by Stephen John
“Something like that.”
“Who found her?”
“Her gardener, Gus, I think his name is,” Carter said. “He showed up around two o’clock on Saturday, his normal time and regular day. He found her.”
“That had to be quite a shock for him,” I said.
“I would think so. He was doing work at her house for over two hours before he realized something was wrong. He mowed her lawn, like always, did the trimming and watering. When he finished, he knocked on her door, but Emma didn’t answer. He knew she almost never left the house, so he got worried. He walked around back and knocked on the back door. When she didn’t answer, he turned the knob. She’d left the door unlocked. He pushed it open and saw Emma laying on the kitchen floor.”
“That’s so awful. Will there be an autopsy?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“No,” Carter said. “There was no sign of foul play; no forced entry; nothing missing. She was seventy years old, Fortune. She died five feet from four separate heart medications.”
“Still . . .”
“Still what?”
“She came into a lot of money, Carter,” I replied. “Doesn’t the timing seem odd?”
“It might,” Carter admitted, “but given the circumstances, it doesn’t seem all that out of place. There’s a couple of things you don’t know. I called her primary care doctor to inform him of Emma’s passing. He was not surprised. He’d seen Emma earlier in the month and upped her medication after her most recent examination and bloodwork. It worried him that her condition was worsening. She skipped a follow-up appointment with him early last week. And when the EMT arrived and looked at the actual meds she was taking, he noticed more pills were in the bottle than should have been there—meaning she had been missing quite a few doses. According to the doctor, Emma complained that the meds were bothering her stomach.”
I let out a breath. None of that supported my wild speculation there was foul play involved.
“Thanks, Carter, I guess I’m just being silly,” was all I said.
“I’m sorry Fortune,” he replied. “I know you were close with her. She was a fine woman—a sweet lady.”
“Thank you. You’re right, she was,” I replied.
He sighed and touched my shoulder, “Are you all right?”
“I will be. When will I see you again?”
“I’m up to my eyeballs for the next few days,” he said. “I’m pulling four twelve-hour shifts, all back-to-back. Can I call you later in the week?”
“Sounds good. One last thing, do you know when Emma’s brother and sister arrive?”
“They fly in from Vermont tomorrow,” he said. “They arrive in New Orleans and are renting a car to make the drive. I think they’ll be in Sinful sometime around four o’clock in the afternoon. I’m meeting them at Emma’s place and handing over the key. I think they intend to stay there.”
“Do you mind if I tag along?” I asked. “I’ve probably spent more time with her than anyone in town over the last few months. I’d like to express my condolences.”
“I’m sure they’d like that,” Carter said.
Chapter Two
I could not sleep well that night. I kept tossing and turning, thinking about poor Emma Peterson. I spoke to Carter two hours after my initial call and he took me through everything once again. I looked at the facts one last time. They were compelling: a woman in her early seventies suffering deep depression; history of heart problems; medications increased; it worried the doctor that her condition was worsening; she was not taking the medication as directed; the EMT believed she suffered a heart attack; no sign of forced entry; no sign of foul play; nothing was missing. Everything—all of it, points to death by natural causes. That’s what Carter believed. My head told me he was right.
My heart didn’t believe it, though—not for one minute.
I couldn’t get past the timing. For over thirty years Emma lived on nickels and dimes, wallowing in a deep state of depression. She comes into some money and starts to enjoy life a little and—wham! She falls over dead? It was ironic or there was foul play. My instincts told me it was the latter, not the former.
If there was a trigger for a foul play argument, it could only be one thing. I knew what I needed to do. I flashed back to what my CIA boss and mentor always told me—when in doubt...
... follow the money.
I knew who I needed to speak to next. The next morning, I ran an extra mile. Adrenaline was surging through my veins. I ate a piece of dry toast and waited for nine o’clock to come around. Unable to wait any longer, I hopped in the car at eight-thirty and headed to the offices of Mark Baker, CPA.
It was I who ended up delivering Steve Teller’s generous gift to Emma; a cashier’s check for $500,000. At first, Emma didn’t want to accept it, even when she understood the gesture was a heartfelt one. I told her I understood how she felt.
Yet, as I explained to Emma, Steve Teller was guilt-ridden over his unintended role in Glory’s murder. It was Teller who received the original letter of inquiry from Glory. It was Teller who set up the meeting to introduce her to the people who would later murder the young girl. So, even though he had no inkling what would happen, it was, in fact, Mr. Teller who started a chain of events that led to Glory’s murder.
Mr. Teller was wealthy but older and in ill health, himself. His only family was a son who was a well-to-do businessman in his own right. I told Emma the gift would not only ease a little of the pain he felt, but would help her move on with her life, and after thirty years of pain, guilt, depression and emptiness, it was now time for her to do so.
Emma relented, but it was only after I reintroduced her to Mark Baker, CPA, and discussed a facelift for the high school drama department. Between the theater renovation and a revitalized interest in gardening, Emma Peterson began a new course for a fuller life.
Mark Baker was Glory’s best friend in school and carried some measure of guilt himself for not doing enough to recognize she was meeting a strange older man with Hollywood connections, and all that implied. He was a professional accountant and money manager, was all too happy to help Emma with the tax implications of the gift and to set up a safe financial plan for her.
He also set up the foundation to fund the high school project. Emma was beaming when the school honored the donation by announcing they would rename the stage to, The Glory Peterson Theater.
I was sitting on the steps leading to his office when Mark arrived. He approached me, smiling. The smile told me he had not yet heard Emma had passed.
When I didn’t return the smile, he asked me what was wrong. I told him I had news. Tears welled in his eyes as I explained what had happened.
“It’s so bazaar. I spoke to her a couple of weeks ago,” Mark said, fighting back more tears. “She came to my office, if you can imagine. When Barbie told me Emma Peterson was in my lobby, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She almost never left the house. I always had to go to her. We had a great chat. She seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . happy.”
“You know how heart attacks can be. They can happen without warning,” I replied in a consoling tone, not believing a word I was saying. “You said you saw her two weeks ago?”
“I did,” he said. “She came in with another woman, another client of mine.”
“Was it Maxine Reed?” I asked.
“Yes, do you know her?”
“No. I’ve heard her name. Why was Emma visiting you?”
He looked at me with raised eyebrows, “Oh, you mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“I’m sorry, I know you and she were close and you brought her to me. You helped her with the high school donation, so I assumed you knew . . .”
I was confused, “Knew what?”
“Sorry, Fortune,” he said. “It’s a personal financial matter of Emma’s and I’m not allowed to discuss it without her consent.”
“Mark, Emma is dead,” I spouted. �
�She had no one looking after her. From the way you are reacting, something odd might have been going on with her finances.”
“Again, sorry,” he repeated. “Can’t say more.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out, “Mark, listen. I’ve been rolling it over and over in my mind and I can’t get past the timing of her dying so soon after coming into money.”
Mark gave me a solemn, understanding look. He nodded but remained silent.
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” I asked.
”Yes and no—maybe a little. She was older and her health wasn’t the best but . . . Do the police suspect foul play?”
“No,” I admitted. “All initial findings point to death by natural causes—a heart attack.”
“I see,” he said, falling silent. “I know it’s tough to accept. I share your observation that she was as healthy looking and happy as I’ve seen her since Glory died.”
“Mark, if you know something—anything . . .”
“I’m sorry, Fortune, believe me,” he said. “My license could be suspended for discussing her financial information. If not that . . . this is a small town. If word got out that I discussed . . .”
“I understand,” I assured. “Just tell me this and I’ll leave. Do you agree I should continue to look into this matter?”
He brushed his fingers over his mouth and scratched his chin as he thought. Ten seconds went by; then fifteen. I sat there waiting. He interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on the desk.
He said nothing.
I took that as a yes.
Chapter Three
I found Carter in the office at the station.
“I knew it,” I said. “There is something amiss.”
“What? With Emma Peterson’s death?” he replied.
“Yes,” I said. “I went to see Mark Baker.”
“The accountant?”
“Yes, Emma’s accountant. I spoke with him. Something is wrong.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He wouldn’t tell me—it’s privileged information.”
“Then how do you know something related to her death is wrong?”
“Well . . . because I feel it.”
Carter rolled his eyes.
“Look, Carter,” I continued. “Someone murdered Emma Peterson. There, I said it.”
Carter sighed. He took in a deep breath and held it for a second before speaking.
“You made the leap from death by natural causes to murder because her accountant wouldn’t break privilege to discuss her financial matters? Really, Fortune? That’s a huge stretch, even for you.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound all that good.”
“Look, Fortune, I know you,” Carter said. Here, it’s possible you’re a little too close personally. . .”
“Someone murdered her, Carter,” I interrupted.
He sighed.
“Close the door for a second, Fortune,” Carter urged. “I was going to tell you about this later.”
I closed the door and sat across the desk from him.
“I thought about what you said last night,” he began. “I’ve learned to trust your instincts. So, I broke protocol . . . a little.”
I leaned forward, “What did you do?”
He looked over my shoulder toward the door to see if anyone was lurking outside. Satisfied, he sat back, “There was no sign of physical violence, no struggle of any kind, so we can rule that out.”
“Carter,” I interrupted.
He raised his palm in the air to stop me from speaking.
“But . . . I’ve learned when you get something in your head you will not quit until it’s resolved, so . . .”
“What did you do?”
“I had a blood sample drawn from Emma. The EMT who answered the call is a friend of mine, so I called in a favor. He took a blood sample from Emma’s body and took it to the lab himself. I expect a full toxicology report within the next two days, all off the record. If someone poisoned her or gave a drug to induce a heart attack, we’ll know it.”
“That’s terrific news, Carter,” I said.
“For what it’s worth, the EMT thinks this is a fool’s errand,” Carter added. “He’s seen dozens of heart attacks and believes this is a classic case of death by natural causes.”
“Well, I don’t believe it,” I insisted. “Carter, do you know a woman named Maxine? Maxine Reed?”
He thought for a moment and shook his head, “No, why do you ask?”
I sighed, “No reason.”
“If I find something—anything suspicious at all, we’ll order a full autopsy,” he promised.
I stood and raced around the desk and threw my arms around him, hugging him and giving him kisses on both cheeks and a longer, lingering one on the mouth.
“Please, Fortune, I’m at work,” he said, his face reddening just a little.
“Okay, sorry,” I replied, “thanks again.” I bounded toward the door.
“Fortune,” he called out as I reached the door. I paused and looked back.
“I don’t want you to do anything else with this until I get the results of the tox screen back,” he continued. “Do you understand?”
He gave me one of those looks—a look that let me know he was very serious.
I smiled, “Come on Carter, think about it. What could I possibly do?”
“That isn’t an answer, Fortune,” he said.
“Relax, Carter,” I said, reassuringly. “Take a pill or something. Breathe, will you? See you at four o’clock when we meet Emma’s brother and sister at her house.”
Chapter Four
“What do you mean Mark Baker wouldn’t tell you anything?” Gertie spouted, after I told them about my conversations with him. “He wouldn’t say anything?”
I shook my head, “Nope.”
“But his response really made you believe something was up with her money, though?” Ida Belle asked.
“It was more his lack of response, but yes, it did,” I said. “He also seemed surprised that I didn’t already know about whatever he wouldn’t tell me.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m surprised too,” Ida Belle said. “You brought her to Mark.”
“What can we do?” Gertie asked.
“Well, I guess we can wait until the tox report comes back,” I said. “If it shows that something induced her heart attack, Carter will have a full autopsy performed and likely we can get a court order to release her financial records.”
Ida Belle listened carefully and patiently as I spoke, “So, what you are saying is . . . we should sit back and wait?”
I nodded and shrugged, “It’s one option.”
“I’m not great at waiting,” Gertie sighed.
“Me either, there must be something we can do,” Ida Belle added.
“It would make Carter happy,” I told them.
Ida Belle and Gertie looked at each other and began to laugh.
“Since when has that stopped us?” Gertie said.
I smiled. It was true, “What then?” I asked.
“You said the gardener discovered Emma’s body Saturday afternoon, but she had been dead for fifteen hours, right?” Ida Belle asked.
I nodded, “Fifteen to twenty. Right.”
“So, if there was foul play, that means whoever killed her did so on Friday evening,” Gertie said, “sometime between six and eleven o’clock.”
“Somewhere in there, yes,” I said.
Ida Belle nodded, “Emma only rarely left the house, so whoever caused the heart attack must have been with her at her house late Friday afternoon or evening.”
“Yep, that makes sense,” I said.
“I know her neighbors across the street—the Smiths,” Gertie said. “They’re about as nosy and gossipy as any couple you’d ever meet. If someone showed up at Emma’s house on Friday evening, you can bet the Smiths know it. I’ll drop by with a pie and see if they saw any visitors at
Emma’s house on Friday.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ida Belle said. “I know some of her other neighbors, too. We can do a casual drop by and see if they saw anything.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “Don’t arouse suspicion, though. If there is a killer, we don’t want to alert her we’re asking questions.”
“What makes you think it’s a woman?” Gertie asked.
“That was a slip of the tongue,” I said.
“You have someone in mind, don’t you?”
“No...,” I lied. I had a person or two in mind, but didn’t want to say it, not yet.
“Aren’t you meeting Carter later at Emma’s house?” Gertie asked.
“Yes, at four o’clock.” I said. “That’s when Victor and Bessie arrive.”
“Then leave all that other stuff to us,” Ida Belle replied. “If this doesn’t work, the next step would be to break into Mark Baker’s office and get Emma’s records—find out what he was unwilling to tell you.”
I raised my eyebrows, “We would need keys, alarm codes and passwords for a break-in of that nature. That’s highly illegal?”
“Yep,” Ida Belle insisted.
“You could go to jail,” I added.
“We know,” Gertie said.
“How would you even do it?” I asked.
Gertie’s face lit up, “Remember, we did that thing when we broke into Carter’s room in Seattle to get information on Paul Pride.”
I sighed, “Gertie, may I remind you that the particular mission you refer to was not a resounding example of success. You fell flat on your face trying to get the room key and got the maid fired when Ida Belle talked her into helping us. I was the one who got the computer password, not you.”
“Those are details,” Gertie said. “We got the job done and got the housekeeper’s job back with a raise. We’ll get the job done here, too.”
I looked down and shook my head. I wanted to remind her it was also me that got the housekeeper’s job back. When Gertie tried to do it, she got thrown in jail for her troubles, after she mooned a cop. However, I was not prepared to go there.
