Sticks & Stones (A Hollis Morgan Mystery)

by R. Franklin James

  “I owe you,” Hollis said, scooping up her last bit of tiramisu.

  “Yes, you do, and I’m going to collect someday, so don’t forget.” Stephanie dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I hope you realize the risk I took in tracking down this license number.”

  “I thought you could do it in the course of your job,” Hollis said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Steph.”

  Stephanie waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll add it to your friendship tab.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a letter-sized envelope. “Here’s the info on your girl. What’s the interest? There are no wants or warrants.”

  “Just checking, I didn’t hold out much hope that you would find something.” Hollis quickly scanned the single piece of paper.

  “I know I don’t have to ask for what purpose you wanted this information.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s for a probate matter I’ve been assigned.” Hollis eyed the sheet. “It says she’s twenty-five years old; I thought she might be older. Schaefer is her married name.”

  “You mean I did this for your fancy law firm? That does it; you can pay for lunch.” Stephanie put on her sunglasses.

  “Not a problem.” Hollis patted her case. “It was worth it.”

  On the way to her office, Hollis looked down at the message Tiffany had handed her. Hollis gave her an acknowledging smile. She was Triple D’s longest employed receptionist. She had lasted almost a year, maybe she might make it.

  The message was from Transformation magazine. She punched in the number and Devi’s secretary answered.

  “Miss Morgan, Mr. Devi wanted to let you know that Miss Briscoe left behind a few file folders that were with our attorneys. They could be duplicates, but if you’d like them, I can leave them at the Transformation front desk for you to pick up.”

  “I’ll be there later this afternoon.”

  Hollis leaned back in her chair and rubbed her forehead. The way Cathy’s files kept popping up, by the time she and Mark collected them all, they just might have enough ammo to fight Fields. She picked up the phone.

  Mark’s voice didn’t hide his enthusiasm. “That could be great news. Let’s go over where we are this evening. I can’t stay long. I’ve got another case I’m working.”

  “Not a problem, why don’t we just get together tomorrow.”

  “Can’t. I’m flying up to Portland tomorrow for two days. I want to make sure we get all our depositions completed over the next week. We have a thirty day window. I made an interesting discovery; Cathy’s notes point to a board director she wanted to depose as a last resort.”

  “She wrote that—‘a last resort’? What does that mean?”

  She could hear Mark rifling through pages. “In her notes—the ones you found hidden in her condo—Cathy indicated that one of Field’s former board directors resigned abruptly.” He paused. “Listen to this: evidently she interviewed him for almost three hours and for whatever reason promised him he would only be deposed as a last resort.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in your office at six, and bring those notes with you. We need to consolidate every file and folder we’ve collected from all sources.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The conference room floor was strewn with papers that could no longer fit on top of the paper-covered table. Hollis glanced at Mark, punching numbers into his cellphone.

  They were in the evening quiet of Mark’s office. Hollis wasn’t able to commandeer a Triple D conference room, and while her condo was in a more convenient location, she preferred to keep her private life private. She had moved to the new condo in San Lucian to move past the memory of the terrifying confrontation with her ex-husband’s killer. That, and the fact that the homeowner’s association in the community she previously lived in made it clear that if she continued to have regular visits from law enforcement, she might want to try a neighborhood with different standards.

  She could hear Mark trying to convince Rena he would be on his way home in a few minutes. After a moment, he put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Okay, where are we? What do we know?”

  Hollis reached over and picked up a pad of paper. “Cathy visited all of the Fields’ charity centers in California. Transformation indicates that six of those centers are in the Bay Area. I’ve been to two, neither of which appeared to be what they were supposed to be. But to be honest with you, while there was a lot of smoke, I couldn’t find any fire. If Fields is faking philanthropy, he’s going to an awful lot of trouble.”

  Mark tapped his writing pad. “So, Cathy writes an article that blasts Fields. And our charge is to find the proof—not the hint, not the smoke, but the solid proof that the guy is a fraud. There’s something we’re missing; you’ve got to go to more centers.”

  “Mark, suppose it was something else altogether? Suppose Cathy stumbled onto another, bigger story?”

  “Forget something bigger. We don’t even have a handle on something small. We need to substantiate this article.” Mark flipped through pages. “You’ve got to check out at least one more non-profit. Try this one.” He handed over a sheet of paper.

  She sighed. “What’s one more? I’m on a roll.” She quickly read through the text. “Open Wings. What is it, a homeless shelter?”

  “I can’t tell. That piece of paper is the only thing we have on them. Notice how much they get from Fields—a million a year.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of money. It must be the Rolls Royce of homeless shelters.”

  “Can’t wait to hear what you uncover.” He started packing his briefcase. “I’m bushed. I have an early flight into Portland again. I’ll be returning late tomorrow. Let’s talk again Wednesday.”

  Hollis picked up the papers and sorted them in an expandable folder.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’ll make arrangements to visit the shelter later in the week. I need the next couple of days to work on another client matter.”

  “Is George concerned about the time you’re giving to Cathy’s case?”

  She shrugged. “He’s fine with it, as long as I finish reading the Koch family letters and determine whether or not there’s an unknown heir.”

  Mark locked his briefcase. “What’s the problem? It’s not like you to drag things out. Finish the letters. Remember, I start taking the non-profits’ depositions week after next, and I need your discovery summaries as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t worry, Mark.” Hollis muttered. “You’ll have your summaries.”

  “Thanks,” he sighed. “I know you don’t need to be pressured, but we’ve got to be ready to fight Fields’ claims.”

  She walked out as he turned to lock the door.

  “No pressure needed, I’m on it.” Hollis bristled then she paused. “Mark, Cathy’s libel suit is just a small part of a deadly picture. You remember that old rhyme: ‘sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me’?”

  He looked at her curiously. “Yeah?”

  “Well, it’s not true.”

  Early the next morning, Hollis sat behind her closed office door. Her work was divided into two large stacks on top of the lateral drawer cabinet. To her right were files and folders relating to Cathy’s case; to her left, Margaret Koch’s box of letters and a pad for notes.

  She opened the letter from 1947 at the top of the stack.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m not going to judge you. What good would it do? You are family. But you need to know that Charles has started drinking real bad. When he heard you married Eric, he changed. We think it best you don’t come back to Rowan for a while. I know it’s been two years, but a lot of people here liked the Ferris’. They helped a lot of families.

  Now people here feel sorry for Charles losing his arm and leg like that in the war—then you left him, too.

  It wasn’t good what you did.

  Your cousin,

  Lisbeth

  Hollis sat back in her chair, her brows drawn together in a scowl. She
pulled out a small wrinkled piece of crumpled stationary that had been smoothed and tucked into the corner of the envelope.

  Margaret,

  I knew you would come back. Meet me at the old leather factory at ten o’clock. Carry a flashlight, it can be dark out there.

  C

  Hollis grimaced. Margaret went back to Rowan. Why? She flipped the paper over, but there weren’t any markings identifying the sender. There was no doubt in her mind that “C” stood for Charles. She picked up the next letter.

  Dear Mrs. Ferris,

  I am sorry to inform you that your husband’s appeal was denied. The original sentence of twenty-five years will stand. The state will move him from Cook County Jail to Joliet Prison on Friday, August 31, 1948. We have explained to your husband that with good behavior he might be released in fifteen years.

  You will be allowed to visit him for one hour on Thursday, August 30, 1948, at 9:00 a.m. If you would like me or Clive Campbell to accompany you, please let me know.

  Sincerely,

  Michael Dyer, Attorney at Law

  Hollis thought she was past someone taking her totally by surprise, but Margaret continued to surprise her.

  My Darling,

  I’m sorry you weren’t able to make it to visitor’s day. I thought maybe this time they would call that I had a visitor. I don’t understand why I haven’t heard from you. Life here is bearable, but just barely. The only thing that keeps me going are your last words saying you would wait for me. I need to see you, Margaret. If I can’t touch you I need to see you.

  I can’t believe it’s been two years since I saw you run away from Charles’ body. You didn’t see me. But I saw you standing there on the ridge, looking down on him. There I was with the two people I loved most in the world. We never talked about that night, and I will never mention it again. But inside here it’s all I ever think about. I have no regrets, and I forgive you for what you did. My brother had changed, he was so full of anger and resentment I didn’t recognize him. I would serve two life sentences for you, my love. But I need to hear from you. Please visit, or write.

  Your loving husband,

  Eric

  Shaking her head, Hollis reached for the bottle of water on her desk. Margaret was leaving a bad taste in her mouth.

  She pulled out the next envelope, only it wasn’t a letter. It contained a legal notice. It was a statement of Dissolution of Marriage, dated 1951. Margaret had divorced Eric in jail after three years, apparently not long after she had gotten the letter that Hollis had just read.

  She felt a chill run along both her arms. She had divorced her own ex in prison, except in her case he was the one who should have been there. She took another swallow of water.

  She picked up a letter, dated 1951.

  Dear Margaret,

  I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you but you sent your letter to the wrong address. I retired from the library and moved away from Rowan some months ago. I missed you at Lisbeth’s funeral, but I understood you were on your honeymoon. You may not believe me but I do hope you find happiness with Michael Koch.

  To answer your question, Eric settled in California. When he got out he didn’t want to have anything to do with Rowan. I guess some people never thought he should be let out. I guess I was one of those people. I hate to tell you these things, but you said you wanted to know. I guess you can close the book on this part of your life.

  Regards,

  Mary Ellen

  Hollis scanned through the box for the remaining letters. She checked the dates. They were all written within twelve months of each other.

  She hesitated to reach for the next opened letter. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she lifted out the page of lined pink stationery. She might have imagined it, but a momentary rose fragrance drifted up.

  She put the letter back unread and picked up her phone.

  “Stephanie, how about a … a movie tonight?” Hollis spoke quickly into the phone before realizing she had reached an answering service. After saying she didn’t want to leave a message and agreeing to have a nice day, she hung up.

  She pushed another number.

  This time Hollis got to the point of her call quickly.

  Mark replied, “Gosh, Hollis, I’m beat. I just got in from the airport. Ordinarily we’d like to get together, but this is a weeknight and I’ve got a crazy day at the office tomorrow.”

  She mentally kicked herself. “Of course, I forgot you were out of town. How was Portland?”

  “Not bad. We’ll see how negotiations go.”

  “Well … good.”

  “You okay being by yourself?”

  “Sure, sure. I was trying to think of an excuse to keep from having to finish organizing all my study papers. Looks like tonight will be the night.”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “Of course, actually I need to polish the summary and make up a digest of all the notes and reports, so we don’t have to waste time going through papers.”

  Mark paused. “You could just relax, you know.”

  A quick retort came to Hollis’ lips but she held it back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Driving home, she reflected that her desire to read the letters slowly was more than just prurient curiosity about the lives of others. On some level, she marveled at Margaret’s self-centeredness and her ability to walk away from the lives she left in a tumble.

  She was gaining insight into the life of someone who wreaked havoc, instead of the one who had havoc wrecked upon her—namely, herself.

  In the office the next day Hollis, after a night of reasoning with herself, was ready to quit stalling and get back into George’s good graces. She slid the information Stephanie located for her from the envelope and dialed Kelly Schaefer’s phone number.

  “Hello.” The voice sounded distracted.

  “Kelly Schaefer? This is Hollis Morgan. We met at Margaret Koch’s home about two weeks ago.”

  There was silence.

  “How did you—”

  “I got your phone number … from public records.” Hollis rushed her words. “I know you said you were looking for something when we met at the house, and I think I have what you were trying to find.”

  “What have you found?”

  Hollis paused, and then made a decision. “I have letters—letters to Margaret Koch.”

  It was Kelly’s turn to pause. “How many are there?”

  “Quite a few.”

  Not sure why, Hollis decided only to tell her about the letters, not the clippings, and only the letters that referenced Rowan.

  “If I show you my letter will you let me see the ones you’re holding?”

  “You have just one letter?” Hollis pulled out a pad and scribbled a note.

  “Yes.”

  “When can we meet?” Hollis called up her calendar on her computer screen. She looked up to see George standing in the doorway. She pointed at him to sit while she waited for Kelly to pick a date.

  “Got it.” She wrote on her calendar. “See you then.”

  “How did you track her down?” George scanned the notepaper Hollis passed to him.

  “It wasn’t easy. I think there was a public record.” She pretended to look through the file on her lap. She wasn’t ready to reveal Stephanie as her secret source. “But George, I noticed there was nothing in the detective’s file about Koch’s second husband, Eric Ferris, let alone his criminal record.”

  George nodded. “I know it’s curious, but we told him to look for Margaret’s heirs, not to prepare an exposé. Do you think this Kelly person is really an heir?”

  “I don’t see how. I still can’t find any blood relationships, but it’s possible.”

  “I’m going to give Brad Pierson a call. His firm is going to owe us a refund.”

  Hollis raised her head in protest. “No, George, wait. Let me find out exactly who Kelly is and finish reading the letters. We don’t know anything for sure. I want to follow up on a f
ew things that Pierson may have overlooked.”

  She took note of her own lie.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hollis was ready to go home, but there was one more thing she wanted to do before leaving the office. She had put it off for as long as she could. She knew intellectually it was too soon to search online for the pass list from the California Bar, but she couldn’t help herself. She clicked on the website—nothing. Historically, bar exam results weren’t released for another four to six weeks. At this rate she would be mentally certifiable in two.

  She shut down the computer and headed for home.

  Walking up the path to her condo, she returned the buoyant greeting from her next-door neighbor with a quick, dismissive wave. Fortunately she wasn’t counting on being elected president of the Neighborhood Watch Association. Reaching inside her curbside mailbox, she withdrew a handful of bills and advertisements.

  Inside the front door, she kicked off her shoes and tossed her purse on the entry table, at the same time pushing it back into place against the wall. Still, it wasn’t until the magnitude of the mess—the overturned chairs, emptied bookshelves and ransacked furniture—caught her attention that her situation sank in. With a sickening ache in her stomach she slid down the wall and crouched on the floor. She rummaged around in her purse and found her cellphone.

  A calm male voice answered, “Nine-one-one dispatch.”

  Hollis took a breath. “Can you send the police? I’ve been burglarized.”

  “Are you alone in the house?”

  “I-I don’t know. I think so.”

  “The police have been alerted. They notified me that unless you’re under an immediate threat, they’ll be there within the hour. Would you like me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?”

  Hollis thought about it a moment but then reassured him—and herself—that she would be fine.