What his role was, I had yet to learn. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to find his killer until I had a better understanding of what he was up to.
Fortunately, I still had a couple of tricks up my sleeve.
I was glad I’d had the foresight to hold on to the business card Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA, had given me at Tommee’s funeral. At the time, I’d thought Havemeyer was one of the least interesting people I had ever met. Now, I wondered if he had the potential to be one of the most useful.
Even before I left Pomonok Properties’ parking lot, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the card I’d stapled into my notebook. He answered on the second ring.
“Havemeyer.” I’d forgotten how high-pitched his voice was. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I was talking to a teenaged girl.
“Mr. Havemeyer, my name is Jessica Popper. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at—”
“Frack’s funeral. Of course I remember you.”
“You do?”
“I remember everyone I meet.”
“I’m impressed. You must have a good mind, not to mention an excellent eye for detail.”
Actually, I found it kind of creepy.
“So you probably also remember that I’m a veterinarian,” I continued. “I have a mobile services unit that treats animals all over Norfolk County. Anyway, you gave me your business card on that terribly sad day—”
“I remember.”
“And I suddenly find myself in need of an accountant. The person I was using is moving to another state. I was wondering if you and I could get together to talk . . . maybe even later today?”
To my delight, he agreed.
The rest of the morning was filled with house calls. As I periodically checked my voice mail, I found more messages from clients and scheduled additional appointments throughout the day. But I made sure I left enough time to rush home and shower before hopping into my VW and scurrying to my late afternoon meeting with Tommee Frack’s former accountant.
At five minutes past four, I sat opposite Jonathan Havemeyer. He ran his one-man operation out of a complex like Nick’s, a cluster of small buildings occupied by other small businesses: a pediatric dentist, an architect, two lawyers who apparently specialized in estate planning. Havemeyer’s office, like the man himself, was strictly no-nonsense. White walls, gray carpeting, the requisite framed diplomas and certifications behind him. His personal life—assuming he had one—was clearly not invited to encroach upon his professional life. No photographs, no homemade paperweights, not even a decorative pencil mug.
As for the man himself, he was just as buttoned up as last time. He looked like someone who routinely had his entire being cleaned and pressed.
“It’s nice to see you again,” I began politely. “And under much happier circumstances, I might add.”
He peered at me through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. They made his eyes so blurry I was having trouble focusing on them. “What can I do for you, Dr. Popper?”
So much for chitchat.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking for an accountant . . .”
We spent the next thirty-six minutes talking about my billing procedure, my experience with bad debt, my estimated tax payments—in short, the kinds of things I generally tried to think about as little as possible in my day-to-day life. While I had to admit it wasn’t the most scintillating conversation I’d ever had, Jonathan Havemeyer clearly knew his stuff.
Still, I hadn’t really come here to discuss my bottom line.
“I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job,” I said as a way of wrapping up the business portion of our meeting. “But I’ll be talking to a few people before making a final decision. The relationship between a small-business person and an accountant is extremely personal. I want to be certain I choose the right person.”
“Of course. Why don’t you give me a call once you decide?”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it, especially since I can see how busy you are.” I motioned toward the pile of envelopes on his desk, the only clutter in an otherwise meticulous room. “Especially if you get that much mail every day.”
“Interestingly, most of it’s for our friend Tommee.”
I shook my head to show I didn’t understand.
“Payments. Remember I told you that I was amazed at how many clients Tommee had?”
“I remember.”
“They’re still paying him. The checks keep coming in, even now.” He picked up the pile. “The odd thing is that Tommee is making as much money dead as when he was alive.”
“Maybe some of his clients haven’t heard.”
“Oh, they’ve heard. I saw most of them at his funeral.” He smirked. “They all know he’s dead. They just don’t seem to know that means they don’t have to pay him anymore.”
“Maybe it’s some kind of time-lag thing,” I suggested. “A paperwork glitch in Accounts Payable.”
Havemeyer eyed the stack in his hand warily. “I suppose all this money will just be passed along to Babcock.”
I sat up straighter. “George Babcock? What does he have to do with this?”
“Do you know George?”
“Yes. I mean, we’ve met. In addition to shopping for a new accountant, I’ve also been exploring the possibility of hiring a public relations firm. I met with George last week.”
“You’d better hire him now, while you still have the chance.” Jonathan smiled coldly. “Babcock’s about to get more business than he can handle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I went to the reading of Tommee’s will three days ago. His lawyer said he’d just revised it in October. He also said Tommee had made some dramatic changes, including leaving his entire business to George.”
“But—why—how—?”
“There’s no reason for you to know this, of course, but Babcock gave Tommee his start. Then Tommee started his own PR firm, one that competed directly with George’s. He even walked off with half of George’s clients.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I used to be Babcock’s accountant.”
Small world, I thought, still dizzy over having learned that George—who had every reason to hate Tommee—had inherited his business. In fact, it’s turning out to be smaller than I ever imagined.
“According to the will,” Jonathan went on, “Tommee had a change of heart. He said in it that he wanted to make amends. That was why he left his greatest asset, his business, to George.”
“I’m curious: When did you stop working for Babcock and start working for Tommee?”
“Right after Tommee left The Babcock Group.” Sounding suddenly defensive, he continued, “Tommee offered me three times what Babcock was paying me! There was no way I could turn down an offer like that!”
“Of course not. Who could blame you?”
He didn’t acknowledge my words of support. “Besides, it was an exciting time for Tommee. Overnight, he went from being a mere employee of The Babcock Group to becoming the center of the universe, at least in terms of Long Island business. Within weeks, he started picking up even more accounts in addition to the ones he’d had at the start. It was absolutely phenomenal.”
“More accounts? Like . . . five or six?”
“Like twenty or thirty. Good ones, too. Local government, even. He started doing PR for the town. They have their own internal public relations department, but Tommee did extra work for them. Setting up press conferences, arranging special events, you name it. And he’d barely been in business a month when he picked up the Norfolk County PBA, the police union, as a client.
“But the bulk of his business was always private companies, everything from that fancy catering place Hallsworth Hall to big land develpers. Charities, too. Not-for-profits, but still huge, powerful organizations. A lot of the work was supposed to be pro bono. At least that’s what he wanted people to belie
ve. But I knew the truth—that those clients were sending in fat checks every month, too.
“Tommee was everywhere. Every high-profile event, every restaurant opening, all the chic events out on the East End like the Hampton Classic Horse Show and the annual Long Island Feeds Long Island fund-raiser.
“From day one, the money just kept rolling in. That’s always the bottom line, isn’t it? Money? Even though Tommee loved being the center of attention, hobnobbing with movie stars and CEOs, even being Mr. Popular pales beside having a fat bank account.”
Everything Jonathan Havemeyer was telling me was consistent with what I’d heard from everyone else I’d spoken to, not to mention the photographs I’d seen on the walls of Pomonok Properties. Tommee Frack was everywhere.
And I still didn’t understand why.
“Wow. What a success story,” I gushed. Fishing for some insight, I added, “But I guess he deserved it. Everyone says he was an incredibly talented man.”
“For Tommee, it was a dream come true. It’s like he had a fairy godmother or something.”
“But it sounds as if it all happened so fast,” I mused. “And so easily. What was his secret? How did he do it?”
Havemeyer shrugged. “Who knows? Don’t ask me; I’m just the accountant. For all I know, he made a deal with the devil.”
I nodded. Maybe he had. Had it killed him? “And now, it’s all going to George Babcock. In the end, he’s the one who benefited most from his protégé’s success.”
And perhaps the one who had the most to gain from Tommee Frack’s untimely death, I wondered.
“George certainly hit the jackpot,” Havemeyer agreed. “Now that he’s getting sixty new clients, he’ll have to get bigger offices, hire more people, and start thinking on a whole new scale.” More to himself than to me, he mused, “I wonder if he needs a new accountant.”
I pretended I hadn’t heard. I stood and was about to say goodbye when I thought of something else.
“What about you, Mr. Havemeyer? Did Tommee leave you anything in his will? It sounds as if you were with him from the very beginning.”
“Yes, I was.” His tone became strained. “In fact, he used to say to me, ‘Jonathan, I never could have done it without you. I’m good at shaking hands and making people feel important, but the sad truth is that I don’t know the first thing about how to run a business.’ And it was completely true. The man couldn’t have balanced a checkbook if his life depended on it. He really couldn’t have done it without me.”
“So what did he leave you?”
In response, he opened his top drawer and took out what looked like a pen. Gold-plated, but a pen, nonetheless.
“A pen?” I asked, confused.
“That’s right.” He stared at it as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “But not just any pen. His favorite pen. In his will, he said he valued my loyalty as much as my ability, and he hoped I’d remember him every time I used this pen.”
He tossed the pen back in the drawer. “He got that right.”
I was still replaying the words of our conversation as I left Jonathan Havemeyer’s office.
I remembered that after talking to Babcock’s receptionist, Belle, about what really went on at The Babcock Group, I’d asked myself if George Babcock’s business was something he was willing to kill for.
I was convinced I had the answer.
It was already dark by the time I came out of Havemeyer’s office. As I headed toward my red Beetle, parked right outside, I noticed something white stuck under my windshield wiper.
A parking ticket? I thought, instantly outraged over what I was sure was some overly zealous cop’s mistake.
When I got closer, I saw it was the wrong shape. Probably a takeout menu from a local Chinese restaurant, or maybe an ad for a car wash. My scruffy VW was certainly a likely candidate.
But when I grabbed it, I saw it was an envelope, the kind that comes with a greeting card. It was sealed, with no writing on it.
A secret admirer? I wondered if someone—like, oh, maybe Nick Burby—had thought it would be cute to communicate this way. I glanced around the dimly lit lot. There were no signs of life, and I didn’t see his black Maxima anywhere. If Nick was behind this, he was lying low.
I got into my car, holding the envelope with both hands. All the raw emotions that had been dredged up that morning as I watched Nick walk away were suddenly back. I dreaded reading whatever was inside. If it was from Nick, it could only be one of two things: a desperate plea for us to get back together . . . or a complete kiss-off.
I didn’t know which would be worse.
I was tempted to toss it out, sight unseen. But I’ve never had much willpower. Even though I figured this was one of those no-win situations, that whatever was inside was bound to throw me into a state of emotional turmoil, I couldn’t resist opening it.
When I slid my finger under the flap and tore it open, I was hit with a wave of disappointment. Empty. There was no note in the envelope.
I peered inside, utterly bewildered. I didn’t stay that way for long.
Lying at the bottom was a single yellow canary feather.
Chapter 15
“A forest bird never wants a cage.”
—Unknown
My first instinct was to lock the car doors. Then, with the metallic taste of fear in my mouth, I turned the key in the ignition and hightailed it out of the parking lot.
As I drove home, I nervously checked my rearview mirror every few seconds to see if the black Jeep was following me. There was no sign of it. And when I reached Joshua’s Hollow and turned onto Minnesauke Lane, mine was the only car on the road.
I glanced nervously from side to side as I scurried from my car to the cottage. From what I could tell, the only thing out there was the stillness of the dark November night.
But once I made it safely inside, my fear turned to anger. I resented the fact that George Babcock or whoever was behind these cheap scare tactics thought he could control me. The person who was going to the trouble of tailgating me and leaving nasty surprises on my windshield clearly wanted me to mind my own business. But the more he tried to frighten me away, the more determined I became to uncover the truth about the murder.
I did my best to discourage my canine entourage’s usual welcome home party and ignored the socks Max had dragged out of my laundry pile and strewn across the furniture and throw rugs. Instead, I barreled past Max and Lou and made a beeline for my bedroom. I put the envelope containing the canary feather in the top dresser drawer. I’d just closed it when I heard Max’s sharp bark. I stiffened, instantly on alert for the sound of an intruder.
When I stuck my head out the doorway, I saw both dogs hovering near the refrigerator. And realized my Westie was just reminding me it was dinnertime.
“Good going,” I chided myself. “See how cool, calm, and collected you are?”
I picked up Max and cradled him in my arms, sorry I’d blown him off. Even more, I was suddenly in desperate need of a terrier hug. Of course, the usual shower of dog kisses was part of the deal. I didn’t mind. They were more soothing than aloe. Naturally Lou joined in, slurping my hand as if it was a popsicle.
Then Cat slunk over, announcing her presence with a loud meow. I picked her up, too, relishing the feel of her soft fur against my skin. She and Max eyed each other warily, but at least for a little while, my household enjoyed a rare state of peace and togetherness reminiscent of the Age of Aquarius. Even Prometheus chimed in, squawking, “ Awk! I don’t talk to telemarketers. Please don’t call again. Awk!”
For a few moments, I actually felt better. It was just my animals and me, the rest of the world be damned.
On my way into the kitchen, I noticed the blinking light on my phone machine and pressed “Play.”
“Hey, Jess. It’s me, Jimmy. Thought I’d stop over tonight about eight to see if you’re around. I can’t wait to show you the two loves of my life.” He chuckled. “My cars, that is. You won’t be dis
appointed. I promise.”
A welcome distraction, albeit the human variety. I decided not to mention the feather to Jimmy when he dropped by that night. Even though I had no intention of letting cheap scare tactics stand in my way, I wasn’t up for another lecture.
After serving up three bowls of dinner and replenishing the birdseed in my parrot’s dish, I recognized that this rare moment of relative silence while the animals ate afforded me the perfect opportunity to concentrate. Plopping down on the couch, I opened my notebook and jotted down everything I remembered from the conversations I’d had that day: Violet Atherton, Joey DeFeo at Pomonok Properties, Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA . . . and of course my telephone call to Lieutenant Harned, not that there had been much to it.
At that point, I’d had enough of the nasty business of murder, at least for the moment. The time had come to put my efforts into something more pleasant. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, I’d showered, put on my favorite sweater and my best pair of pants, and pulled my hair back with a plastic geegaw I’d bought months earlier but never had the confidence to wear in public. I’d promised myself that I was going to forget all about Frack and his friends, lovers, and enemies for the next few hours. I was going to have some pure, unadulterated fun.
Jimmy was right on time. As soon as his car pulled into the driveway, Lou began barking his head off. Max tried to burrow through the front door with his powerful paws, as determined as if he were attacking a badger’s hideaway. Cat simply looked at me and blinked. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought I saw her shaking her head disapprovingly at their antics.
“Who needs a doorbell?” I asked them. I kissed Cat’s silky head and gave each of my puppies a quick hug. Then I dashed out, calling, “Wish me luck, guys!” before slamming the door.
“I’m really glad you decided to go out with me tonight.” Jimmy grinned at me across the front seat as we drove south along Governor’s Road toward Westfield, a town in the middle of Long Island. “Kind of surprised, too.”
“Surprised? Why?”
He glanced at me. “Last time, by the end of the night, you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”
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