Not exactly a financial whiz or maven myself, I expected to glean nothing from them and returned the tax files to their rightful drawer and used the key Babs gave me to open the one below it. I did this for all the drawers, to assay what I was up against.
The cabinets were all filled to the brim, except the last drawer, which contained only a pile of neatly stacked papers, the top sheet of which read in bold lettering: “HAL WIRTH: AN INTREPID LIFE.”
A subtitle followed: “The Memoir of an Idealistic Entrepreneur’s Rise to Software Giant.”
I had no idea Hal had even entertained the notion of writing a book. If Babs had ever mentioned anything about it, it must have slipped my mind. Being no stranger to the perils of publishing, I always smiled at how those from other walks of life believed transitioning into that industry would be a seamless escapade, having no clue of the challenges involved in both successfully writing and selling their work. It appeared Hal was no exception and I found it odd he hadn’t at least tried to pick my brain.
I took a seat in the desk chair in which Hal must’ve spent countless hours, ignoring the thin layer of dust that had collected on the leather, and opened the manuscript to the first page, when I heard a voice call my name.
“Mrs. Fletcher!”
I practically jumped out of Hal Wirth’s desk chair, my heart pounding in my chest when I spotted a figure silhouetted in the murky light. My overactive writer’s imagination conjured an image of Lawrence Pyke from the night before, so clear I could almost smell the whiskey on his breath. But it wasn’t Lawrence Pyke at all.
It was Alyssa, Babs’s daughter!
“Mrs. Fletcher!” she repeated, as if afraid I hadn’t heard her call the first time.
I sprang out of my chair and met her halfway across the floor, where she swallowed me with her outstretched arms in a firm hug. Was this the same Alyssa who’d been a little girl the last time I blinked?
“Alyssa, you’ve grown so much!” I said, a bit lamely, since my heart was just starting to slow.
She was taller than me by at least two inches. Though we’d corresponded off and on about her interest in writing, I was always left picturing her in pigtails with skinned knees and bony elbows. Now she was all grown up, a beauty just like her mother, only with stronger features that included sharply defined cheekbones and hair that tumbled gracefully past her shoulders.
“It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You’re not little Ally anymore, that’s for sure! And call me Jessica, for God’s sake.”
She stepped farther into the dim lighting, and I noted deep bags under her eyes, evidence she probably hadn’t slept since getting the news from her mother.
“I’m sorry about your father, Alyssa.”
I gave her another hug.
“Thanks for being there for my mom,” she said, her eyes moistening.
“What are friends for?” We both aimed a glance toward her father’s desk. “I’m looking through your dad’s old papers, organizing them and setting aside important documents pertinent to his business, so your mom will have everything handy.”
“That’s a mighty task. Dad was a secretive man and never let anyone else deal with that part of his life. The business part, I mean. Can I help with anything?”
“No need. This is just secretarial work. I’ll be done in no time. I was just going through your dad’s drawers,” I said, making no mention of Hal Wirth’s memoir and positioning myself to block the pages atop the desk from Alyssa’s view. “I need to ask you a stupid question.”
“How am I doing?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m okay, better now that I’m home. My boyfriend is coming to stay with us tomorrow, so that will be good for me, too.”
“Your mom didn’t mention that.”
“Because I didn’t tell her. His name is Chad. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
“You met him at college?” I asked.
“He lives in the same dorm building as I did last year. We hit it off right away. He’s, like, a computer genius. An absolute whiz with a keyboard.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Are you always this suspicious?”
I shrugged. “I’m a mystery writer. It’s my nature.”
“Then let’s just say Chad plays computers with the skill of a concert maestro.”
“I get the idea,” I said, figuring Chad must be a hacker or something.
“I’ve told him all about you, Jessica. I think he’s even read a couple of your books and said he was going to take another with him for the bus ride up here.”
“I can’t read on buses, or cars. Planes and trains, yes, but not your ordinary moving vehicles.”
“Me either.”
“I guess Chad’s lucky, then. Me, too, for the royalties he’s making me. Why don’t I sign a copy of my latest for you to give him?”
“Would you?” Alyssa beamed.
“Of course. My pleasure.”
“We’re having dinner when he gets in tomorrow. You could join us and Mom. You could give it to him then.”
“Wonderful! It’s a plan!” I held her eyes briefly, accustomed to addressing Alyssa the adult now. “Now, tell me how your writing is going.”
She frowned. “My classes keep me really busy, but I try to make time to write.”
“So long as your boyfriend knows to leave you alone when you’re in the creative mode,” I said, smiling inwardly at the memory of how Frank always kept his distance when he heard the keys clacking, reluctant to disturb me. “When the time comes, I’d love to introduce you to my editor.”
“Really?” Alyssa said, squeezing my arm tenderly.
“Absolutely. I still remember those stories of yours I read when you were a little girl. You’ve got real talent, and talent only gets better with age. You’re also the closest thing I have to a daughter. You’re family to me, Alyssa, and I truly mean that.”
She hugged me again, dabbing at her eyes as we separated.
“Anyway,” Alyssa said, pawing at the floor with her boot, “Mom sent me down here to get you. My dad’s lawyer, Lawrence Pyke, just arrived and she wants you to meet him.”
I already had met him, of course, and could only hope our second encounter was more pleasant than the first. At the very least, I expected him to be sober.
“Then let’s get ourselves upstairs,” I said, and followed Alyssa up the steps.
We walked to the living room together like old friends, all that time since we’d last seen each other bridged by a combination of her father’s death and my offer to mentor her career. Something told me Alyssa was a talented writer, although I couldn’t put my finger on what. But I wasn’t sure she’d settle into the mysteries. Something else told me this was a young woman with more literary aspirations than genre fiction may have provided. I’ve had that discussion, or argument, countless times with those for whom mindless entertainment is too trivial to bother with, since to me creating such mindless entertainment is the greatest gift a writer can give.
I noticed Babs standing atop the living room’s Persian carpet, speaking to a gentleman whose back was to Alyssa and me. I wasn’t looking forward to another encounter with Lawrence Pyke after the first one had gone so strangely, but resolved myself to play the good friend to Babs and not pick up where I’d left off with Pyke in the diner.
“Ah, Jessica,” she said, spotting us coming, “you’re here. I’d like you to meet Hal’s lawyer, Lawrence Pyke.”
The man turned, revealing a shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly coiffed thin mustache riding his upper lip. Smiling as he extended his hand.
It wasn’t Lawrence Pyke.
Chapter Six
At least not the man who’d introduced himself in Mara’s Luncheonette the night before as Lawrence Pyke.
“
Jessica,” I heard Babs say, “are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I wanted to tell her I had—well, not exactly a ghost, but close enough. “It’s just that—,” I stammered, the words stopping as quickly as they started.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher,” the real Lawrence Pyke said, sparing me from having to complete my thought. “I’m a big fan.”
I almost said Of whom? but managed a smile as I took his hand and replied typically, “Oh, so you’re the one.”
“I suspect you have a few more than that.”
“Not as many as I used to, with fewer bookstores and the like. These days you need to send a search party out to find one of my old paperbacks.”
Pyke nodded, as if he understood. I had no idea why I was making small talk with him. I suppose I was trying to give myself time to let the shock subside and plan out what I was going to say next. Then Babs saved me the trouble.
“Lawrence was just going to review some things he needed to discuss with me. Maybe you’d like to sit in.”
I could tell from the soft plaintiveness in her voice that Babs’s offer was more than just a gesture; she wanted me there because she needed the support, even if it was only moral.
“Of course, Babs,” I said, smiling. “I’d be happy to.”
I noticed Pyke fidget a bit, his tall frame scrunching slightly. He looked past me, and I realized Alyssa had been standing there, a bit behind me, through the entire exchange.
“I’ve got some things to do,” she said, taking Pyke’s expression as a proper cue and heading for the stairs, and her bedroom, in all likelihood.
“Let’s adjourn to the kitchen,” Babs suggested. “I’ll make some coffee.”
* * *
• • •
She used the pour-over method again. I was fine with just regular coffee, so this whole thing about designer coffee drinks, flavored and otherwise, escaped me. But Babs managed the effort in rapid fashion. She hadn’t asked me which of her many flavors I wanted, because she knew I’d pick the most ordinary. Something close to Maxwell House or Folgers for someone who normally preferred tea.
The whole time the coffee dribbled down into the mug, I studied Lawrence Pyke’s expression, which wavered between anxious and concerned. He kept tapping his fingers together and shifting about in his chair, as if trapped in some form of unease I couldn’t otherwise identify.
“How much did Hal share with you about the state of his finances?” Pyke asked, through the light mist of steam that had risen from the cup set before him.
Babs squeezed a handful of hair and threaded it through her fingers. “We didn’t talk much about finances, other than the usual husband and wife stuff. You know, expenses, repairs—that sort of thing. I’ve been giving some thought to opening a business and did ask for his input on that.”
“And how did he respond?”
Lawrence Pyke sounded very formal, clearly getting at something.
“He didn’t, not really. He changed the subject,” Babs said. “But that’s not unusual. I don’t think Hal had a lot of respect for my skills in business, the idea of renting space on Main Street in the Cove to . . .”
Babs’s voice trailed off as she seemed to notice Pyke’s taut expression for the first time.
He nodded and then continued. “Your husband didn’t mention any issues with the business he’d opened down in Granite Heights?”
“I thought we were here to discuss his estate,” Babs said, concern edging into her voice.
“We are.”
Babs picked up her steaming mug of coffee and set it back down just as quickly. “Then, no. Hal never said anything about any issues with the business.”
“You had no fiduciary involvement?”
“None. Our accountants believed it was better for tax and legal reasons.” Babs glanced at me, then leaned closer to her late husband’s lawyer. “You’re scaring me, Lawrence. Should I be scared?”
The expression on Pyke’s face told both of us she should be. He leaned in closer to Babs, trying to appear as comforting as he could.
“I don’t know a gentle way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Your husband’s business was insolvent.”
* * *
• • •
I reached over and grasped Babs’s forearm. I could feel the gooseflesh rising as the color washed from her face, my gesture, aimed at reassurance, feeling mostly lame.
“That’s . . . impossible,” she managed, her voice barely audible.
“I only wish that were the case. I truly do. Since I have power of attorney for Hal’s business dealings, I accessed all of his financial records in preparation for this meeting. I didn’t expect to find anything amiss or awry. Hal was always meticulous with his record keeping and conservative in his borrowing, never extending or overleveraging himself. And he never made a major move or investment without consulting me. I’ve been there with him every step of the way. He was never shy about asking for counsel, even if there were no real legal ramifications involved. I once joked that he wouldn’t lick a postage stamp without consulting me.”
Babs pulled her arm from my light grasp, as if forgetting I was even in the room. “But that must not have been true, was it? I mean, based on what you’re suggesting.”
I thought back to what had clearly been a tense conversation between Hal and Seth Hazlitt the day before. Could this have been the subject of their conversation? Had Hal sought Seth out to confide this to him, perhaps in the form of some kind of confession?
Lawrence Pyke looked as if he didn’t want to go on, needing to pull the words up his throat and push them out of his mouth. “In the past month, he’d opened six separate lines of credit, totaling over ten million dollars. I haven’t been able to track down all the paperwork, but apparently, he used the assets of his business as collateral. I’m assuming he must have done so fraudulently to some extent, and must have had his reasons, because the sources of these credit lines, which were drained almost immediately, were less than reputable.”
“What’s that mean?” Babs asked him.
“The kind of shady sites you go to when you don’t want, or can’t go to, traditional lenders like banks.” Pyke hesitated and tried to hold Babs’s stare. “He never approached you about refinancing the mortgage on this house?”
“No, of course— Wait, did he do that on his own?”
“No, he would’ve needed your signature. You would’ve had to attend the closing. I can only assume he wanted to keep whatever he’d gotten himself involved in, how he’d ended up so overextended, secret from you.” Pyke glanced about, as if looking through the walls into the entire sprawl of one of Cabot Cove’s most impressive homes. “Refinancing this house would have covered at least some of the money he found himself in need of.”
“It might have, if we weren’t carrying such a significant note on it—Hal said it was good for tax reasons.” Babs glanced at me, as if remembering I was there. “Why didn’t he say something to me?” Her eyes darted back to Pyke. “What’s going on? What did he use the money for? Have you been able to figure that out?”
“Is there a paper trail?” I blurted out.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Babs repeated, just as I was ready to utter the word.
“It’s gone, all of it.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Ten million dollars doesn’t just disappear, Mr. Pyke.”
He flirted with the thinnest of smiles. “From reading your books, Mrs. Fletcher, I can tell you obviously know that’s not the case.”
“I write fiction.”
“And money vanishes in fact as well, I’m afraid. A deal gone bad, a debt called in, a bad investment from the past returning to the fold, or one in the present gone bust. Our sins always catch up with us. And, in my experience, those sins almost invariably
involve money.”
Babs was shaking her head, her eyes narrowed, as if trying to focus on something that remained a blur. “This makes no sense. This isn’t Hal.”
Lawrence Pyke said nothing, his silence speaking for him.
“There’s got to be some explanation, something we’re not seeing. You’re telling me Hal was broke. You’re telling me I’m broke.” I could see the tears welling in Babs’s eyes. “The mortgage, Alyssa’s college bills, the expenses—what am I supposed to do?”
“I’ve ordered a full forensic audit of your husband’s assets,” Pyke offered.
“What will that accomplish?”
“Hopefully provide clues as to what Hal did with the money, what he’d gotten himself involved in, or whom he’d gotten involved with.”
“We shared everything, even when . . .”
“Go on,” Pyke urged.
Again, Babs glanced toward me, her pained expression taking on a tint of embarrassment. “We were having . . . problems.”
Pyke didn’t urge her on this time.
“But we worked them out. At least, I thought we had.” She was shifting her gaze between Pyke and me with her words, as if looking for the one thing neither of us could give her under the circumstances—reassurance. “That’s what the Labor Day party was all about this year: a celebration of us putting all that behind us, with our anniversary coming to boot. We were married on Labor Day twenty-four years ago now, almost to the day. Did you know that?”
“I, er . . .”
Babs started to choke up and Pyke stopped his words there. We all slipped into silence. I twirled my coffee mug about, wishing I’d opted for tea instead, something more soothing. A heaviness filled the stagnant air. The humidity had ticked up, typical of the season here on the Maine coast, and I realized Babs hadn’t turned on the central air. I missed the dank cool of Hal’s basement office, my thoughts drifting to his memoir and whether somewhere in the pages he’d penned, there might be some clue as to what had become of the ten million dollars Lawrence Pyke insisted had vanished into thin air.
Murder, She Wrote--A Date with Murder Page 5
