But then that was impossible, or so the investigative report would imply.
Hollis wanted it to be the end of the day, but only a couple of hours had passed. She was feeling uncommonly emotional and she didn’t know what to do.
She read the letter, dated 1941:
Dear Margaret
I am glad to hear you are doing well. You said those business courses you took would give you a head start, and I guess you were right—an executive secretary, my goodness.
Well Tim and I are getting along better, especially when he found out we were going to have another baby. I hope it’s a girl so she can share the room with Laura. If it’s a boy, well the other boys will just have to move over. I hope this is our last one. Doc Riddle said that we need to space them better. Actually he said I shouldn’t have any more, but I didn’t tell Tim. He likes me pregnant. But I have to tell you I am so tired these days. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
I was in the post office yesterday, and everybody was talking about how all the jobs are gone with the men leaving their farms to go to war. Tim is deaf in one ear so the Army wouldn’t take him. The depression is lasting longer than we all thought, for us anyway. Well I’ve got to go fix supper.
To answer your question, Paul Hitchcock is still single. He moved next door to the Potts farm. After he got that big inheritance from his grandma, every girl in Rowan has been throwing themselves at him. But I think he’s waiting for you to come back. Any time anybody talks bad about you he gets upset and tries to defend you. I try to as well, but I was your best friend. Paul is sweet. Are you coming back, Margaret? Write me.
Your loving friend,
Miranda
She replaced the letter just as George knocked and entered her office, coffee in hand. “How’s the case going?”
She frowned. “Not as well as we would like. Transformation’s attorney is essentially using us as his clerical pool. Mark and I haven’t found anything that even looks like a viable direction.” Hollis sighed. “Transformation management already requested the documents we need for discovery, but the gut of it, the proof, is still elusive. Our strategy is to interview non-profits who benefited, but you can imagine they’ll be pretty closed mouthed—obviously. In fact we’re meeting this afternoon with Fields’ team to ask for a continuance.”
George wrinkled his brow and held up his hand. “I meant with the Koch estate.”
“What? Oh, sorry.” Hollis blinked a few times. “It’s going a little slow, but I’m determined to knock out these letters in the next couple of days.”
Hollis could tell that George had something he wanted to tell her. He looked at her over his glasses. “I got your request for a subpoena. What do you think you’ll find in Margaret Koch’s health records?”
Hollis was prepared to respond, but she didn’t think it was a good idea to tell him that her request was pretty much based on curiosity and unanswered questions. “I’m going through the letters, and there’s a question I had about the health of her second husband.”
“Let’s hold off on the subpoena. I think it’s going too far.” George removed his glasses. “Second husband? How many did she have?”
“Well, at least two, but I’m not quite halfway through.” She picked up her notebook. “One other thing, George, did you ever meet Margaret Koch?”
“Yes. I did her last codicil about three years ago when she was eighty-five. She was articulate and gracious. I remember she had a somewhat coarse sense of humor. Why?”
Hollis avoided his gaze. George knew her too well and would wonder why she was dragging her feet with a subpoena request. “No reason, really. Reading her letters I’m starting to have a picture of her in my mind.”
“She didn’t—”
His cellphone rang. He motioned he was leaving, and pointing to the Koch file, mouthed, “Hurry up.”
Hollis smiled. “Don’t worry, George. Like I said, I’ll have the letters finished before the end of the week.”
He waved a goodbye.
She gave him a smile, took the letters out of the drawer, and opened a business envelope dated November 1942.
Dear Mrs. Hitchcock,
Apex Insurance has approved the claim you submitted to receive the benefits of your late husband, Paul Hitchcock. However, due to the brevity of your marital union and since Mr. Hitchcock did not name a beneficiary, we are withholding disbursements in the amount of $5,000 for 120 days, until we are assured that no other claimants will come forward.
Please do not hesitate to contact us if you have any questions.
Sincerely,
Phillip Barnsdale
Adjuster
Well, ol’ Margaret didn’t waste any time snatching him up.
Hollis went into her desk drawer and pulled out the detective’s report. This was Margaret’s first marriage. She glanced at the marriage date—only three months married to Paul. She looked through the file, flipping to Paul’s age at death. He had gotten the flu and then pneumonia. He had been only thirty-two to Margaret’s twenty-four.
Next, she picked up rose-colored note paper tucked inside another letter. The note appeared to have been scribbled hurriedly:
Dear Maggie,
I was able to get you an invitation to Jenny’s party, but please do not bring Charles the BORE with you. Don’t you know any young people our age?
Rosemary
The note wasn’t dated, but the letter was written in 1943:
Dear Margaret,
I can’t tell you how much I treasure seeing you these past months. You were very kind to me and it helped me to forget for a while the loss of my wife. I never thought I could be happy again, but you have proved me wrong. Last night awakened in me a man I thought I had sent away.
My enlistment papers have finally been approved. Perhaps the Army has lowered its standards. I don’t know if I will come back from this damnable war, and I won’t ask you to wait for me. But if I should return, I promise you that I will do everything I can to make you mine.
I’ve told Eric to keep an eye out for you. You’re not as independent as you think you are. Go to my brother if you need any help. He is upset that his asthma is keeping him out of serving, but I’m glad he’s out of harm’s way, and even gladder he will be there for you.
I love you, my darling. There, I’ve said it. I only wish I could see your face.
Embracing You,
Charles
The next letter was dated, 1944, almost a year later.
Dear Margaret,
At first I was distraught that you had returned to Chicago. But then I could understand that Rowan was not a good place for an ambitious young woman. I’m sorry Eric wasn’t much help. He hasn’t written me, or at least I haven’t received any letters. Yours only caught up to me two days ago. I can’t tell you how much they cheered me.
I’m tired. We are told the war in Europe is going in our favor, but all we see here is rain, mud and mosquitoes. The one thing that keeps us all going is the fact that the other side is worse off than we are.
I can’t write more. I want to make the mail pouch. Please wait for me. I need to know you that you are in my future.
Always,
Charles
The paper was grayish-yellow, and Hollis thought she could smell the dankness of the battlefield. Checking the time on her computer, she remembered that she was meeting Mark at Fields of Giving headquarters and didn’t want to be late. She opened the next envelope and pulled out the letter.
From its folds, a yellowed newspaper clipping with the year 1945 scrawled in the corner fell in her lap.
Maggie,
I am really sorry to tell you this, but Charles returned from the war yesterday. They brought him in an ambulance, and you know for Rowan that was a very big deal. Charles is a hero, Maggie. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for saving his squad from a grenade. Unfortunately, it cost him his leg and an arm. He wanted me to tell you. He says that he would understand if you didn’t want to be saddled wi
th an “old cripple.” Those are his words, not mine.
He wants to see you. His spirits are pretty low. When will you be coming to Rowan?
Your friend,
Rosemary
She picked up the clipping:
Eric Ferris / Margaret Hitchcock
The Chicago Review
Chicago, Illinois
Saturday, June 5, 1945
Chicago—Mrs. Margaret Hitchcock, of Rowan, Illinois was wedded here to Mr. Eric Ferris of Rowan, Illinois, on Saturday afternoon by Reverend C.H. McCoy at the Second Presbyterian Church.
Hollis leaned back in her chair. Margaret had no qualms about seeing two brothers and marrying the one without disabilities. She didn’t want to judge, but she wasn’t sure she liked Margaret. The more baffling question was, why did Margaret keep the letters? The condition of the envelopes seemed to indicate she had re-read them at least once.
One thing Hollis was sure of: she was done reading letters today.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hollis and Mark entered through double French doors into a broad foyer that fronted the lobby of the Fields of Giving, Inc. headquarters. Unlike the Transformation offices, which were cool and sterile, Dorian Fields’ place of business had a warm atmosphere, with rosewood floors, piped-in new age music, overstuffed velveteen sofas and a large fire pit table with low but steady flames.
She put a hand on Mark’s arm to indicate that this time she would take a turn with the receptionist. They both walked up to the young woman greeting them with a broad smile.
Hollis smiled back. “We’re here to see Wade Bartlett.”
The receptionist was just about to tap the phone button before a booming voice greeted them.
“Wade Bartlett, Ms. Morgan, and Mr. Haddan, welcome.” He entered the room with his hand extended and a cheerful grin. “Come on back to my office; we can talk there.” He led them down another wide walkway.
He was a tall blond man with blue eyes and horn rimmed glasses that gave him a kindly professorial look. His navy blue cable shawl sweater draped casually on his lean frame and complemented his conservative striped tie.
Mark settled into one of the two thick green upholstered chairs. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. “As you know, we are the new co-counsel for Transformation. We’re doing a little catching up, but I …. We wanted to meet face to face to discuss your position.”
Bartlett started to laugh and then caught himself. “Our position? Mr. Haddan, your client—and I was sorry to hear about her suicide—was irresponsible and reckless. She attacked a man who has given his life for those who have no hope. She—”
“Mr. Bartlett, it seems you haven’t heard,” Hollis broke in. “Catherine Briscoe was murdered.”
Bartlett tilted his head. “Murdered?”
Mark nodded. “The police aren’t broadcasting it, but you have to admit Mr. Fields makes an awfully good suspect.”
Bartlett bristled. “Except for one thing, Haddan, she was lying. Where’s her proof?”
Mark and Hollis both stiffened.
“Whoever killed her took her proof. But we’re piecing it back together. They didn’t get everything.” Hollis moved to the edge of her seat. “Cathy was a good attorney and a professional writer. If she said Fields was … dirty, then his days as a public icon are numbered.”
It was Bartlett’s turn to stiffen. “Well then, counselors, sounds like you’re on your way. What do you want from me?”
Hollis and Mark looked at each other. Mark took out another sheet of paper and passed it over the desk to Bartlett. “We need a six-month continuance. If you agree, the court won’t hesitate to grant one.”
This time his laugh continued for some time. Hollis gazed up at the ceiling until it came to an end.
Bartlett picked up the paper and tossed it aside without looking at it. “Why would I do this? You’re accusing my client of being a fraud and possibly a murderer. Each day that goes by, this thing is hanging over my client’s head, tarnishing his reputation. Sorry, we can’t help you.”
Hollis made an effort to control the tone of her voice. “Mr. Bartlett, we don’t blame you. But like we said, reasonable people like the twelve who sit on a jury might think your client is a prime suspect.” She opened her notebook to a page of notes. “You agree to this continuance and it says he has nothing to hide. It says Fields wants the truth to come out, that Fields of Giving is a respected organization, it says—"
“It says I’m crazy,” Dorian Fields entered the room with an energy that made everyone sit up.
Bartlett immediately rose and pointed to his chair for Fields to sit. Fields ignored him and pulled up a chair next to Hollis.
Bartlett spoke up, “Hollis Morgan, sir, and this is Mark Haddan, and they’re attorneys.”
“I’m not an attorney, I’m a paralegal.” Hollis reached out her hand to shake. She was determined not to look as nervous as she was feeling.
Fields was not a tall man but he had what many tall men lacked: bearing. Dressed in a two-piece deep green suit, he filled the room with his presence. Hollis gave Mark a pointed look as they shook hands all around. With his full head of wavy white hair, Fields looked to be in his fifties, although Hollis’ research had revealed he was actually seventy-two. Known to be a fanatical swimmer, he had a toned physique and smooth, tanned skin.
“Well, it took some nerve to face me on my own turf,” Fields said.
Wade Bartlett pushed the request for continuance across the desk to Fields.
Fields glanced down. “Despite what your friend said about me, Ms. Morgan and Mr. Haddan, I am not a crook and I have nothing to prove. But you do.”
Mark gave Hollis an imperceptible wave-off. He wanted to respond. “Mr. Fields, we have just been added to the team defending Ms. Briscoe. We need more time to prepare. We are hoping you will be fair.”
Hollis could tell from Fields’ amused look he was not moved. She turned to face him directly. “We won’t lie to you; we think you could be guilty of fraud, fraud on the group of people who can least afford it. But we both know that without Catherine Briscoe’s case paperwork we are at a grave disadvantage. If you are innocent, then we will prove that too.”
Fields picked up the paper and scribbled his signature. “You’ve got sixty days, Ms. Morgan.”
Hollis almost rang the doorbell to the condo before she remembered Cathy would not be answering. She rustled through her purse and pulled out the keys Evelyn Briscoe had given her. Inside, the sole illumination in the living room was a sliver of sunlight peeking through the drawn drapes. The room smelled of the stuffiness that comes from not having an occupant to circulate the air. Hollis pulled back the curtains, and the harsh glare made the room look even more desolate. She dumped three empty boxes in the living room and took two into the back bedroom, which Cathy had converted into an office.
The office, disheveled from the police search, had fingerprint powder everywhere. Evelyn called her that morning to say the police had released the apartment and removed the crime scene tape. The thought of what Cathy must have gone through made Hollis shiver. And if she let her mind run with that thought, she could imagine there was a chance Cathy knew her killer.
Everything had been taken apart and haphazardly put back. Pushing aside her feelings of dismay, Hollis went through the room and quickly filled two boxes.
Next she went into the master bedroom, where Cathy’s interior design talents were evident. Hollis remembered when, after months of searching, she had purchased her dream comforter and matching bed skirt. The soft, dove gray and ivory contemporary pattern was complemented by a floral mauve area rug. She went through the dresser and began placing Cathy’s clothes and jewelry in packing boxes. She was surprised that it didn’t take long at all.
A life could be so easily packaged.
Hollis sat down on the edge of the bed. The police must have been satisfied with rifling through the dresser and closet; the r
est of the room was only in mild disarray.
“Talk to me, Cathy,” Hollis said out loud. She looked around slowly. A picture on the dresser caught her eye. It was all of them: Cathy, Hollis, and Marla at the Marriott Courtyard in San Francisco, drinks in hand, smiles all around. The three of them used to be close. They weren’t constant companions but they were life allies. Hollis felt a rare soft spot for the friendship. That day they swore to always be there for each other, no matter what man was in their lives. That had gotten a laugh, since none of them were in any significant relationships. Two years later, Marla was still single, practicing law in Greece, and Cathy—Cathy was dead.
Shaking off her dark thoughts, Hollis jumped up and returned to the office. They’d all shared their house keys with each other, except Hollis, who didn’t want her friends’ keys because she didn’t want to give out her own key. She reasoned that her prison time could complicate things. She didn’t fool them.
Hollis stopped in the middle of the room and looked at the windows.
Tossing two floor pillows onto the bed, she crossed over to the larger of two window sills. When Cathy had her condo renovated she got her contractor to install a safe in her window sill. She once said that her contractor was the only real significant man her life. They had all laughed. She acknowledged that it wasn’t a real safe, but it would hold valuables, personal documents, and her working papers. Hollis had never seen it open, but Cathy said it turned out to be a great idea. It was only an inch or two wider than the other sill. There was no way the police, let alone robbers, would know of its existence.
Too bad Cathy didn’t tell her friends how to get inside.
Hollis banged on the end of the sill with her fist, but nothing happened. She went to the other window and did the same. Nothing. Cathy loved puzzles. She and Hollis would send each other encrypted emails—they both loved a Sudoku challenge.
Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery) Page 6
