancing at the door and wondering how much time I had left, I pulled up Google and typed in the name of the development company.
Although the board of directors included no one I recognized, the owner was yet another company, named Windswept Holdings. And guess who owned Windswept Holdings?
Cal Parker.
I glanced at the letter from Coastline Recreational Development. It was dated five days ago: two days before Cal Parker died.
It was as I suspected.
In Kirsten's book, a developer with a penchant for horse-racing used projects to piggy-back off each other, growing bigger and bigger debts, but paying off each one with proceeds from the newer one. I'd thought that Cal Parker had been involved, too; in the book, the investor and developer were working hand-in-hand to make things go, with the investor getting onto the local board to help with permits for the project. But now I wasn't so sure Parker had anything to do with Dempsey's Ponzi scheme. Either that, or he read the book and figured out what was going on, then pulled the financing.
I was guessing that someone had tipped Cal Parker off as to what was going on with his developer friend—Scooter was fairly recognizable—and that was why he pulled the funding. If Parker wouldn't move the project forward, Dempsey's house of cards would all fall down. And if it was Kirsten Anderson's book that tipped Parker off to Dempsey's problems, then Dempsey would certainly have a bone to pick with the author. His office was right down the street from her hotel. He would have seen Ted leaving... and been able to head up and do the deed before he came back with dinner.
I sat back in Dempsey's leather chair, piecing everything together. Dempsey must have been desperate for the money from the development project to pay off the contractors on his other projects... and feed his gambling habit. The text message made sense now; Dempsey had contacted Parker to see if he could sweet-talk him into changing his mind.
With the book dedi
cated to Scooter and a picture of the letter from Coastline Recreational Development—not to mention the racing stubs—I hoped I had enough to convince the police to at least get a search warrant.
But first I had to get out of Dempsey's office.
I peeked out the door into the hallway, looking for a back door. I didn't want to walk through the front office, announcing my presence to Rupert, if I could help it. I tiptoed across the hall and peeked into the conference room. No door. I was about to head up the hall and brazenly walk out the front door when a familiar voice drifted down the hall.
It was Agatha Satterthwaite.
"I'm here for my ten o'clock with Mr. Dempsey," she said.
"He'll be here any minute, I'm sure," Rupert said. "You can wait in one of the chairs."
She didn't respond, but I assumed she took him up on his offer. I debated what to do; should I walk out the front door blithely? Or wait to see if I could find out what she and Dempsey had cooked up to get me out of my shop?
The question was almost immediately rendered moot.
I heard the outer door of the office open.
"Good morning, Mr. Dempsey," came Rupert's syrupy greeting.
"Good morning, Rupert," Scooter replied, followed by, "Agatha! So good to see you. I'll be with you in just a moment." I ducked into the conference room as he marched down the hall to his office. Had I left everything in order? I fretted. Would he know someone had been in his office?
It didn't matter now, I reflected. I would wait until they were cozied away in his office, and then I would walk out the front door and go straight to the police.
But that wasn't how it worked out, of course.
24
As I tried to stay calm and wait for my opportunity, footsteps sounded in the hallway. "Are you ready, Agatha? Let's get started. Come on down to the conference room."
The conference room?
I whirled around, looking for a place to hide. There was a shelf with construction trophies on it (at least that was what I guessed they were; they had buildings on them) and a closet with a small set of folding doors at the far end of the room. I scurried over to the closet and yanked the doors open. The closet was filled with file cabinets. The only place to hide was on top of them.
As their voices approached, I hoisted myself up onto the nearest cabinet, squatted, and spun around to close the doors behind me. I got them almost closed when Agatha walked in; holding my breath, I released the doors and tried to melt back into the shadows.
"Glad to see you," he said, closing the conference room door behind him. "I've been meaning to talk to you; have you had any luck getting your hands on that copy of the contract?" As he spoke, I turned my phone to camera and hit "record." It couldn't hurt, after all.
"No," she said. "I looked, but I can't find it anywhere. I don't know where she could have put it!"
"We need to find it if we're going to go forward," he said. "The last thing we need is litigation down the line."
"I know," she said. "What if I can't find it? Will you still buy it from me?"
"Yes... but at a reduced price," he said.
"How reduced?"
"At least fifty percent," he said. "The cost of litigation would be huge. If someone finds that contract stating that you sold your share to Loretta, then there could be consequences; you'd owe Sayers the money you got from the sale, and she could sue both of us for damages. "
"Do you think she'd really do that?"
"I would," he said.
"But if you tear down the house, all the evidence would be gone."
"It's still a risk that it could turn up. Did you look in the basement?"
"No," she said. "Why would she hide something in the basement?"
"You know that house used to be a rum runner's stash. I'm sure there's a good hiding place down there; if I were going to keep documents, I'd see what I could find down there."
"I'll look tonight," she said.
"I heard you almost got caught," he commented.
"I did," she said. "But I'll be more careful this time. You'll still buy it even if I don't find the contract?"
"I will," he said. "As long as we can convince Sayers that it's time to sell."
"I know how to do it," Agatha said in a tone of voice that sent chills up my spine. "It will solve both of our problems; you have to promise me not to discount the original sales price, though."
"What's the plan?"
"Burn it," she said flatly. "Burn the whole thing down. Those books will go up like kindling, and all our problems will be gone."
"Burn Max, too?"
"Oh, no. I'd wait till she was gone; if she dies, then there's probate, and there are more people to talk into selling the property. If the store's gone, she'll have no choice but to sell. Even if insurance pays out, it will be at least a year before the store can be rebuilt and restocked. She'll lose the whole summer's revenue, and possibly next year's, too."
"I like it," he said slowly. "I think that'll work, actually. We need to get this done soon, though, or the deal will fall through."
"I'll do it tomorrow morning," she said. "She usually takes her dog for a walk. Once they leave, I'll toss a gas-soaked rag through the window and then a match.”
"That should do it," he said. "Although the arson might hold things up. Is there a way we can do it without the gasoline?"
"I'll see what I can do," she said. "Shall we touch base tomorrow afternoon?'
"Sounds good," he said. As they stood up from their chairs, my phone rang in my hand.
"What's that?" Agatha said sharply as I stabbed the red button to reject the call.
"There's someone in the closet," he said.
"They heard everything!" Agatha gasped.
"I'll take care of it," Scooter said in a tone of voice that made my blood run cold. He yanked the door open. Agatha let out a little scream, but Scooter just narrowed his eyes.
"Change of plan," he said, turning to Agatha. And then, smoothly, he grabbed one of the trophies lined up on the shelf and brought it down on my head.
When I came to with a splitting headache, I was still in the closet, only bound hand and foot. Still on top of the filing cabinet, though. I turned and pushed my feet at the closet doors, but they didn't budge; someone must have secured them from the outside.
I kicked at the door, but nothing happened.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you," came a familiar voice. It was Scooter's, of course. "I gave Rupert the rest of the day off after Agatha left. We're just waiting for it to get dark."
"Bethany will want to know where I am."
"No worries. We texted her from your phone. She knows you're out of pocket today. You told her to close up early and go home, and told her you'd pay her extra for taking over. Once it gets dark, we'll take you home."
"And then what?" I asked.
"You'll find out," he said.
A scream built up in me; I could only imagine what would happen. They'd burn the store with me in it, make it look like an accident. "Please let Winston go, at least."
"I'll think about it. In the meantime, please shut up. I have things to do today. First, though, I need you to sign something."
"No," I said automatically.
"If you sign it, I promise to let your dog go free. We'll write you up a nice suicide note, saying you couldn't face the failure of the business and your marriage together. We'll make sure your dog is nowhere near the building when it happens."
"You want me to sign a contract selling the shop to you, don't you?"
"You always were smart," he said. "It's too bad things had to end this way... but it's better if we can make sure at least one thing you love survives, don't you think?"
He opened the closet and handed me the contract.
"I can't read it with my hands tied behind my back," I said.
"Yes you can," he said. "I'll hold it for you."
I glanced at the words on the front page as he held it up for me. It was a contract to sel
l the property, for cash, to Dempsey Developers, effective immediately. "You killed Cal, didn't you?" I asked. "Because he was going to back out on you."
"He was a fair-weather friend," he admitted. "I thought I could talk him into an extension, but after our conversation, he decided to withdraw the offer immediately. Your ex-husband's girlfriend caused me a lot of trouble."
"How did she find out about you?" I asked.
"Cal and I used to like to go to the track together," he said. "We'd both wager. For Cal, it was fun, but for me, it’s... well, it’s my lifeblood. Kirsten figured it out, did a little poking around, and asked me a lot of questions about the racing... how the odds worked, etc. I told her everything I knew. Then I found out she was talking to some of my contractors... she poked into my private business. She and Cal broke up a while back. It wasn't until I met Cal on that beach and he confronted me about the gambling, about what was in Kirsten's book, that I realized how much of my situation she'd used."
"And that's why you killed him?"
"No. You know how Meryl Ferguson's been on him ever since she lost that election to him? Like a dog with a bone. She was chatting up Cal's dingbat girlfriend the other day, and Deirdre was stupid enough to tell Meryl that Cal was investing in some big project on the waterfront in town, and that she had an inside scoop. Cal was furious at her for saying anything—she threatened to tell Meryl he was the main investor in the project if he didn't agree to marry her. It didn't work, of course, but he told me he had to cut the project loose; it was too risky."
"Cut it loose? Or just give you a shorter timeframe?"
A Killer Ending Page 15