“Miss Graham. I’m Bryce Olsen, lead investigator for Jameson and Company’s parent company. Please come with me.”
The security guard must have called up with her information and there’d been nothing out of the ordinary on the other two floors. She numbly followed Bryce Olsen, and realized he was the man who’d been with Matthew at the police station. A few of the other personnel looked at her, but without any real curiosity. They all seemed to have a job to do. She was led to one of the conference rooms. Files littered the table and a woman sat at one end, leafing through them, making notes. Another had a laptop open and was looking at the screen, then at the contents of a file. Heather’s stomach clenched with dread. This was clearly very, very serious.
“Please take a seat. Would you like some coffee? Water?”
“I think I should call a lawyer.” Heather wasn’t sure why she made the statement. Probably from watching so many TV cop shows.
Olsen looked at her sharply. “All right. Tell me if that’s what you want to do, although you might want to hear me out first.”
Heather thought a minute, then gestured for him to continue. She was scared to death and not just about the unknown. Matthew was here and she didn’t want to see him.
“We’re investigating a serious case of fraud, Miss Graham, Heather, involving this department. And more importantly, a murder.”
She couldn’t speak. Words literally failed her. She stared at him, shocked, and tried to breathe. Finally, “Murder?”
“Murder. And fraud.”
Screw the fraud. Who had been murdered? Matthew? She shook. Another man entered the room, a pistol in a holster on his hip. He looked at her in a calculating manner. Biting her bottom lip in an effort not to scream her question, clutching the edge of the table with both hands, Heather tried to breathe.
“Who was murdered?” she choked out.
“Meredith Fox.”
Relief overwhelmed her. She swivelled in her chair and put her head between her knees. A warm, familiar hand rested on the nape of her neck and she sobbed.
“Heather, sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
She didn’t respond, didn’t dare. A male voice, probably belonging to the man with the gun, overrode Matthew’s. “Well, that was either the best acting job I’ve ever seen or she’s surprised her boss had something to do with the victim’s death.”
“Back off, McAllister.” Matthew’s voice held a note of deadly warning. Heather tried to raise her head and he lifted his hand, leaving her bereft. She swung back to face the table and looked at the wooden surface, tracing the grain with her eyes. Matthew was alive. Mr. Grayson killed Meredith? Matthew was alive. Breathe. New mantra.
“You’d better go, Manny,” Bryce Olsen spoke with authority.
“Yeah, Baker. Conflict of interest, remember?”
Manny? Baker? Manny Baker, not Matthew Bourke. Heather felt him leave, and the room became dimmer, colder somehow. A bottle of water materialized to her right and she caught movement across the table from her. She cautiously raised her eyes and met Mr. Olsen’s. Better she kept things formal. He switched a tiny recorder on and she realized there was a video camera on a tripod, focused on her.
“Do you still want a lawyer?” Mr. Olsen asked the question quietly, with no hint of anything other than interest in his tone.
Heather shook her head. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.
“You need to respond orally for the tape, Miss Graham.”
“No. No, I don’t want a lawyer.”
After confirming her decision he asked her to give her name and other relevant personal information. Then he jumped right in.
“You appeared shocked to hear Mr. Grayson is implicated in his personal assistant’s death.”
Heather nodded, then hurriedly answered. “I was shocked. I am shocked. He talks about her. He seemed to admire her. He hasn’t replaced her. It doesn’t seem possible.”
Her interrogator abruptly changed the topic, avoiding her unspoken question, like how did they know? “Tell me about your job description.”
She regrouped. That was easy. She gave a brief synopsis of her position, adding that she’d started out in the general pool before going to work for Mr. Grayson.
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Just over the year. I covered holidays, mat leaves, and sick leaves before that. I’ve been with the company for nearly eleven years.”
“And you’ve never wanted to work for just one person before that.”
Mr. Olsen made it sound suspicious. Not a question, but a comment on her intent. Heather looked at him with more confidence. She wasn’t as shaky now and she was feeling a little annoyed. She was also smart enough to know they’d be looking for anyone to drop in the shit with Mr. Grayson.
“I liked the unpredictability before. It was a challenge to adapt quickly and learn a new boss’s approach and expectations. I took a fairly boring job and made it interesting for me. This company has excellent benefits and a fair salary. How about you?”
Mr. Olsen’s calm demeanor shifted for an instant. “We aren’t talking about me, Miss Graham. But I think I take your point. So what changed with Mr. Grayson?”
“I was turning thirty. I guess I thought I should have stability.”
“Why Mr. Grayson?”
“I covered for his secretary a number of times. She was older and not well. When she retired he asked for me. I suppose he was happy with my work.” Or maybe he recognized how disinterested she was in the job. Competent but content to keep her distance. Maybe Mr. Grayson carried out some serious shit right underneath her nose. And why wouldn’t he? He’d kept her at arms length, which was just fine with her.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about your boss in the past year or so?”
“Like what? I hardly see him. I answer the phones, schedule appointments, make his travel arrangements, type his reports and so forth as I’ve told you. I don’t take dictation. He does his own filing. He’s very private.”
“Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Mr. Olsen, most everyone I’ve worked for have their own preferences. Mr. Grayson was no different. I don’t know what you’re looking for. I try not to speculate.” Heather wished desperately she hadn’t thrown that flippant comment out to Matthew-Manny about bookies. She’d just said it because her boss was so anal about getting away for lunch on time, like he had a standing appointment. All she’d done was speculate.
Mr. Olsen asked what felt like hundreds more questions. Heather answered them. It appeared they were looking for a piece of missing data. Well, they could have at her computer. If it was there she didn’t know what it meant. She wrote down her user ID and passwords and handed them over. It was a formality and she knew it. Their tech crew would have cracked her computer long ago. She debated mentioning Mr. G’s obsession with lunch hours and insistence on no one being in his office, especially when he wasn’t there. But Matthew-Manny already knew that, and she was damned if she was going to speculate anymore.
“You have a substantial amount in savings.”
Shit. Of course they’d know that. They would have looked into everything surrounding Mr. Grayson. “I’m thrifty. I save. If you know I have money in the bank, then you know it reflects my salary and my standard of living.”
Enough was enough. She certainly wasn’t telling Mr. Olsen she was seriously considering going back to school. Matthew or Manny or whoever he was didn’t need to know any more personal information about her than he already learned. A flush of humiliation crept up her neck. She could feel it. How much did Olsen know? How much had Matthew-Manny told him about her? Had they laughed, jocks together?
Mr. Olsen reached out and turned off the tiny recorder, and got up to go shut down the video camera. “Thank you, Miss Graham. If you’ll sign this nondisclosure form, you may go.”
“Where?” Heather thought it was a fair question. She scrawled her name across the document after briefly scan
ning it. If she’d just donated her organs then they could take her heart first. Her neck still felt the imprint of that warm hand and she hurt all over, but mostly deep inside her chest.
“Wherever you like, except for this building. Especially your office. It’s being utilized.”
“And my job?”
“Once you’re cleared, Jameson and Company will place you again. Not in this department, but you’ll have employment here.”
Nope. She’d be a pariah, either too stupid to know what Grayson was up to, or implicated somehow. But Heather made herself nod and stood. Time to get out of Dodge. She hadn’t visited her mom in a while. And college started next month. Maybe she could apply in time and if she was lucky, there’d be a slot. Mr. Olsen came around to open the door for her. He offered his hand, but she pretended not to see it. He’d done her no favors, and was thick as thieves with Matthew-Manny. The way Olsen looked at her, well, he knew his partner had been in her bed. Maybe he knew her best talents there, too, if she had any.
Matthew-Manny was waiting for her in the hallway. She ignored him and walked past. He grasped her arm and forced her to stop. “We need to talk, Heather. I’ll be tied up here all day. I’ll call you when I can, and if you don’t want me at your place, I’ll meet you somewhere.”
She nodded and pointedly looked at where his hand gripped her wrist.
“Will you meet me, Heather?”
She nodded again.
“Promise?”
That was easy. Liars begat liars. “Yes.”
Matthew-Manny’s chocolate eyes studied hers. Heather lacked the energy to dissemble, and he seemed to confuse her flat affect for acquiescence. Sometimes when one lives right, fortune smiles on one. Mom’s vagrant shared thought. And this time she wasn’t going to confuse the fake fortune with the real one. She was going to get away. Matthew-Manny released her, letting his fingers drift over her hand in a whisper of promise.
Heather had an insane, momentary urge to throw herself at him and beg him to make this all go away. It passed, partly because the cop with the gun stood watching them with a cynical eye, primarily because she wasn’t stupid. Fool me once… She forced her feet into action and moved past the jerk, pretending he wasn’t there. She sensed Manny’s eyes on her until she turned the corner and headed toward the elevator. If she thought about him as Manny, rather than Matthew, the man she fell in love with and slept with, maybe he would fade from her thoughts. Because he likely wasn’t the same man, but a fraud, just like the one he investigated.
There was nothing in her office she ever wanted to see again except maybe her plant. She’d ask Moesha to rescue the poor thing when life settled down if it hadn’t perished without love and affection by then. Freudian. Totally.
She didn’t remember anything about the drive home, but was incredibly grateful she had her car. Public transport would have killed her today, prolonging the agony, looking at all those people and speculating on their lives. She hurried inside, fighting with her keys, the lock a bit blurred with the tears Heather refused to let fall while she was driving. Going straight to the kitchen she yanked the perishables out of the fridge, depositing them in a garbage bag, then went methodically through the apartment, emptying all the trash from each room on top of the discarded food. For a moment she stood and looked around.
Her place was like every other new apartment, resembling a number of white boxes stacked side by each, but she’d transformed it into an oasis of welcome. Her friends loved to visit her and Matthew-Manny had remarked on her taste and choice of furnishings. Heather had done it all on a modest budget, and with a design degree under her belt she thought she could put her talents to greater use. She just had to get her degree. And if that was pie in the sky, so what? It was her pie.
She next went to the bedroom. She didn’t bother to remake her bed. Instead, she put her big suitcase on it and a smaller one. Lists were her thing, partly to manage the OCD, but she found she didn’t need one. It seemed emotional trauma clarified one’s mundane thoughts. One week equalled one of everything.
Good to go, and in under thirty minutes. Heather wondered if she should call her mom or surprise her. Surprise was better, especially when she didn’t know how her mom was doing today, and Wanda tended to perseverate on the time it took for Heather to drive there. Regardless, Heather needed to go somewhere, somewhere far away.
The cases rolled easily to her door and at the last moment she unplugged the television and accompanying electronics as well as the phone. It was an odd sensation, but she wondered if she would ever come back. The garbage bag fit perfectly on top of the bigger suitcase and she left her apartment, carefully locking up behind her. Dumping the garbage in the big bin in the parking lot, Heather then loaded her cases into her trunk, using the edge to first balance then tip them in. She snapped her fingers in frustration, locked the car, and went back to check her mail. Nada. She paid most of her bills online and it was the middle of the month so it was all good.
She was vaguely aware she was pushing full speed ahead, running hard, avoiding the issue, but she couldn’t let herself think. She needed her mom. Wanda wouldn’t be of any real help, but it was the principle of the thing. Moms were supposed to help when their kids came running home, no matter the problem. And Heather had a broken heart and apparently worked for a murderer and a thief. She could still be accused of something heinous if they were looking to blame someone.
There was no need to stop for gas. She was always prepared. Being endlessly prepared could be laid smack at the feet of the chaos of her childhood. Having a manic depressive mom who didn’t respond to medication tended to influence a person, despite the mitigating presence of a loving father. She needed to talk to Moesha but thought she should wait awhile. Heather’s work floor was clearly in lockdown mode, and rumors would already be circulating, but she’d signed that nondisclosure agreement and didn’t want to be sued unnecessarily.
She decided to stop at the college first. Never put off until tomorrow…screw the quotes.
* * * *
“May I help you?” The young woman behind the desk wasn’t Heather’s idea of qualified help in the Registrar’s Office, but then she wasn’t sure about the veracity of anything anymore. Today confirmed that.
“I’d like to register for the design program.”
“That’s a process. Students, even mature students, usually do it at home and bring it in. You’ll need a portfolio, identification, any past educational credits, bursary or scholarship applications…”
The woman’s voice trailed off when Heather set all the listed components out on the counter with the exception of the financial applications, sorting through her leather folder. She located the online registration form last, hoping there hadn’t been any changes to this year’s form, blessing the fact she’d printed it off only a few nights ago. Maybe her atavistic self predicted this, the part of her not taken in by Manny’s charm. Heather conveniently forgot it was Manny-Matthew’s very insertion into her life that inspired her to look to change.
Heather’s unwilling helper became gracious and nearly subservient with the arrival of the well-prepared presentation, however unorthodox it may have seemed originally. She asked Heather to call her Kaye and worked some magic at the computer sitting on the counter. Kaye accepted Heather’s credit card after making one change to her application.
“You’ll need this course in furniture designs before you can take furniture four oh three, Heather. I’ve accepted your design portfolio on the face of it. Your professors may request additional designs, but you’ve obviously done some interesting things, and your previous course work will be taken into consideration.
“It’s a four-year program with the option of doing the summer courses. That will see you graduating at the end of two years with the same number of credits and courses. Most likely earlier, in your case, because you’ve already got two years under your belt, although some of the courses aren’t valid any longer. The practicum can be challenging,
but many of our students end up employed at their placements in the end.”
Heather accepted her credit card back, and took a map of the campus and a handbook outlining the services and rules of the college. She noted the first day of classes on her phone and in her date book, thanked Kaye and wandered back to her car, hoping it wouldn’t all be for nought. She’d just embarked on her future, and if there wasn’t a man in it, there would be more time for study. When one door closes perhaps another one did indeed open. Mom had spoken in euphemisms and riddles all her life, had raised Heather on them. Her dad balanced the craziness as best he could. But sometimes Mom was dead on. She fished her phone out of her purse and powered it down. There was no one she cared to speak to other than Moesha and she would wait to call her. It was best if she wasn’t distracted by calls or texts. From anyone.
Wanda’s place was only a three-hour drive away, and Heather knew she’d make it well before dinner. She could stay in what most people euphemistically termed “the guest suite” for up to a week, and that usually worked better for her than a hotel. She and her mom could have dinner together. Soon the view of the city was fading in her rear-view, and Heather imagined she could just keep driving forever.
The radio droned on quietly in the background, harmonizing with the whisper of the tires and the rush of air over the windshield. The weather was holding as promised, and she congratulated herself on her choice in footwear. Mundane, casual thoughts held in the forefront of her brain had always tended to support her denial and today was no different. She stayed in the right-hand lane, letting those in a hurry fly past, although her speed was slightly over the limit. She passed the occasional slowpoke, and in no time the turnoff to the small care home appeared on her right. Three hours, almost to the minute.
Taking her foot off the gas, she signalled, then pulled onto the secondary road. Her anxiety began to build again but she forced it down. Maybe her mom would be on her game today, and if not today, tomorrow, although if Wanda was on a bad stretch…Heather decided not to think about the length of Wanda’s bad stretches. They had all week, maybe longer, depending on where the investigation went with Jameson and Company. She was going to be optimistic if it killed her.
Be Your Everything [All for Love] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 8
