What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  My face floods with heat. My heart thrums in my chest. I start breathing fast and hard. I try pinching my wrist, but the pain doesn’t stop the bad thoughts from piling up. I return the papers to the file and shove it into the cabinet. Then I rush out of the office and down the stairs and throw open the refrigerator door. Grabbing an open box of wine, I pour one goblet and then another until Mabel’s words fade away.

  December 10, 1983

  It’s only been three months since I met Rich, but I feel like I’ve known him forever. He’s SO sweet and SO good-looking, and I’m SO lucky to be dating such an incredible guy. We met on the very first day of classes. I was lost, and he helped me find my way. That’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful, kind, and caring. Never thinking of himself.

  We’re a lot alike in so many ways. I mean, he doesn’t love books like I do. He’s an econ major and plans to go into business and make a lot of money one day. But we’re both serious about our studies, and we hardly ever party. And he doesn’t have much family, just a younger sister and a mom he rarely sees. He’s coming home with me for Christmas. I hope he likes Aunt Genny. I’m sure she’ll like him. He’s such an incredible guy!

  Crystal

  July 1, 2015

  I got frustrated. The going was too slow. I wasn’t able to break through the bank’s information wall. So I decided to shake up the players. Give myself a promotion. Play a round of my favorite game.

  The day of the revelation, I arrive at work early so I can sit back and watch events unfold. I’m excited to look through my emails, but I don’t allow myself the pleasure. I’d rather savor the moment when it arrives.

  To kill time, I open a box of celebratory treats from Jorgensen’s Danish Bakery. Their flaky pastry crusts literally melt in your mouth—just enough sugar to counter the salt. A slice of heaven on earth. I chose an assortment of danishes: raspberry, rhubarb, apricot, and cherry. I said they were for a staff meeting, but the cashier gave me a knowing look.

  “My favorite is the cream cheese,” she whispered.

  I’ve gained weight since my arrival in Santa Barbara. The hordes of thin people make me nervous. I slump over my desk to chow down on the cherry pastry and then hide the rest in my drawer. I don’t want Dipak to see me eating. He thinks there’s beauty hiding under my fat. Sometimes I glance in the mirror in just the right way and think there’s a chance he might be right.

  I lick my fingers and then open a loan file to keep my excitement contained. At work I play a modified version of my game. A home for Jack but not for Jill. A car for Peter but not for Paul. Not that I lie or fudge numbers—I’m in no way like the boys. But if I think a client should win the game, I can nudge a decision to the finish line. Just a few telling words, a missing set of scores, a focus on the highs rather than the lows. It’s not a science like some people think. It’s a form of art.

  My hands embrace the application. My eyes caress the numbers. A plumber wants a building, a place to store his goods. I haven’t met the man, but his life seems neat and clean. A sprinkling of credit. Schedule Cs that show profit. Taxes paid on time. A wife who teaches nursery school. Two children in public school. They own a modest home with a reasonable mortgage and don’t own a lot of frivolous toys. No sign of student loans to eat away their futures. I’m about to bless the file when Dipak slogs in.

  “Morning,” he says with a sullen look.

  “Morning,” I reply.

  He sinks into his chair with a sigh.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “Something not?” He takes a bite from a bagel and downs it with a slug of coffee. “I just don’t want to be here,” he says, crumbs spraying from his lips. “I’m bored and sick of work.”

  Happiness wells inside me. “You never know, Dipak. Life can change in the blink of an eye.”

  He pauses and looks at me. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing.” I bury my head in my file. Today should cheer him up.

  He turns to his computer, wiggles his mouse, and seconds later breathes deep. “Holy shit!”

  “What?” My pulse speeds up.

  His voice drops to a whisper. “Have you seen this?”

  “Seen what?”

  “Come here.”

  I haul myself out of my chair and stand behind him.

  “Wait,” he says. “Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

  But it’s too late. I see what’s on his screen. It’s the bank’s newest loan assistant, a fiery redhead just out of college. She’s spread full-frontal naked across a pile of white sheets. Glossy lips wide open, one hand caressing a smooth white breast, the other on her upper thigh. She looks like someone you’d see on a porn site. But it’s not porn. It’s just little Amanda from the corner office spread across Dipak’s computer screen.

  “Where’d you get that?” I ask.

  “In my email. I bet you have it too.”

  “It’s gross.” So very gross. Not the worst photo I found on Tyler’s phone but definitely the most incriminating.

  “Damn it,” Dipak says, his hands shaking. He nervously clicks until the image disappears from his screen. “It came in an email from Tyler, from his private Gmail account.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Holy double shit. He blasted it to everyone in the bank.”

  I try to sound innocent. “Why would he do that?”

  Dipak points excitedly at his screen. “He sent it at midnight. Maybe a drunk dial. Who the hell knows? But he’s in a shitload of trouble—that’s for sure.”

  Breaking into Tyler’s phone had been easy. So was sending the photo to my private account and wiping away the evidence. He has a habit of leaving his cell on his desk, and his password is in his drawer. I had a harder time figuring out how to spew the email from his personal account at midnight when the library closes at eight.

  There’s a scream far down the hallway and then the sound of hurried footsteps. I’m guessing it’s Amanda. I feel sorry for her. I really do. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s collateral damage. A pawn in my game of life.

  George’s head pops through the doorway, his face pinched and grim. “Where’s Tyler?”

  “Monday and Wednesday he works out at CrossFit,” I reply. “He doesn’t get in until ten.”

  “Ten?” George’s forehead wrinkles. He looks like he’s aged a decade in a day. “Tell him to come to my office as soon as he shows up.”

  “Of course.”

  I log in to my computer and scan my emails. The IT department didn’t waste a second. Tyler’s indiscretion has been swept away.

  Kathi

  June 15, 2016

  I wake to a pair of dreamy brown eyes, the kind of eyes I fell for before I met Rich. The eyes of a boy I crushed on in high school. Alberto. Alberto Garcia. I was sixteen when he arrived with his family to work the autumn harvest, and it was love at first sight. I thought we’d be together for eternity, but then his father caught us kissing on the front porch. His family disappeared that very same night. I never heard from Alberto again. His leaving shattered my heart.

  I picture Alberto brushing my lips, kissing my nipples, caressing my thighs. Then the dream slips away, and I’m staring into the gardeners’ worried faces. They hover above me, waving shears and rakes, the morning fog swirling around them like smoke.

  “Nine-one-one?” the shorter one asks, holding up his phone. I can never remember his name. Is it Jose? Jorge? Jesus? Do the same ones come every time?

  “No,” I say, my hands fluttering like hummingbirds. “I’m fine. I was just resting.”

  I sit up, and my goblet falls from my chest and shatters on a flagstone. The two men glance at each other knowingly. One of them even smirks.

  “No mas,” I say in terrible Spanish. I wave my hands in the air. “No trabajas aqui today hoy.”

  They nod and back away like I’m some crazy woman. Well, I’m not. Or maybe I am. I wait until the side gate clicks shut and then collapse back onto the lounge chair.

  I must have fal
len back to sleep, because this time I wake to the burning sun, my mouth parched and dry. I push myself up and head to the kitchen, where I startle one of Mabel’s wandering cats. It’s the calico one. He’s curled up against the unopened bills on the kitchen table and stretches when I get close.

  “Shoo,” I say, flicking my hands at the thing, but the cat just purrs. I grab the broom and raise it as he stares at me with his lemony-green eyes. Then he jumps from the table, winds around my legs, and meows. I set down the broom and crouch on the floor and run my fingers through his silky fur. He arches under my hand, begging for more.

  “You’re so handsome,” I whisper. “Are you hungry?”

  I search through the cupboards and the refrigerator, but I haven’t been shopping in over a week. All I have are a few frozen dinners and a half dozen boxes of wine. I’m even out of coffee. I’ll have to go out in the world.

  After promising Mr. Calico I’ll head to the store and pick up some food, I swallow two aspirin and climb the stairs to the bathroom, where I shower and dab on some light makeup. Then I pull on a pair of capris and my favorite Lululemon top and head to the Upper Village for a quick shop.

  The Upper Village lies a mile from my house, a quaint minitown filled with expensive dress shops, trendy restaurants, and a high-end organic market. I rarely shop there due to the limited selection, but I’m in a hurry, and the next-closest market is another two miles away.

  I pick up a dozen items, including a few cans of cat food, and wait in a rather long line. The checker looks trendy and cool, her black-and-purple hair shaved to stubble on one side. I smile and swipe my debit card, and the checker rolls her heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Declined,” she says in a dull voice. “Try again.”

  “But I just got a new one.”

  “Did you call it in?”

  “Yes, but . . .” I don’t need to run my card a second time to know what has happened. How could I have drained my account so quickly? I could swear I didn’t spend more than $5,000 on my recent visit to Saks.

  “Do you have another card?”

  I rifle through my wallet, but all I find are frozen credit cards and a five-dollar bill.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, humiliated, as the line behind me grows. “I’ll put the groceries away and come back later.”

  “Right,” the girl mutters under her breath.

  “No need for that,” a man’s voice booms from behind. “I’ll take care of this.” I look up to find Eileen’s handsome husband standing beside me waving his card. He swipes before I can blink.

  “Why, thank you,” I stammer. “But there’s no need . . .”

  He taps in his PIN and then turns to me with a grin. “Now let me help you with your bags.” His eyes are the color of a wind-whipped sea, his hair a shade of wet sand. I can’t help but be mesmerized by his boyish grin.

  “I can handle them,” I say, my cheeks growing warmer. “I only have two bags.”

  “Of course you can. But let me help you anyway.” He picks up my grocery bags and walks me to my car. If only I had washed the Volvo. It’s so dusty it almost looks gray.

  Fumbling with my keys, I drop them and giggle. I grab them and open the back hatch and at once wish that I hadn’t. It’s piled high with the stray clothes and trash I’ve accumulated since Rich passed away. My savior doesn’t say a word as he sets the bags inside.

  “Thank you,” I say, shutting the hatch with a snap.

  “No problem.” He takes my hand in his. “I’ve seen you with Rich, but I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Arthur Van Meter.”

  “I know who you are.” I gawk like some awestruck schoolgirl. “I mean, I know you through Eileen.”

  “Of course you do. You’ve served on several of her committees.”

  “Yes, I have.” I’m surprised he remembers me in any way.

  He leans close. “I must tell you I found Rich’s funeral quite moving. It was heartwarming to see so many in our community come out to pay their respects.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you he was a great man. He did so much for this community. I’ll bet he never turned a nonprofit away.”

  “He was very generous,” I say, feeling proud.

  “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I’d love to share some of my stories about Rich.”

  I think about the milk in my bag and the kitty waiting at home. A half-hour delay shouldn’t be a problem. “I’d like that.”

  How could I not accept?

  We stroll over to Le Petit Bayou and are seated at a bistro table draped in red-and-white checkered linen. The tables ring an eighteenth-century limestone fountain that the owners purchased in Provence. The outside temperature is approaching ninety, but a vine-covered arbor keeps the courtyard shaded and cool. Arthur orders iced coffees and a platter of fresh tropical fruit from a young waiter in a black pantsuit.

  “So how are you doing?” he asks when our coffees arrive. He’s dressed in a red Lacoste polo shirt and perfectly pressed tan slacks. His sandy hair is laced with gold, his teeth straight and white.

  “I’m coping,” I say, trying to calm my nerves.

  He reaches out and pats my hand. “Good for you. This must be a terribly difficult time.”

  A yoga class lets out from the gym next door, and a clutch of young women lines up for coffee and tea. They’re all dressed alike in their tight black leggings and fluorescent crop tops. Several glance our way, and for the briefest of moments, I feel smug. Yes, Arthur Van Meter is sitting with me, not you. Yes, I’m at least twice your age. I tilt my chin to keep my jawline tight. “It’s just such a change,” I say. “One moment Rich was here, and the next he was gone.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.” His eyes are so caring that I open my mouth and begin to spew.

  “To be honest, I never thought I could feel this lonely. It’s not like Rich was home much. He was a very busy man. But sometimes I reach out in the middle of the night, and it shocks me to find he’s gone.”

  “Oh . . .” Arthur’s gaze has drifted to a leggy coed cuddling her friend’s silky black terrier.

  “Sooooo cute!” the woman cries.

  I think his interest has strayed until he says his next words. “Animals don’t belong in food establishments. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” I say breathlessly. “But I’d never say it out loud. Dogs are like children around here. I keep my thoughts to myself.”

  Arthur’s eyes spark gold. “You’re a bit of a rebel, aren’t you?”

  “I am?”

  “I like women that don’t fit the mold.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” A smile lights up his face. “Anyway. You were saying something about being lonely in bed?”

  My face flushes red. “Not just in bed.” I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. “But everywhere. All the time. Rich took care of all the little things. Gas in the car. Instructing the gardeners. Replacing lights. Paying the bills. The bills are the worst. They just pile up and up. I don’t even know where to start.”

  He nods, his chiseled face growing serious. “You have to be careful. I’ve read that con men will send fake bills at times like these, hoping someone is confused enough to pay.”

  “Exactly,” I say, wringing my hands. “I’m just not sure what I’m looking at—or looking for.”

  Arthur leans back and studies me. “I’ve been in the real estate business for most of my life. I’ve even done a little work with Rich and the bank. How about I come over and help you sort through your bills?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Why not?” He pulls a twenty from his wallet and sets it on the table. “My golf game got canceled, and I have a few hours to spare.”

  “You’re so kind. Are you sure Eileen won’t mind?”

  “Absolutely. She’s too caught up in the details of her latest g
ala.” He shakes his head with a grin. “Apparently there’s been talk of mutiny. She’s working hard to get the troops back in line.”

  “Well, all right.” I get to my feet. “But I have to warn you my house is a mess.”

  “I won’t judge. If anyone deserves to have a messy house, it’s got to be you.”

  Arthur and I sit cross-legged on the floor of Rich’s office. He’s sorting through bills, tearing up junk mail, and making a pile of urgent past dues. He presses me about the mortgage.

  “Your first and second mortgages are ninety days past due. If you don’t pay these bills soon, you could lose your home.”

  I take a deep breath. “Rich’s bank wouldn’t foreclose on me, would they?”

  “If the first deed holder files for foreclosure, they’ll have to do the same to protect their position. It’s not worth taking a chance. You need to pay these right away.”

  I pick up one of the bills and stare at it. The numbers seem so large. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “I’d say forty-five thousand, give or take.”

  My jaw drops. “Forty-five thousand? That’s crazy. Where will I get that kind of money?”

  “It’s not that much. You must have savings.”

  “Yes, of course.” I bite my lip. “But it’s all tied up in the estate.” I want to share the issue of the frozen assets, but Leo’s warning runs through my head.

  “Don’t you have a living trust?” Arthur asks.

  “A what?”

  “A living trust.”

  I shrug. “I guess so. We have a will. Is that the same thing?”

  Arthur laughs. “I forgot you Montecito gals don’t worry about such things. But I’m positive Rich would’ve set one up. He was a banker, for god’s sake. But possibly he had some other means for holding assets. Is there a chance he squirreled away cash outside of his bank?”

  “You mean like under the bed?”

  “That’s cute, but no. I’m thinking he could’ve opened an account somewhere under a separate legal name.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “Or hidden money in your home safe?”