Crime & Punctuation

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  The look she sent me was the same one she’d have given a bug she intended to squash, but she waved me ahead of her into the living room. In common with her décor, Ronnie was shined and polished and impeccably turned out in black slacks and a brocaded tunic in the same color. The ensemble made me feel like a hobo in my dress jeans and plain white cotton shirt. Her jewelry wasn’t ostentatious, but even my untrained eye pegged the rings, bracelets, and necklace as expensive. She was in tasteful mourning, twenty-first-century style.

  We sat. I was on the sofa and she took the wing chair. In a period piece, she’d have rung for tea. Since this was real life and not an episode of Downton Abbey, she simply glowered at me, waiting for me to speak. Ann prudently made herself scarce.

  I cleared my throat. “You know already that your granddaughter brought a manuscript to me to edit.”

  She responded with a regal nod, even though that hadn’t been a question.

  “The police gave the printout to her husband. Since then, both you and he have suggested that Tiffany might have left something else with me. I’d like to know why you think she would have and what you think it was.”

  “That’s none of your business.” Ronnie snapped out the words.

  “On the contrary. If you want it found, it only makes sense to tell me what I should be looking for.”

  Thanks to the facelift—possibly more than one—Ronnie always looked like she was wearing a mask. It was a wonder she could still manage to sneer. I wasn’t able to tell what she was thinking, but the look in her eyes was anything but friendly. I spoke again before she could order me out of her house.

  “As it happens,” I said, “Tiffany did leave something with me.”

  I got a definite reaction to that announcement. Ronnie’s right hand twitched, and her eyes widened by at least the width of an eyelash. Verbally, however, I got nothing.

  “Your pal Joe Ramirez seems to think Tiffany had proof of her husband’s shady dealings.”

  Ronnie’s only response was a continuation of her silent stare. When she finally broke eye contact, it was to open a drawer in the end table beside her chair. She took out a pack of cigarettes and a crystal ashtray.

  Taken aback doesn’t begin to describe how surprised I was. Most people my age who smoked when they were younger—the ones still alive—had abandoned the habit decades ago. Ronnie lit up and blew a cloud of smoke my way. My obvious discomfort seemed to please her.

  “Those things will kill you, you know.”

  “My business, not yours.” She studied me as she puffed. “You know, Mikki. I’ve never been able to decide what it is I dislike most about you. You were Miss Goody-Two-Shoes in high school. Teacher’s pet. Stuck up.”

  “I was not!” Fifty-plus years later, I could still feel outrage at the unjust accusation. “If you want to know the truth, I suffered from crippling shyness. The only time I could force myself to speak up was if I was sure I knew the right answer to a question in class.”

  “Obviously, you got over being shy. It took a lot of nerve to come here.”

  I didn’t make the mistake of thinking this was a compliment.

  Stubbing out the cigarette, Ronnie stared at the fingers that had held it. An air of discouragement descended over her like a pall.

  They say you can always tell age from the hands. I could see that she’d been lucky enough to escape arthritis, but there were plenty of fine lines and the big telltale of prominent veins. Ronnie was fighting a losing battle against getting older and she knew it, just as she knew that her granddaughter’s life had ended much too soon.

  “Did Tiffany know Greg Onslow was a crook?” I asked. “Is that why she left her shares to you?”

  With a movement as simple as straightening her spine, Ronnie once again became the grande dame looking down her nose at the peasant. Instead of answering my question, she asked one of her own. “What did she leave with you?”

  “A thumb drive.”

  “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve been reading the files. If she had evidence of wrongdoing, she hid it well.” I summarized the plot of the novel, including the fact that thinly disguised versions of Onslow and Van Heusen appeared to be the villains of the piece, and explained that the thumb drive also contained Tiffany’s research files. “So far, they all seem to relate to the novel, but it would help if I knew what sort of information to look for.”

  “Why do you care? Give me the thumb drive, and I’ll handle it.”

  “I’ve brought a copy for you, but surely another pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

  When she held out one hand in a peremptory gesture, I fished the backup out of my pocket and handed it over.

  “As to why I care? I liked your granddaughter, Ronnie. She died too young. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t an accident.”

  Her mouth worked, the only sign of emotion, as she struggled to speak. “Why . . . ?” She had to clear her throat. “What makes you say that?”

  “She drowned.”

  Ronnie gave a jerky nod, but in her eyes I could see the irritation beginning to build up again.

  “Bear with me. Was she wearing a swimsuit?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her body. It was a security guard who found her.”

  “If she was dressed for a swim, then how did one of my business cards, one she probably had in the pocket of her slacks, get into the water with her?”

  Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that it did?”

  “The detective asked me to identify it. I could see it had been soaking wet at some point.”

  Ronnie looked stricken. “She was troubled.”

  “She sided with you against the theme park.”

  “Of course she did. Wonderful World is a scam, and everyone who invests in Mongaup Valley Ventures will lose money. That’s what she told me. Two days later, she was dead. She was . . . upset by what she’d discovered.”

  Comprehension dawned. “You think she killed herself.”

  That would explain why she’d gone into the water fully clothed, but I didn’t buy the theory that she’d taken her own life. Tiffany had been on the brink of a new career, or so she’d believed. Feeling as if I was making my way through a minefield, I asked another question.

  “If Tiffany had proof that her husband was a crook, why hasn’t he been arrested?”

  “She was the only one who knew the details.”

  “What about Alan Van Heusen’s crimes? Did she have any evidence of what he’s been up to?”

  Ronnie’s brow twitched into what I suppose would have been a furrow if she hadn’t had so much work done. “Alan? I don’t understand. Greg Onslow runs the show.”

  “Van Heusen is clearly a bully. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he has a history of harassment charges, or even assault.”

  “I . . . those were just unfounded rumors.”

  “So there was something. What?”

  Ronnie stared into the middle distance before she replied, as if she was trying to reconstruct another time and place in her mind. “A girl . . . no, a young woman. She had only been working for MVV for about a month. There was some debate about whether she quit or was fired. Tiffany refused to discuss the incident. She and Greg were still newlyweds then. I assumed she kept mum because she had asked her husband to get rid of a female she saw as competition. Tiffany did have a jealous streak.” Ronnie made a moue of distaste before she added, “Now that I think about it, I suppose that girl’s job put her in far greater contact with Alan than with Greg.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “No.”

  The answer came too quickly, convincing me that Ronnie knew perfectly well who the woman was. For some reason, she didn’t want me to find out. Afraid I’d talk to her and get the real story? That was my guess.

  “Okay, let’s go back to Onslow. Do you have any idea what it was that Tiffany found? Financial records? Incriminating letters? A phony will?”

  Ronnie
winced at the last suggestion but didn’t answer.

  Exasperated, I stood. “Maybe there’s nothing to find. Maybe I’m wrong to suspect foul play.”

  “Foul—?” Ronnie sent me a hard stare but I thought I saw a glimmer of hopefulness beneath the antipathy. “What do you mean?”

  “Detective Hazlett was looking at the case as a possible murder investigation when he questioned me about my business card. He apparently changed his mind, but I don’t think it was because Tiffany killed herself. Maybe there just wasn’t enough evidence to go on.”

  “Or Onslow got to him.” Bitterness blended with relief in her voice.

  I almost reached out to her, but I could guess how she would react to any display of sympathy on my part. I clenched my hands into fists to keep them in place.

  “Tiffany was a strong swimmer. She’d never have drowned by accident. If it wasn’t suicide, and I see now that I was a fool to believe that, then someone killed her.”

  Having shown her vulnerable side, if only for a moment, the Ronnie I knew of old returned with a vengeance, rising abruptly to her feet to point the way to the exit.

  “You’ve done your good deed, Mikki. You can leave now.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll deal with this.” She looked down at the backup thumb drive in her hand, staring at it as if it might suddenly come to life and bite her.

  “But—”

  “None of this is your concern any longer. You’ve given the right answer in class, as usual, and you’ve also given me a blinding headache.” As her fist closed around the thumb drive, she looked me straight in the eyes. “I want you out of house and out of my life.”

  “I can help.” I meant with searching the thumb drive. I’m not sure how Ronnie interpreted my words.

  “You want to help? Go away. Forget we ever had this conversation.”

  “But—”

  Turning her back on me, Ronnie stalked out of the room, leaving me to find my own way to the front door. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of her heels as she ascended the grand staircase in the foyer. Her behavior told me I was missing something, but I didn’t have a clue what it was. I went home in a deeply troubled frame of mind.

  Chapter 21

  That evening, after the workmen had all gone home and Calpurnia and I had eaten a light supper, someone knocked at the front door. Since it was full dark by then, I took no chances. On my way to answer it, I grabbed my cell phone and was prepared to speed dial the police station if I felt the least bit threatened by my unexpected visitor.

  I relaxed when I looked through the glass panel and saw it was only Mike Doran on the other side. I opened up at once. “Hey, Mike. What brings you out so late?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Uh, Mik, it’s only eight o’clock.”

  I felt my face grow warm. I wasn’t about to confess how many nights I had already changed into a nightgown and robe by this hour. I don’t usually go to bed until ten or eleven, but I like to be comfortable when I’m watching TV or reading or whatever. James always opted for sweats.

  “What can I say?” I murmured. “I’m not used to entertaining company in the evening.”

  It struck me that this was the first time Mike had been in my house since the last time he picked me up for a date. He looked around as if curious to see what changes had been made in fifty-plus years and nodded approvingly.

  “There’s a lot more to be done,” I said as I led him into the living room and indicated that he should take the comfortable armchair. The room was much less crowded than it had been. I’d been able to return most of the excess furniture to where it belonged.

  As soon as I plopped myself down on the loveseat, Calpurnia claimed the other cushion. I reached out to stroke her.

  “Lucky cat,” Mike said.

  Now there was a remark best ignored! “Why are you here?” I asked, and immediately flashed on Ronnie asking me that same question.

  He shook his head, sending me a reproachful look. “Good old Mikki—straight to the point and no distractions allowed.”

  I couldn’t tell if that was meant as compliment or criticism. Before I could respond, he was speaking again.

  “You’ve been meddling in things that are none of your business.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. That’s not the way to fit in here, Mik.”

  His tone had me narrowing my eyes at him. “Oh, really? Because no one in this town ever gossips, is that right, Mike?” I was getting a little tired of this refrain.

  “Sarcasm? You know what they say about sarcasm.”

  We quoted in unison from John Knowles’s A Separate Peace, a book that had been required reading in our senior English class: “Sarcasm is the protest of those who are weak.”

  The tension in the room eased a little, and we smiled at each other.

  “I take it that Ronnie complained to you.”

  “You’ve opened up a can of worms.”

  “Cliché!”

  “Whatever. Can’t you just let the matter drop?”

  “Me? It’s your fault—yours and Ronnie’s and Greg Onslow’s—that I got involved in this in the first place. You’re the ones who insisted Tiffany must have left something with me in addition to her manuscript.”

  “Did she?”

  I blinked at him in surprise, wondering why Ronnie hadn’t told him about the thumb drive or that she now had her own copy.

  More than ever, I missed having James as a sounding board. He’d been a good listener and had almost always steered me in the right direction to solve whatever problem was bothering me. I’d have unburdened myself to Darlene if she hadn’t still been avoiding me. I glanced at Calpurnia. She provided comfort but fell short when it came to offering advice. All things considered, Mike was starting to look like a good alternative.

  “You have to promise not to tell anyone else what I’m about to confide in you.”

  “You’re swearing me to secrecy?” Mike’s lips quirked, but at least he didn’t laugh.

  “Lawyer-client privilege?” I suggested.

  “You’re not my client.”

  Trying to keep the tone light, I fumbled in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. I held it up. “Will this do as a retainer?”

  He rolled his eyes, but he reached for the bill. “Give me that.”

  When it had been safely tucked away in his wallet and I had his full attention, I drew in a deep breath and spit out my big confession. “I found Tiffany’s thumb drive. She’d left it in the bottom of the mailer that contained her manuscript. There are research files on it, as well as a copy of her book. I’ve been working my way through both the files and the novel, and I think she may have based some of what she wrote about on criminal activity within Mongaup Valley Ventures.”

  “Then you need to contact the police.”

  “There’s more. I don’t think Tiffany’s death was an accident.”

  Mike did laugh then, but his amusement went into a rapid retreat when he saw that I was serious. “Do you have proof?”

  “No. Not yet. And I may be wrong, but I think it’s possible. What if she found something that could send her husband to jail? Him or his flunky.”

  “Van Heusen?”

  I nodded and told him about my visit from Onslow’s right-hand man. Then I added what I’d learned from George, although I didn’t name my source. I finished off with the fact that my business card appeared to have been in the water with Tiffany when she drowned.

  “That’s a lot of . . . speculation.” The way he was being so careful with his words made me smile.

  “You think I don’t know that? But there’s definitely something strange going on. And Ronnie wouldn’t level with me, either.”

  “How much did you tell her?”

  “Most of it.”

  Mike’s frown kept me silent while he pondered. When he finally spoke, it was not to say what I wanted to hear.

  “It all comes back to what I
said earlier, Mikki. You need to stop meddling. You’re just asking for trouble if you don’t.”

  “That’s your advice as my lawyer?”

  “It is.”

  I sighed. “Okay. Then I guess I’d better go ahead and turn the thumb drive over to the police.”

  “No!”

  “Wow! That was fierce.”

  He leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, holding my gaze. “Here’s the thing, Mik, aside from the fact that the police have closed the case and won’t welcome an amateur criticizing the way they did their job, that thumb drive rightfully belongs to Onslow.”

  “I thought Tiffany made Ronnie her heir. The will is genuine, isn’t it?”

  He reared back, insulted. “Of course it is, but Tiffany only left her grandmother the shares in MVV. Everything else goes to her husband.”

  “Why did Tiffany make a will in the first place? I’m willing to bet that most people her age don’t have one. And doesn’t the timing seem suspicious to you?”

  “It was Ronnie’s idea,” he admitted. “She trusted her granddaughter to vote against the theme park, but she knows better than anyone how fragile life can be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s lost three husbands, Mik.”

  “I thought she divorced two of them.”

  “You thought wrong. You understand from your own experience how tough it is to be widowed. Can you imagine going through such a loss three times?”

  I bit back my automatic objection to being compared to Ronnie in any way, shape, or form. Besides, my marriage had lasted for decades. All of hers had been short-lived. Still, Mike had a point. Losing a loved one is never easy.

  “So Ronnie took precautions, and her foresight paid off.” I held up a hand to stop his retort. “That didn’t come out the right way. Obviously, she didn’t want her granddaughter to lose her life. But what if Tiffany told her husband her intentions, and he arranged her death to prevent her from signing that will, only he acted too late?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Tension radiated from Mike’s stiff posture and taut features. “You’ll have heard by now that Onslow has produced a second will. He claims the one Ronnie has is a forgery.”