by Libby Howard
The mug was Spencer Thompson. The picture I took to be a carefully selected prop. And I could tell from the guarded expression on Mr. Thompson’s face that he’d done some research in preparation for our appointment. He had the look of someone who felt this meeting was going to be a complete waste of his time but didn’t want to offend me in case I’d just inherited a windfall from an ancient aunt or had a savings account not evident from my lifestyle or public records or credit reports.
He was quickly going to learn his earlier assumption was correct.
“So, Mrs. Carrera. I’m so sorry to have learned of your recent loss. My condolences. Your husband was a notable surgeon.”
And I was sure he’d gotten that from a quick Google search.
“Yes, Mr. Thompson. I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to find out what options are available to me as far as planning my retirement and my future estate. I’m hoping to lay the groundwork for a retirement in the next five years.”
“I see.” From the befuddled look in his eyes, he didn’t see, but was still holding out hope for my being an eccentric with hidden assets. “Let’s start with your current investments and savings.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any current investments,” I confessed.
“That’s okay,” he said with an uncertain smile. “I meet with lots of people your age who were reluctant to trust their money in the stock market. I’m assuming you stuck with CDs or property?”
I shook my head.
“Money under the mattress?”
I had to give it to the guy, that was pretty funny. “No. I only have five hundred in savings. I’ve been building it up over the last six months. My husband’s disability and medical needs depleted our retirement accounts and savings.”
His face fell. “Was there an insurance settlement? From what I understand, there was an accident…?”
I nodded. “Yes, but the initial medical costs were very high, and at the time I’d assumed he’d make a recovery, so I settled for a lump sum to pay the immediate bills and for his physical and cognitive therapy.”
“So there’s nothing left of that settlement?”
“No. It was gone within two years and I needed to cash out the 401k.” People had no idea how high out-of-pocket medical costs could go, especially when you were desperate. I happily spent every last dime on whatever treatment gave me even a tiny chance of improvement in Eli’s physical or mental function. And as far as I’d been concerned, none of it had been money wasted. Yes, we’d pretty much gone broke. Yes, he’d had many days of deep despair and frustration, as had I. No, nothing had been a miracle cure to get him anywhere close to who he’d been before the accident. But that money, both the settlement and the retirement savings, had primarily been built from his income and from the settlement from the accident that took so much from him. I couldn’t deny him a cent of that money if it offered even a slim chance at improvement, no matter if it meant I had to be his sole caretaker, to mortgage our home to the hilt, to sacrifice any chance I had at ease in retirement.
Was that why Eli’s ghost still lingered? Did he carry guilt over how much I’d given as I carried over how I should have done more? We’d built our nest egg for a joint retirement, both of us dreaming of travel and a house at the beach, of not worrying about the costs of home repairs or new cars, of being stress free in our elderly years. He’d always insisted it was our money, not his, that a married couple was a partnership, a unit, of two becoming one. Did his spirit mourn that he’d sucked up every bit of that money, leaving me with nothing?
Oh, Eli. You would have done the same for me had our positions been reversed. I regret only that I couldn’t do more, that sometimes I didn’t have the patience I should have.
“Well, let’s look at your house, then.” Mr. Thompson pulled a file from the stack behind him. “Wow. That’s a gorgeous Victorian, Mrs. Carrera. It looks to be well maintained as well. Perhaps you can do an equity loan at a low interest rate and use that to base an investment strategy on.”
“I already have two mortgages on the house,” I told him. “If I sold it right now, I might clear enough to pay off those plus the closing costs. There’s really no equity in my home at the moment.”
He sat down the folder with a slap, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I really don’t know how I can help you then, Mrs. Carrera. What exactly are you looking to gain from this meeting?”
It had been a Hail Mary shot to get a feel for Spencer Thompson in my quest to track down any of his hidden assets, but I had a good handle on that. Right now, my goal had changed, and there was something very different I wanted from him.
But not quite yet. The optimist in me was still looking for something good about this man. Something that I might appeal to on behalf of Melvin Elmer.
“I’ve taken in a roommate to pay the mortgage, and I’m able to put a few hundred away each month in savings. I got a raise this month. I’m hoping you can give me a strategy to follow so that I can retire in the next five years.”
He glared at me, his hands coming down with a thump on his desk. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carrera, but you’ll never be able to retire. You squandered whatever income your husband had so skillfully accumulated during his lifetime, and you’re now poor. The minute your house needs a new roof, that few hundred a month in savings is going to go to zero. You’re living paycheck to paycheck. You’ll have to continue working for the rest of your life. And the moment you can’t find a roommate or can’t afford to maintain this huge home of yours, you’ll need to sell it and go live in a cardboard box somewhere. This is what happens when women blow all the money their husbands save.”
I felt my blood pressure rise, a white-hot anger course through me. This…this bastard. How dare he assume that I’d frittered away all of Eli’s—all of our—savings on purses and facials. The man was a pig. But somehow, I managed to rein in my fury and swallow it down so I could ask for the one thing I really wanted out of this meeting—a six-month stay on Mr. Elmer’s eviction.
“I thought you helped the elderly, Mr. Thompson. I thought that was your mission here at Fullbright and Mason, as well as your personal mission judging by your bio on the company website.”
He fixed me with a hard stare. “I help those who help themselves, Mrs. Carrera. I’m not a charity for people who have made poor choices in their lives. And neither is Fullbright and Mason. We can’t help you. I can’t help you.” He stood and extended his hand. “Best of luck to you. Have a nice day.”
I remained seated. “There’s someone else you can help, someone who hasn’t made poor choices in his life. He doesn’t have much in the way of savings, but he owns his home free and clear.”
Mr. Thompson hesitated. “Tell him to come see me. He could do a reverse mortgage, and I’d be happy to help him invest that money.”
“He can’t. Someone stole his identity and took out a mortgage in his name. He didn’t know about it and they foreclosed on the house. He’s being evicted.”
The man’s face hardened. “Then he needs a lawyer, not a financial advisor. Good day, Mrs. Carrera.”
“He’s dying, Mr. Thompson. All he wants is six months, to stay in the house until he dies. Then you can have it. Six months is all you have to wait, and that beats all the bad publicity you’re going to get when this blows up. Kicking a terminally ill elderly man out of his home after he’d lost it due to identity theft? Everyone is going to know your name and know Brockhurst Properties preys on vulnerable people. How do you think Fullbright and Mason would feel about having you as one of their investment counselors once this is on the nightly news? Just six months is all he wants.”
“Get out now!” Spencer Thompson shouted, pointing toward the exit of his cubicle. A few passersby stopped to gawk at the two of us.
“Six months,” I pleaded. “Six months and no one needs to know and you’ll get to sell the house at a profit.”
Well, no one needed to know but his soon-to-be ex-wife, anyway.
“Out before I call the police!” His face was red and puffy, bits of spittle flying as he shouted. It wasn’t a good look.
And I had my answer.
“Fine. I’m leaving.” I got to my feet. “But you’ll regret this decision, Mr. Thompson. You’re going to regret it.”
I wasn’t sure what he screamed at me as I hurried through the hallways and out of the offices of Fullbright and Mason, but I was determined Spencer Thompson was going to go down. His wife was going to take him for every cent he had, and if I had to empty my savings and pay for a lawyer, Mr. Elmer was going to get his house back.
Yes, Spencer Thompson would rue the day he’d said “no” to me.
Chapter 12
Melvin Elmer was home when I stopped by on my way back to the office, and thankfully he hadn’t just pitched the envelope I’d left for him in the trash.
“You really think this is going to work?” he asked as he peered at the paper.
“It will only give you a few weeks, but the deputy I spoke to seems to think he can make it happen. It will give you time to get a lawyer on this.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to bother with lawyers and all that. I’m dying, Mrs. Carrera. I just want to enjoy my last months in my home.”
“I know that but hiring a lawyer will let you do just that,” I urged. “Scams against the elderly garner huge publicity. There’s someone that will take this on for payment after it settles. We just need the time to find that lawyer. And once you do, he’ll handle it all and you can just enjoy your remaining time here in your own home.”
“I don’t have any children. No nieces or nephews. Nobody to inherit this house. Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Carrera. I love this home of mine, and I love every plant out in my garden. I want it all to go to someone who loves it, but that someone doesn’t have to be a distant relative. The lawyer can have it when I die. I’d have given it to that nasty Spencer Thompson man if he’d let me stay here until I died. Given it to him.” He sighed and signed the paperwork, handing it back to me. “Anyone else would have seen the wisdom in that, but not that spawn of the devil.”
“That’s why we’re going to have to play hardball.” I tucked the paperwork in my bag. “Miles is going to get you two more weeks. Once I get this story on the local news and all over social media, we’ll get you a lawyer.”
He nodded but seemed distracted.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Elmer? Is there something I can pick up for you or do for you while I’m here?” Old habits die hard. I’d spent the last ten years being a caretaker for my husband, and now I wanted to do all I could for this man in his final days.
He gave me a tired smile. “I think I’m good. Just gonna go lay down for a bit. Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m thinking it’s all gonna be okay.”
“It will be,” I told him as I headed out the door. “It will be. I feel it in my bones.”
As I drove toward the courthouse, I began to worry about the repercussion of my little confrontation at Fullbright and Mason. Had Spencer Thompson called the police? Registered some kind of complaint? Perhaps he’d taken my parting words as a threat and was right now filing for a restraining order.
Oh, no. Could I lose my job over this? Would our case be compromised? I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I should have just left. He’d clearly shown himself to be a heartless jerk from the way he’d talked to Mr. Elmer. I hardly needed to have an argument with him in the middle of his office to prove that.
What the heck was going on with me? I never normally would have done something like that. No, who was I kidding? Before Eli’s accident, I’d been impulsive and prone to taking risks. I’d do anything when on a lead, and I’d been fearless when confronting anyone from politicians to trash collectors if I needed to get a story. Maybe I was just coming back into my own after a long hibernation of worry and concern while taking care of Eli. Maybe this was me.
And maybe me was gonna get me fired if I didn’t start thinking before I had an argument with a client’s soon-to-be-ex in his office. I wasn’t a journalist any longer; I was a private investigator. And I needed to act like one.
I dropped the papers off at the courthouse, giving the signatures a quick compare before I did. Melvin Elmer’s swirly mark on the request to stay eviction was nothing like the bold, sharp scribble on the loan paperwork. Nothing. I guess identity thievery only went so far, and any attempt at forgery was more effort than it was worth.
On my way out, I was accosted by Violet, running down the hall with a set of papers in her hand. She shoved them into my hands then stood back, beaming.
I unfolded them and saw a copy of a check. It was from Brockhurst Properties and was signed by Spencer Thompson. It was made out to the sheriff’s office, with a note in the memo section that this was for an eviction service.
I had it. A routing number. An account number. I still regretted that I’d made a scene at his office, but now I had definitive proof of a business and banking account his wife had not known of. We’d earned our fees, and hopefully I hadn’t screwed things up to an unforgivable level.
Chapter 13
“But wait, there’s more!” I exclaimed to J.T. as I walked through the office door. “I’ve actually got an account number now, and…” My voice trailed off as I saw J.T. standing next to a man I recognized—Detective Desmond Keeler from the Milford Police Department. I’d met him when he was investigating Luanne Trainor’s murder and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience—neither the murder nor meeting Detective Keeler.
I doubted he was there reconsidering a starring role in one of J.T.’s YouTube videos. Was he here to elicit our help on one of his cases?
“Kay,” my boss began, “Detective Keeler is here to ask you a few questions about your visit to Fullbright and Mason earlier today.”
My heart sank clear into my shoes. That rat Thompson had called the police on me, and they must have taken it seriously if they’d sent a detective to scold me.
Wait. An officer would have come to question me, not a detective. I knew that much about police affairs. And although Milford was small enough that the detectives on their city police force weren’t specialized, my only experience with Keeler was in homicide.
“Ask away.” I gestured to a chair and sat in the one in front of my desk, putting my bags to the side.
The detective sat, pulling out a little notepad and a pen. “So, you had an appointment with Spencer Thompson at one o’clock. What was the nature of your meeting?”
“Investment advice. He specializes in estate and retirement planning.” I wasn’t going to give this jerk anything more than the bare minimum, and I certainly wasn’t going to violate client confidentiality, either. Slap me on the wrist. I’ll never do it again. Lost my temper. Blah, blah.
“So, you have a significant estate to plan?” His eyebrows lifted. “Investments and savings you need to have managed by a financial advisor?”
Did everyone in Milford know I was poor? I’d expected this in Locust Point, but how had the rumors of my poverty spread to the neighboring city?
“No, but I felt he might be able to give me some advice on going forward. What my best options would be in trying to save for my golden years.”
“I take it his answers were not satisfactory as…” he flipped back a few pages in his notebook, “coworkers say the pair of you were shouting at each other and Mr. Thompson repeatedly told you to leave.”
“He was very insulting. I lost my temper and we exchanged words.” I sent an apologetic glance J.T.’s way. “I left immediately after that and I don’t intend on returning. There’s no need to bar me from the place or anything.”
“Witnesses say that you told him ‘You’re going to regret this’?”
I looked again at a scowling J.T. and began to be nervous about my continued employment. I didn’t want Detective Keeler to know that I was there pleading for Spencer Thompson to hold off evicting someone, nor that the man’s wife was about to file for div
orce, so I had to look like the idiot yelling at a man over his inability to turn my five-hundred-dollar savings account into a retirement income stream.
“I did say that, but I think you and I both know that I didn’t mean it as a physical threat. I’m a sixty-year-old woman, Detective Keeler. Spencer Thompson outweighs me by fifty to seventy pounds. I’m hardly going to accost him in the parking lot.”
He leaned back in his chair. “So you meant the threat to be what, exactly? That you were going to win big on lottery scratch-offs and he’d rue the day he’d turned down handling your portfolio?”
I grimaced. “Something like that. He was rude and insulting, but I was not making a threat upon his person.”
The detective made a little note in his book. “And when you left his office, where exactly did you go?”
This was getting ridiculous. I knew Detective Keeler didn’t like me, but this interrogation was way out of place for a simple complaint.
“I had to pick up some signed documents, then I went to the courthouse. I was at the courthouse by quarter after two. There are several people there that can vouch for my presence. Why? Did someone try to assault Spencer Thompson outside his office? Look at me, Detective Keeler. I’m pretty fit for a woman my age, but I’m not exactly the sort of person who would physically attack a man in a parking lot in the middle of the day.”
“Not attack, kill.” He slid the notepad back into this jacket pocket and clicked the pen. “Spencer Thompson is dead, Mrs. Carrera.”
I shot another glance at J.T., who was clearly just as shocked as I was. “Dead? How…who…”
