“We’ve put a lot of money into this venture, Pat. You make sure it gets off to a good start.”
There was something about the way he looked at me that gave me pause. “Any reason why it wouldn’t?” I asked.
“I don’t have to tell you that the Glencoe Highlands is not Toronto. A much smaller population. And there’s been talk of a recession. We have to think long-term, but we can’t let costs outweigh our revenue. The Braeloch branch needs clients. Affluent clients. If we can’t find them…”
He cleared his throat. “Last week, we received an anonymous letter. It said a thief is working at the Braeloch branch.” His mouth turned down in an expression of displeasure. “Clearly nonsense, but it shows that not everyone is happy about Norris Cassidy’s arrival in the area. There are two banks in town, and we’re competition for them.”
“Nuala Larkin is the branch manager. What’s her background?”
His face brightened. “The woman’s a born leader. Hell of an addition to our team. She was at Optimum in Lindsay for a few years and she approached us when she heard we were opening in Braeloch.”
Optimum Capital was the company that Jamie had moved to. And Lindsay was an hour’s drive south of Braeloch.
“She’ll have to build her business up from scratch,” I said. Like Norris Cassidy, Optimum has a policy that a financial advisor’s clients belong to the firm and a departing advisor can’t take them to another firm.
He smiled. “Next year, some of Nuala’s Optimum clients may follow her to Norris Cassidy. Optimum’s policy only applies to the first year.”
The same as our policy. I didn’t ask how he would react if one of his advisors made a similar move.
“How many other advisors are there at the branch?” I asked.
“Just Paul Campbell, the junior. A go-getter, that young man. Wait and see, he’ll have my job one day.”
“His experience?”
“Worked at a Bank of Toronto branch here in the city for a few years. He grew up in the Glencoe Highlands and his family is still there. A local boy will bring in local business.”
Keith pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “It’s settled, then. Monty Buchanan can fill in for you. He’s been at loose ends since he sold his business last summer. Drive up to Braeloch tomorrow. I’ll call Shirley Corcoran, our caretaker, and tell her that you’ll be staying at the house. And I’ll let Nuala know that you’ll be at the branch on Tuesday.”
He scribbled down directions to Black Bear Lake and a telephone number, and handed me the piece of paper. “Shirley’s number.”
My head was spinning as I took it.
He stood up and held out his hand. “Get us off to a good start, Pat.”
I had been dismissed.
In the car, I phoned Shirley, who told me that the house at Black Bear Lake had four bedrooms and a pullout sofa in the basement. I said I would arrive early that evening. This was my opportunity to look for Jamie and I was determined to make the most of it.
Then I called Stéphane Pratt, my business partner. I gave him some background on Tracy and Jamie, and I told him about Lyle’s murder. Then I dropped the bombshell that I’d be at the Braeloch branch for the next few weeks.
“Monty Buchanan?” Stéphane said when I told him who would replace me. “Don’t be up there too long, Pat. There’s a limit to how long I can put up with old Monty.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll be fine, ma chère. You get the Braeloch branch off to a good start. By the way, have you come to terms with Tracy being a lesbian?”
I hesitated. “I’m her mother and I’ll always be there for her.” I paused. “How did your family react?”
“My parents were shocked, of course. They’re French-Canadian Catholics living in a small Northern Ontario city. How could they have a gay son? Where did they go wrong? There were some rough patches, but we got through it.
“This is a period of adjustment for you,” he added, “but it will turn out fine. Tracy’s a great girl, and she thinks the world of you. Bonne chance in Braeloch, Pat.”
Tracy was at the house when I returned. She greeted me at the door, and we joined Laura in the kitchen where she was eating a late breakfast. I told them my plans.
“No! I’m not spending my winter break babysitting in the back woods.” Laura shook her head, her long, blond hair swinging from side to side. “No way!”
I strove for patience. “Laura, I just explained—”
“Why can’t Farah stay with Tommy up there?”
I reminded Laura that Farah Alwan, our housekeeper, had asked for the following week off. “Tracy can drive Farah up next weekend and take you back to Toronto. You’ll be here when school starts.”
“And I’ll miss winter break!” she wailed. “Parties, ski trips if the snow is good. This is my last year of high school. I won’t see some of the guys after this year.”
I remembered that when I was eighteen my world revolved around my school friends, but I pushed that thought aside. “You’ve got almost four months till the school year ends,” I said. “Plenty of time to say your goodbyes.”
“And Kyle…”
I’d been worried about what Laura and her boyfriend Kyle Shingler would be up to when school was out and I was at work. But over the years I had learned to pick my battles.
“We wanted Tommy to live with us,” Tracy told her. “We promised Mom that we’d pitch in. Now is your chance.”
“Tommy can stay with his grandmother,” Laura said.
“Tommy’s grandmother is an old woman with a heart condition.” Tracy’s voice was stern.
I pointed to the stairs. “Pack your bags, Laura, and I’ll get Tommy’s things together. We’ll leave in an hour. We’ll need to stop for groceries on the way.”
Laura glared at me, then dragged herself to the staircase.
“You and Tommy can—” I called as she went up the stairs.
Her bedroom door slammed shut.
I took my cell out of my handbag. Celia picked up at the rectory.
“I’d love to,” she said, when I invited her to join us at Black Bear Lake for a few weeks. “Pack your outdoor clothes and your winter boots. Bring books because you may not be able to use your laptop or your cell phone at the lake. Rock cuts on the highways block the signal in parts of the township.”
That news was a downer. I like to be connected at all times. There would be computers at the branch, but what would I do in the evenings?
“I’m going with you, Mom,” Tracy said when I got off the phone.
I took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You have to finish your articling year. You’ve come this far.”
I thought of something else. “And you need to keep your distance from the investigation. The police are looking for Jamie, and you’re an officer of the court. You have a duty to tell them if you hear from her.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I haven’t heard from her for days.”
“She hasn’t contacted you because she doesn’t want you involved. But I’ll be up there. I’ll do my best to find her.”
“You’ll be busy at the branch.”
“Not that busy. There are two advisors and I’m sure they have everything under control. I’ll just be the token rep from headquarters.”
My mind flashed back to the article in The Toronto World. “I read an article yesterday that said that Jamie works at Optimum. I thought she was at your law firm.”
“She joined Optimum three weeks ago as its client ombudsman.”
“But she’s specialized in claims against investment firms.”
“She thinks it’s her chance to bring about change within a company. Optimum wants to beef up its compliance department to ensure that trades are properly vetted.”
She paused. “And she said we shouldn’t be working at the same firm. Optimum had been wooing her for months so she…”
“Crossed over.”
“Yes.”
“Jam
ie did that for you,” I said. “She wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your articling year.”
Darkness had fallen when we turned into the long driveway that led to Norris Cassidy’s vacation home, but lights on both sides illuminated our way. We pulled up in front of a two-story log structure. A rusty Toyota pickup was parked at the front door. Behind it was Sister Celia’s blue Hyundai and a humungous black snowmobile on a trailer. I knew zilch about snowmobiles, but this one looked like the king of its species.
“Hey, guys.” Celia stood at the open front door beside a gray-haired woman dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. “Welcome to the Glencoe Highlands. Meet Shirley Corcoran.”
I waved at them and helped Tommy out of the back seat. Laura heaved a sigh and opened the passenger door.
At the door, Shirley handed me two sets of keys. A smile wreathed her weathered face. “Welcome to the Highlands, Mrs. Tierney. My Hank will keep the drive plowed. If ya need anything else, just holler.”
Celia took Maxie’s leash from Tommy.
“Who does this snowmobile belong to?” I asked.
“Me!” Celia’s face wore a delighted grin. “At least it’s mine for the next few weeks. I’ve rented it till the end of March.”
“Can I ride on it tomorrow?” Tommy asked as we went into the house.
“Sister Celia will be at work tomorrow, Tommy,” I said.
“Monday is my day off,” she said. “Are you at the branch tomorrow, Pat?”
I looked at my bedraggled family. Laura sat on the bottom step of the staircase, holding her head in her hands. Tommy was about to fall asleep on his feet. And I didn’t feel too perky myself. Maxie was the only one of our party with any energy. She was racing around the ground floor of the house, barking at the top of her lungs.
I’d uprooted the kids and dragged them up there. We needed time to acclimatize.
“No,” I said. “They expect me in on Tuesday.”
The house was a luxury country home with cathedral ceilings, skylights, a granite kitchen and a massive stone fireplace flanked by comfy leather sofas and armchairs. But it had no Internet or cell phone access. “How can I work on my history paper?” Laura asked when she came down from the bedroom she’d claimed.
I was disappointed as well. I’d been warned by Celia, but I’d brought my laptop with me assuming that Norris Cassidy executives would want to remain connected, even on their vacations. My cell, as well, because I never drive without it.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “You’ll have to go to the library in town. Or come into the branch.”
We sat down to a dinner of cold cuts, salad and bread. After we had eaten, Laura and Tommy turned in for the night. While Celia stacked the dishwasher, I saw them up to their rooms and got Tommy into bed. Then I left a phone message at Keith’s office saying that I’d arrived at Black Bear Lake and I would be at the branch on Tuesday morning.
Celia lit a fire in the fireplace and poured two glasses of cognac. When I sat down beside her, she clicked on the television remote.
A fanfare of music announced the local TV station’s evening newscast. The camera zoomed in on the face of an attractive young woman with shoulder-length dark hair. “I’m Mara Nowak, your host on The Highlands Tonight,” she said. “Police are continuing their investigation into the murder of Lyle Critchley, the Glencoe Highlands resident who died in a fire in his garage on Thursday evening.”
A picture of Lyle filled the screen.
“Police are still looking for Jennifer Collins as a person of interest,” Mara said and moved onto another topic.
Celia turned down the sound. I got up and brought the local telephone directory back to the sofa. “The people who bought Lyle’s business would know if he had any unhappy customers.”
“I have no idea who bought it,” she said.
“They may have kept the company name.” I flipped through the business listings. “Doesn’t look like it. Nothing listed as Critchley Heating and Cooling Systems.”
“I’ll ask around. Everyone knows everyone else around here.”
“What was Lyle like?”
She sighed and took a sip of cognac. “He was a difficult man. Or maybe just set in his ways.”
She paused for a moment or two. “He resented my presence. Complained last week when I put a vase of flowers on the altar. ‘Father Brisebois don’t like flowers,’ he said. “I told him that Father Brisebois wasn’t there right now. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘Father would never let you wear blue jeans in here.’”
“I suppose Father Brisebois wants women to wear dresses to church,” I said. “Hats too.”
She smiled. “Women’s clothing has always been a topic of great interest to the Catholic clergy.”
“Lyle shouldn’t have found fault with you.”
She ran a hand over her eyes. “Here I’m going on about his shortcomings and the poor man is dead.”
After Celia went up to bed, I called Devon, the current man in my life. He runs a software business in Connecticut and I reached him at his home in Stamford.
“Too bad you’re not near Kincaid. You could have stayed at my place,” he said when I told him where I’d be for the next few weeks. Devon has a great vacation home in another part of Ontario cottage country. That’s where I’d met him—I was renting the place next to it the previous summer.
“Why don’t you come up here for a weekend?” Then I remembered Celia. A Catholic nun might not want my lover spending a weekend at the house. “Or I could drive over to your place for a few days.”
Devon said he would be busy with work for the next several weeks and didn’t think he could get away. But he told me he’d make up for lost time when we got together.
“Promises, promises,” I said. “Will you be up for?”
“No worries there. I’ll bring my Barry White CD.”
“Barry who?”
“R and B singer, big in the’70s. ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe’ was his No. 1.”
I smiled. Devon can be a bit of a cornball, but he’s a sweet guy.
“I’m picturing you right now, babe, in that black negligée.” His voice was husky over the phone line.
I closed my eyes. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here.”
His voice dropped lower as he did what I asked.
I added a few moves of my own.
We both sighed, then said our goodnights.
I was smiling from ear to ear when I hung up.
I splashed more cognac into my glass, and my thoughts returned to Lyle. He was a cantankerous old guy who had a knack for getting on people’s nerves, maybe even on their bad sides. A lot of people might have wanted to get rid of him. I needed to check out his former clients.
CHAPTER FIVE
The phone rang as I relaxed with a coffee after breakfast the next morning.
“A client has been murdered,” Keith said. “We can’t have this, Pat.”
I had expected him to object that I’d taken Monday off, but he was holding me accountable for murder.
“Good morning to you, too, Keith,” I said. “If someone’s been murdered, that’s police business, not ours.” I paused. “Who was this client?”
“Guy named Lyle Critchley. His garage burst into flames when he drove into it last week.”
Braeloch’s newest business had sparked Lyle’s interest. “Was he signed up as a client?” I asked. “Or was he just a prospect?”
“I expect anyone who walks into one of our branches to leave as a client.” He paused. “Critchley had an appointment to meet with Paul on Thursday.”
I closed my eyes. Lyle was only a prospect. Maybe Paul, the Wonder Kid, would have signed him up. Or maybe not.
“Dammit, Pat, we can’t have Norris Cassidy’s name associated with people getting murdered.”
I stifled a sigh. “But it isn’t linked to Lyle’s murder. You and I, and Paul and Nuala are the only people who know that he was considering having Norris Cassidy manage hi
s money. He wasn’t a client yet.”
“Investment management is a sensitive business,” he barked. “Our good name is everything.”
“Norris Cassidy has an excellent track record. And I’m sure most people realize the Bernie Madoffs are just a few bad apples.”
“Madoffs can be anywhere. Even in a small center, as Optimum has discovered.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “What do you mean?”
“That letter I was telling you about yesterday reminded me of something I’d heard about Optimum. When we got back from Oakville, I went on the Internet and there they were.”
“There what were?”
“News reports about the fraud at Optimum’s Lindsay branch last year. One of their people dipped into the accounts of twenty retirees, took fifty thousand dollars out of each and moved the $1 million to an account in the Cayman Islands. But they caught the guy.”
“And you think the wrong person was arrested?”
“Oh, no. They had the guy dead to rights. All the transactions were done from his computer. Police checked the other advisors’ accounts and computers, and they came up clean. This guy—Ken Burrows—was arrested. He insisted he knew nothing about the theft or about the Cayman account. Hah! He’s in jail now.”
“The money was recovered?”
“No. The Cayman account was closed, and the money was moved who knows where. Burrows insists he doesn’t know where it is.”
“Optimum reimbursed its clients?” I asked.
“It dragged its feet for a few months hoping that Burrows would confess and say where the money was. But, yes, Optimum paid those investors, although one of them died while she waited for her money.”
Keith paused. “Optimum got a hefty fine from the regulators for failing to supervise Burrows appropriately. So it hired someone from outside to be a client ombudsman. Jennifer Collins, the lawyer in the Betsy Cornell case. And now the police are looking for her in connection with Lyle Critchley.”
“It’s a small world.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how true they were.
Black Water Page 4
