Sacred Trust

by Meg O'Brien

  “Damn, Abby, you’ve been moving up on me,” he says in an amazed tone when we step back from each other.

  “Yeah, I could have done some real damage,” I respond with some satisfaction. “May I remind you that Eagle’s Talons is brown belt, two up from mine? But I got you, didn’t I? I actually caught you off your guard.”

  “Well, that’s what happens when we think we know someone,” he says, grinning.

  His expression turns serious. “It’s something you might want to remember, Abby.”

  After our session I shower, dress in my jeans and sweater, then grab some orange juice at Davis’s breakfast bar. He’s still out on the patio, talking on the phone. The Kenpo has dusted off some cobwebs for me, and while in the shower I have remembered an old adage about journalism—that it’s all about casting light into dark corners.

  There have been far too many dark corners in this mess, and I plan to change that. Taking a pad and pencil out of my bag, I begin to write:

  (1) Check out Tommy Lawrence, find out what he’s really up to. He knows too damned much.

  (2) Call someone or three someones—Mauro, Ben, Karen—and see if Jeffrey’s turned up.

  (3) Pay a visit to Harry Blimm, president of Seacoast Bank of Carmel.

  If Cliff’s suggested scenario is even close to the truth, Harry, I think, could hold the key to where Jeffrey is. My guess is that he and Rick the Randy Realtor—given how he cooled on me yesterday when he discovered I was Jeffrey’s wife—could well be my husband’s cohorts in the land scam out in the valley.

  Or, if Harry is innocent, he could be just the person to help me nail Jeffrey. If I can do that, I’ll have something to hold over my husband’s head. Not only might that help The Prayer House, but if Jeffrey has been concealing Justin’s whereabouts, or whatever happened to him, I might be able to force him to admit it.

  From there, I’m not sure what will happen. I write down what little I know, hoping it will lead to other ideas:

  (1) Justin was kidnapped by person or persons unknown, and for a reason we don’t yet know.

  (2) Marti went to President Chase for help—possibly revealing that he was her son’s biological father.

  (3) Chase appointed Jeffrey, his right hand (who also happened to live on-scene), to quietly launch an investigation to find Justin.

  (4) Jeffrey decided on his own to pretend to launch that investigation, while actually hushing up Justin’s disappearance—possibly out of fear that Justin’s paternity would come out in the heat of what could end up being a nationwide search for the boy, thus tarnishing Golden Boy Chase’s reputation.

  Which leads me to an alternative theory: President Chase is not a golden boy. He’s the one who told Jeffrey to keep Justin’s disappearance and paternity quiet.

  It’s a reach, but, either way, the end result is the same. No official investigation, no real effort made to find Marti’s son.

  I now know that my husband is a crook. But is he diabolical enough to simply leave a fifteen-year-old boy in the hands of a kidnapper—one who has threatened to deliver the boy’s head to his parents if they breathe a word to the police or the FBI?

  And why was there no ransom demand?

  Further, is Jeffrey diabolical enough to have killed Marti simply to assure her silence about the Carmel Valley real-estate scam?

  And finally, on my list: Talk to Mauro and Hillars. Tell them I know now why they’re really here—and why the Secret Service in particular is after Jeffrey’s ass.

  When I walk through my front door again, my phone is ringing.

  “Hey,” Ben says when I pick up. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, out and about,” I say coolly. I am annoyed at his asking this, while I’ve been leaving messages for him hither and yon for days.

  “I met with your Sister Helen yesterday,” he says. “Out at this place called The Prayer House.”

  “Really?” I saw your car out there, I want to say, but don’t.

  “Have you talked to her?” he asks.

  “No, I haven’t.” Which is not a lie.

  There is a small silence. He knows I was there. Why doesn’t he just say so?

  “What did she tell you?” I ask him.

  “Not much. She seemed skittish.”

  “Well, a visit from the police can do that.”

  “You sound sort of odd this morning.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  He sighs. “She told you I was there?”

  “No, I never talked to her.”

  “Then why—”

  “Look, let it alone, okay? What did she tell you?”

  “Only that she knows nothing about Marti or Justin. Says she hadn’t seen Marti in a long time, and didn’t know a thing about Marti having a son.”

  Now that is a bald-faced lie. The Ryans told me she used to visit him regularly. So the inscrutable Sister Helen is keeping a lot to herself. But why? What does she hope to gain?

  “I tried to call you yesterday,” Ben says.

  “I didn’t get a message,” I answer.

  “I didn’t leave one,” he says.

  Another silence.

  “Any luck finding Jeffrey?” I ask.

  “None at all.”

  “Well.”

  I hear him grunt. We’re beginning to sound like him and Arnie.

  “You have fun in Rio?” he asks.

  “Sort of.” If he has taken me by surprise with his knowledge of my travels, I don’t let on. Neither do I tell him about finding the Ryans, remembering Tommy’s warning that Ben would probably never keep anything of a professional nature to himself. It’s an opinion I happen to agree with. And I don’t want the Monterey County task force, or the Secret Service, breathing down the Ryans’ necks till they’ve had a chance to get home and regroup.

  “Well, guess I’d better go,” I say. “I’ve got a ton of errands to run.”

  “Yeah. Guess I should let you go.”

  “Talk to you later, then.”

  “Okay.”

  Each of us waits for the other to hang up. I go first, taking only a small amount of satisfaction in having beat him to the punch.

  Harry Wilkins Blimm, the sign says on the mahogany door. I push it open and am faced with a startled assistant in Harry’s outer office. She’s new and doesn’t know me. It probably doesn’t help that I’m dressed in old jeans and don’t look much like a rich Carmel matron.

  “Excuse me,” she says, rising. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” I say, continuing to walk toward Harry’s inner door. Unlike some bank presidents, he doesn’t sit up front where clients can see him. I’ve always wondered what he had to hide.

  “Wait, you can’t go in there,” the receptionist says.

  But I’m already in. Harry, as startled as she, is on the phone. In a low voice he says, “I can’t talk now. Call me back.” He hangs up.

  I should tell Ben to check good old Harry’s phone records for incoming calls, I think. Of course, if that was Jeffrey on the phone, he could have called from his cell phone.

  But I doubt it. The crooks who slip up the most are the ones who feel so self-confident they don’t think they’ll ever be caught. And one thing Jeffrey has never lacked is self-confidence.

  “How’s he doing?” I ask conversationally, taking a seat across from Harry.

  “Who?” he says, running a finger under his shirt collar. “How’s who doing?”

  “Jeffrey. That was him, right?”

  A flush creeps from his neck to his chubby face, ending at the bald head. He opens his mouth to speak.

  “Don’t even bother,” I say. “For a bank president you’re not a good liar, Harry. Now, look, I’ll tell you what I know, and you don’t even have to speak—you can just nod for yes or shake your head for no. That way there won’t be anything incriminating on that tape recorder you keep in your desk drawer. How’s that?”

  I don’t wait for a response. “Okay, so first off, I spent a few
hours yesterday out in the Carmel Valley. A pretty little place called The Prayer House. You know it, Harry?”

  When he doesn’t respond, I say, “Nod, Harry. Just nod.”

  He nods.

  “So okay, you know The Prayer House. You know Jeffrey’s been trying to buy it, right?”

  Again he nods.

  “And you’ve been in on his scam to manipulate prices out there in the valley, right, Harry?”

  This time he both shakes his head and stutters. “I—I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I stand and slam my hands on the desk, putting my face close to his. “Dammit, Harry, you’re not playing by the rules! I told you just to nod.”

  His back stiffens as he pushes away from me and looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t know what it is you want, Abby, but I am not now nor have I ever been involved in any scam, as you call it, with Jeffrey. Our relationship is banker to client, and it has always—I repeat, always—been aboveboard.”

  I study him a moment and wonder if he might be telling the truth. Otherwise, I’m almost certain he’d have crumpled. I’ve had to call Harry on the carpet more than once at a party for getting too rowdy, and every time he’s collapsed like a cold toasted marshmallow.

  Easing back into my chair, I say, “Let’s imagine you don’t know what Jeffrey’s been up to, then. Let’s just say this is all fantasy. You know Rick Stone, End-of-the-Trail Realty?”

  His tone is cautious. “Yes, of course I do. I know most of the Realtors around here.”

  “You know most of the certified appraisers, too. Right?”

  He shrugs. “A few.”

  “Okay, good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Still fantasizing, it wouldn’t be all that difficult for you to set up a little meeting between Jeffrey, Rick Stone and one of those appraisers, would it?”

  “You’re assuming I would want to do something like that,” he says, reaching into his drawer. I figure he’s turning off the tape recorder.

  “So let’s say you wanted to do that. And let’s say between the three of them, they come up with fake comps and fake appraisals for a few pieces of property Jeffrey owns in the valley. Not to mention a buyer who’s willing to pay through the nose just because he believes the comps and appraisals are real. Are you following me, Harry?”

  He doesn’t answer, so I go on. “Jeffrey would be getting a huge amount over what he’d originally bought the property for, and he’d naturally enough share it with his pals. That’d be a sweet deal for my imaginary trio, wouldn’t it, Harry?”

  “I suppose it might. But—”

  “But they’d need someone else—a banker, Harry, who would be willing to loan that much money on a property that he knew Jeffrey had bought for a third of that selling price months before. A banker who’s a friend and who wouldn’t ask any questions about how the property got to be that expensive so quickly—because he, too, was getting a piece of the pie.”

  Harry turns deep red and pushes himself up from his chair. His voice is tight with anger. “I see where you’re going with this, Abby, and I must tell you I am profoundly offended. I would never go along with such a scheme.”

  “Not even for a piece of that pie, Harry? It might be a big piece. Half, even. You could retire and dance your way through parties the rest of your life.”

  “I cannot believe I thought you were a friend,” he says. “I want you out of here—right now. In fact, if you don’t leave of your own accord, I will call Security.” He reaches for his phone.

  “Not to worry, Harry,” I say. “I already got what I came here for.”

  If he doesn’t tell Jeffrey I know about his scam, I’ll eat my hat, as my mom would say. Now all I have to do is wait and see if Jeffrey comes after me—the way he may, or may not, have gone after Marti.

  Next stop, since it’s only a few blocks away: Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son. Or whoever the hell he is.

  And why am I not surprised when, upon asking for him at the desk of the La Playa, I am told he is not registered there and never has been?

  I go into the bar and sit on a stool. Jimmy-John’s not on today, so I ask the bartender on shift, who I know, if he’s seen a guy named Tommy Lawrence in here. He says he doesn’t recognize the name, but what does he look like?

  I tell him tall, thin, brown hair, looks like a gangly kid.

  “You mean the one that’s always asking questions about locals?” he says. “Loaded with charm, like some con men in town I could name?”

  “That’s the one,” I say.

  “Sure, he’s been in here having drinks. Haven’t seen him today, though.”

  “Is Jimmy-John around anywhere?”

  He shakes his head. “He got sacked.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “The boss caught him one too many times giving out too much personal information about guests. You know, you can give a guy a break, but if he doesn’t make use of it…”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A couple weeks ago.”

  At least a full week before Tommy Lawrence hit town. Unless he lied about that, too, and has been here longer than he let on.

  “You say you’ve seen this guy Tommy in here asking questions lately?”

  “Last few days, yeah.”

  “Have you or anyone else given him any information about me?”

  “Not me.” He grins. “I like my job.”

  I take my notepad out. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you see this guy again, give him something for me?”

  “No problem.”

  I write on a clean sheet of paper, “I know the real reason you’re here.”

  I sign it “Abby,” then fold it, writing Tommy’s name on the front of it.

  The bartender takes the note and slips it into his pocket. I thank him and walk back out to my Jeep.

  Mauro and Hillars I don’t need to find. Predictably, they have found me.

  “I take it my husband hasn’t shown,” I say, leaning into Mauro’s window. “Any leads?”

  “If I had leads, Ms. Northrup—”

  “You wouldn’t share them with me, Mr. Mauro,” I finish for him. “So are you here to take me in?”

  “As a matter of fact, the thought crossed my mind.”

  “And what did your mind have to say?”

  “It said to let you dig a deeper hole.”

  Hillars sits next to him, his usual silent self. But his arms are folded, and his mouth droops in disapproval. I take it he doesn’t like his young partner trading barbs with a suspect.

  “How was your visit with Harry Blimm?” Mauro asks. “FYI, we already interviewed him.”

  “And?”

  “And we feel you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he says. “However…”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you uncover anything useful, Ms. Northrup?”

  “You know what, Mr. Mauro? FYI, I wouldn’t tell you if I had. But I know now why you’re after my husband.”

  That evening, I sit in my living room with Murphy, drink a cup of coffee and wait. I’ve drawn my blinds, an instinctive counteraction to those dumb movies where the heroine’s being stalked and runs inside her house, locking the door but not bothering to close the curtains. It’s black as pitch outside, and anyone could be out there looking in. She doesn’t think about that, but blithely goes around the house flicking on lights.

  Carmel is especially dark at night, since no streetlights are allowed in the Village, just as there are no mailboxes or addresses on houses—a throwback, some say, to the days when Bohemian artists and actors used to run here to hide out from frenzied media and fans.

  I glance at my watch. Seven-twenty. I have now rattled the cages of a few select people, and I’m wondering how long it will take for at least one of them to show up.

  Earlier, I have seen the storm coming in from the southwest, and it looked big. Still, the loud patter of rain on my chimney flue startles me. I am reminded th
at the Pineapple Express has roared up the Pacific from Hawaii more than once, tearing up trees on Scenic and lifting roofs. Out of habit I go around checking windows, making sure they are tight. When I come to the one in the kitchen that Tommy remarked upon earlier, there is little I can do. The broken hinge on the casement window leaves no way to lock it, so I settle for turning the crank and closing it as tightly as possible. Since it opens only to the patio and there is a high wooden fence surrounding it, I’ve never worried about the latch. This is Carmel, after all. A relatively safe little town.

  Until now. Since Marti was murdered, anything seems possible.

  Going to the fridge, I take bottles of ketchup, mayonnaise, tomato sauce and wine, lining them up on the windowsill. This makes me feel a bit foolish, but if anyone does try to get in, they’ll at least have to make some noise.

  Sitting beside Murphy again in the living room, I begin to feel like Snow White, waiting for my Crook to come. It’s now after eight, and no one’s shown yet. I’d expected Jeffrey or Tommy—even Harry Blimm. Did I figure this thing all wrong?

  When the doorbell finally rings I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Flicking on the porch light, I peer through the wet glass of the window next to my door and can make out only a huddled, dark figure. Not tall enough for Tommy or Jeffrey—nor fat enough for Harry Blimm. Who in the world have I snared?

  My surprise couldn’t be greater when I open the door to see, clothed in a black raincoat with a dark shawl over her head, Sister Helen.

  16

  I open the door wide and half pull my old teacher through. She seems numb, both unseeing and un-feeling. “Good Lord, Sister, you’re drenched! Let me take that shawl.”

  I lift the sodden garment from her shoulders, but she barely seems to notice. I can tell from the way she moves that she’s in pain. Sister Pauline mentioned arthritis. This weather, and the trip from The Prayer House, must have done her in.

  “Did you drive?” I ask as I hang the shawl over a clothes rack in the foyer.

  She doesn’t answer, and when I turn I see her standing very close to me. A chill runs through me, and I don’t think it’s from the cold draft the open door let in. There is a fanatical look in Sister Helen’s eyes that frightens me.