by Jill Orr
Yours in Loving Alignment,
Regina H,
Personal Romance Concierge™ and F.L.Y.
Guy™-in-training
Click.com
Dear Miss Ellison,
Thank you for your email. I am sorry you are having trouble understanding the list of Nine Strategies to Become a Responsible Risk-Taker. I understand you feel frustrated by the “incoherent jargon” and “meaningless platitudes” you feel the list offers. I can assure you that was not our intention! #youconfuseyoulose #corporatemotto
I have forwarded your concerns to our F.L.Y.™ Content Development Concierge™, Frederick L. He should get back in touch with you as soon as he returns from his Secrets of the Swiss: Happiness Mountain Retreat (he’s beta-testing this for inclusion in the F.L.Y.™ program for early next year!). #yesplease #icouldbehappyinswitzerland #swissmiss
In the meantime, please do your best to embrace your inner prudent risk-taker. You never know where it could lead. #norisknoreward
Yours in Loving Alignment,
Regina H,
Personal Romance Concierge™ and F.L.Y.
Guy™-in-training
Click.com
Dear Miss Ellison,
I’m glad you have been “working ahead without even knowing it,” but I feel I must point out there is a difference between self-care through prudent risk-taking and straight-up risky behavior. The idea of the exercise is that you might take a new route to work or perhaps choose a new menu item at a favorite restaurant, not confront a potential homicidal maniac! Putting yourself in mortal danger is the opposite of self-care. #youcantimproveifyouredead
Our legal department has asked me to remind you that the contract you signed includes a hold-harmless clause explicitly stating that Click.com is not responsible for any liabilities, costs, expenses, damages, and/or losses you incur as a part of the Sugar, How’d You Get So F.L.Y.™ program, including but not limited to loss of property, loss of limb, or death. #readthefineprint
Yours in Loving Alignment,
Regina H,
Personal Romance Concierge™ and F.L.Y.
Guy™-in-training
Click.com
CHAPTER 24
THURSDAY
I woke up several blissful hours later with the sun in my eyes and the smell of coffee in my nose. It was 6:52 a.m. The Holmans were early risers. I put on the soft, luscious robe hanging on the back of the door and wandered down the hall toward the kitchen. Framed pictures of Will from his childhood lined the soft slate-colored walls. From the looks of it, Holman came out of the womb wearing the same thick, round glasses he wore today. As a toddler, he looked like a cartoon character, those big, round eyes of his looking even bigger and rounder on his small face. I stopped to admire one particularly nice black and white of a very young Holman sitting in the grass. Camilla knelt beside him holding a dandelion puff, the camera catching the exact moment Holman blew on the flower like a birthday candle, sending the tiny translucent seeds scattering into the air.
“Nicholas took that,” Camilla said, appearing beside me like a well-heeled ninja. “Will’s father.”
“Oh,” I said. I did a quick scan and noticed there were no pictures of a family of three on the wall, no pictures of Holman and his dad at all.
“Will doesn’t talk about him very much, does he?” She turned her attention from the photo to me.
“Um,” I said, trying to think of a nice way to say that until last night Holman hadn’t mentioned either of his parents. “Not really.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said, looking back to the pictures on the wall. “It was very painful when he left—for both of us. Nicholas wasn’t a bad man exactly, he just couldn’t accept that Will was never going to be the son he imagined.”
“He left because of Will?” I was shocked at the cruelty of that.
Camilla cocked her head to the side, a subtle question in the gesture. “He hasn’t told you?”
I shook my head, feeling embarrassed for what I didn’t know about my friend.
“Well, it’s probably just as well. We ended up doing just fine on our own,” Camilla said, straightening up. “He’s happy in Tuttle Corner?”
I wasn’t sure I had the authority to answer that question. “He seems like he is.”
“Good,” she said with a firm nod of her head. “He can be tough, but he really does have an extraordinarily big heart.”
“Yes, he does,” I said. That I knew for sure. “Speaking of, is he awake?”
“In the kitchen.” Camilla motioned down the hall and then excused herself to get ready for the day.
I walked into the kitchen and found Holman reading the newspaper and eating a doughnut. He was fully dressed in new clothes (he must keep some here), and I suddenly felt silly in the borrowed robe and pj’s. “Morning,” I said when he didn’t look up.
He glanced over the top of the page he was reading. “Good morning.” He went back to reading. Okay, then. Not chatty in the morning. I added it to the growing list of things I hadn’t known before about Will Holman.
The white marble-top tulip table contained three place-mats, each set with a small plate, silverware, a coffee cup, and a juice glass. One of the plates had a folded section of newspaper on it, so I took the other remaining seat, the empty one.
Holman handed the folded newspaper section over to me. “For you.” It was the obituary section of The New York Times. “Coffee.” He pointed to a white ceramic carafe sitting on the table, then slid his long, pointed finger over to the glass container. “Juice. Mother doesn’t keep croissants in the house, but there are some berries in the fridge.” He went back to reading the paper.
The whole scene was laughably civilized and not a bad way to start the day. I quietly poured myself a cup of coffee, added copious amounts of sugar and cream, and then read through the obits. It was a treat to have a tangible paper, as I usually read online. I savored the way the black ink set against the thin white-gray paper made the words seem weightier, more legitimate somehow. That day’s tributes were for a famous drummer of a 1970s rock band I’d never heard of but felt sure my parents had; the first female head of a political party in Tunisia who’d fought for democracy during the Arab Spring; the original head chef at one of New York’s most famous restaurants; and a woman who invented a small but essential component of a C-47 transport plane engine used during World War II.
After I finished reading, I checked the time. It was already past seven-thirty. “I should check on my car.”
Holman agreed. We decided if they could fix it in a couple of hours, we could wait. If it would take longer, we’d head back to Tuttle and I’d come back to get it another time. I dialed the garage and asked for Ivan, like Jay had told me to.
“You need a new timing chain. I can do, but it will take three, maybe four, five days.”
“Five days?”
“Is not difficult,” he said with a heavy Eastern European accent. “But I just get orders for work on government fleet. Ivan is only one Ivan.”
“All right.” I sighed and then asked the question I was dreading getting the answer to. “How much?”
“Not too bad.” He paused, and I let my shoulders relax, relieved to finally get some good news where this car was concerned.
Then he continued. “Five, maybe six, seven hundred bucks.”
“Are you kidding me?” Old Ivan must be doing pretty well if he thought seven hundred dollars was “not too bad.” That would make a sizable dent in my already paltry savings account. A feeling akin to grief took root. Having already been through the denial and anger stages, I moved onto bargaining. “Is it drivable? I mean, could I drive it back to Tuttle and maybe get it fixed closer to home?”
Ivan laughed like I’d said something hilarious. “Car doesn’t go without timing chain. You want I have it towed to Tattle Corner?”
The cost to tow my car 150 miles back home was sure to exceed any savings I’d get by having it fixed there. “No, that�
�s okay,” I said, firmly in the depression stage but moving toward acceptance. Retirement is overrated anyway. “I’ll leave it with you.”
“Ivan is good. Ivan fix you up.”
“Thanks, Ivan,” I said.
“You’re welcome, friend of Jay.”
I hated to leave my car behind, but I didn’t really have a choice. As pleasant as it was, I couldn’t stay at Hotel Camilla forever, and I sure as hell couldn’t call Jay again. I needed to get back to Tuttle. For one thing, I had a dog to take care of. Thankfully, my mom had agreed to take Coltrane last night during my unexpected stay. For another thing, I had a story to follow.
When I got back to my room, there was a handwritten note on delicate stationery embossed with a CH at the top. “I took the liberty of throwing your clothes in the wash. There’s a fresh outfit for you in the closet. xx, C.”
Camilla came in here to get my laundry? That felt both intrusive and comforting at the same time. I said a silent phew that I’d made the bed before I went to eat breakfast. I opened the closet, which was empty except for two hangers. One held a tailored tweed dress in a soft pink with thin metallic gold threads woven throughout, and on the other was its matching jacket. I stood and stared at the garments for a good solid minute trying to figure out what I should do. Could I really wear Camilla’s suit? Not only did it feel weird to borrow clothes from a woman I just met, but I could tell by looking at them that they were majorly high-end garments. Definitely not my usual thrift store style. I’d look like I was playing dress-up. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t very well stay in pajamas all day. So I did the only thing I could do: I took a shower and put on an outfit that far exceeded the current value of my car. And probably of my bank account as well.
CHAPTER 25
I had a feeling it would look nice on you,” Camilla said when I walked into the front entryway wearing her magical suit.
“It’s incredible.” I snuck another glance in the large mirror in the foyer. I felt like a princess—no, an heiress—no, a girl boss! Whatever it was, I felt powerful. I never realized that clothes could have such a significant effect on how one felt on the inside. Then again, I’d never worn anything like this before. The material was thick and luxurious, and the cut somehow highlighted every curve and glossed over every flaw. It was as close to a supersuit as I was ever going to get. “Are you sure you don’t mind me wearing it?”
“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” Camilla said with a warm smile.
“I’ll bring it back when I come to pick up my car,” I said, reassuring her.
Camilla waved a hand as if she wasn’t concerned. Holman stood silently holding his backpack.
I turned toward him and did a little twirl. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About the clothes, dear,” Camilla said. “I gave Riley something to wear because her clothes were dirty.”
Holman looked at me as if he was noticing for the first time that I was wearing a suit, or anything at all. “It looks like something you’d wear, Mother.”
She took a step closer and put a hand on his elbow. “Yes, well, that’s because it is. But doesn’t Riley look pretty in it?” I noticed she spoke in the gentle, leading way mothers have when talking to small children. You remember cousin Richard, don’t you? Tell Grandma how much you love the scarf she knit you. Isn’t Aunt Janice’s fruitcake delicious?
Holman looked at me again, moving his big eyes over the length of me, then gave a disinterested shrug. “Riley always looks pretty.”
It was both a compliment and an insult, the variety of comment Holman so often doled out. After he said it, I caught Camilla’s face in the mirror. She was trying to suppress it, but I could see a faint smile tugging up the corner of her lip.
We were not even out of Georgetown when my phone rang. The phone number came up as Blocked and I thought it might be Ivan calling me with an update on the car. I assumed wrong.
“Riley Ellison?” a woman’s voice came across the line.
“Yes,” I answered, a little hesitant.
“I have some information about a story you’re reporting on.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching into my bag for my notebook. I put the phone on speaker so Holman could hear the call too. “To whom am I speaking?” I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a little like Hadley Lawrence if she’d thrown a tea towel over the speaker of her phone.
“That’s not important,” the woman said. “What’s important is Dale Mountbatten’s crooked financial dealings.”
“Okay…” I said again, now pretty sure it was Hadley. I’d listen to what she had to say and maybe I could persuade her to eventually go on the record.
“Colonel Mustard Enterprises,” the woman said. “It’s a shell company.”
Of course I already knew about that, but I wanted to know what she knew—and how she knew it. “A shell company?” I asked.
“A company that exists only on paper.” She sounded annoyed.
“Yes, I know what a shell company is,” I said, slightly annoyed myself. “I was wondering what sort of shell company it is, and what connection it has to Dale Mountbatten?”
“Then you should have said that.”
I saw Holman smirk out of the corner of my eye. He had chastised me for being “imprecise” with my language on a number of occasions.
“I apologize,” I said, mounting a herculean effort to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Please go on.”
“Colonel Mustard Enterprises is, on paper anyway, a distributor of French butter. But in reality, Dale and his business partner,” she said these last words with heavy sarcasm, “have been using it to launder money.”
This could be independent corroboration for Rosalee’s story, I thought. Although this woman—most likely Greer’s sister—was clearly indicating Rosalee was a willing participant in the financial crimes, which was not exactly the story Rosalee told.
Holman pulled the car into the nearest parking lot in order to give this conversation his full attention. I looked over and put a finger to my lips. I didn’t think it was a good idea for him to start asking her questions. She might get spooked and hang up.
“Tell me more,” I said.
“You’ve heard of Paul Manafort, right?”
“Of course.” Paul Manafort was the infamous lobbyist who worked for President Trump’s 2016 campaign. He was indicted for allegedly taking millions in fees from foreign Ukrainian/pro-Russian oligarchs without declaring himself as a foreign agent.
“Dale Mountbatten is a small-time Paul Manafort—only he had the good sense to stay out of any presidential campaigns.”
“Wait—are you telling me that Dale works for the Ukrainian government?”
“No, you silly twit!”
“Hey, hey,” I cut her off. “Slow down on the insults, okay? You called me, remember?”
I heard her take in a breath. “I’m sorry. I get upset sometimes.”
“It’s okay, Hadley,” I said, fishing. When she didn’t respond, I asked, “This is Hadley, isn’t it?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
Another pause. “Who’s Hadley?”
“I can tell it’s you, Ms. Lawrence. We just met yesterday and I remember your voice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You forced me to have a glass of tea in your sister’s kitchen…”
“Do you want the information or not?” she snapped, dropping the towel and the last pretense of her anonymity.
“Yes, of course. Go ahead,” I said, and then unable to stop myself, I added in a much softer voice, “Hadley.”
She cleared her throat before continuing. “Dale quietly took on a client about nine years ago from Qatar, a high-ranking political adviser to the royal family. They wanted Dale to help improve the image of the Qatari government within certain US political circles.”
I wrote this down as quickly as I cou
ld. “Okay,” I said, “but that’s not illegal, right? He’s a lobbyist. That’s kind of what he does.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a problem if he had gone through the proper channels and registered under FARA.”
I’d watched enough news coverage over the past couple of years to know that FARA stood for the Foreign Agents Registration Act, a statute requiring lobbyists to disclose their associations with foreign governments. It had been on the books for years and years and was almost never enforced, that is, until Paul Manafort came along.
“Dale’s not registered under FARA?”
“Not for his work with Qatar.”
This was easy enough to fact-check and I would certainly do so, but I wanted to keep her talking, so I played devil’s advocate. “If Dale had been illegally taking money from a foreign government for years, how come he hasn’t been caught?”
Hadley laughed. “Honey, only the dumb criminals get caught. And Dale is many things, but dumb ain’t one of them.”
“I can check this pretty easily, you know?”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
Holman got out his phone and immediately started Googling.
“So tell me about the connection to Colonel Mustard.”
She sighed as if burdened by my ignorance. “The Qataris paid Dale well for his services, and since he wasn’t officially registered with them, he had to do something with the money.”
“Nine years…” I said out loud as the connection hit me.
“That’s right,” she said, finally sounding satisfied with something I said. “Right about the time he moved that little whore down to the sticks and opened a restaurant.”
I saw Holman’s jaw tighten at the insult. I put a hand on his arm to calm him. We couldn’t risk making Hadley mad, not yet.
“So you’re saying Dale and Rosalee funneled the money from the Qatari official through Colonel Mustard Enterprises under the cover of butter?”
“Spread over the course of nine years, I’ll bet they’ve run close to ten million dollars through there.”
