by Sara Blaedel
She stood up.
“If your father pulled money out of his business to help Frank, you can be sure he had a good reason to believe him. Paul Jensen might’ve been a quiet man, but he wouldn’t stand for people being treated that way.”
Ilka thought about that as she put on her jacket. After saying goodbye, she went up and paid for the coffee, then elbowed her way out to the street and called Artie. “Come in and get me.” She stepped aside to let two men enter the pub. “No, it’s not a pickup, this is personal. You’re the driver, and I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
Ilka hoofed it as fast as she could, all the way back to the funeral home. She looked up when she was reaching for her back-door key and spotted the man leaning against the wall, waiting for her. He stepped toward her.
“That night on the boat, it never happened,” he said. “We don’t know each other. You don’t know my name, and we never talked. Got that?”
Jeff blocked her way. “What the hell’s wrong with you, telling the police you were on my boat, and they come marching in, asking me if we were together that evening. What were you thinking?”
Ilka’s heart pounded. Not so much because of his aggression, but because she’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen him. “If you’re so scared of being discovered, maybe you should delete your profile on Tinder.” She forced a smile; he wouldn’t be the first husband to get caught.
He sneered. “I don’t have a profile. And we never had anything to do with each other. I’ve never seen you before.”
Ilka sighed. “So you told the police I wasn’t with you that evening?”
Jeff nodded. “I told them I don’t know who you are, and if you’re smart you’ll tell them you made a mistake, you thought I was somebody else.”
“Like who?” She was beginning to see where his lying to the police could lead.
“I don’t care who the hell you say you fuck, long as you don’t tell the police it was me.”
“I hope you made sure the girl in the bar doesn’t remember working that evening.” Her alibi was in danger, which angered her. As she pushed by him, Artie’s pickup pulled into the parking lot and caught them in its headlights. Jeff stiffened, then it seemed as if his shoulders broadened when he grabbed her arm.
“What’s going on here?” Artie yelled from the pickup. He hustled over to them, but Jeff was already headed to his car around front. Artie had loosened his ponytail, and his long gray hair bounced around his head as he ran.
“It’s fine,” she said. “He works for Raymond Fletcher, I met him out at the ranch. He just wanted to tell me Amber’s doing okay.”
Artie stared at her. “He was threatening you, you think I’m an idiot? What’s going on?”
She smiled. “He was just mad I wouldn’t go out with him.” She steered Artie back to the pickup, which was still idling. On the way she told him about her conversation with Gregg Turner.
“Did you know Frank Conaway was the reason my father pulled all the money out of the business last spring?”
Artie shook his head as she punched in her father’s friend’s address on the GPS. “I knew he was really shook up when they sent Frank to prison, but I don’t know how he was involved in everything.” He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “The papers wrote a lot about the troubles out at the track, but like I said, horses and me, we don’t agree. I didn’t pay all that much attention.
“But as I understand it, one of the big casinos complained about the track wanting to add some roulette wheels and stuff, other gambling than just playing the horses. Lots of tracks are doing that, trying to pull more people in. They’re called racinos. The casino sued the track to stop them, they wouldn’t put up with the competition, and the track ended up having to pay eighty-two million dollars, I think it was. Which they couldn’t do, so they declared bankruptcy.”
“Hold da op,” Ilka mumbled as she calculated in her head how much that was in Danish kroner.
Artie nodded. “And there were some pretty hefty accusations made against the governor. Corruption, bribery. A lot of people lost their jobs, and there were stories about healthy horses maybe having to be slaughtered after the scandal, but I think they avoided that.”
“How was Frank Conaway involved?”
Artie shrugged. “I don’t know. Your dad didn’t talk much about it, but I could tell it really bothered him. He and Frank went way back.”
“He must have really felt terrible, since he risked his whole business.” She told him about the envelope Raymond Fletcher had brought her. “We need that money badly. Maybe we should offer him the whole business, everything. You could buy the house from him, if you still want.”
“It would solve our problems, for sure,” Artie mumbled, nodding to himself. “I don’t think he’s interested in running the business, though.”
“But really, does that matter? I just want him to buy it, I just want out.”
Artie suggested they talk to Sister Eileen before contacting Fletcher.
“I doubt she’ll be happy about that plan.” She described the nun’s reaction when Ilka told her about Fletcher’s visit. “She made it clear, the last thing my father would have wanted is Fletcher’s help. It’s just that right now we can’t afford being picky.”
“Ow, shit!” Artie threw the cigarette butt out the window and shook his singed fingers. He rolled up the window and started the pickup, and for several moments he drove in silence. “You know what. Don’t talk to her about it. You don’t need our okay. And I’m sure she’ll understand you’re doing what you think is best.”
He turned on the radio, and the rest of the way he hummed along to several country numbers she didn’t know.
When they arrived at the Conaways’ house, Karen came to the door in a large sweater that reached her thighs. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she seemed hesitant as she leaned against the doorframe.
Ilka got out and waited for Artie, then looked up at the woman. “I hope we’re not disturbing you? I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I heard about what’s happened to Frank, and I just want to ask if there’s anything we can do.”
Karen stepped forward as Ilka approached. “So you’re not here for the money your father loaned us? I promised Paul we’d pay back every cent, as soon as we prove Frank is innocent. Raymond Fletcher is going to pay, and I mean money, for what he’s done to us.”
Ilka took her hands. “We’re not here to ask for anything.” She put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and walked inside. Artie stood, unsure of what to do, which annoyed Ilka; she waved him in.
Karen looked up at her. “He didn’t do it. When you came by the other day, I thought you knew what had happened. I figured that’s why you were here. But when you didn’t say anything, well, I didn’t either.”
“Really, it’s okay. My father believed in your husband’s innocence.”
She still didn’t know exactly what Frank Conaway had been charged with. Apparently, he had been held for over six months, and Ilka thought there must be some reason the case hadn’t been brought to trial yet. But then, she understood nothing about the American judicial system. She did understand why Karen Conaway was sick with worry, though; she was financially strapped and couldn’t afford the lawyer.
It was dark outside now, and Ilka assumed the daughter was asleep. At least she wasn’t in the kitchen or living room. A bottle of red wine stood on the table, almost empty.
“Would you like some wine?” Karen moved to grab a few glasses from a shelf, but Ilka asked if she could make a pot of coffee instead. Karen nodded and sat down.
Ilka sat across from her after starting the coffee. “What is it your husband’s accused of?”
“Charged,” Karen said. “The police have charged him. And Frank could be put away for thirty years, for felony fraud. He could be a grandfather by that time, if he’s still alive. The prosecutor claims he’s taken ten million dollars since the late ’90s. But look at how we live! Do we loo
k like people with that kind of money?”
She pointed around the kitchen, at an open cupboard with several pots and pans. A cabinet in the corner with tableware, glasses on a shelf. “We don’t even have a dishwasher.”
She shook her head and emptied her glass. Ilka guessed she’d been sitting in the kitchen since putting her daughter to bed. Then Ilka remembered there were two daughters, and she asked about the older one. The woman looked down at the table.
“Right now, she’s in a treatment center. She stopped eating. She’s had a rough time of it. Everyone knows her father is in jail. And everyone talks. It’s easier for our younger daughter, she’s here all the time.”
She twirled her wineglass with three fingers. “It’s almost like it’s not enough for him to ruin our lives with his false accusations. He’s also made sure the case has been in the papers, a lot, so everyone knows what Frank’s been charged with.”
The coffee had seeped through the filter, and Ilka grabbed a few cups from the cabinet. Artie asked her to bring a wineglass too. He poured a glass for Karen and a bit for himself.
“Frank has worked for Raymond Fletcher since he was seventeen,” Karen continued. “He knew your dad from the time he came over, and even after we moved out here and started for ourselves, Frank did work for Fletcher and Davidson Raceteam. He ran the stables during the races, warmed up the horses. Of course, he had help from stableboys, but if you only knew how many family dinners he missed because of a race. How many times he missed a school play or concert, all because of a Wednesday race or a weekend race. A filly race or a mare race or…”
She began crying, and Artie leaned over and put his arm around her. Ilka’s fingers tingled from clenching her fists so hard. It was like listening to her mother. The words may not have been exactly the same, but it was the same situation. The same absence.
A bit embarrassed now, Karen gently pulled herself away from Artie. “But we always made it work. And my husband was happy with that life. I don’t understand how Fletcher could turn against Frank that way, after all those years. Even if he needed a scapegoat to cover up his own fraud. They’ve known each other almost all of Frank’s life.”
She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand and sipped her wine. “Paul used to say that if someone ever made Raymond Fletcher open up and feel even a tiny little emotion, it would kill him.” She smiled halfheartedly and collected herself.
“I still don’t quite get how they think it was done,” she said. She explained that they believed he embezzled the money over a period of years. “Supposedly it was fake bills connected to running the stable. Bills that were signed and paid, but never entered into the books of whoever was being paid.”
She paused a moment and looked at them. “Money that was an expense to the company, but never recorded as income anywhere else. And since most it had to do with stable operations, Frank’s responsibility, they claim he must’ve known about it. And because it didn’t come out until now, it must be because he’s behind it. And that’s why the police charged him.”
“But what evidence do they have?” Ilka said.
Karen laughed wryly. “Fletcher didn’t need evidence. He told them his version, and that was good enough for them. Then later he created the evidence they needed.”
“He can’t do that!”
“Oh yes he can.”
“But the police are involved!” Ilka turned to Artie, but he said nothing. “So you really think Raymond Fletcher can get away with this? There has to be more than just him reporting it to the police.”
Artie nodded. “Yeah, money. It takes money and influence to make something like this happen.”
“But surely somebody is investigating where the ten million dollars is, since it’s obviously not here. Somebody must be tracking the money.”
“We first found out about it just after Gerald Davidson died. Fletcher and Davidson owned the stable together, so when his estate was being looked at, the financial reports came out. And it wasn’t long after the track went bankrupt, so all the investors’ losses were being added up. You could say it was perfect timing for Fletcher. Paul claimed his father-in-law used his partner’s death to hide the money he’d been stealing. But nobody knows where it is.”
Karen emptied her glass and slumped in her chair. “Your father was sure we could prove all the bills were written recently, even though some of them were dated as far back as 1998. That’s when they say the fraud started.”
“Could you prove it?”
Karen nodded. “The signature was identical on all the receipts. And they were all written with what looked like the same pen. Of course, it’s hard to prove a hundred percent, but isn’t it really unlikely they used the same kind of blue pen for eighteen years?”
She looked at them as if she expected an answer. When they didn’t react, she said, “But the fact is, it was Frank’s signature. At first the lawyer focused on the pen and paper, because it all looked new and identical. They didn’t even bother to crumple up the receipts and put some age on them. Like I said, though, it’s just hard to prove something like this.”
“But…” Ilka was about to argue then thought better of it.
“So the lawyer started in on the dates. His idea was to prove Frank wasn’t in the office on the days the receipts were signed. But we never got that far.”
She glanced at Ilka; she’d made it sound as if the lawyer was the worst consequence of Paul’s death. “We’ll find a way. Fletcher is not going to get away with this.”
Her chin rested in her hands. Artie had walked over to the front door to smoke, though it did little good, because the smoke drifted inside.
“The last time I was here, I asked you about a woman named Maggie,” Ilka said.
Karen shook her head. “I’ve tried to remember, but no. The name doesn’t ring any bells.”
“She was killed. Shot at close range. The killer made it look like a break-in, but I can’t stop thinking there might be a connection here, that her last letter maybe had something to do with this case. Since my father was so involved.”
“Did she know something about all this?” Karen said.
Ilka scooted over when Artie came back. “I don’t know. But in the letter, she demanded money to keep a secret, and I’m wondering if it might be linked to your husband. Because it sounds like someone is trying to hide the truth. What I can’t figure out is why my father would want to cover something up.”
Karen stared blankly for several moments before straightening up in her chair again. “I’ve never heard of her, but if she knew something, anything, we have to contact the lawyer. What if she’s the one piece of the puzzle we’re missing?”
“We can’t be certain,” Ilka said. She had no idea, in fact, if there actually was a connection, but the possibility was thought provoking.
She stood up to leave. While putting on her jacket, she promised Karen she would contact the police and talk to them about all this.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” Karen followed them to the door. “Not when it comes to the police and Raymond Fletcher. I’ve got to be careful what I say, I know, but I have this bad feeling he owns the police station, or at least the people leading the investigation. If you get what I mean.”
Ilka wasn’t sure she did, but she let it go and thanked Karen for the coffee. And she insisted that Karen call if something happened, or if she just needed company.
They barely spoke on the way home. Ilka leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, but she was too worked up to nap. Artie had sent her straight into Raymond Fletcher’s arms to ask for money, yet he didn’t seem surprised to hear how the man treated people. He’d just sat there nodding while listening to Karen’s story! Ilka was furious with him; her skin prickled, her arms felt heavy. She felt his eyes on her several times, but she pretended to be asleep. Fortunately, he didn’t dare turn on the radio. Maybe he sensed her anger.
He slowed when they reached Racine, and while they
drove through downtown she squinted and let the light from the streetlamps fly by like white streaks in the air.
“You want to come home with me, sit for a while on the porch? I could make a campfire.”
“No thanks.”
He pulled in and parked on the street, and she glanced over at him.
He turned to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anything about this. I knew Paul didn’t get along with his father-in-law, but Fletcher had helped him before. And in our situation, you have to remember, money is money. Which is exactly what you need right now.”
Ilka stared out the front windshield and shook her head. “Just take me home.”
Even though it was past ten and Sister Eileen’s apartment was dark, Ilka knocked on the door. Artie had called after her when she slammed the pickup door and walked off, but now she heard him leaving. So what if she’d hurt his feelings; what he’d done was not okay, not even close. She had no chance of protecting herself if they didn’t bother to warn her.
She hammered on the door again, stepped out on the sidewalk and shouted, knocked once more. She kept calling Sister Eileen’s name until the light came on in the hall and the nun peeked out the tiny window in the door.
“It’s me,” Ilka shouted. As if there was any doubt.
Sister Eileen was wearing a long housecoat. Her narrow glasses were pushed up on her forehead, and she held a book. She said nothing, simply frowned at Ilka while holding on to the doorknob, as if she might slam the door at any second.
“Sorry, but I want that envelope with Raymond Fletcher’s money. We’re not accepting it.” She held her hand out as if she expected Sister Eileen to give it to her right there, but slowly she lowered her arm.
The nun looked tired and pale. Something in her expression made Ilka think it wasn’t just because it was her bedtime. The whole situation was obviously exhausting her: all the problems with the funeral home, as well as her mourning Ilka’s father. They hadn’t spoken much about that. In fact, she hadn’t spoken much at all to Sister Eileen, at least not about personal things.
