Duplicity

by Ingrid Thoft

  “But you’ve had a chance to see what the church is all about,” Chloe said.

  Fina shook her head. “Not really. Pastor Greg wouldn’t tell me much about the church’s finances.”

  Ceci looked at her daughter, but before Chloe could speak, the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  “This is exactly what concerns me, Chloe,” Ceci said a moment later, shaking a packet of sweetener before pouring it into her iced tea.

  “I’m not quite finished,” Fina said.

  “Of course. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “The church is protective of itself,” Chloe interjected. “And rightly so. We’re always being misrepresented and misunderstood.” Fina stared at her, indicating that the “no interrupting” rule applied to her, too, and Chloe sat back as if to cede the floor.

  “The church has every right to protect itself,” Fina continued, “and given that it’s a 501(3)(c), it’s not legally obligated to disclose financial information. That said, I’m troubled by the secrecy that the organization perpetuates. When people aren’t forthcoming, others assume they have something to hide, whether or not that’s a fair assumption.”

  “It’s not fair,” Chloe said.

  “The other issue that raises a red flag,” Fina continued, “are the church’s assets.”

  “Such as?” Ceci asked, accepting a plate of chicken salad from the waitress.

  “The Gatchells’ home in Wellesley. Of course, they have to live somewhere,” Fina said in an effort to preempt Chloe’s objection. “But there’s also a ski condo in New Hampshire and a house on Cape Cod. There are luxury cars and trips to tropical locations.”

  “All of which is related to church business,” Chloe insisted.

  “Maybe,” Fina said, digging her fork into her quiche, “but my financial adviser thinks the spending could be part of a pattern. It may not be illegal, but it may be ethically questionable.”

  “Pastor Greg is completely devoted to the church,” Chloe said. “He and Gabby built it from the ground up. They work all the time, and never turn down anyone in need. And they’ve been incredibly supportive of the art therapy program.”

  “I understand that,” Fina said, “but I’d like to know what percentage of church donations supports the good works of the church and what percentage supports their lifestyle. Those are reasonable questions that Pastor Greg won’t answer.”

  They were silent for a moment. Chloe busied herself spooning up some polenta. Ceci watched her daughter over her iced tea.

  “It sounds as if you don’t think the bequest is a good idea,” Ceci said after setting down her glass.

  “No. Not at this time,” Fina said. “And I really am saying that with your best interests at heart, Chloe. I know that you love the church, and it is a welcoming community, but there will be plenty of time to make a generous gift once you have more information.”

  “But there isn’t time,” Chloe insisted. “Pastor Greg has plans for a retreat center, and the land in Vermont is critical to moving forward.”

  “But don’t you see, Chloe?” Ceci asked. “He’s creating a sense of urgency so you won’t ask questions. Surely a few months’ deliberation won’t derail the plans. If he really cared about you, he wouldn’t rush you.”

  “He does care about me, Mom,” Chloe said, her voice rising. “But he cares about the church and the community just as much. I don’t want to be the reason that people don’t get the support they need. I don’t need a huge spread in Vermont, for goodness’ sake.”

  Fina loathed Pastor Greg at that moment and the way he used shame and guilt to manipulate others. Her father did it all the time, but he was a personal injury lawyer; it was practically in his job description.

  Ceci gave Fina a pleading look.

  “Perhaps if your mother had a better understanding of what draws you to the church, you two could find some common ground,” Fina said. “The theology of Covenant Rising seems at odds with your family’s values.”

  “I’ve already explained it to her.” Chloe didn’t look thirty in that instant; she looked more like a sulky adolescent.

  “Well, how about you explain it to me,” Fina said. “Humor me.”

  Chloe straightened up. “First of all, there’s no perfect belief system, but I feel like I matter at CRC—like my participation matters.”

  “You don’t feel that at work?” Ceci asked. “Or in our family?”

  “Does my participation matter in our family?” Chloe asked.

  “Of course it does!”

  “Really? Is that why Dad and Veronique are in charge of the company, and you and I are supposed to keep busy with art and charity?”

  Ceci looked perplexed. “But Chloe, you love art, and charity is what you’re choosing to do at the church.”

  “I have a role at the church. I belong, and I love the other members. Mom, they came through for me during a very difficult time.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but don’t you think that what was right for you then may not be right for you now? You were at a low point after the breakup.”

  “So you think I should leave now that they helped me? Just use them?”

  “That’s not what I mean, Chloe.”

  “The members of CRC are wonderful, and they care about people regardless of their circumstances.” She glared at her mother. “It doesn’t matter to them how much money you make or where you went to school.”

  It may not matter to the other members, but Fina was certain it mattered to Pastor Greg.

  “Chloe,” Ceci implored.

  “This conversation is a waste of time,” Chloe said, crumpling her napkin into a ball.

  They sat for a moment, an awkward silence cloaking the table.

  “I’m not sure what more I can do,” Fina said.

  “Could you please talk to Nadine?” Chloe asked. “I’m sure she could put your mind at ease.”

  “I’d love to talk with her if I can get ahold of her.” Fina doubted that Nadine would add anything of value. She probably toed the company line.

  “I know she’s been sick. That may be why you’ve had trouble connecting with her.”

  “I’ll reach out to her again,” Fina promised.

  Ceci chewed a bite of chicken and studied a framed sketch on the wall. Fina knew that changing Chloe’s mind would take a miracle of biblical proportions. She suspected that Ceci knew that, too.

  They left discussion of the church behind, and after a few minutes of stilted conversation, hit a rhythm. Both Ceci and Chloe were knowledgeable art lovers who put Fina—with her meager “intro to art history” knowledge—to shame.

  Ceci had to run to a meeting, but once they’d finished eating, Chloe insisted that Fina join her for a brief lap of the museum. Fina thought the building was spectacular, and the art it contained impressive, but the setup always brought to mind a flea market in an Italian piazza. Everywhere you looked there was another item that was fighting its neighbor for space.

  They finished up in the Dutch room, in front of the empty frames in which the stolen Rembrandts had once resided.

  “It’s so horrible,” Chloe said, studying the blankness. “Stealing from everybody so that a privileged few can benefit.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Fina said, studying the young woman for a trace of irony.

  There was none to be found.

  • • •

  Fina returned to Ludlow and Associates and spent the rest of the day reviewing files for another case. Carl wanted her to spend every free moment on Covenant Rising, but that wasn’t realistic; other people didn’t abide by Fina’s schedule, and there was always paperwork that required her attention.

  She called it quits around dinnertime, and since Nadine lived in Dorchester—closer than Lucas’s Dedham address—Fina decided to pay her a visit. Much could be glean
ed by catching an interviewee off guard in her own environment.

  Nadine’s house was a modestly sized Victorian with a front porch and a window in the pitch of the roof. There was a small yard and a freestanding single-car garage at the end of the paved driveway. Like most of the houses on the street, the paint was in good shape and the yard tidy. It was a solidly middle-class neighborhood, and the pride of its residents was evident.

  The Toyota Camry sitting in Nadine’s driveway buoyed Fina’s hopes that she was home. A light glowed on the first floor, but when Fina rang the bell, there was no response. She cupped her hands against the front window and stared into an empty living room. Fina started back down the front steps, but something made her stop. She returned to the window and studied the scene more carefully. Beyond the living room, the kitchen was visible. There were café curtains in the window over the counter, and a tall plastic trash can was off to the side. Fina scanned the doorway and drew her breath in sharply when she computed what she’d seen the first time she looked. There was a shoe peeking out from the door frame, and inside that shoe, what appeared to be a foot.

  Fina banged on the front door, calling out Nadine’s name. Running around to the back of the house, she tried to open the door into the kitchen. Through the window, she could see a woman lying on the floor, motionless.

  Fina pulled out her phone and dialed 911. The eerily calm voice on the other end asked for specifics and instructed her to stay on the line until the cops and ambulance arrived. She trotted back down the steps and searched for something with which to break the glass in the door. At the edge of the yard, Fina found a rock roughly the size of a softball. As she pulled back her arm to throw it, a shout stopped her.

  “Don’t throw that!” a man yelled from the neighbor’s yard. “There’s a key!”

  He jogged over and knelt down by a basement window well. He pulled out a small key box from its depths and tossed it to Fina. She shoved the key into the lock and threw open the door.

  In the kitchen, the neighbor dropped to the floor and felt the unresponsive woman’s neck for a pulse. After a moment, he touched his palm to her face.

  “Is this Nadine?” Fina asked, crouching down next to him.

  “It’s Nadine,” he said, sitting back on his knees, his expression pained.

  Fina felt sure that Nadine Quaynor was dead. There was no rise or fall to her chest; her body was shrouded in stillness.

  “Ronnie McCaffrey,” the man said, offering his hand. In his early sixties, he had a ruddy face and snow-white hair. He was wearing jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt.

  “I’m Fina Ludlow.” She studied Nadine’s face. “She’s dead, I’m guessing.”

  “No pulse and cool to the touch. Goddamnit.”

  “Are you a firefighter or a cop?” Fina asked. His levelheaded response suggested some experience with the deceased.

  “Boston Fire Department, retired. If you were a desperate family member, I’d go through the motions, but I don’t think that’s necessary.” Sirens could be heard in the distance.

  “You’re right. It isn’t.”

  “Are you a friend of Nadine’s?” Ronnie asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  Fina caught sight of flashing blue and red lights on the wall. She went to the front door and ushered the first responders inside.

  Firefighters, EMTs, and a couple of cops crowded into the small space.

  “DOA,” Ronnie told the man who seemed to be in charge. The EMTs got down on the floor to conduct an assessment, and Fina wandered into the living room. The firefighters tromped back out of the house, while the medics continued their work, and one of the cops came over to Fina.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” He pulled out a small notebook and pen from an inner pocket of his jacket.

  “Fina Ludlow.”

  “Is this your house?”

  “No, it’s hers.” She gestured toward the kitchen.

  “And she is?”

  “Nadine Quaynor.”

  “What’s your relationship to her?”

  “We don’t have one. I’ve never met her before.”

  He cocked his head. “But you found her?”

  “Yes. I stopped by to speak with her, and I saw her foot through the window. I called you guys right away.”

  “How’d you get in the house?”

  “I knew where the spare key was,” Ronnie said, joining them. Radios crackled in the background.

  “Did you hear me yelling?” Fina asked him.

  He nodded. “And I heard the call on the scanner.”

  That explained his prompt appearance. It wasn’t unusual for retired cops and firefighters to listen to the emergency frequency from the comfort of their living rooms. It was a way to hear the language they’d spoken all their lives, a language spoken in few places.

  “I checked her out,” Ronnie said to the cop, gesturing at Nadine, “but it was obvious she was gone.”

  One of the EMTs tidied his bag of gear while the other filled out a form on a clipboard.

  Ronnie walked over to the doorway. “You put a call in to the ME?” he asked the one filling out the form.

  “Taken care of, Chief.”

  He gazed down at Nadine, shaking his head. He sighed loudly.

  “Why are you here exactly?” the cop asked Fina, his voice laced with impatience. “You said you didn’t know the victim.”

  “I’m a private investigator.” Fina showed him her license. “I wanted to ask her some questions related to a case.”

  Ronnie raised an eyebrow in Fina’s direction, but didn’t say anything.

  She took a step toward Nadine’s body. Nothing looked off except for the lack of color and movement. “It doesn’t look like there’s any trauma.”

  “She’d been sick recently,” Ronnie said.

  Fina remembered Chloe’s comment from lunch. “Sick with what?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know exactly, but I didn’t think it was serious.”

  The cop was fishing through a purse sitting on the counter. He took out a wallet and examined Nadine’s driver’s license. “She was thirty-two.”

  “Young,” Ronnie said. “I hate seeing the young ones.” The EMTs nodded in agreement.

  “Any idea about next of kin?” the cop asked.

  “She’s married—separated, actually. Her husband’s living in Natick,” Ronnie said. “She also has family in Waltham.”

  “Do you still need me here?” Fina asked.

  “You have some place you need to be?” the cop wondered.

  Fina swallowed the urge to make a flippant response. As a rule, sassing cops was a bad idea. “I feel like I’m intruding. I didn’t know the victim, and I don’t think I can be helpful.”

  “I need your contact information,” he said. “Then you’re free to go.”

  Fina gave him her card and headed for the front door. Ronnie followed.

  “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” he said.

  “Me, too. Thanks for rushing over. Your neighbors must sleep easier knowing that you’re nearby.”

  “I do what I can.”

  Fina felt badly for Nadine and her family—that her life was cut short and theirs would be derailed—but she didn’t feel the deep sadness that occurs when someone you know has died.

  For Fina, Nadine’s demise was just a big pain in the ass.

  • • •

  Something about seeing a dead body made Fina crave human connection, but she also needed to break the news to Chloe. She left her a voice mail asking to meet and contemplated dropping in at Risa Paquette’s house. Risa was a family friend who had become a confidante of Fina’s in recent months. A close friend of Rand’s late wife, Risa was picking up the slack with Haley, and Fina had supported Risa during a recent family situation when her biologic
al aunt came calling for her kidney.

  Fina checked the time. She worried that she’d be interrupting the domestic Bermuda Triangle of dinner, homework, and TV-watching at Risa’s, so she turned her car in the direction of 56 Wellspring Street in Newton.

  The living room of Frank and Peg Gillis’s modest ranch house was illuminated, and with no kids at home, Fina was confident her drop-in would be a welcome diversion, not a distraction. Frank had been the lead investigator at Ludlow and Associates and taught Fina everything she knew—everything that wasn’t illegal or unethical. These days, Frank and his wife, Peg, served as Fina’s surrogate parents when Carl and Elaine didn’t measure up, which was always.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Frank said when she rang the bell and poked her head in the door.

  “Hi. Where’s Peg?”

  “Book group.” He was sitting in his favorite recliner, a book on his lap. He glanced at his watch. “They’re probably discussing genocide over a nice cobbler.”

  “I’d skip the genocide and go straight for the cobbler,” Fina said, taking a seat on the sofa.

  “You and me both. Do you want something to eat? There are some leftovers in the fridge.”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  Fina made herself a meatloaf sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise. She knew there were no chips in the house; Frank had had some heart scares, and certain foods were verboten. She grabbed a diet soda and took her meal back to the living room.

  “How are you?” she asked him. “Taking care of yourself?”

  “Always,” he said, smiling.

  “No tree removal? Driveway paving? That sort of thing?” Frank liked to do manual labor despite his doctor’s admonitions.

  “You know, you tease me, but wait until you can’t do things you used to do all the time.”

  “Believe me, I get it,” Fina said, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I can’t do things I used to do in my twenties. I can’t fight the way I used to, or at least, I don’t recover as quickly.”

  Frank stared at her. “I’m not talking about hand-to-hand combat, sweet pea. I’m talking about household chores.”