He must have looked up my Web site after I called.
“Amy-Faye,” I said, “and yes, I do, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” I lied, “but a new brewpub opened in Heaven last weekend and one of the investment partners was killed. My brother owns the pub and my parents are currently managing it, and we want to have an independent audit of the books conducted.”
Dreesen gave me an assessing stare from deep-set eyes. “Gordon Marsh was my brother-in-law. I was at the party last Friday.”
“No!” I hoped I didn’t overdo the astonished bit. “I don’t remember seeing you.” Actually, I remembered seeing him leave with Angie, head bowed against the torrential downpour.
“I got there late . . . got tied up here and then stopped to help a distressed motorist.” He linked his fingers together and rested his hands on the desk. “I got there right in time to evacuate for the fire alarm. I never even got to congratulate Gordon that night, never laid eyes on him. It’s strange . . . You rarely think that the last time you see someone is going to be the last time. It must have been a week earlier that I last saw Gordon, and that was a chance encounter at the Pancake Pig, where I was meeting a client for breakfast. He was there with Kolby, reading him the riot act, it looked like, and we didn’t say more than ‘Good morning’ to each other.” He looked pensive.
“Yeah, Gordon didn’t hang around long after the preparty with the VIPs. He disappeared when he saw the Women Outing Serial Cheaters marching across the parking lot,” I said. “Did you know about them?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Susan was mixed up with them, right? I think she told Angie about them. Sounded like an utter waste of time and money to me. And possibly actionable if their slander harmed some man’s reputation.
“Do you have reason to suspect there are irregularities in the pub’s books? Are you saying you think Gordon was embezzling?” He scratched the side of his nose.
“Not necessarily,” I said, wanting to keep all options open. “We recently found out that one of the pub employees was a man with a grudge against Gordon—”
“No shortage of those.” He caught himself up short and pressed his lips together. “I apologize. You were saying?”
“—who sabotaged the pub opening in various ways. We want to make sure he wasn’t also stealing or monkeying with the books.”
“I’m sure the executor will order an audit as part of the probate process, and maybe GTM as well,” Dreesen said, “so you should probably wait for that. Regardless, I’m sure you can understand why I’m not the man to do the job.” His tone said wrap it up and his gaze flicked to his computer screen.
“No, of course not. I feel so silly for calling you. I must have subconsciously recognized your name from the grand opening attendees’ list when I was searching for accountants last night. You know”—I wrinkled my brow in pretend puzzlement—“I thought Gordon said he didn’t expect to see you and his sister at the party even though he put you on the guest list?”
“Gordon was family,” Dreesen said, putting his palms flat on the desk and pushing himself up. “We wouldn’t have missed it. I’m only sorry the evening ended so tragically. And now, Ms. Johnson, if you’ll excuse me . . . ?”
I had no choice but to stand, thank him for his time, and go. He sat again as I passed through the door. When I reached the reception area, the receptionist was finishing a call. Feeling as sly as Kinsey Millhone, I said, “I guess you work some long hours here, huh? Mr. Dreesen was telling me how late he was here last Friday.”
“Tax season is our busy time of year,” the young man said. He wore suspenders with whales on them over a crisp yellow shirt. “We’re pretty slow right now. And, honey, I’m just the receptionist. That five o’clock whistle blows and I’m outta here.” The phone rang and he turned away to answer it.
I left slowly, pondering what I’d learned. Not much. Dreesen hadn’t come across as a man bent on vengeance, and he might or might not have been here late on Friday as he said. Just because the receptionist hadn’t confirmed his alibi didn’t mean he wasn’t here. As I well knew, partners in a firm frequently worked longer and harder than employees. All in all, I’d say my visit to Gene Dreesen was a waste of time.
• • •
Since I’d be working late tonight, I decided to take a small break on my way to the office and detour by the pub to see Derek and my folks. I hadn’t eaten, and I was starving. At two o’clock, it was past the standard lunch hour, but a handful of people still lingered over burgers and fish and chips. Derek was behind the bar, looking better than he had seemed in days.
“I’m working on a new IPA,” he greeted me when I plunked myself onto a stool, “and I think it’s an award winner.”
That was why he looked better. Nothing revived Derek like creating a new brew. “When can I taste it?”
“A couple weeks, maybe. I’m still tinkering with it.”
“Could I get a bowl of the beer-and-cheddar soup?” I asked. The rich, creamy soup was my favorite thing on the menu, even though I’d guess it had four thousand calories per spoonful.
“Sure thing.” He put a glass of water in front of me and went to get the soup from the kitchen.
He returned moments later, bearing a tray with the soup, utensils, and crackers. Savory steam rising from the bowl made me salivate and I took the first ambrosial spoonful as soon as the bowl hit the counter.
“Doing your starving-wolf impression, sis?” Derek asked, drawing his hand away quickly, in mock fear that I would tear into it next.
“Hungry,” I muttered. After a few more bites, I felt human enough to ask, “Mom and Dad around?”
“In the office. Dad’s paying bills. I think Mom’s making up next week’s schedule, or else she’s redecorating.” He rolled his eyes. “She got rid of my poker-playing dogs and brought in a bunch of flowers and plants.”
The way he said “flowers” made it sound like she’d brought in a cockroach farm.
I laughed. “They’ll brighten the place up for her. You can dump them when you’re back at this full-time.” Crumbling crackers into the soup, I finished it off and resisted the urge to lick the bowl. Not couth.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Aw, I don’t know—maybe I’ll keep ’em. If they’re not too stinky.”
I took a swallow of water, stood, and left a ten by my bowl. “I’ll say hi to the folks, and then I’ve got to put my nose back to the grindstone. I’ve got a bachelorette party tonight, and then that big community garage sale and the anniversary party tomorrow. Busy weekend.”
Derek slid the ten back toward me. “On me. I owe you a lot more than a bowl of soup.”
“You don’t—” I stopped as if I’d suddenly had a thought. “I do need some help tonight. Raven, the male stripper I usually hire for these types of things, has come down with the flu. Do you still have that George of the Jungle costume you wore to the Aikens’ Halloween party a few years back? If you could dress in that and come dance for the ladies, we’d be square. Nine o’clock? I’m sure Mom and Dad can hold down the fort here for an hour. I’ve got a sound track, and, oh, you’ll need to wax your chest and maybe oil it. Or use some spray tan—you’re looking pretty pale.”
He was staring at me in horror. The glass he was filling from the tap began to overflow. I reached over the bar and turned off the tap for him while he gobbled, “You can’t—I can’t—Amy-Faye, I can’t even keep a beat. My only dance move is the moonwalk. I can’t dance naked in front of—”
“Oh, not totally naked,” I said reassuringly. “Just down to one of those glittery jockstraps. Or lamé. Your choice.”
“I don’t have—” His hand raked his auburn hair, making it stand out.
I couldn’t hold back my giggles any longer. He glared at me, caught between relief and pissed off. “You w
ere joking. Thank God. I thought—”
“We’re fam. You don’t owe me squat. Besides, I’ve got my reputation to think of and you doing a Chippendales routine for fifty women would not enhance it. Sorry, bro, but there it is.” I levered myself up on the bar so I was balanced at my waist and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“Ick, girl cooties,” he said, scrubbing at his cheek in pretend horror.
I could tell he was pleased. I waggled my fingers at him in farewell and trotted up the stairs to the third-floor offices. I found my dad in Gordon’s office, writing checks. His head was bent so I could see the bald spot on top, and he wore a chunky gray cardigan Natalie, or maybe Peri, had given him for Christmas a couple of years back. A vase of coral-colored gladioli brightened the desk, floral throw pillows had been placed on each of the visitor chairs, and the window was open to let in a soft breeze, sure signs that Mom had been here. I hugged Dad and asked how it was going.
“Pretty well,” he said. “The pub’s not as deep in the hole as I thought it might be—no more than is reasonable for a restaurant in its first months—and the books are in fairly decent shape. He flipped a hand at the open checkbook. “Just catching up with some tax payments and payroll stuff that’s in arrears. I don’t suppose you know how to get hold of that janitor, Foster Quinlan, do you? He hasn’t been in for his last check, and Derek doesn’t have an address on file for him.”
“Tear it up,” I suggested. Foster didn’t deserve a penny after what he’d pulled during the grand opening.
Dad frowned. “You know we can’t do that, honey. It’s not much, not after we subtracted the damages, but he’s entitled to it.”
“Give it to me. I’ll get it to him.”
Dad pulled an envelope from a drawer, slid the check inside, sealed it, and printed Foster’s name on it neatly. His meticulous way of doing professional things used to drive me crazy, but now I merely grinned, finding it endearing. I’d never understand how a man who was so precise about his research and classes and professional obligations could let the house and yard go the way he did. Maybe it had something to do with chaos theory, whatever that was.
Taking the envelope from him and promising to deliver it safely, I asked for Mom. “At the library,” he said. “The new librarian, that Chianti—”
“Chardonnay,” I corrected him.
“—is having trouble with the computer system again. You know your mom’s the only one who can fix it.”
My mom’s forty years as Heaven’s librarian had left her the expert on anything related to the library’s collection, history, computing systems, and technical services, and her replacement, a twentysomething with good intentions but little practical experience, frequently called on her for help. I suspected she was happy to still be needed.
I wished him and Mom luck with their first weekend night at the pub, and returned to my office briefly to get Foster’s address. I recognized it as being out near the Cresta Community College, in an apartment complex largely inhabited by students, and hoped that showing up with a check might gain me entrance to Foster’s lair.
Chapter 21
The Crestview Apartments parking lot, when I pulled in, had numerous potholes that I had to steer around, and was more than half-empty on a Friday afternoon. The vehicles that remained tended more toward beaters, cheap compacts, and well-used pickups than anything Matthew McConaughey would be an advertising spokesman for. Two buildings on either side of a rectangular pool bounded by a sagging chain-link fence made up the complex. The exterior was pitted tan stucco with rusty drips washing down from window air-conditioning units. The landscaping consisted of various cacti, rocks liberally dotted with cigarette butts, and tired annuals in pots on either side of the leasing office door. The pool should have been a cheerful oasis, but its harsh turquoise color and strong chlorine odor were somehow off-putting, although three college-aged kids were baking themselves on loungers. The contentious voices of a courtroom “reality” show drifted from an open window. Merely standing in the parking lot was depressing me; I was grateful for my cozy house.
Clutching the envelope, I looped around the pool enclosure to hunt for Foster’s apartment. I couldn’t find the building numbers, so I wandered through the nearest building without any luck before deciding the apartment must be in the other building. I passed the pool again and finally found Foster’s apartment, an end unit on the second floor. Two towels hung over the wrought-iron rail fencing off the landing, flapping in the growing breeze. I knocked.
The apartment was so silent I was convinced no one was home. Then the door opened, startling me, and I stepped back. A woman stood there, middle-aged but fierce, with dark hair showing gray roots drawn into a low bun, deep-set eyes, and a red-lipsticked mouth. She balanced a plastic laundry basket on one hip. Despite the pile of soiled laundry, she made me think of an aging flamenco dancer I’d seen in a painting somewhere, mouth drawn down with weariness or disillusion, but still holding herself with a dancer’s erect posture. She wore a linen sheath and low-heeled pumps more suited to after-work cocktails at an upscale bar than schlepping dirty clothes to the complex’s laundry room. The dress showed off truly stunning legs. She did not remotely fit the picture of the long-suffering but loyal wife Foster had drawn for me during his kitchen confession. I knew immediately that Mrs. Quinlan had not adjusted well to the change in her economic circumstances.
“I don’t need magazines, or candy bars, or whatever you’re selling,” she said.
I led with my trump card. “I’ve got a check for Foster,” I said, holding up the envelope.
She gave me a “try it on someone else” look. “If you’d said you were a bill collector, I might have believed you.”
“No, really. It’s from Elysium Brewing. He said he’d be back to get it, but he never came in, so I brought it over. I’m Amy-Faye Johnson. My brother, Derek, owns the pub.”
Mrs. Quinlan let out a long, whistley sigh, like a leaky balloon. “Damn him.”
Damn who? Derek? Foster? Gordon?
“I don’t imagine it was worth the gas you burned coming over here, but thank you.” Her tone was grudging. She held out her hand and I had no choice but to place the envelope in it.
Sensing that she was about to herd me down the stairs with the laundry basket, I fought for a way to continue the conversation. “Look, I really need to use the bathroom. Do you mind?” Not up to Kinsey Millhone’s standards, but it would have to do.
For a moment I thought she was going to tell me to hold it until I got home, but she finally stepped inside and set the laundry basket on an ottoman. She gestured me in and shut the door. “Through the bedroom.”
Averting my eyes from the unmade bed, I entered the small master bathroom, locked the door, and ran the tap. I didn’t really have to pee, so I peeked into the medicine cabinet while waiting for a believable length of time to elapse. Enough prescription bottles crammed the shelves to stock a pharmacy. I recognized some of the drug names as antianxiety meds and antidepressants. Her name was apparently Anita and it appeared on roughly half the bottles. Foster’s was on the other half. I eased the cabinet shut quietly, flushed, swished my hands under the faucet, and rejoined her.
The furniture in the living room was too big for the space, and I imagined it was a small fraction of the furnishings from their prelayoff house. There was a tiny parqueted square meant to be an eating area, but an ornate desk, a grandfather clock, and what looked like antique fire tools with enameled handles—a poker, brush, and tongs in a stand—family heirlooms they couldn’t bear to part with, perhaps, took up all the space. They must eat standing at the kitchen counter or sitting on the oversize leather sofa.
While I was in the bathroom, Anita had pulled a two-liter bottle of diet lemon-lime soda from the refrigerator and now offered me some. I was wary of her sudden friendliness, but accepted. Getting ice from the freezer, she filled two heavy tumblers and added
the clear soda. The carbonation tickled my nose when I drank.
“I was hoping to see Foster,” I said, sitting on the oversize ottoman when she sat on the sofa, which was angled across the living room because it was too big to fit against either of the walls. “He told me some things . . . Well, I have a few questions.”
“He’s at an interview,” Anita lied smoothly, running one hand up and down the glass’s smooth sides. “He, er, told me a little bit about your conversation, and, well, I’m hoping you—your brother—that there won’t be any legal ramifications? Foster’s really not himself. He’s not responsible for his actions, not since . . .”
Ah, here was the reason for her more welcoming manner. She was afraid we were going to have Foster arrested for the vandalism. I was surprised to realize the idea had never crossed my mind. I was about to deny any such intention, when I decided to let her stew and see what she had to say. “I can’t speak for my brother,” I said, setting my glass on the Oriental carpet, a murky mix of reds, blues, and peach, since the only end table was unreachable.
“It’s all Gordon Marsh’s fault,” Anita burst out, her red mouth tightening to an angry slash. “He had no right to fire Foster. No right! Foster was a good worker, a hard worker. He had a history with the company. He was months from retirement eligibility and his pension. You can’t just throw that away.” Anger deepened the lines at the corners of her eyes. “People are not paper plates, not disposable. After all we—after all Foster did for the company—he had no right.”
“You knew what Foster was planning to do?”
“Knew? It was my idea. He balked at the idea of becoming a janitor, said if I was so set on the idea I should apply for the job, but no one would believe that I was janitor material,” she said, clearly thinking her designer dress and manicured nails proclaimed her lack of fitness for honest labor. “Besides, I already had a job.”
“Teaching, right?”
Her eyes slid away. “I was. Preschool. But I couldn’t stand the dirty little . . . I had to hand in my notice when the principal objected to my discipline methods. No one today wants to hold kids accountable, or teach them manners or the correct way to behave. They’re positively encouraged to run around like wild animals and ‘express themselves.’” She sneered the last words.
The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Page 19
