Challenging Matt

by Julianna Morris

  “We’ve only met once at a company Christmas party. It was just a hello and goodbye encounter—the other women were crowding around too much for anything else.”

  “But what about when Mr. Davidson married Matt’s mother?”

  “We didn’t go to the wedding. It was a small, hush-hush affair on Catalina Island to avoid publicity—you know Katrina Eisley’s reputation for being a recluse. Marrying into the Eisley family was a big deal for Peter. Between his new father-in-law and famous stepson, he joined a small, very exclusive social circle.”

  Layne returned Peter Davidson’s letter to her aunt. “I’ve done research on Matt Hollister for some of the reporters at the Babbitt. I can’t imagine he’s really reformed. His father, S. S. Hollister, is one of most outrageous hedonists in the world and they seem cut from the same cloth.”

  “Except the son never married, and the father can’t stay out of divorce court. Anyway, I sort of understand why Peter claims I’m not due anything from the sale of the firm....”

  “I don’t,” Layne said stoutly.

  “Unfortunately the math appears to add up. The embezzlement crashed the value of the company and Peter repaid every penny of the stolen money from his own pocket. At the end of the letter you can see he’s offering to give me twenty-five thousand dollars as a goodwill gesture, but that’s all.”

  “It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t be due several million at the very least. The property alone is worth a fortune.”

  While Dee didn’t say anything, Layne thought she agreed. Her aunt had never dealt much with money, focusing on art while her husband went into business after getting out of the navy. They’d seemed to have the perfect marriage, but Layne wasn’t naive enough to think there hadn’t been occasional problems.

  Dee sat next to her and traced a pattern in the quartz countertop. “The thing is, I know how good you are at research and putting pieces of information together. And I’ve been thinking...if anyone can prove Will was innocent, it’s you. And then I could challenge Peter about the sale and be able to pay off the mortgage before I have to sell the house. Will and I built this house together—I don’t want to lose it.”

  Layne froze.

  Okay, so she was good at her job. That didn’t make her a criminal investigator. And what if she proved Uncle Will had embezzled from his company? How could she tell Aunt Dee? It might hurt even more to know for sure.

  “Uh, about the mortgage,” she said. “The house means a lot to me, too, and I have some money saved—”

  “I can’t accept it. This is my problem,” her aunt said predictably. “But if you could find out the truth, it would help in more ways than one.”

  “What if you don’t like what I find? I’m not saying Uncle Will was guilty, but you never know.”

  “I need the truth, wherever it leads.” Dee put a hand in her pocket, her mouth tense. She was a lovely woman, with golden blond hair and warm blue eyes that had twinkled brightly before her husband’s death. She resembled Layne’s mother in physical appearance only; eleven years separated them and Dorothy’s nature was far more artistic than her older, brisk cardiologist sister’s.

  “All right,” Layne agreed reluctantly.

  She loved Aunt Dee dearly and had loved Uncle Will. She couldn’t say no. Her aunt and uncle were the ones who’d made her feel special when she was growing up with a star athlete brother and beautiful twin sisters who could charm the paint off walls. Her parents were so brilliant and accomplished themselves, they hadn’t known what to do with a daughter who was merely average and didn’t fit in. It was Uncle Will and Aunt Dee who’d understood her.

  “Good.” Dee slowly opened her fingers. “This is the key to William’s home office. Maybe you can start with the stack of boxes that Peter sent over from the company. I haven’t had time to open them because there’s been too much to deal with. I know the police went through everything before it was packed, but they were looking for things that made William look guilty, not anything to show he was innocent.”

  Heart in her throat, Layne took the key. The metal seemed to be burning a hole in her palm and she quickly hooked it on her keychain. The answers might be in her uncle’s office...but it was also the place where he’d died.

  Was that why Aunt Dee was imagining that she’d heard him around the house?

  Layne lifted her chin.

  Ghosts weren’t real, but if they did exist, she could never be afraid of Uncle Will. He might even help her discover what had happened to him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MATT HOLLISTER HANDED a stack of files to his assistant, who gave another stack back to him in return.

  “They’re the latest reports and the daily correspondence, boss,” Gillian said. “I couldn’t help the delay—the mail came late this morning.”

  “I understand. Did you learn more about who my appointment might be? You mentioned the name seemed familiar.”

  “I can’t think of anything. I just wish the temp covering me on Wednesday had put down L. McGraw’s first name and a contact number.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Matt flipped open the top file filled with correspondence. Beneath the file were reports on various projects the Eisley Foundation was spearheading. “Anyhow, it’s probably someone with Heifer Project International. I spoke to one of their supporters recently about becoming a sponsor.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled and left him to work.

  Matt read through the letters and memos, making notes in the margins for Gillian, setting some aside to handle personally. Half were pleas for money from outside organizations—with descriptions of their programs and how additional support from the foundation would benefit them. The other half were about existing Eisley Foundation projects...and pleas for more money.

  He sighed.

  It wasn’t easy seeing how much was wrong in the world, and trying to do something about it was like trying to drain a bottomless pit. Kids, the environment, the homeless, animals... The list was endless, along with the heartbreak.

  As for the reports Gillian had given him, he would read the material in depth, before making any decisions. When he’d taken over the director’s seat, he’d starting looking at the long-term projects list—some no longer seemed viable, so he had auditors examining their expenditures, and experts evaluating their merits. Project leaders were screaming, upset about the scrutiny. Nevertheless, the reports were starting to arrive.

  “Come in,” he called at a knock on the door.

  Gillian poked her head inside. “Hey, Matt. Reception called—your three o’clock is here. They told me L. McGraw’s first name and you aren’t going to like it.”

  “Then it isn’t one of the Heifer Project folks?”

  “Nope. L. McGraw is Layne McGraw, that’s why it sounded familiar. She’s works for the Puget Sound Babbitt. I see her name at the end of articles—you know, ‘research provided by staff member Layne McGraw.’”

  “Maybe she’s branching out into reporting.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Gillian said. “There’s a procedural list on my desk for handling calls, saying you aren’t doing any interviews. The temp must have forgotten to follow it.”

  “This isn’t your fault,” Matt assured her, determined not to be one of those hard-assed managers who blamed other people for everything. But he was frustrated; the Babbitt was one of several publications that seemed to go out of its way to be annoying. Once upon a time he’d provided steady fodder for the gossip page; now their columnists were gunning for him. They kept publishing editorials, voicing concerns about someone with his reputation running the Eisley Foundation. They weren’t the worst of his critics, but they were bad enough.

  Hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have any qualifications for the job. He had a degree in business administration, and his grandfather had alway
s planned to have a family member assume control of the foundation one day—Matt had even worked there before leaving for college. Besides, a lot of wealthy people were philanthropists, their only credentials being the ability to spend money.

  Nevertheless, Matt had to admit things would be easier if everyone took him seriously. His grandfather had deliberately kept the foundation private so he wouldn’t have to be accountable to anyone except the Internal Revenue Service, but it wasn’t as simple as that for Matt. The Eisley Foundation didn’t operate in a vacuum, it needed serious people involved, and those serious people didn’t want their names linked to a notorious playboy—especially one with his reckless reputation.

  “I can send her away,” Gillian offered.

  “That’s all right, I’ll handle it.”

  She left, giving him a few minutes to stew. When she returned, there was a young woman at her heels.

  “Ms. McGraw, this is Matt Hollister.” Gillian introduced them. She sent him another apologetic look before heading back to her desk.

  Matt stood and assessed his unwanted guest. The Babbitt reporter had masses of silky brown hair and green eyes in a pixieish face. She wore khaki slacks and a green shirt, and couldn’t be more than five foot three in her stocking feet.

  “You’ve wasted your time, Ms. McGraw,” he said. “The assistant who set the appointment forgot that I’m not giving interviews right now.”

  Layne McGraw blinked. “I don’t want an interview...that is, I’m not a reporter. I’m here for personal reasons.”

  “You don’t work for the Babbitt?”

  “I’m a researcher there, but this has nothing to do with the magazine. I have some questions, just not work related. Questions, that is.” She seemed nervous and dropped into a chair without being invited. “Uh, that’s some view,” she said, pointing to the window.

  Matt automatically turned his head, though he was well acquainted with the view. The Eisley Foundation building overlooked North Seattle’s Lake Union, and the vista was spectacular, especially on a sunny June day. At the moment a sea plane was coming in for a landing and three crewing teams were skimming across the water, rowing in rhythmic precision.

  “The foundation has been located here for twenty-five years,” he explained, anticipating her first inquiry would be about a charitable organization operating out of a multimillion dollar property. “We were part of the restoration efforts for the immediate area. This was a historic structure that was empty for twenty years until we purchased and renovated it for our use.”

  “That’s great, I love old buildings. What I wanted to ask about...” She hesitated, looking even more uncomfortable. “It’s about your new chief financial officer. And the company he owns, and uh, where you worked for over a year.”

  Matt kept his expression neutral. Peter Davidson was a straight-up guy who’d married his mom four years ago—Pete had made Katrina Eisley genuinely happy, possibly for the first time in her adult life since her very messy, very public divorce from Matt’s father. And Peter had given Matt the job he’d needed to prove to his grandfather that he was serious about changing his life and taking over the foundation.

  “What about Mr. Davidson?”

  “I know he’s related to you and that he’s now on staff here.”

  “While our staff isn’t of public concern since we are a family-endowed foundation,” Matt said carefully, “Mr. Davidson’s salary is one dollar annually. Basically, he’s donating his valuable time.”

  “Uh...sure. But as I said, my questions are about his financial management firm. As I’m sure you recall, his partner was accused of embezzling from the business seven months ago.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. He and his stepfather had worked with the Carrollton District Attorney and outside auditors to clean up the mess at Hudson & Davidson. Not only that, Peter had personally assured every single client they wouldn’t suffer any loss because of the thefts. His stepfather had come out of the whole thing squeaky clean, though the betrayal of his friend and business partner had deeply wounded him. Matt had even remained at the firm longer than he’d planned to help sort everything out.

  “Again, I have nothing to say. It’s time for you to leave, Ms. McGraw.”

  Frustration and another less-defined emotion were visible on Layne McGraw’s face. “Please, you worked there when the thefts occurred and you’re related to Peter Davidson, so I hoped you would be able to get me in to see him or tell me more about the case against his partner. The police and D.A.’s office have refused to release any information and Mr. Davidson is harder to see than the governor.”

  “I’m sorry, that isn’t my problem. This is a private office and you’ve been asked to leave.”

  “Please, I didn’t start this right. Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Hudson was my—”

  “I’m not interested,” he interrupted.

  “Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like?”

  Something in her quiet question troubled Matt, but he pushed it away. “We know what happened.” He lifted the receiver on his phone and gestured with it. “Now, shall I call security and have you escorted out, or will you go on your own?”

  “No, I’ll go.”

  When she was gone, Matt dialed the number of his security chief. “Connor, a young woman just left my office. Her name is Layne McGraw. Slim, dark hair, not too tall, wearing a green shirt. Will you make sure she exits the building and doesn’t bother anyone else?”

  “Right.”

  The phone clicked off without a goodbye, which was Connor’s style. He was a blunt, transplanted Irishman who’d been the Eisley family and corporate security chief for fifteen years. Matt had gotten to know him quite well during his wild college days—Connor had expressed his opinion of spoiled rich kids on a regular basis, particularly when bailing him out of trouble. If Matt’s father had been more like Connor, Matt probably wouldn’t have wasted so many years playing.

  Swiveling in his chair, he looked at the view the McGraw woman had admired. Unlike most of his half brothers and sisters, he’d thrown himself into their father’s playboy lifestyle. But at least he didn’t have a bevy of former wives and children and girlfriends strewn around the world like good old S. S. Hollister. He’d taken his share of lovers, but he’d always been careful to keep things casual, only dating sophisticated women who had as little interest in domesticity as he did himself.

  Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He might not have been as notorious as his father, but he’d done his best to have fun and duck responsibility for a long time. And now that he wanted to do something important, his former stupidity was getting in the way.

  He leaned back for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few years.

  First his oldest brother had gotten married. Admittedly, it had only caused a small blip on Matt’s radar, mostly because he’d believed Aaron was just as cynical about marriage as he was himself. But then Matt’s closest childhood friend had called with the news that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and ALS was virtually a death sentence.

  Matt remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.

  He flexed his fingers.

  Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and i
f he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.

  His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.

  Matt intended to be far more involved.

  * * *

  LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.

  She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.

  Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.

  Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.

  She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.