by Rose, Kristi
I inhaled deeply, hoping it would steady my racing heart.
“No. Maybe you should call the police, just report you don’t like it.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “I tried. Pamela was on a break so Louney was manning the phones and addressing the calls. He blew me off.”
Wind River was small enough that our police force consisted of nine people, eleven with support staff. After Louney was Pamela Hopkins who ran the front desk and was the day 911 operator. Lydia did it in the evenings, and after ten p.m., the emergency response calls were routed to a larger facility. Cody Hinkle replaced his brother Hunter who had moved on to law school. Cody was the sergeant and Leo Stillman had replaced his mentor, Rawlings, who left for a bigger city to be a detective. Leo was the lieutenant. Six other full-time police officers were on the payroll. Both Cody and Louney had graduated with me and had been tight in high school.
I considered calling Leo, but it seemed silly to do so over speculation. I didn’t want to be the widow that cried wolf when one day I might really need them.
“He’s staring at you,” Stella whispered.
I shrugged, acting more cavalier than I felt. The hairs on the back of my neck were raised. “We’re going to laugh when whomever he’s waiting for comes out of the market and they drive away.”
“I hope so.” But she didn’t sound like she believed it any more than I did.
The dude was creeping me out, and I needed to get to my reason for coming. “Is Dad here?”
“Russ,” Stella yelled over her shoulder. Tucked in the right back corner, second room from the end, was my dad’s office.
Dad came out of his office, papers clutched in his hands, his glasses on the lower part of his nose. He was bald on top with a gray strip of hair around the sides and lower back. He sported a matching gray beard cut close. He wore khakis and an untucked light blue shirt with rolled-up cuffs and ink stains on the elbow.
He said my name and opened his arms wide for a hug. This was standard for him. As he folded me into his arms, I swallowed my tears. Not because Carson was dead. I’d shed my last tear for him in the wee hours of last night. No, these were tears of frustration and feeling overwhelmed.
He ushered me into his office, closing the door. I often ragged on Dad for being a hoarder. Piles of books and papers lined the walls of his office. Our family’s old brown leather couch with the four-inch rip in the center cushion was the only seating option.
I had a special connection with my dad and Rachel my mom. Maybe because I resembled him (with the exception of the bald head and hair color). Maybe it was because I loved the outdoors as much as he did and never turned down a chance to hike or camp with him. Or maybe it was because I was a tad scattered and so was my dad. Unlike Rachel and my mom who were methodical with planning and execution.
“You should call Mom,” I said. “I only want to say this once.”
Dad’s brows shot up, but to his credit, he said nothing. He called my mom and told her to come over pronto.
Her office was across the street so it took two minutes for her to show up. Dressed in a dull green Hillary pantsuit and with her red hair pulled back, she looked severe and ready to scold.
“Have a seat,” I told them and pointed to the couch.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” my mom said.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Dad said, patting her knee.
I told them the bare minimum. Carson was dead. Car, tree, fire. I didn’t tell them about the first wife and not-legit marriage. That would have gone over like a floating turd in the punch bowl. Out poured the same lie as what I told Mr. Linn. I figured this could come in handy should I have to explain any of the other weird stuff. My dad had a keen sense for story that I could do without. Besides, I’d omitted truths before, and we’d all been the better for it.
Dad was the first to speak. “Have you told your sister?”
I shook my head. “Could you tell her?”
Dad nodded.
Mom said. “We’ll call her from here. Now, do we need to talk funeral?”
I closed my eyes, dropping my forehead into my palm. Funeral! “Can I get back to you on that? I don’t have any information yet.”
“Carson didn’t have family so it’s up to us to do this right,” said my mother. “I know you like to buck convention, Samantha, but this is not the time.”
“Um…there’s the issue of money,” I said, playing up the debt thing.
Dad said, “How about a celebration of life instead?” Dad grimaced then continued. “I’m assuming we won’t need a lot of space for his body. You said something about a fire.” My dad held out his hands a shoebox width apart.
“Oh, Russ,” mom said, slapping his upper arm. Then she covered her face.
“It’s true,” I said and curled my lip, grossed out. I was mad, mad, mad at Carson and what he did to me, but I hoped he didn’t suffer. Much. “Do we have to do anything? Can we just have something private?” Or nothing at all.
Mom stood up and came to hug me. “I must say, you’re holding it together…well enough.” She stuck a finger through a hole in my shirt and studied my face. She pulled her finger from my shirt and peeled off a bundle of hair stuck to my temple.
“Shock?” I said.
“Sad, really,” Dad said, lost in his own musings. “We all liked Carson a lot.”
“Lots of people liked him,” Mom said.
Dad stood. “I think a celebration of life ceremony is necessary, Sammy. We can give others he knew closure, too. It’s the right thing to do.”
I was torn and skeptical. “Maybe,” I said. Because there was likely no way around this.
“I can put a small ad in the paper. We can have it at the Frontiersman Bar and Grille. People can come, and we’ll ply them with drinks. And if Carson’s financial troubles come around, well, maybe folks will remember the rousing good time we had instead of that. It’s sad his life ended with debt hanging over it like a dark cloud.”
He had no idea. “Okay.”
Dad nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan. We’ll do it in two weeks from Monday, six in the evening. That will give us time to get the necessary parts in place.”
Like a fake body, or in this case, a box of ashes.
Dad continued, “The paper prints tonight so I can add a notice. I’ll handle everything. All you have to do is show up.”
“Okay,” I said again, numbly.
Stella knocked on the door and then pushed in, a bundle of mail and packages in her arms. “Everything okay in here?”
“It will be eventually,” Dad said.
“Mail came. I hated to interrupt, but there’s a package for you in here, Sam.” She deposited her load on Dad’s cluttered desk.
“Me?” I said.
Stella dug through the pile, pulled out a heavily taped box the size of a hardback novel, and tossed it to me. The package was light enough to catch with one hand. I gave it the once over, wondering if it would be the right size for Carson’s fake ashes and could be used for the celebration of life ceremony. Mental note, search the internet for how much a cremated body weighs.
The label had no return address and was mailed three days ago, the day he died. “This is in Carson’s handwriting.”
Dad produced a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and slit a long line down the tape, separating it from the package.
Mom filled Stella in on the news while I opened the box. I pulled out Carson’s backpack folded over and duct taped to a fraction of its size. He never went anywhere without it. Breaking through the tape, I unfolded and searched the pockets.
Tucked in the front pocket were his driver’s license and credit cards in the name of Carson Holmes. I left them in the pocket. I had no logical lie to tell my parents as to why he would send these to me.
I held up the backpack and said, “Why would he send me this?”
9
Saturday
Late for my appointment with Toby, I dashed home, Carson’s backpack, my new pu
rse, slung over one shoulder. Timing was perfect since I’d ripped mine falling at Lockett’s office. I ignored the creepy guy in the car outside the newspaper. He didn’t follow me so maybe he really was sitting there waiting for someone. Perhaps he was a tourist and his wife was hitting the few shops we had or grabbing them a coffee. How Ya Bean was a popular coffee house and on occasion had long lines. And now some weird-ass girl had taken his picture.
Toby was waiting for me on my porch. From him, I learned Carson had set up an insanely strong firewall for our home Wi-Fi. I could access the business cloud through an encryption program that made me feel like a spy. I was living in a new world where the technology exceeded the imagination and the knowledge of the players was limited.
On the cloud were five notebook icons labeled Clients, Financial, Business Docs, Home, and Misc. Inside Clients were three other files: previous, current, and potential. There were over two hundred clients listed in the previous file. Carson had done a lot of work in the two years he’d had the business. Most were home security and business consultations. The current file, organized by months, was remarkably small considering how many clients he’d had in the past. Only eight clients for this month.
Seeing information on a computer was one thing. Processing it in my brain was another. I did things old-school. I pulled out a notepad and jotted down the client names.
Toby gasped. “Carson didn’t like paper. He forbid me to use it.”
“Except there was a copier and reams of paper at the office,” I pointed out.
Toby shrugged. “I don’t think I ever printed a single thing. He did use the printer as a scanner to upload images.” He glanced pointedly at my notepad.
“Toby.” Knowing how Carson did things was imperative but figuring out how I was going to do those things was going to take time. Toby needed to understand this. “Carson isn’t here anymore. I have to notify these people that he won’t be completing the job.”
“No, paper was really important to him. He said it left a trail.”
I nodded, understanding. The person who broke into the office hadn’t found a single thing because of that philosophy. “Cut me some slack for now. I’ll burn the sheet as soon as I’m done calling everyone on the list.”
Toby shrugged, gave a slight nod, then pointed to three names on the list. “These are finished. Part of my job is to send the final paperwork and the invoice to the client. We’ve automated that. All Carson had to do was add client-specific info into these fields.” He clicked on the financial file and on a document inside that said Final PPWK/INVC then scrolled to a client’s name. “See here, Carson added the info needed. I can now close out the file.” He pointed to a date on the form. Carson had filled it out the day he died.
“So these three should be paying us?” I made a notation by their names on my list.
“Yep. As soon as I send these out.” He did a few clicks, screens popping up and closing. “Okay, sent. They have ten days before they get an automatic reminder.”
He showed me how to check for received payments.
“To which bank do the payments go?” If they were routed to the same bank that Carson and I shared, I wouldn’t see a dime. His wife—I blew out an angry breath—had the rights to that one. Because of that, I needed to switch from that bank as soon as possible.
Toby did some clicks while taking a hit from his vape pen. The smoke smelled like Tooty Fruity. Several screens popped up, the last showing the name of the bank and the account number. It wasn’t the one Carson and I used. I jotted down the information. The ledger in the master file showed the account had money, but I needed to figure out payroll and expenses before I got too excited.
“Are you shutting us down?” His mouth pulled down in a frown. “Cuz this was, like, the best job I’ve ever had. Carson said I had mad skills, and the hours work for me.”
The future of Holmes Securities was up in the air. How does a business stay open when the man with the experience was dead? How does an unemployed photographer keep it solvent?
My answer was a big shrug, the kind where your hands come up with palms out to really emphasis you actually knew nothing at all. “You’ll be the first to know once I figure everything out.”
The home file caught my attention, and I clicked on it. A video popped up. I leaned closer to the screen. The image was of the backside of two people.
“That’s us,” I said. “Right now.” Over my shoulder was the fireplace. I expected to see a camera, but on the mantel were the few remaining pictures of Carson and me I’d decided not to burn and a small Eiffel Tower tchotchke that we’d bought in Vegas the day after our unplanned wedding.
“Camera.” Toby was leaning back in his chair, vape pen hanging from his lips. “It’s the Eiffel Tower. Carson has a few throughout the house.”
My expression must have been alarming because he straightened, the pen falling. He rushed to say, “Not anywhere that would be uncomfortable. Only looking at entries. Like for break-ins.”
“A video system?” Yes, we had an alarm system. That was to be expected. But why hadn’t he ever told me about this? I mentally scoffed and added this question to my growing list of grievances against Carson.
“Yeah, he had one for the office, too.” He picked up his pen and took a puff.
“Wait? What?” I shut down the home file and clicked on office. The image was in real time. “How do I rewind? Maybe we have a picture of the person who broke in.”
Toby showed me. “I watched it already. Guy never looked at the camera.”
I leaned in closer and studied the dark image on the screen. Toby was right; he kept his face hidden. I wasn’t one hundred percent positive, but the burglar looked to be the same man in Lockett’s office and outside Dad’s paper. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, and a powerful, purposeful stride. He came up to the window and immediately busted out the glass. This person knew no one was going to be around.
He’d clearly staked out the place, which had allowed him to approach the building with confidence. Or he simply didn’t care. Like he knew Carson was dead and wouldn’t be there.
I was ready to shut down this new part of my world. A few days ago, I was using Photoshop to remove scars and acne from school pictures, and today I was experiencing the seedier side of life. I’d been here before. Ten years ago when I did my first crime scene photos for a course I was taking in college. Knowing criminals walked among my community, some I thought of as friends, had been hard to accept. So much that I’d picked a life where I wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of the dark side. Yet, here I was again, facing the same truths, only this time the criminal was in my home. I had a tough decision to make. I could bury my head in the sand and hope to hold onto the light side of life, or accept that the universe was once again asking me to choose a path.
“Will this be saved?” I tapped a finger on the image.
“Everything goes to the cloud,” he assured me. “But let me set it up so if we have any more intruders at the office or here, you’ll get a notification on your phone. You’ll need to get the app.”
I closed the file, hiding the break-in image from the screen even though it was burned into my mind. Toby took me through a few more of the files and showed me how to access the app. He left after I pinky swore I was comfortable with the cloud and logging in, which I was, and would hide my computer when I left the house. That one made me nervous.
I was out of my element. My pits were wet with sweat.
Precious arrived a few minutes after he left. “I’ve brought sustenance and courage.” She held up both hands, one held a bag of takeout food marked from the fish market and the other gripped two bottles, one huckleberry vodka, the other lemonade. Precious was dressed in flowered Capri pants with a navy twin set, looking fresh as a daisy. My hair, I’d given up on it and had put it in a braid that resembled a greasy rope. She unloaded on my dining table then came to look at my computer.
“Wow, this is some crazy good system. I’ve
been trying to automate my company more, but these programs are insanely expensive. A leak or breach from hacking where someone’s info is stolen can destroy a business, especially a small one. I can’t even afford the consultation for the system,” she said while opening the food.
Precious did well in her job. For her to say she couldn’t afford the consultation surprised me. “How expensive are they?”
She pushed my hand off the mouse and moved around the screen, clicking on documents and files in the Financial Master file. “They start at a quarter of a million. This one would be more expensive. It’s custom. That includes the equipment.”
I nearly fell from my chair with shock. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? How is that possible? How is it that a company as small as Carson’s has more than half a mil to put into software?”
Precious shrugged. “Looks like Carson had the skills to build it himself. This is one heck of a puzzle, Sam.”
“I’d prefer a puzzle that wasn’t so personal.” I pointed to the bottles. “I might need to start with some courage. And remember when you brought up a funeral?”
Precious nodded.
“My parents want to do a celebration of life party for Carson, and he’s invited. I need to find some ashes and an urn.”
10
Saturday
Precious plopped in a chair, stretched her long legs out before her, and said, “I can get some ashes from my fireplace.”
Mine was gas.
Jeez, I loved this woman. She’d had my back since we were kids. Knowing she was going on this journey with me made me weepy.
“Would it be rude to have the ashes in a bag?”
She shrugged. “I think they come like that. But no one is going to look into the urn. You could put a bag of beans in there. Maybe two if you didn’t want to use ashes.”
We bumped fists.
I said, “There’s a bank account I need to follow up on to see if I can access before the others get their hands on it.”
