I have to bite back my words. I know nothing I can say will convince her of my innocence.
Seeing that I have no response, Morgan snatches the gift basket from Jude and starts to head back to the door.
“Hold on,” I call.
She pauses. Sighs. Slowly turns back, scowling.
But I don’t care what she thinks. Something she said is resonating with me, reminding me of something Rosa said months ago.
They’ve had fundraisers, but they’re never successful. They never bring in enough money to be worthwhile.
“Why is that?” I say out loud.
Morgan’s glare deepens. “What?”
“The center has had fundraisers before. They’ve been trying to find ways to raise money for years. But … I show up, plan one little beach cleanup event, and suddenly it’s the most successful one-day fundraiser you’ve ever had?”
“No, it wasn’t,” says Morgan, with a harsh laugh. “Because the money mysteriously vanished, remember?”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Suddenly jittery, I hop off the stool and come around the counter. “Maybe this has happened before. In fact … I bet this has happened a lot. What if every time the center has hosted a fundraiser, some of the money’s gone missing? That’s why the campaigns are never successful.” I press my hands back through my hair. “That’s it. That’s how I can prove it wasn’t me. This has happened before, over and over again … long before I ever became a volunteer!”
Morgan looks at me like I’ve just grown a tail. “Are you really trying to convince me that—”
“I’m not trying to convince you of anything!” I snap. “I know it wasn’t me. I figured it got lost or misplaced or maybe that beachcomber made a mistake and didn’t donate the money after all. Because what sort of person would steal from an animal rescue?”
Morgan gives me a seething look, but I ignore her.
The question rings in my head, like it should have been ringing all month. The signs. The clues.
Has this happened before?
It doesn’t make sense that all their fundraisers have been so disappointing in the past. Clearly, people want to help the center. They care about the work.
But if money was coming in, it was also going out.
Who would do it?
And why?
I think about what Quint said. Crime scene 101. Opportunity and motive.
It has to be someone who’s been there awhile. Long enough for Rosa to give up on fundraising efforts altogether. Someone who had access to the money they were bringing in.
I don’t realize I’ve started pacing until I stop cold.
“Shauna,” I whisper.
Morgan laughs. “Shauna? The sweet little old grandma who volunteers her time to animals in need?”
“She doesn’t volunteer. She’s a paid employee.”
“Oh! Well, then she must be a criminal.”
“Look. I don’t know if it was her. But I know it wasn’t me. And she’s been there for years! Plus, she does all the bookkeeping, handles all the money. She could easily be skimming some off the top. And—” I gasp. “At the beach. I saw her holding the jar. She was the one who brought it back to the center. She could have taken some out anytime, and no one would ever have known.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard enough. Guess I can’t blame you for trying, but wouldn’t it be easier to just confess, rather than trying to stick the blame on someone else? On Shauna of all people?”
“And the boots! It wasn’t two days after the cleanup that she wore those brand-new boots. Or—brand-new … vintage boots. Whatever. Those can’t be cheap. And right after I got fired, I saw her with the earring, the one that was lost? And it’s a real diamond.”
Morgan guffaws. “So now you’re going to tell me she stole the earring, too?”
“No! I think she bought it from the pawnshop, and I know it wasn’t cheap. I always thought that jewelry she wears was costume jewelry, but if not … then how is she paying for it all? Rosa can’t be paying her that much.”
Morgan shrugs. “Social security? A pension? She retired, like, twenty years ago. She must have done pretty well for herself.”
My brow crinkles. Morgan is right. Shauna could have retired wealthy. Maybe working at the center isn’t about the money at all, just something to keep her busy, to feel like she’s doing something worthwhile.
I swallow, knowing that I could have this all wrong. I could be grasping for anything to help clear my name, and obviously, I have no real evidence that Shauna has done anything. I can’t go accusing her without proof.
I know how that feels, and I refuse to do it to someone else.
“What’s her last name?” asks Jude.
I turn to him. I’d forgotten he and Ari were there, but they’re both staring at me and Morgan like we’re on CSI, Fortuna Beach edition.
I have no idea what Shauna’s last name is, but Morgan says, “Crandon, I think.”
Jude types something into his phone.
Morgan crosses her arms, looking from him to me, to Ari.
“Yes!” Jude yelps, startling us. His grin is stretched wide, but as he looks up, he quickly schools it into a disturbed frown. “I mean, actually, this is kind of awful. But—Pru, this should be enough to at least have her looked into.”
He hands me his phone. He’s found a news article from a Los Angeles newspaper. There’s a picture of Shauna at the top, wearing a slick business suit. She’s quite a bit younger, with her hair just beginning to gray.
The headline: ORANGE COUNTY NONPROFIT DROPS CHARGES AGAINST BOOKKEEPER ACCUSED OF EMBEZZLING MORE THAN $200,000.
“No way,” says Morgan, grabbing the phone from my hand.
“Hey!” I try to grab it back, but she turns her back on me and starts scrolling through the article. I huff and read over her shoulder.
According to the article, Shauna worked at another nonprofit, one that helped provide services to the homeless, for six years before she was suspected of embezzling money in order to make personal purchases, and even to pay her bills. She was fired, but the charges were ultimately dropped.
“Why would they drop the charges?” asks Ari, crowding in beside us.
“It doesn’t say.” Morgan hands the phone back to me, looking dazed. “Legal battles are expensive and time-consuming. Maybe they just didn’t want to be bothered with it.”
“Or maybe they didn’t have enough evidence?” I suggest.
Morgan shakes her head. “You’d think, once they knew about it, evidence would be pretty easy to find. She was probably using money from the business account to buy things online and write … checks … for…” Her eyes go distant. Her jaw falls. “No. The gala donations!”
I pass the phone back to Jude, who is preening like he’s just solved the biggest mystery of the year.
“What gala donations?” I ask.
“We set the ticket cost for the gala really low, but when people buy their tickets, they can also make an extra donation, completely optional.”
“And?”
“And no one donated extra money. It’s been a complete bust. Tons of ticket sales—we might even sell out the event by tonight—but extra donations? Not happening. It’s been driving Quint crazy. You should hear him rant about what a terrible idea it was to keep the price low, how much money we’ve missed out on doing it this way.”
“I bet people are donating extra!” Ari says, suddenly excited. “But the money is going to her.”
Morgan nods. “She’s the one who set up the online sales. I bet she’s having all the bonus donations routed straight to her own account, bypassing the center entirely.”
I slap a hand over my mouth, disgusted. “Who would do something like that?”
Morgan gestures at Jude’s phone. “Her, evidently. She’s done it before.” Then a shadow comes over Morgan’s face as she looks at me. Not with scorn, but … guilt? She curses lowly to herself, shaking her head. “I guess I owe you an apology.�
�
“You’re not the one who fired me,” I say, grabbing one of the flyers off the counter. I’ve looked at it a thousand times. The illustrated yellow submarine. The bright retro-style text.
Spend an evening aboard the Yellow Submarine, in support of the Fortuna Beach Sea Animal Rescue Center. Good food, good friends, and good karma!
“Ari, can you cover the rest of my shift?” I fold up the flyer and shove it into my pocket. “I need to get ready for a gala.”
FORTY-FIVE
Morgan agrees to meet me outside the theater. She’s not dressed up in the traditional sense. While gala guests are passing us by in cocktail dresses and suits, Morgan is wearing sleek black pants and a sweater with a sequined cow on the front. The only indication that she’s going to a semiformal event is the swipe of thick, sparkly black eyeliner on her eyes and the way she’s braided her hair into an intricate crown that frames her face.
I’m wearing a red-and-white polka dot dress that I wore to an uncle’s second wedding last fall, along with a red cardigan and red ballet flats. It was the best I could pull together on short notice, and … well, I feel bolstered because it makes my red lipstick pop.
Dream about this, Quint Erickson.
Morgan gives me the once-over when I approach, before nodding. I’m not sure what she approves of. Maybe that there isn’t a speck of leather to be seen.
“I like your lipstick,” she says, before adding, “I hope it wasn’t tested on animals.”
I laugh, grateful for the icebreaker. “Me too,” I say, because I am starting to care about that sort of thing, and I’ll be devastated if I have to give up my favorite brand over this new set of principles that have elbowed their way into my life.
“Ready?” Morgan doesn’t wait for me to answer, and before I can catch my breath, we’re joining the steady stream of smiling, excited guests and making our way into the theater.
“Ticket?” asks a volunteer as we pass through the doors.
“She’s with me,” says Morgan, drawing the girl’s attention to her.
“Oh, hi, Morgan,” the girl says. “Volunteers are all meeting in the kitchen to get their assignments.” Then she frowns at me, and I can see a flicker of recognition. “Prudence?”
I’ve seen the girl around the center before, but we’ve never been formally introduced. It’s unnerving that she knows my name and I don’t know hers.
Am I infamous now?
Morgan grabs my elbow and pulls me into the lobby without another word.
It looks … nice. Really nice, actually. Round tables are draped with white tablecloths and bright yellow table runners. Yellow Submarine bath toys act as centerpieces, along with a framed photograph of one of the animals currently being cared for at the center.
There aren’t a lot of decorations, but the theater feels festive. I’d suggested yellow balloons when Quint and I were first starting to plan the event, and had received a decisive no. Evidently, latex balloons are extremely harmful to sea animals, and now I’m certain I’ll never be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of a birthday balloon again. But in place of the balloons, yellow paper streamers twirl around the ceiling and hang from doorways. There’s also an assortment of cardboard cutouts of sea animals dangling from the overhead beams, and a painted octopus taking up the entire back wall. Each of its arms is holding a sign thanking the event’s various sponsors.
And then there are the photographs. Quint’s photographs. Professionally framed and matted and set out on easels around the room. I know they’re his immediately, except these are not the photographs I’ve seen. My heart swells to see that Quint didn’t take my suggestion after all, not exactly. The raffle prizes aren’t pictures of seals being strangled by fishing line and sea lions punctured with dozens of fishhooks.
Instead, they are pictures of the animals after they’ve been rehabilitated. When they’re healthy, splashing and playing in the outdoor pools or being released on the beach, their flippers paddling against the sand as they flop toward the ocean.
My heart twists when I spy one photo of a sea turtle swimming languidly in the open sea.
My sea turtle.
Guests are already clustered around the photos, discussing them, grinning, pointing out various details. The eyes of those animals follow me as I pass through the room.
I spot Trish Roxby adjusting her sound equipment on a small platform, but I avoid making eye contact with her. The last thing I need is to get swept up in small talk about karaoke and head injuries. In fact, I’m pretty much avoiding eye contact with everyone. I recognize most of the guests here. Small-town syndrome and all that.
I’ve been going over what I’ll say to Quint when I see him, but I still don’t know if I’m dying to see him or dreading it.
More volunteers are handing out bags of popcorn as guests are ushered into the auditorium for the night’s presentation. Even though Morgan is supposed to help work the event, she takes two bags of popcorn and we move along with the crowd.
As soon as I step into the theater, I see him. He’s standing onstage in front of the red-velvet curtains that frame the large screen, talking with Rosa, Dr. Jindal … and Shauna.
I stop so suddenly someone bumps into me from behind. I hear them apologize, but I can’t take my gaze off Quint.
He’s wearing dark-washed jeans, a crisp button-up shirt, and a tie.
And goodness gracious, he looks …
I don’t finish that thought.
Morgan pulls me off to the side so we aren’t taking up the aisle. The seats are filling up fast. There are a ton of people here. I realize, a little bewildered, that it actually worked. My idea, all my plans. They worked.
A slideshow is playing on the screen, showing photographs of sea animals from when they were first brought into the center, injured and malnourished, to shots of them being fed and bathed or playing together in the pools. There are a lot of images of seals sprawled out leisurely on the concrete, and little sea lion heads popping out of the water. Stacks of sea otters piled on top of one another. Every time one of these images shows up on the screen, the entire audience melts with a unanimous aww.
There are advertisements, too, promoting all the businesses that helped make the gala possible, and, occasionally, a slide thanking the volunteers who helped organize the event. Quint is at the top of the list, while my name is nowhere to be seen. It feels like one more betrayal.
I feel eyes on me and shift my attention back to Quint. He’s staring at me, his lips parted in surprise.
I lift my chin, refusing to look away. Whether or not he believes it, I deserve to be here every bit as much as he does.
He closes his mouth and I see his jaw tense. A shadow comes over his eyes and he turns away.
My palms have gone sweaty and I try to distract myself by shoveling a few handfuls of popcorn into my mouth, but despite the butter and salt left behind on my fingers, I don’t taste a thing. I need a better distraction.
Rosa takes a microphone from one of the theater staff members. They must be getting ready to start.
Quint leaves the stage and walks up the aisle. Toward me. But he makes a point of not looking at me as he passes by.
I swallow. Shauna starts to make her way off the stage, too. My eyes follow her, scowling. On instinct, I squeeze my fist shut.
I wait.
Three seconds. Five.
Nothing happens.
The projector clicks off, leaving the screen black. The houselights dim, leaving the stage illuminated. Rosa walks to the center and begins by thanking everyone for coming. She thanks the sponsors, the donors, the volunteers. Then she begins to talk about the center and their purpose, giving statistics of how many animals they’ve helped over the years, and how they continue to need the community’s support.
I turn and push through the doors, back into the lobby. Rosa’s voice fades behind me.
Quint is standing by the concessions stand, helping another volunteer arrange napkins in front of a stack
of champagne glasses.
“Quint?”
His spine straightens. He sets down the stack of napkins, exhales loudly, and slowly turns to face me. “If you’re not here to return that money, then I hope you at least bothered to purchase a ticket.”
I grind my teeth. Is he really going to make a scene here, in front of a stranger? But then I look at the volunteer at the counter and see it isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Ezra.
He gives me a casual smile and a playful salute. “Looking good, Prudence.”
His comment almost doesn’t filter past my irritation with Quint, but … it is something to be said for Ezra Kent. He’s good at diffusing tense emotions. I feel the knots in my shoulder unwind, just a tiny bit. “Quint, I need to talk to you.”
“Oh? Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to apologize?”
My shoulders tighten right back up. “Maybe because I have nothing to apologize for?”
He starts to roll his eyes.
“Listen to her,” says a voice from behind me. Morgan appears at my side, her hands on her hips. “There have been developments.”
He looks at Morgan, surprised. “What are…” He doesn’t finish, his attention darting between the two of us, growing more curious by the second. “What’s going on?”
I glance around. Volunteers are starting to set the tables for dinner. It’s too crowded, and I don’t want any eavesdroppers.
“Can we go somewhere else to talk? I think I might know who took that money, but if I’m wrong … well. I know how terrible it is to be wrongfully accused of something.”
“But we’re pretty sure we’re right,” adds Morgan.
Quint’s frown deepens. I can see him contemplating. Not believing me, but … wanting to.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll bite.”
“Oh, thank god,” says Ezra. “The suspense was killing me.”
Quint glances at him, then at the array of champagne flutes. “Could you—”
Instant Karma Page 39
