“I have a better idea,” said Osborne. “We’ll have everyone come to my place for a nice luncheon immediately after the memorial service. I’ll arrange it.”
“Oh, no, Dr. Osborne,” said Molly, wiping away her tears. “You already entertained us—”
“Pizza is not entertaining,” said Osborne. “End of discussion—my place.”
After Molly left the room and Osborne was sure she was out of earshot, he turned to the group around the table. “Poor kid,” he said and shook his head.
“Now that was interesting,” said Bruce. “How convenient for Wife Number Two that Chuck Pelletier died before completing his will.”
“Things are bad enough without you going there,” said Lew, poking him.
“Just saying,” said Bruce. “After all, didn’t Chuck say he saw her in the car with Maxwell earlier that morning?”
The forensic accountant looked around the table. “Are we ready for me to give you my analysis?”
“Please,” said Lew, “go ahead.”
When he had finished, it was Peter Bailey who said, “It’s obvious to me that someone tampered with the financial reports that Chuck and I thought we were working with. It is also obvious to me that the person had to be Gordon Maxwell or someone close to him, someone skilled with Excel spreadsheets. I have a weird question and I’m sure I’m off base but . . .”
Everyone sitting around the table stared at him. “Do we know what this Patti person did before she married Chuck Pelletier? Was she employed somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” said Lew. “Good question. Doc, you’ve met her several times. Why don’t you and I stop by the house to see how she’s doing? Bruce told me she was able to move back in late yesterday afternoon.”
* * *
During the drive over to the Pelletier home, Osborne said, “Lew, I followed up on the photo your former mother-in-law showed us, the one where she identifies Gordon Maxwell as one of the men who bought her house. I showed the photo around during coffee this morning with my buddies at McDonald’s.
“Two of the guys recognized the man with Maxwell. He’s the current president of the Rotary Club. Not sure if that helps, but at least we know who he was with. And I doubt that fellow has any business dealings with Maxwell or the NFR development.”
“That fits. Lorraine said the other man in the photo wasn’t the one with Maxell when he came to her door. After what I learned today, I want to share a picture of Tom Patterson with her. Charlene told me that before she kicked him out, Patterson was running errands for Maxwell. Could be he’s the man who approached her along with Maxwell, don’t you think?”
The walkway up to the front door of the Pelletier home looked the same as it had the morning Chuck died: pots of pink petunias freshly watered and the stone walkway swept clean. Lew knocked on the door.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this, Mrs. Pelletier,” said Lew with an ingratiating smile, “but Dr. Osborne and I have a few more questions to run by you as we finish the paperwork on the investigation of your husband’s death.”
“Finish?” asked Patti. “Does that mean you know what? I mean who? I mean—”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Lew. “Frankly, right now the more we learn, the more some of us feel that his death may have been the result of an accident. But we simply are not sure.”
Relief snuck across Patti’s face only to be erased by an expression of curiosity. “Then, whatever I can do. Please, come in. I did get a call from that lovely man, the priest at St. Mary’s Church, telling me that the service for Chuck will be in one of the chapels at eleven tomorrow morning. Chuck’s daughters are taking care of everything, which is so kind of them.”
“Yes,” said Osborne, “I think handling the arrangements is helping them deal with the grief. Very good of you to let them take charge.” He smiled, knowing full well she had had no choice. “And I spoke with Molly just an hour ago, inviting everyone coming to the service to stop at my home for a luncheon immediately following the event at the church.
“I wanted to be sure you knew in case you want to invite anyone,” he added. “I’ve already called Chuck’s secretary, Marion, and she’ll be letting the staff who are coming to the service know that they are invited to the luncheon as well.
“Oh, gosh. That reminds me,” he said, looking at Lew. “I better call the Loon Lake Pub and Café and ask their catering staff to take care of things. Excuse me, will you, while I make that call?”
“Of course,” said Lew. “I’ll follow up with Patti while you take care of that.”
Lew followed Patti into the living room of the home and sat down on an upholstered armchair across from the sofa where Patti had settled herself. “Just a few questions on details I need for my reports,” she said, pulling out a small notebook.
“Certainly,” said Patti.
“First, what was your full name before you married Chuck Pelletier? I have you down as Patricia W. Pelletier but since you’ve been married less than two years, I’ve been instructed I need to have your full name as of five years ago.” Lew looked over at Patti with questioning eyes and a pleasant smile.
“Of course. Patricia W. Milligan. That was my name after my first marriage, which lasted ten years, and before that, my maiden name was Carter.”
“And you were employed where?” asked Lew. “I assume you were working when you met Chuck?”
“Oh yes. I was the bookkeeper for the Bradley College Science Division. I handled the bookkeeping for all the graduate fellowships and grants received by the professors. I was there for twelve years,” said Patti with pride. “Our division was the college’s most prestigious.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of Bradley College,” said Lew. “Where is that located?”
“Outside Boston. It’s a small, state-run school but the Science Division is well respected for its marine biology research. They have done landmark work in the field of squid propagation.” Again, the proud smile.
“Interesting,” said Lew, “we don’t have many squid around here.”
“No, you don’t.” Patti laughed. It was the first spontaneous laugh Lew had heard from the woman. “Anything else you need to know?”
“Yes—do you have children from your previous marriage?”
“No. I’ve never had children, which is why I was hoping to get to know Molly and Jessie better. But”—she sighed—“that’s going to be difficult, I’m afraid.”
Osborne walked into the room. “I am so glad I called. One more hour and it would have been too late to order for tomorrow. But,” he said, spreading out his hands as he spoke, “it’s all set—luncheon for twenty.”
“And we are set here, too,” said Lew, getting to her feet and extending a hand to Patti. “Thank you for your time.”
Back in the cruiser, Lew drove along the paved drive and half a mile from the Pelletier property before she pulled over. “Hold on, Doc,” she said while punching in Dani’s cell number. “I’m anxious to get this going.
“Hello, Dani, sorry to ruin your Saturday but I need you to run a background check ASAP. Think you can manage to do this right away?” Lew waited. “Sure, finish blow-drying your client. Twenty minutes won’t make a world of difference. Please call me if you find anything significant. Wake me up if you have to. Oh, and you’ll be paid time and a half for this. I appreciate it.”
The call from Dani came in that evening shortly before nine. Lew and Osborne were down on his dock watching the sun dip below the pines on the far shore.
The lake had shed its late afternoon crystal blueness in favor of soft swaths of rose and peach and periwinkle blue: a lake full of sky. A lake so placid, so peaceful, that Osborne wondered, as he often did when savoring summer evenings on the dock, why life couldn’t be so serene.
At the sound of the cell phone’s trill, Lew tipped over her glass of iced tea.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Osborne, grabbing for the glass. “You talk.”
�
�Everything she told you is accurate,” said Dani, reporting from where she was sitting in front of her computer. “We’re in luck, Chief. Not expecting anyone to answer, I called Bradley College and a student working late in the Alumni Office gave me the name and number of the current bookkeeper for the Science Division.
“I reached her at her home and she said Patti was let go for ‘financial improprieties.’ Seems she was having an affair with one of the married professors and was found to have moved grant monies from one division account into a grant program run by her lover. The college decided not to prosecute, but both Patricia Milligan and the professor were asked to leave Bradley College. That was a little over three years ago.”
After Lew hung up the phone, she relayed her conversation with Dani to Osborne. Well aware that sound carries over water, she spoke in a low voice. “So, Doc, we can assume that our party can read a financial report and—”
“And help an unskilled individual make adjustments to an Excel document,” said Osborne, finishing her sentence.
The two of them smiled at each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The church was hushed as Osborne walked down the aisle toward the small chapel on the right. Molly and Jessie were kneeling off to one side of the open casket. A vase holding yellow and white gladiolus had been set on the stairs in front of the casket. Tall candles threw a glow across the quiet features of the man with whom Osborne had shared hours in the trout stream.
Not enough time for us, my friend, thought Osborne as he knelt to pray across from Chuck’s daughters.
Six pews had been set up and they began to fill within minutes of Osborne’s arrival. Lew showed up, in uniform, and sat next to Osborne. “Sorry, Doc,” she whispered, “I know I should dress like a civilian but I want to be ready if anything breaks. I’ve got a meeting with Lorraine right after the luncheon, too. I want to show her the photo I got from Charlene.”
“The girls will understand,” Osborne whispered back.
By the time the priest was ready to say a few words about Chuck Pelletier, the pews were crowded with people. Osborne recognized Marion Hunter, Chuck’s secretary, and several of the others who had been patients of his over the years. Peter Bailey was there and, at the last minute, Patti Pelletier walked in to take the last seat in the rear pew.
The service was brief, and as people filed out of the church, Marion Hunter took Osborne’s arm. “Gordon Maxwell couldn’t make it here to the church but he plans to attend your luncheon. He said he was working until ten this morning and he still had to relay information about Chuck’s death to the NFR execs in New York City.”
“You mean he hadn’t told them yet?” Osborne was incredulous.
Marion shrugged. “Gordon does things his way. It wasn’t my job to make that call. Sorry.”
“Oh well,” said Osborne with a resigned nod in the direction of Molly and Jessie. “Maxwell’s presence at lunch will make a difference to the family. I’m glad he’ll be able to make it.”
* * *
Osborne’s house was buzzing. The caterers had set up in the living room with people serving themselves then wandering onto the porch to eat at one of several card tables, each seating six, which Osborne had been able to rescue from his basement. After making sure that Molly and Jessie had been served and were settled to eat with Marion, her husband, and Peter Bailey, Osborne headed toward the kitchen to see if the head caterer had any questions.
He passed Patti, who caught his eye with a wave and a hello. She appeared to be having a pleasant conversation with two young men whom Osborne didn’t recognize, although he knew from Marion that several of the contractors working on the construction of the lodge buildings would be coming to the service and the luncheon.
He made a mental note to introduce himself to the contractors before the luncheon was over. He wasn’t interested in who they were so much as if they could offer any insight as to what Chuck might have been doing in the office the morning before he died.
As he was talking to the caterer, the back door opened and a man walked in. Spotting Osborne, he hurried over to introduce himself. “Hello, Dr. Osborne, we’ve not met but I’m Bill Shauder, I’ve been working with Chuck and Gordon on the development of the Partridge Lodge property. Mainly with Gordon recently, but I got to know Chuck, and I find it hard to believe this has happened. Where is his family? I want to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you, we all feel that way,” said Osborne, shepherding him toward the porch where Molly and Jessie were sitting. “What area of the development were you involved with?” asked Osborne, being polite until he could move the man into a conversation with someone else.
“The bridges. My construction firm was hired to build three bridges over the new streams,” said Shauder. “Just finished the last one—or almost finished. We have maybe a day or—”
“Did you say ‘bridges’?” asked Osborne, taking him by the arm as they continued to walk in the direction of the porch. After introducing him to Molly and Jessie, he waited while Bill told the young women how badly he felt for their loss. Then Osborne tapped Peter on the shoulder.
“Peter, you must know Bill Shauder,” said Osborne. “He said he’s been building the bridges over the Partridge Lodge streams.” Peter looked up surprised. “I’ve heard the name. . . .”
“We met a year ago, I believe,” said Bill, graciously, extending a hand to Peter, who was getting to his feet. “You’re from New Zealand, aren’t you? Where the trout are as big as our muskies.” He chuckled.
“That’s right,” said Peter. “I’m the designer for the development. Say, I’ve been meaning to give you a call. Chuck and I had planned to speak about this first, but”—he looked at Bill with a grimace—“we never had the chance. You report directly to Gordon, correct?”
“That’s correct. Is there a problem?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” said Peter. “As I’m sure you know, Chuck was handling all the financials on the development. He mentioned to me that the project invoices he was getting from your man, Tom Patterson, were somewhat alarming in terms of cost increases. Maybe you and I can discuss this later?”
“Certainly,” said Bill. “You have an extra chair here. Mind if I join you?”
Peter looked over at Jessie, Molly, and the Hunters. “These folks don’t need to hear business right now.”
“No, go ahead, please,” said Molly. She had set down her fork and was listening. “Dad had mentioned there were issues with the bridge construction. He was frustrated that he didn’t have control over those projects, since they were one of the most costly elements in the development planning. None of my business but I know it was on his mind. . . .”
Shauder was shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that because I went out of my way to be sure every penny was accounted for. Gordon told me he was overseeing the bridges himself since he had more experience with bridge construction and the legalities involved. He said building in Florida had been a nightmare and quite the learning experience.
“But going back to what you just said, Peter, I’ve never heard of a Tom Patterson. Are we discussing the same projects?”
“Excuse us,” said Peter, sounding alarmed and setting his napkin on the table. “Doc, do you mind if we use your bedroom for a few minutes?”
“Go right ahead,” said Osborne. The two men walked through the living room and into the bedroom. They closed the door. A few minutes later, Bill Shauder came out. “Need anything?” asked Osborne. He had taken Peter’s seat at the table, ready to chat with his guests.
“Some answers,” said Shauder in a grim tone. “Be right back. I have some papers in my car that Peter should see. Back in a second.”
He hadn’t been gone two minutes when a new person opened Osborne’s rarely used front door and walked onto the porch: a short man in a business suit, his black hair standing so high on his head that it seemed to add three inches to his height.
The man hadn’t gone ten feet before Jes
sie let out a small scream. She stiffened as the blood drained from her face.
The table where she was sitting with Osborne and the others was at the far end of the porch—far enough from the front door that the newcomer hadn’t heard or noticed her reaction. The man walked past two other tables on the porch, where people were sitting, and was stepping through the doorway into the living room when Molly grabbed her sister by the shoulders. “What’s wrong? Do you need a Heimlich?”
“No, no.” Jessie shook her head. “That’s the man who grabbed me at the airport. The man who kissed me.”
“He— Who is that man?” asked Molly of the people sitting at the table.
“Gordon Maxwell,” said Marion.
“The man who worked with my father?” Molly sounded incredulous. She was on her feet before Osborne could put a hand on her shoulder.
“Let me handle this,” he said.
Osborne headed into the living room after Maxwell. Stopping to watch as Maxwell neared the group where Patti was standing and chatting, he saw Maxwell walk up behind Patti and, turning to one side, nudge her in the back. It was a gesture only someone watching carefully might have seen. She turned. Her eyelids drooped seductively and a slight smile crossed her face before she returned to her conversation.
Osborne remained where he was, watching. Molly, ignoring his instruction, had followed him into the living room and was standing silently beside him. Osborne was sure she had seen the nudge.
The two of them stood there, not moving, saying nothing, just watching as Maxwell picked up a plate at the caterer’s stand. He was serving himself when Bill Shauder, a black leather briefcase tucked under his right arm, rushed in the back door and hurried to the bedroom. If he saw Maxwell, he gave no indication. And Maxwell, helping himself to mashed potatoes, did not see Shauder.
Molly turned to follow Shauder into the bedroom. Osborne reached into his shirt pocket for his cell phone. “Lewellyn,” he said, turning toward the wall and covering his mouth, “you better get here fast.”
Dead Firefly Page 12
