She couldn′t send him to jail. She realized it now. No matter what, she′d fallen hopelessly in love with him.
Chapter 8
James hadn′t slept all night. He paced the bedroom, replaying yesterday′s events in his mind, trying to find the one thing he′d done or said to make Elizabeth react as she had. They′d spoken on the phone. She′d told him the day was going slow. She couldn′t wait to leave and she would meet him for dinner at the Key Bridge Marriott right after she closed. Her voice had sounded glad to hear him. She′d been smiling. He could hear it through the clear wonders of fiber optic phone lines.
He′d sat in the bar waiting. The tiny white lights that twinkled in the ceiling year round gave the place the look of Christmas. He′d imagined Elizabeth there among the star-spangled night. What could have happened to make her refuse to talk to him, even acknowledge his presence at her door? If it hadn′t been for her neighbors checking to see what the noise was about, he′s still be there. Someone had to have come into the shop and upset her, but who? Theresa?
He′d talked to Theresa two days ago. She wouldn′t have done it. She was the only person, other than himself, who knew the whole story about Claire and she would never hurt Elizabeth by telling her. Grabbing the phone James dialed her number.
‶Did you talk to Elizabeth, yesterday?″ he asked when a sleepy voice answered.
‶James, is that you? Do you know what time it is?″
He took a deep, calming breath and checked the digital dial of the clock radio on the bedside table. It read five o′clock. Elizabeth was driving him out of his mind. ‶I′m sorry, Theresa.″
‶You′ve been up all night,″ she stated. ‶What′s happened?″
‶Have you spoken to Elizabeth?″
‶No, why?″
‶Something happened yesterday. I don′t know what, but I can′t get her on the phone and she refused to open the door for me at her apartment.″
‶Are you sure she was home?″
‶Her car was parked in the garage and the doorman said she′d come in and not gone out again.″
‶Do you want me to--″
‶No, don′t do anything,″ he interrupted. ‶I′ll find her and I′ll find out what wrong.″
He could hear Theresa′s hesitation through the silence of the phone line. ‶Call me when you find her,″ she commanded.
‶I will.″ He felt deflated as he replaced the instrument in its cradle.
Morning dawned with a light snow. The weathermen predicted a white Christmas. At eight-thirty James dialed Elizabeth′s phone number again. He′d been calling her since seven. He was greeted by two rings and the incessant voice on the answering machine saying she was unable to come to the phone at this time. ‶Unable or unwilling,″ he muttered, slamming the receiver into place.
Unconsciously he paced the room. Nothing made sense. He needed to talk to her. There was no way he could solve this...this, what was this? Checking his watch, it was nearly time for her to open Invitation to Love. Taking the time to shower and dress he retraced his route from the night before. She′d already left her apartment when he got there. The shop also showed no activity. He sat next to the empty space where Elizabeth usually parked. Where would she go? When he was tense he usually went to the gym. When Elizabeth needed to be alone, where--. He stopped, his heart thudding against his chest. White flakes collected on the hood and in the angle created by the windshield wipers. When Elizabeth was upset there was only one place she′d go -- home.
James reversed out of the space and pointed the car toward Wisconsin Avenue. Snow in the District impeded traffic like it did no where else on earth. The cobblestone street was backed up with bumper-to-bumper cars. He crawled at the pace of turtle until he passed the library at R Street. Then the road widened and he raced along at a whopping fifteen miles an hour behind a line a cars whose drivers appeared to have all the time in world.
A drive that usually took ten minutes took over an hour. Finally, he turned onto Cathedral Avenue and raced toward his parent′s house. The garage doors were closed and the driveway empty except for a layer of snow. The faint shadow of two sets of tires told him his parents had left long ago. Hopefully they had arrived at work before the crowds on Wisconsin Avenue brought traffic to a near stand still. He parked and got out. Scanning the neighborhood, he searched for any sign of Elizabeth. Then he saw her car. Snow covered it. She′d been here a long time.
Rejecting the entrance door to his parent′s house, James jogged around to the back. Across the yard set a red-brick three-story colonial that Elizabeth and her family had lived in until she was thirteen. The house was empty now. The last family moved out a month ago. They had added a large pool. It was straight alone one side and staggered alone the other. A green covered closed it for the winter. The white snow nearly obliterated the green. Behind the pool a large collection of bushes flanked the back wall. In front of them set a white-painted garden swung. In this light the swing would have blended into the white surroundings created by the falling snow. Elizabeth′s dark fur coat contrasted with it as she swung back and forth. Her eyes were fixed in front of her. James stopped when he saw her. He wondered how long she′d been there. Her face looked frozen. Her hands were inside her pockets and snow covered her boots to her ankles.
Quietly he approached. She didn′t move. Even if she saw him in her peripheral vision, she gave no acknowledgment.
‶Elizabeth,″ he called softly.
She didn′t move. He wasn′t sure she knew he was there.
‶Elizabeth, we need to talk.″
The swing squeaked as it moved; the only sound in the still morning. James stepped inside the swing and sat next to her. Her eyes were fixed, like a person lost in an inner world.
‶You can′t stay here. It′s too cold.″ He was afraid to reach for her. She looked as if she′d shatter if he touched her. ‶Come on. We′ll talk inside.″
Elizabeth′s head slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were as cold as the howling wind that gusted up and stirred the snow. She gave him a stare that would wither a man. He withstood it not knowing why it was directed at him.
‶Did you do it?″ Venom dripped from her lips.
‶Do what?″
‶Did you steal $650,000.″
James′s shoulders dropped. ‶Yes,″ he said.
***
Elizabeth had known if she stayed at the old house long enough James would remember. He had remembered the ice cream from moving in day. They′d grown up together, been engaged. He knew what she did when she was happy and that she always found her way to this house when she was sad. He′d found her here countless times after her parents died. Although it had been years since she needed the anchor of the red brick building, she had no other place to go. She couldn′t stay in her apartment with Claire′s files staring at her like open wounds. Here seemed the only place she could go, where memories made her smile and lightened her heart.
She′d seen James the moment he came around the patio, but didn′t move. The wind didn′t bother her, she was numb already and the coldness hadn′t penetrated to her core until James uttered the monosyllable.
All night she′d told herself there had to be another explanation. No way was he capable of stealing that much money and blaming someone else for it. Yet each time she convinced herself of his honesty the hateful piece of paper would prove her wrong.
Elizabeth stood up and stepped out of swing. ‶Can you explain?″ she asked.
He stared directly at her. His eyes were steady and without a hint of guilt. He shook his head.
‶What did you do with the money?″
‶I can′t tell you.″
‶Three years ago you swore to me you′d done nothing wrong. Now you admit you′re a thief.″ A chill caught her and she shivered.
‶Elizabeth, I never lied to you.″
‶They both can′t be true, James. Either you took the money or you didn′t.″
He stared at her but offered no explan
ation. Elizabeth felt frustrated. She wanted him to tell her something. Anything that would explain the transfer of funds to a personal account and they a sudden transfer out. She couldn′t trace where it had gone; to a numbered account in Switzerland, to the private banks of the Cayman Islands, she didn′t know.
‶Say something!″ she ordered, her body reeling in the wind.
‶It′s not possible for me to explain it, Elizabeth.″
‶Then you admit it. Everything Claire told me about you was true. You embezzled money and tried to blame her. She′d have gone to jail if she hadn′t died.″
‶I wish I could explain....″
Elizabeth waited for him to continue. The wind died down and momentarily there was stillness. Between them accusation crackled like dry leaves, but neither offered reasonable cause to doubt the facts at hand. James said nothing, but maintained a steady gaze as if the airwaves between them would tell Elizabeth what she wanted to know. Frustrated she turned and walked away. Her booted heels clicked when she reached the pavement. James didn′t follow or try to stop her. At the gate to the street, she looked over his shoulder. He′d turned his back. His shoulders had dropped and for the first time she actually thought he looked defeated.
She wanted to hate him, feel that he was getting everything he deserved. Yet the only feeling that surfaced was love, disappointment that this man, who had been given all the advantages of life, had succumbed to stealing.
Pulling the car door open, she slipped inside and started the engine. The windshield wipers spun across the collected snow, affording her enough visible space to see the road. She drove away, a fresh supply of tears washing down her face.
When she pulled into her parking space at Invitation to Loe, she saw Joanne′s car. Thank goodness, she prayed. She could get the girl started and tell her about Officer Robinson′s order, then go out. Joanne was very astute and observant, yet this morning she didn′t mention that Elizabeth looked as if she′d been up all night, which in fact was the truth. She took her instructions and cheerily made coffee while Elizabeth slipped back through the door and into her car.
She knew it was a long shot. She expected the police department to tell her the same story they had on the phone the previous day, but she went there anyway. It was the Christmas season and maybe even a civil servant would take pity on someone who needed to see that accident report as badly as she did.
This wasn′t the case. The bored looking overweight clerk was thirty-something, complaining of her feet and the cost of Christmas gifts when Elizabeth arrived. The woman poured her frustration onto Elizabeth, standing between her and what she wanted like a tank guarding the entrance to Fort Knox. Elizabeth controlled her temper and her need to scream at this woman. She spoke calmly, focusing on the report and not being drawn into discussion of any other subject. Getting no where, she finally she thanked the woman and turned to leave.
Upset at losing, she wasn′t paying attention as she left the office. Outside the opaque glass door, she walked into someone. Looking up she found Office Robinson.
‶Ms. Gregory, what are you doing here?″
What did telling him the truth matter, she thought. ‶I needed a report, but I didn′t get it.″
‶Maybe I can help. Come into my office.″
Elizabeth had been right. He was a detective now. She seated herself in front of the desk in a steel chair with a faded grey cushion. Stacks of files covered most of the desk′s surface. On the floor were others. An empty coffee cup acted as a paperweight sitting on the top of one stacks. On the wall were several plaques for meritorious service and a photograph of him shaking hands with DC′s mayor. Elizabeth′s assessment of Detective Robinson softened a bit.
‶Would you like something to drink?″ he asked, taking the coffee cup and placing it on the one square inch of uncovered steel. ‶Coffee or tea is about all we have.″
‶Thank you, no,″ she said.
‶All right, now what report did you want to see?″
‶The one from the night my sister died. You were the officer who took the report.″
‶I was.″ His statement held no emotion, just a simple statement of fact.
‶I never read the report. You told me what happened, but now I want to see it. The clerk in the records office said it usually takes a week, but with the holidays it would take more time.″
Detective Robinson stood up. He went to a grey regulation file cabinet which he unlocked with a key from a large ring and opened the second drawer. Half way to the back he extracted a rather thin file and handed it to her.
‶Take your time,″ he said. ‶I′ll get us some coffee.″ He took the cup from the desk and left her alone.
Elizabeth held her surprise inside. Why would he still have this? she wondered. Was there something unusual about her sister′s death? Were they still investigating it? Did they know about James?
Elizabeth read. Inside the covers of the manila colored folder were just the facts of the accident. There was nothing here to lead anyone to believe it belonged in a locked cabinet. The cars had been driving fast, above eighty according the force of the impact. The ground was dry but patches of ice had been present. The conclusion stated that Claire′s car, Car Number One the report called it, had hit a patch of ice and the driver lost control. The car spun around and Car Number Two, James′s, had struck it. The skid marks on the roadway showed Car Number Two tried to avoid collision, but the speed at which the drivers had been going left too little stopping room before impact. Blood-alcohol levels indicated the surviving driver had been sober. Autopsy reports showed Claire′s levels at .03. Two additional times Elizabeth read the report. The then Officer Robinson had added a comment that the two cars were either racing or chasing each other, but in his opinion it was an accident and not a deliberate pursuit.
Sitting back Elizabeth let the report fall onto her lap. She exhaled on a long sigh. At least James was not guilty of causing Claire′s death, but she had no clear picture of where they had been going and why they were traveling at such high speeds inside the District lines.
Detective Robinson came back. He held his ceramic cup with the shield of the DC Police Department etched in silver on the side in one hand and a tan colored paper cup in the other. He handed her the paper cup.
‶You look like the cream-only type.″
Elizabeth accepted the cup with a nod. He was right. The coffee was fresh with just the amount of cream she liked. ‶Thank you,″ she offered.
‶Find anything interesting?″
She shook her head. ‶I didn′t really expect to,″ she told him, holding back the information that she didn′t really want to find anything damning about James, just something to tell her why he would resort to embezzlement. Why she thought it was related to the accident she didn′t know. ‶I do have some questions.″
‶Shoot,″ he said with a nonchalant shrug. He slid into the worn leather chair behind the cluttered desk.
‶There′s nothing in this file to warrant it being in a locked cabinet, why hasn′t it been archived with the rest of the records? Or is this case still open?″
Detective Robinson sipped the hot liquid before answering. Elizabeth thought it was a technique he′d mastered to slow down the pace or buy himself time when he was deciding how best to proceed.
‶No case is ever closed if new evidence comes to light,″ he said. ‶The files in that cabinet,″ he pointed to it. ‶are my personal files. Every cop has them. Their the kind of files which report the facts, but down deep inside the officer knows there′s something that′s not finished. It′s like getting up from a chess game just before you put the other fellows queen in check.″
‶You think there′s more to the accident than is written here?″
‶Not the accident.″
‶Then what?″
Detective Robinson came forward in his chair. He gave her a penetrating stare. Elizabeth withstood it, realizing he was again using a practiced technique.
‶Are you
sure you want to hear this? Most people who say they want to know everything have no idea what they′re asking.″
Elizabeth thought about that. Her pulse increased. She felt the pounding begin in her head and knew another headache was eminent. She′d loved Claire and James more than any other person on earth. The detective might know things Elizabeth would rather not hear, but in the last three years, she′d speculated and wondered. She′d refused to open Claire′s files, living in the dark and refusing to see the truth. She wasn′t doing that any longer. Weighing the difference between knowing and not knowing, she thought it was better to know, good or bad.
‶I want to know,″ she told him.
He paused again, all the while staring straight at her. Elizabeth held it. He got up then and went to the cabinet. This time the folder he handed her was thick. Papers stuck out of the sides in a haphazard array. Elizabeth wedged the coffee cup onto the edge of the desk and accepted the file.
She read in silence. It was all here. The files in her apartment, copies of them were in this folder and more. James′s bank account records were here. Transfers between several accounts showed deposits and withdrawals within days of each other. Large amounts were moved. Elizabeth calculated the amounts in her head. Everything time she did the number $650,000 popped up. Finally, she uncovered mortgage loan papers. Again, $650,000. James mortgaged his house. Why would he do that? Then she found the repayment of the business accounts, Christmas Eve three years ago, the day after Claire′s funeral.
‶I don′t understand,″ Elizabeth said aloud. She talked to herself, but Detective Robinson didn′t know that and answered.
‶Neither do I,″ he said. ‶Why would a man take his own money, transfer it to his business in a group of small business accounts and within a three month period mortgage his house? Why would we find an account in Barbados with his name on it; an account with several deposits adding up to $650,000 that was opened and closed in the same three month period.″
A Very Romantic Christmas Page 12
