by Ellen Crosby
“I heard Harlan invested his own money with Asher Investments,” I said. “So he lost out, too.”
Thelma rapped her knuckles on the wooden arm of her rocker. “That boy’s a mile wide and an inch deep. I remember when he was growing up. Always had a taste for the good life, that one.”
“Thelma, he grew up with money.”
“Money, good looks, and that kind of easy aw-shucks charm that suckers folks in. He knows how to use it, too. Only thing he isn’t blessed with is a conscience.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I said. “Do you really believe that?”
“Somewhere along the way he sold his soul, Lucille. Gave in to greed and temptation and now everybody who threw their lot in with him is paying the price. It’s a damn shame.” Her eyes glittered and I heard bitterness mixed in with the blame.
I got it now.
“Thelma, don’t tell me you invested with him, too? You’re one of the people who lost money?”
Thelma seemed to look through me for a long while, her head bobbing slightly. I couldn’t tell whether it was a tremor of age or an acknowledgment that I was right. Her smile was tinged with regret.
“I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping that information off people’s periscopes. Making out I was smarter ’n everyone else and keeping my hands in my pockets. That I wasn’t tempted by easy money. How’d you guess, Lucille? No, don’t tell me, I know. It’s that extrasensible perception you got going on.”
“I hope you didn’t lose much. I’m so sorry.”
“No one to blame but myself. It was like joining an exclusive club and I couldn’t wait to get in. I’d heard the whispering going around about this surefire opportunity to make steady money. Only an upside, no down. So I went to Harlan and asked him. He said he’d see what he could do because normally the minimum investment was a hundred thousand.” Her cackle echoed in the small store. “Good Lord. I had my mouth open wider ’n a big-mouth bass. He didn’t even have to work to reel me in. Told me he made an exception for me but said I had to be very circumcised about it. You know, keep quiet because it was all hush-hush.”
I had been about to take a sip of coffee. Instead I coughed. “He said that?”
“Yes, indeedy. He threatened to give back my money if I uttered one peep. Now I know he was just trying to keep me from talking to everybody else he made an ‘exception’ for.”
Amazingly, she’d kept her word.
“You weren’t the only one, Thelma. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Oh, phooey. I was just as big and dumb as the rest of the sheep.”
“You have every right to be angry.”
“What good would that do me, on top of everything else?” She shrugged. “I still got some of my little nest egg put away, plus I own this place. So it’s not like I lost everything the way I suspect some folks did. I know a few of the Romeos who are just fumigating they’re so mad.”
“Well, Tommy Asher’s still saying he’s got everything under control.”
“They said that about the Titanic.” She leaned back and started rocking.
“There’s still the dedication ceremony for the Asher Collection tomorrow at the Library of Congress. Maybe he’s trying to hold things together until then,” I said.
“He can do what he likes. It’s all over but the crying, anyway.” Thelma kept rocking. “You know, plenty of people made money from Harlan and Asher. They always paid with promptitude so you’d just keep on thinking the checks would come in. But lately the economy got so bad folks started needing some of their money to pay bills.” She shrugged. “That’s when Harlan started trolling for little fish like me. People who got in the end, ’cause they needed our cash. Now we’re the ones going to lose the most.”
“I know, I know. It’s horrible.”
“Especially considering one of ’em was Quinn. You must feel awful about that.”
I sat up straight. “Pardon?”
“Your winemaker, child. Rumors goin’ round he invested all that money he got from his mother’s estate with Harlan. Did it right before everything started to fall apart. It’d be a shame about him losing the cash he planned to use to buy his own place, wouldn’t it?”
“Are you sure about this?”
“You’d know better than I would.”
“I, uh …”
“Well, look at me shootin’ off my mouth. I just assumed you knew.” She stopped rocking. “Quinn didn’t tell you. Did he?”
My voice was faint. “I assumed he had investors who lost money because of Harlan and they backed out on him. It never occurred to me that it was his own money.”
“I’m sorry, Lucille. You know, I could be wrong.”
I nodded. She could be. But she wasn’t.
And it explained everything.
Chapter 22
For the rest of the day I avoided Quinn. Now I knew why he’d been so evasive about his financial situation. He’d risked all his money just as the ship was sinking.
Like Thelma and the Romeos, he’d been swept along with the tide. Everyone else was making money in Tommy Asher’s exclusive club, so why shouldn’t he? Asher promised modest gains and steady returns, not wild profits. A sensible way to build wealth. Then there was Sir Thomas himself: a title conferring aristocracy; a man who was urbane, intelligent, and generous, donating millions to charity and supporting worthwhile causes through his philanthropy.
What was not to trust? Who would question someone with his credentials and his long-term track record? His clients were wild about him—until they started losing money.
I ate a solitary dinner in the kitchen, though I brought The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope for company and pored over the Epistle to Richard Boyle, highlighting the two passages Rebecca had marked.
I studied the first: Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, / A certain truth, which many buy too dear.
Simon deWolfe was Sir Thomas’s half brother—but did that make him an equal, a peer? Was Rebecca implying Simon knew what was really going on inside Asher Investments? As for “a certain truth, which many buy too dear”—the “many” could be Asher’s clients who were now paying the price for what he’d done. Was Simon—my cousin’s new beau and the muscle for his brother—in on the whole Ponzi scheme, too?
If he was, how deeply was he involved? Enough to commit murder—like drowning a drunk Ian Philips in his hot tub? What about Rebecca? I’d always suspected Simon had been with her on the day she disappeared. Now I knew that he hunted with Mick, who was an excellent marksman. I’d bet money Simon was no slouch, either.
Dominique had seen only one side of Simon, the charming Englishman who’d swept her off her feet. Kit said David Wildman knew his dark, violent side from firsthand experience. How long before my cousin found out about it, too? I knew her well enough to know she’d laugh off my worries. She might even be annoyed or angry with me for saying anything negative about the man she was in love with—enough to go to Simon and tell him what her cousin said so that he could deny it and put her mind at rest.
Then what? For the time being I needed to keep my mouth shut and find what Rebecca had left for Ian. Then maybe I could talk to Dominique.
I went back to the poem and reread the second passage Rebecca had marked.
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suff’ring eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be play’d;
And there a summerhouse, that knows no shade.
A park? Somewhere with trees and paths. Manicured trees and statues, a defunct fountain, and a summerhouse “that knows no shade.” A formal garden in someone’s home? It had to be in Washington because she’d meant Ian to find it; I was her backup.
Tomorrow I’d show this passage to David Wildman and Kit. Maybe among us,
we could figure it out—hopefully soon.
Somehow it felt like I was running out of time.
* * *
Even though Antonio told me a couple of men would patrol the property as usual, I still slept poorly. Quinn and Rebecca haunted my dreams. When I woke on Saturday morning, the sun was already streaming through my bedroom window.
I showered and dressed, stopping by the villa to check in with Frankie on my way to the Goose Creek Bridge. She was outside on the terrace, straightening chair cushions and wiping down picnic tables.
“Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day,” she said. “Maybe we’ll have a good crowd. You off somewhere?”
“Meeting Kit for breakfast.” I left out where and that there would be three of us.
“In town?”
“One of our old haunts.” I pulled a chair into place around one of the tables. “Did you know Quinn invested his inheritance money with Thomas Asher Investments?”
Her eyes grew big and she nodded. “He told me yesterday. Said if this goes down the way it looks like it’s going, he’ll lose everything. The poor man.”
That hurt. He trusted Frankie but not me.
“I found out from Thelma.”
She set down her spray bottle of glass cleaner. “It’s different with you, Lucie. Believe me, he’s kicking himself from here to California for being so gullible. He’s probably too ashamed to tell you what happened.”
“He won’t be the only one to lose his shirt.”
“Tell him that.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
“No, but last night I think he planned to meet up with some friends and get drunk. He might be home sleeping it off.”
I’d never known Quinn to go out with the deliberate intention of getting drunk. He was careful; he knew his limits and what could happen to winemakers who liked their own tipple too much and too often.
I pressed my lips together and shook my head. Down the slippery slope…
Frankie held up her hand. “Give him some space, Lucie. He’s got to deal with this, and you know how much pride he has. It’s tearing him up.”
If I gave him any more space, we’d inhabit different planets.
“I offered him a partnership the other day,” I said. “I wonder if he’ll reconsider now.”
“Well, it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow somebody some good, I guess.” Frankie put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry. That came out horribly wrong.”
“Or maybe it didn’t.” I shoved another chair into place. “You know as well as I do that if I bring it up again he’ll just think I’m doing it out of pity.”
She picked up the spray bottle. “He’s proud and you’re stubborn. You two are a pair, you know that? How much longer are you going to go on like this? It’s wearing me out.”
“Like what? You just cleaned that table, you know.”
“Oh, go on and meet Kit for breakfast already.”
“Thanks. See you.” I started to leave.
“Lucie?”
“What?”
“If you’re free tonight, a group of us are going to the Hidden Horse for drinks and dinner. Why don’t you come along and maybe afterward you could spend the night at my place? Tom’s away on business. I’d love some company.”
When Tom was away Frankie busied herself with imaginary chores like vacuuming the basement of her immaculate house or straightening the garage. She didn’t need company, but if I spent the night with her, my security guards wouldn’t have to babysit me.
“Thanks for the invite, but I’ve already got plans for the evening. Anyway, I think we can call off the nightly patrols, don’t you? Antonio and the guys need their beauty sleep and, for all I know, what happened on Mosby’s Highway was just a random case of road rage. It’s been like a tomb around here ever since.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“What are you doing tonight, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Going to the opening of the Asher Collection at the Library of Congress.”
Her eyes widened. “Don’t you think you ought to steer clear of the Ashers?”
“On the contrary. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“Lucie …”
“Relax, Frankie. I’ll be fine. Mick’s taking me. Nothing’s going to happen. There’ll be a million cameras and reporters, and everyone will be on their best behavior.”
She wasn’t mollified.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I just don’t understand you.”
Kit’s Jeep and a silver Toyota Camry were parked at the end of the dirt road next to the gate by the old Goose Creek Bridge when I got there just after ten o’clock. In summer the heady scent of wild honeysuckle would be everywhere, but now the heavily wooded landscape was only beginning to show hints of green. Kit and someone I assumed was David Wildman sat on the parapet overlooking Goose Creek, their legs dangling over the water. Behind them through the screen of bare trees and brush, I could make out rolling hills and the dark parallel lines of a post-and-board fence that ran along the perimeter of a field where armies once had fought.
Kit, in a scarlet jacket, gold scarf, and lime green pants, stood out like a traffic light in the otherwise subdued landscape. As I walked down the gravel path she waved.
“Come and get it! Your coffee’s getting cold!”
She and David stood, hands around their coffee cups like they were praying. Another cup sat on the wall next to a rectangular white box. David Wildman picked it up and walked over to me.
“The woman I’ve been chasing for a week.” He handed me the coffee. “Nice to finally meet you, Lucie. David Wildman.”
He was younger than I’d expected, short, fit, and bullishly built. I guessed him to be a few years older than I was, probably in his midthirties in spite of the bald head, which I figured he shaved. His skin was the color of burnished mahogany and he wore horn-rimmed glasses and a tiny gold hoop in one ear. He carried himself with an easy confidence that showed in the tilt of his head as he studied me. His smile could have lit up a dark cathedral.
“Nice to meet you, too.” I smiled back. He was charming. No wonder Summer had talked to him. “Kit told me a lot about you.”
He grinned some more. “Make you a deal. You believe half of what she told you about me and I’ll believe half of what she told me about you.”
I glanced at Kit, who rolled her eyes.
“Make it seventy-five percent and you’re on.”
He laughed. “Sounds like we should just start over.”
“How nice you two already bonded, thanks to me.” Kit gave us a baleful look as she held out the box. “Doughnut, anyone? I bought a dozen.”
I took an old-fashioned, David picked a jelly-filled, and Kit helped herself to a Boston cream.
“Shall we sit down and do this?” David said. “I’ve got a lot of questions.”
We moved back to the parapet where he’d left his rucksack. Kit and I faced the creek while David straddled the low wall so he could see the gate and the dead-end road. I wondered if it was deliberate. We ate our doughnuts and drank our coffee.
“It’s pretty out here. I grew up in a city, so places like this seem like a foreign country. Does it get many visitors?” David licked jelly off his thumb.
His tone was conversational, but I could tell it wasn’t just idle banter. I wondered if he now thought he needed to watch his back after yesterday’s article in the Trib.
“Occasionally you find someone following the Civil War trail out here,” I said. “You probably saw the marker on Mosby’s Highway. There’s more of a crowd during the spring garden tour when local historians give lectures on the battle. Most of the time, though, it’s deserted.”
He nodded and pulled a reporter’s notebook and pen out of the rucksack.
“Anybody ready for another doughnut?” Kit opened the box.
“One’s my limit,” I said.
David r
egarded the choices and eyed Kit. “You want the chocolate-covered one with the sprinkles, don’t you?”
“I’ll take anything. Take that one if you want it.”
He picked up a glazed donut. “I can’t. Your initials are written in the sprinkles.”
“Where?” She studied the box and looked up. “Oh, for God’s sake. Why do I believe you anymore?”
He bit into his doughnut and winked at me. “She finds me irresistible.”
“Yeah, well, I’m working on resisting him,” Kit said. “I’m nearly there.”
David set his doughnut on a napkin. “I thought you should know that Ian Philips mailed me copies of his notes as sort of a backup. He was worried about the threats he’d been receiving.”
I stared down at the creek, which flowed peacefully beneath us. Rebecca wanted Ian and me to be her backups—and she was gone. Now Ian had gone to David Wildman before he died.
“When did you get them?” I asked.
“They were postmarked Tuesday. The day he died. He sent them to the newsroom. I didn’t get ’em until yesterday. They were sitting on another reporter’s desk by accident and he was out sick. Caught me completely by surprise.”
Me, too. At least now I knew Ian trusted David.
“Who knows you have them?”
“Besides Kit and my editor, only you.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked as a chill went through me.
“Right now I’m still reading them. A lot of dense economics—numbers, formulas, terminology—that I’m trying to wade through. It’s slowing me down. I really don’t want to ask our business reporter for help since I’d like to keep it on the down low that I’ve got this stuff.” He eyed me. “There is one glaring omission.”
“Ian had no proof of any falsified trades or how the money got moved around,” I said. “You need what Rebecca left him.”
Kit licked sprinkles off her doughnut. “If she left anything. What if Tommy Asher’s right and she’s dirty, too?” She caught me glaring at her. “Sorry. You know how I feel about her. I did meet her, you remember.”
