“Absolutely. There’s nothing I want more than your friendship.” He sent a silent, fervent prayer for forgiveness winging heavenward.
She smiled then, a real, tremulous smile, shocking in its sudden, transformative beauty. “I’m glad. Then maybe I’ll see you at the deli soon.”
She was backing away, about to disappear back into the night.
“Where are you going? Home? Work? I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be biking this late.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. His gut clenched and groin heated, all at once.
“I said friend, not keeper. You’re not the boss of me. Besides, I’ve only got so long before it’s too cold for riding.”
A whirl of dark hair and garishly-colored scrubs, and she was gone.
Sam stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists as Justin Bieber’s voice ran over him, wondering how it was possible for a broken heart to shatter even further. No words worth saving.
No kidding.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam shook his head, gazing across the papers strewn across his desk. Raul had been kind enough to print out the electronic records from the files Amanda had kept on the shop’s computer. Luckily she had uploaded all that to the cloud, whatever that meant, since the Garcia computers were all still in police evidence. Sam didn’t know what kind of shenanigans on Raul’s part had been required to access and print them all off, but he appreciated the effort, especially knowing that the now-single father had precious little time to spare.
The two women had kept meticulous records, but then, they hadn’t been doing anything particularly complicated. Purchasing materials, mostly from wholesalers, with a few smaller accounts that were clearly local businesses. Three times in the past year, they’d made business trips out west to purchase more specialized materials from sheep and llama ranches, including some Native operations. Sam didn’t know a thing about the textile business, but he figured anything you could do to create a niche was smart business. Amy had taken the first trip, and Amanda had taken the last two, and both women had clearly traveled as cheaply as possible. Nothing suspicious there.
Sam wondered why Amanda had taken both the last two trips, rather than trading back and forth with Amy. There were at least a dozen possible explanations. Maybe Amy didn’t like traveling. Or didn’t like traveling alone. Maybe she didn’t want to leave the girls, although her kids were older than Tomas. On the other hand, Clay had to travel for business, too, so maybe it was less disruptive to the kids and the family schedule as a whole to only ever have one parent out-of-pocket. Maybe it had just been an inconvenient time for Amy. He was probably distracted by nothing.
Maybe Amanda had a lover in New Mexico.
Sam barked a laugh. He was letting his imagination run away with him.
One thing, though, was definitely interesting.
Sam didn’t have Amy’s personal accounts to measure up with, but he did have Amanda’s and the shop’s. Once the shop had started turning a profit, about halfway through last year, a discrepancy appeared. The amount paid to Amy by the shop was practically a pittance, a mere fraction of the actual gains. Enough to say she wasn’t in the red, but little more. The rest went to Amanda.
Which of the women had been in charge of the books, Sam wondered. Everyone had given him the impression that Amy was the more business-minded of the two, more likely to have been in charge of adding numbers than selecting fabrics. Perhaps the discrepancy was simply the result of Amanda making a larger initial investment than Amy had.
Or maybe Amanda had been skimming, and when Amy had found out, Amanda had killed her.
Sam couldn’t quite picture that, though. The Amanda he’d known had been too down-to-earth for the sort of melodrama that story required. Not to mention the premise: why would Amanda steal from her best friend in the first place? Amy would have given her anything she’d asked for. And frankly, even if she’d quadrupled the shop’s profits, she wouldn’t have been anywhere close to rich.
And there really wasn’t much debt in the Garcia’s personal accounts—certainly not the sort that warrant a murder. The house mortgage, a loan for some tools, that was about it. They even paid off their credit cards every month, and who in the world did that?
Sam had to acknowledge, though, that there could be a lot of variables of which he was completely ignorant. Maybe Amanda had wanted to send Tomas to some fancy private school. (They had those in Indianapolis, didn’t they?) Did Raul know about the extra cash on Amanda’s side of the equation? Or had she been hiding it away, feeding some guilty habit or stashing it for an elopement with a secret lover?
From New Mexico!
A laugh escaped him at the last thought. Maybe he should be writing soap opera scripts instead of tax returns, he thought. What about Occam’s Razor? The Gordian Knot. Something about the simplest solution being the likeliest? Sam was floundering in hopelessly complicated instead. Maybe he should just ask Raul straight out about the extra cash, see if he knew anything about it.
Kicking off his shoes, Sam plunked his sock-clad feet on the desk and leaned back in his chair. What was the simplest solution, after all? Maybe he should figure that out first and then stick with it, come Hell or high water or Latin Lotharios with limpid eyes and lurid intentions.
Limpid. That was a pretty good word. He wasn’t sure what it meant, though. Limpish? Could eyes be limpy? Maybe liquid? Maybe limpid was the stand-in word for liquid-y.
“Sam?”
Dani’s voice startled him. He scowled at her as she swung around the edge of the doorjamb, batting her eyelashes at him.
“I’m in the middle of some highly sophisticated thought processes here,” he told her sternly.
“Oh? I’m very sorry, then. What is the highly sophisticated thought of the day?”
“What does limpid mean?”
“Limpid? Umm…is it something to do with toads?”
“Toads? Why toads?”
“Well, I don’t know. It sounds like a toad kind of word. And you don’t know what it means! It could absolutely have to do with toads.”
“I don’t think…” Sam abandoned the thought. “What do you want?”
“I want to ask you a favor.”
“Yeah, I got that from the eyelashes thing. Which is weird, by the way. I’m your brother.”
“You’re still a man, and therefore susceptible to the helpless female routine, even from females you’re related to. I hope.”
Sam rubbed his eyes. “God help me. What-do-you-want?”
“Parker’s parent-teacher conference is tonight. Will you go with me?”
Sam’s feet hit the floor as he straightened up into a full-body groan. “Whyyyyy?”
“Because I don’t want to go alone?”
“But you’re a strong independent woman! And besides, I’m working.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. Those teachers look at me all judgy. I never know what to say. And all the other moms have a dad with them.”
“Really?” Sam narrowed his eyes on her. “All of them?”
“Well…no. But some of them do.”
“You’re truly pathetic. What did you do before I moved in?”
“Cried myself to sleep after every parent-teacher conference,” she said promptly. “Also, Parker’s only in first grade, so there haven’t been that many. Also, Parker would feel better with you there as male moral support.”
“Oh, dirty pool. And that’s a lot of alsos. Besides, I don’t know that a seven-year-old feels a pressing need for extra testosterone in the room.”
“But you’ll come?”
Sam surrendered to the inevitable. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just sit there and practice appropriate facial expressions. You know, sympathy, concern, horror.”
“For Pete’s sake. What has Parker done that I need to practice a horrified expression for? I thought things had quieted down. You know, since the last time.”
“They have! At least,
I think they have. But you never know. These teachers just love to pull new and terrifying information out of their hats at these conferences like some kind of demonic magicians with basilisks in their hats.”
Sam laughed reluctantly. “I feel like you are giving them way too much credit. Parker is one of how many other kids they have to prepare for. They’re just exhausted public servants at the end of their rope trying to simultaneously educate and corral dozens of sugar-fed, Internet-addicted little heathens.”
Dani rolled her eyes but wisely refrained from arguing as she skipped across the room to kiss the top of her brother’s head. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I think I might just survive this with you there.”
“Oh, well, as long as you’ll be okay. Never mind the poor kid sitting there while three adults talk about him as if he were invisible. Not to mention being afflicted with all the various faults of being a seven-year-old boy—which are numerous.”
Dani’s hand flapped at him around the corner of the doorway as she disappeared down the hall. “Whatever! Be ready at six. Our conference is at six-thirty.”
Sam looked at the clock. Four-thirty. He might as well put away these accounts till tomorrow. Filing the taxes would be straightforward enough on the shop’s side, he thought—Raul’s garage was far more complicated. What he wanted to do, though, was talk to Clay and Raul and get a sense of what was going on with the discrepancy in the payout—without giving away any information that the other party wasn’t already privy to.
That wouldn’t be happening tonight, though. Tonight he got to play Awkward Uncle at Parker’s parent-teacher conference. Fun times.
Why did he still feel like he hadn’t figured out how to adult properly? He didn’t think his dad had ever been in this position before. Not that he could ask him, of course. Or would even want to.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Parker’s skinny thighs shifted against Sam’s in the hard plastic seats, although he maintained an impressively defiant expression for a first-grader. Sam was beginning to wonder if Parker’s teacher was going to have more interesting news than he or Dani had bargained for. He also wondered what chairs the teachers sat on. The ones designated for parents across the plastic folding tables festooned with the names of various tables were clearly child-sized. Was this a deliberate attempt at intimidation, at putting parents in their place?
More likely they just had way more child-sized chairs available than adult, since they were an elementary school and all, Sam chastised himself silently. Dani’s paranoia was rubbing off on him.
Sure enough, she tossed him an arched eyebrow as she perched as far forward in the wee chair as she could. Sam shook his head at her.
“Be nice,” he whispered.
“Of course I’m going to be nice,” she hissed back. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m the good cop. You’re the bad cop.”
“I never agreed to that!”
“Are you sure? You have to read the fine print.”
Sam swallowed his retort as the ever-charming Mrs. Palmer slid into her chair with an officious rattling of paper. The set of her jaw unexpectedly sent a surge of pity through Sam. He wouldn’t want to have to face an unhappy Dani himself. Certainly not at the end of a long day of seven-year-olds and expectant parents. That was too much to ask even of the Wicked Witch of the West herself.
The beleaguered teacher passed a stack of papers to Dani. “Here are some of Parker’s assignments from the last quarter. You can see that his scores are firmly in the middle of the pack. He starts out with a lot of enthusiasm, and he certainly has the creativity to excel, but it’s the lack of dedication that holds him back. He seems to lose interest in assignments that require more than a few minutes’ concentration. His grades are acceptable, of course, but he has the potential to do much better.”
Dani made a show of flipping through the pages, but Sam knew that her laser focus was entirely centered on Mrs. Palmer. He made a stab at bad cop.
“That’s pretty typical for a seven-year-old, isn’t it? Losing interest in schoolwork?”
Mrs. Palmer pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t say so, no. Kids this age are usually eager to prove themselves, and I’m afraid school only gets harder from here. If Parker doesn’t learn good study and work skills now, he will falter badly as he moves through the higher grades. Intelligence and creativity can’t substitute for work ethic.”
Dani’s head snapped up at that. “Book reports, country reports, animals reports—these are just regurgitations of whatever kids can find on Wikipedia. Is it surprising that he gets bored halfway through? It looks to me like the real issue is that he isn’t being challenged enough.”
Sam wasn’t sure if he was dismayed or relieved that Dani had completely forgotten she was playing good cop.
“Mrs. Geisler, I’m not the enemy here. I agree with you completely that Parker could benefit from more challenging classes. We do have a gifted and talented track here at the school and I was going to suggest that Parker be tested for that program. But there is an issue with that.”
“What issue?” Distracted, Dani didn’t argue with being addressed as a Mrs. this time.
“The gifted and talented program is more stringent, not less so. Homework requirements are tougher. The administration doesn’t want to set anyone up for failure, so if Parker is struggling to meet minimums at this level, they won’t move him to a more difficult level.”
“Are you saying that your gifted program just consists of more busy work?”
Sam and Parker exchanged furtive glances. They knew this Dani well. She was a dragon, a phoenix. Not a successful teacher conference parent, though.
“Not busy work. But homework, yes. And yes, more talented students who seek more challenging opportunities are expected to work for it.”
Dani was clearly fighting to hold her tongue. “Humph,” she finally managed.
“Do you want me to schedule Parker for the testing?”
Dani shot a look at her son, who steadfastly studied his shoelaces. “Yes,” she responded. “Yes, let’s do the testing. We can decide where to go from there.”
Mrs. Palmer visibly sagged with relief. She passed another piece of paper toward Dani. “You need to sign this release form to allow us to proceed with testing. It will be conducted sometime next week, depending on when it can be scheduled. I’ll let you know when we have a date and time.”
Dani scrawled her spidery signature at the bottom of the page.
“Is that it?” she asked.
“That’s it.” Mrs. Palmer rose, stuck her clammy palm out for Dani and Sam to shake. “Thank you both for coming in. I’ll see you in the morning, Parker.”
“Good night, Mrs. Palmer,” Parker said dutifully, scooting out of his chair with alacrity. Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d run for the door.
“Well,” said Dani as they crossed the parking lot. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Yeah,” Sam rejoined drily. “Good thing we set up that good cop, bad cop thing in advance. That made all the difference.”
Dani punched him in the arm. “Okay, clearly I struggle with good cop. But hey, Parker, she thinks you’re gifted. I mean, we knew that already, but it’s pretty cool your teacher believes in you, huh?”
Parker shrugged one shoulder. “It just sounded like more work to me.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. Even if you test out, that doesn’t mean you have to take those other classes. We can talk about that later.”
“Yay,” mumbled Parker, dodging out of the way of his mother’s second punch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sam squashed his niggling discomfort as he heard Clay’s footsteps approaching the front door. He’d considered asking Clay to meet him at a local pub or coffee shop, but he’d had the idea that Clay might be somewhat unpredictable in his current—and entirely understandable—state of mind. He was a grieving husband, after all. Sam didn’t want to risk a complete emotional breakdown trapped in a booth or spinning on
a bar stool. On the other hand, he’d never been alone with Clay in his home before. He’d dropped by a few times, for church suppers, open houses, and such, but there’d always been other people to buffer their interactions. Even the other day, Ffaukes had been there. Sam squared his shoulders. He was just going to have to man up and face Clay alone.
When the door opened, though, Sam was relieved to see that Clay looked much better than he had the other day. He was even back in his usual uniform of buttoned-down shirt and tie, his hair expertly combed to disguise his barely-thinning scalp. The scent of rum, though, persisted.
“Come on in, Sam.” Clay stepped back. “I’m glad you could come by.”
Sam shook the other man’s hand as he entered the hallway and shrugged out of his light jacket. “Are you on your way out? I don’t want to keep you from anything.”
“No, I just got back from meeting with the funeral home. I figured I should make an effort at looking presentable. I know I was in pretty bad shape when you were here the other day. I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
Sam followed Clay into the living room and took a seat on the couch facing Clay, who loosened his tie and kicked back in the recliner.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, man,” he told Clay. “There are no rules for grief, as far as I’m concerned. This has to be the worst thing you will ever go through, and whatever you have to do to survive it is okay by me.”
Clay’s lips twisted grimly. “I sure as hell hope you’re right—about this being the worst thing. I don’t know that I could take anything worse than this.”
Sam wondered if Clay had started drinking before or after his meeting with the funeral home. Regardless of his bleary eyes, his speech was clear. Must be a maintenance load, Sam thought. He wasn’t aware of any alcoholism in Clay’s past, but your wife getting murdered could certainly trigger it, he thought.
“I didn’t know you had to handle the arrangements today. We don’t have to talk now—I can come by another time, if you’d rather be alone.”
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