The Ugly Truth

by Jill Orr

“Those are the invoices from Colonel Mustard Enterprises for the past several years. Every bit of paper I could find that had anything to do with them, I put in there.”

  My mouth hung slightly open.

  “What?” she asked. “Not good?”

  “No, this is great,” I said, trying to push aside my astonishment. “I’m just surprised is all.” When did she have time to do this? Not only did she open a restaurant today but she had a newborn baby at home and was moving in three weeks. I came to the only logical conclusion there was: Ridley must be a robot. Or a vampire. Or an alien. Whatever she was, she was definitely superhuman. No wonder Ryan was infatuated with her.

  “I just figured you were going to ask, so I came in a little early this morning and pulled it together.” Ridley beamed at me the way a child would for her teacher. She looked like she was waiting for a gold star.

  “Thanks.” I opened the file and thumbed through a few sheets of paper. “Have you noticed anything else odd or out of place in her records?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about the cellar? Have you ever been down there?”

  “Cellar?” Ridley said, her brows knitting together. “I didn’t even know this place had a cellar.”

  Well, that was interesting. Rosalee said she’d bought the sledgehammer to do renovations on the cellar. Then I remembered she mentioned Melvin could back up her story. “Do you mind if I ask Melvin something real quick?”

  Ridley stood and up and followed me out of the office. I asked Melvin if the Tavern had a basement.

  “It does indeed,” he said, flipping a chicken breast on the griddle. “It’s basically a dungeon, though. There’s all kinds of walls and piles of bricks and stuff down there. Rosalee always wanted to make it into a true root cellar for storing food and such, but we never got to it.”

  “Was she planning to remodel?”

  “Rosalee always had some kind of plan,” he said with a wink.

  “I’ve never seen a cellar,” Ridley said. “Where is it?”

  You’re standing on it.”

  “It’s in the floor?”

  He nodded. “This building is old. As in old-ass old. Kitchens used to be underground before refrigeration, did you know that? This here—where we’re standing—used to be the butler’s pantry, and the food was brought up a staircase right there under that table. Kind of hard to access, but when this stuff is all moved out of the way, you can open up a door right there in a floor. Rosalee used to have me move the stuff for her sometimes so she could get down there and sketch out the plans for remodeling it into a storage area. It’s kinda tight in here, case you haven’t noticed.”

  I bent down and looked under the stainless-steel prep table. Sure enough, there was a rectangular outline of a door cut into the floor. “Have you ever been down there?” I asked Melvin, who had turned his attention back to his grill.

  “Me? Nah,” he said. “I don’t do small, enclosed spaces. Or spiders. Or snakes—which I am sure are having themselves a big ol’ party down there. Butter came and checked it out a few days ago and said it was like a scene outta Indiana Jones or something, couldn’t wait to get back up here.” He shuddered. “I told Rosalee I’d go down there once she got it all fixed up. Till then, I’m staying aboveground.”

  I left the Tavern and got into my car, ignoring the alarming wheezing sound that seemed to happen every time I started it. Poor Oscar. I didn’t have the money or time to deal with his problems at the moment. And besides, if something was really wrong—wouldn’t some sort of light come on on the dash? Surely Oscar would give me a warning before he conked out completely. That’s just the decent thing to do.

  Comfortable with my irrational rationale, I drove over to Campbell & Sons to check on Ash before I went back to the newsroom. He was pretty upset last night, and after what Dr. H told me this morning about his mother, I felt a new kind of empathy for him. He really had more than his share lately. I thought he might be able to use a friend.

  “Hey there.” When he opened the door, Ash looked more like he could use IV fluids, a cheeseburger, and a good long nap. He also looked like someone who’d recently drank his body weight in bourbon.

  “Hey,” I said, taking in his rumpled jeans and T-shirt that looked like it had recently been picked up off the floor. That, combined with his hair that was mussed up (in a not altogether unpleasant way), led me to ask him, “You feeling okay?”

  He smiled and looked down at his feet. “Uh, yeah. Sorry about last night. I was slightly overserved.”

  “At least it doesn’t look like you’re too busy today.”

  “Nah, not too bad,” he said, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable telling him I came to check on him. It wasn’t like we knew each other that well or anything. And I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. “I was just…um, going to see if you’d heard anything else about Balzichek’s next of kin?”

  “Actually, funny you should ask. I just did.”

  “You did?” I said, surprised. “You found them?”

  “Follow me,” he said and led me back to Franklin’s office. He sat down in his grandfather’s chair and gestured for me to take the one opposite. He picked up a piece of paper and read off of it: “A woman named Sofia Scheiner called. She said Sheriff Haight’s office tracked her down in northwest Arkansas. She’s the deceased’s paternal aunt. Said she doesn’t have any money for a funeral but will take the ashes once he’s been cremated on the State’s tab.”

  I wrote down this information and got the phone number from him as well. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not really,” Ash said. “Just asked if he had left behind any valuable personal effects.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Wow, how caring.”

  “She said she hadn’t seen him in a few years. Last time was when he borrowed money from her to get his car out of the impound lot. She wanted to know if she could get her three hundred bucks back.” Ash let out a soft laugh. “I told her not unless she could sell two dimes, a nickel, three pennies, and a ginormous rosary for three hundred dollars.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’ll give her a call later today,” I said. “I’m writing a piece on him for the paper, and she’d be the perfect person to answer some of my questions.”

  “Sure,” he said and smiled. “Happy I could help.”

  I realized that might be the first genuine smile I’d ever seen out of him. All the others had been sarcastic or gloating or caustic in some way. Being nice suited him—even with the slightly bloodshot eyes and scruffy day-old beard, he looked good. I felt the flush of attraction creeping into my cheeks again.

  “Listen,” I said, standing up to leave. “I know you’re in a tough spot with your family business and everything, and I just want you to know that if you ever want to talk to someone, I’m a pretty good listener.”

  “Talk to a reporter?” His nice smile morphed into his more familiar evil grin. “I may look dumb, but I ain’t stupid.”

  I laughed. “Can I ask why you hate reporters so much?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had a bad experience.”

  “What kind of bad experience?”

  “A really bad one.”

  “What—were you misquoted? Libeled? Did someone refer to you in print as Miss Ashley Campbell?” I joked.

  “In short, yes.”

  “Wow. Must have been some story.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  “But you can’t judge all reporters by the actions of one. That’d be like saying all lawyers are greedy sons of bitches.” It was my turn to give him an evil grin.

  “Right. And no one would ever say that.”

  “I’m just saying maybe the person who interviewed you was just a bad reporter. Maybe he or she had a bias on the story or something?”

  “There was no maybe about it. She was definitely biased.”

  “What—did you call her ‘
honey’ one too many times?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Not exactly,” Ash said opening the front door to let me out. “I left her at the altar.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Before Ash could explain the whole I-left-a-girl-at-the-altar thing, Flick called. If it had been anyone else, I would have let it go to voicemail, but I really, really needed to hear that Flick was okay. I’d been so worried since our last call. After a hasty goodbye to Ash, I scrambled out to the sidewalk. “Where in the world have you been? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, but I don’t have a lot of time to talk.” Flick spoke in an urgent whisper. “I’m going to tell you a few things and I don’t want you to write any of this down, but you will need to remember them.”

  “You’re scaring me,” I said, climbing inside my car where it was quieter.

  “I’ve found out a little more about what Albert was researching when he was killed.”

  It still gratified me to hear Flick say Granddaddy was murdered and not refer to his death as a suicide. I’d known that was wrong from the very start, and even though no one believed me initially, I never doubted it. It was nice to finally have someone on my side.

  Flick continued. “Back many years ago, an entire family was tragically killed in a plane crash outside their home state of—” His phone cut out and I missed what he said.

  “Wait—I missed that—what?”

  Either he couldn’t hear me or he didn’t have time to repeat himself because he kept talking. “The youngest daughter was only four years old at the time. Her name was Shannon Miller. Remember, Riley, don’t write any of this down, particularly not on your phone, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, repeating the name Shannon Miller over and over and over in my mind.

  “I came over here to Chincoteague because this is where their plane went down—” there was more crackling on the line. It sounded more like he was in Afghanistan than on Chincoteague Island. I waited for him to come back.

  “Riley? You there?”

  “I’m here—where are you? I can’t hear you very well…”

  “I’m sorry, reception’s bad in here—”

  I was picking up on something in the tenor of Flick’s voice, a sort of worry or fear. My protective instinct kicked in. “Maybe you should just come back. We can work on this together from Tuttle?”

  Flick let out a wheezy laugh. “Don’t worry about me, kid. I’ve confronted worse than a pack of professional liars. Besides, I’m doing this for Albert. I’m onto ’em now. We’re going to get justice for him, Riley. You’ll see.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes and I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.

  “Listen,” Flick said, lowering his voice to just barely above a whisper. “I’ve got to go. They’re here. I’ll call you back later tonight, okay?”

  It was not okay, but I guess it would have to be. He hung up and I felt both hope and fear, in equal parts. I reminded myself that Hal Flick had been embedded with troops in the first Gulf War and had covered difficult and dangerous stories all over the globe. Talking to some folks on a small island off the coast of Virginia was well within his capabilities. At least I hoped so.

  I went back to the office and called Sofia Scheiner, who confirmed she was coming to Tuttle Corner on Saturday to pick up “what’s left of that sorry excuse for a man.” I asked her if she’d be willing to sit down for an interview with me when she got into town and she said yes. I quickly logged the update on Balzichek’s body being claimed by his next of kin and turned it into Kay Jackson, who said it’d go up later that afternoon.

  I was still all keyed up from Flick’s phone call and I didn’t feel like hanging around the newsroom doing busy-work, so I made a last-minute decision triggered, in part, by Flick. He was such an intrepid reporter—even at his age—and watching him go outside his comfort zone to track down a story inspired me. I got back into my car, coaxed poor Oscar to start up, and headed for I-95. It was time I obeyed the first rule of any investigation: Follow the money. In this case, the money was in Washington, DC, specifically with Dale Mountbatten.

  Traffic was light until I hit the mixing bowl with its inevitable slowdown, but even then I made the trip to McLean, VA, in just over two hours. Holman and Rosalee would be going in to meet with Carl at that very moment. I had texted Holman earlier to let him know I wouldn’t be there. As much as I would have liked to be there for that meeting, I’d already heard Rosalee’s side of the story. Now I wanted to hear Dale’s. I knew it was a little risky going there unannounced, but with Rosalee planning to turn herself in, I also knew I had a very limited window before the story was made public, and every reporter east of the Mississippi would be on it. Today I had the element of surprise in my favor.

  I pulled up to the stately home in Langley Forest, a prestigious neighborhood in the already prestigious suburb of McLean. I’d gotten the Mountbattens’ address from Holman’s notebook that just happened to be lying open on his desk while he was in the bathroom. I’d called Dale’s office posing as an old friend of Greer’s, and the receptionist had been more than happy to tell me that Dale was taking some time at home “in light of what just happened,” so I thought it was a safe bet he’d be home even though it was a Wednesday afternoon. I pulled in the circle drive with my heart beating at the top of my throat. I wasn’t sure that what I was doing was smart or safe; I only knew that if I was going to get the scoop on this story before it broke wide open, I’d have to talk to Dale Mountbatten face-to-face.

  I rang the bell and waited. About fifteen seconds went by and I was about to ring again when a woman opened the door. I’d never met Greer in person but had seen enough pictures to know that whoever stood in front of me was a blood relation. She had the same jet-black hair, the same blue irises rimmed in charcoal. She wasn’t as pretty as Greer despite the obvious Botox and fillers, her hair wasn’t quite as shiny, her physique not as fit—but the resemblance was striking. This had to be her sister.

  “Yes?” The woman seemed cold, suspicious.

  “Hi.” I smiled, hoping to disarm her with my youthful charm. “My name is Riley Ellison and I was wondering if I could speak with Dale Mountbatten?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me like a cat. “What is this in regard to?” So much for my youthful charm.

  “Butter,” I said. “It’s in regard to butter.”

  The woman looked blank, but I felt sure that had the toxins not prevented it, her brow would have crinkled in confusion.

  “He’ll know what that means,” I added with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  She continued to look at me for a few moments and then said, “Wait here.” She closed the door. It was less than a minute before it opened back up.

  Dale Mountbatten, who I recognized from his photos in the paper, opened the door. He was tall, tan, and had a thick head of hair. He exuded a relaxed sort of confidence that I could see would be attractive to a young woman in his employ. “Miss Ellison?”

  “Riley, please.”

  “Come on in.” Dale stepped back, swinging the door wide open to let me into the foyer. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  The Mountbatten home was stunning, decorated in all whites and grays, with opulent touches in every corner. It did not show evidence of anyone actually living there, however. I thought of the home I grew up in and how different this was. Our house had art projects on the fridge and pictures of family vacations lining the wall up the staircase. The Mountbatten home was devoid of any personal touches that I could see. The art on display was created by professionals, certainly not their children, and every knickknack seemed perfectly placed by a decorator. The house emanated a sense of aggressive perfection. It was definitely not my cup of tea, but I was nothing if not a good Southern girl. “You have a beautiful home,” I said.

  “This was Greer’s turf,” he said in a wistful tone. He was in front of me, so I couldn’t see his face to judge whether or not the “wist” was sincere.

  “Please, sit d
own.” Dale’s office was equally as beautiful, done in the same neutral-color palette. He settled into a black leather chair behind a large metal desk, and I took one of the two smaller upholstered chairs opposite. Neither of us said anything for a few moments.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

  “Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes briefly. “It’s been hell.”

  In spite of my suspicions and everything Rosalee had told me, I found myself believing him. His grief, at least in that moment, seemed genuine.

  “What can I do for you? My sister-in-law tells me you want to talk to me about butter?”

  “Yes.” I looked across the desk at him, trying to gauge his reaction to the strange topic.

  After a beat he smiled and leaned back in his chair, a move that I expect was meant to disarm me, to make me feel like we were two old friends just having a visit. “Okay. What’s your question?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve been using a fake butter importer to launder money through Rosalee’s Tavern in Tuttle Corner, and if that might have something to do with the death of your wife. And that of Justin Balzichek, of course.” It was a risky move, but I’d watched enough press conferences to know that sometimes you ask the questions you know you won’t get an answer to just to let the interviewee know that you know. It made people uneasy, threw them off balance, especially if they’re hiding something. Sometimes you can get lucky and they’ll slip up, say something they didn’t intend to.

  Dale looked at me, stone-faced, for a good five seconds before he started laughing. “I’ll admit,” he said, “of all the things I expected you to say, that was not one of them.”

  I kept a straight face, poised my pen over my notebook, and looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m a lobbyist, Riley. Not a butter importer—or a money launderer, for that matter,” he said, amusement lingering in his voice.

  “You are the principal investor in Rosalee’s Tavern, though, right?”

  “Where are you getting your information?”

  My source had been Rosalee, of course, but if Dale was really looking for her I didn’t want him to have any indication that I might know where she was.