Sage of Innocence

by Melissa F. Miller

  I looked around. The decor was more formal than was typical of the island homes. Lots of polished brass instead of bleached driftwood and conch shells; patterned fabric-covered furniture rather than wicker; oriental rugs and not rattan. The Widow Spears was also atypically formal. At just past eight o'clock on a Friday night, she was kicking back alone in a black jacket and skirt, a silk blouse, and pair of pumps.

  "Were you on your way out?" I asked.

  She looked down at her attire. "Oh, no, I’ve just come home from a meeting--from a day of meetings actually. The bank manager, the funeral home director, Fred's agent, the priest, the attorneys ... I'm probably forgetting one or two." She exhaled tiredly.

  "You must have had a very trying day," I said. "Do you have someone staying with you--family? Or a friend?" The house was hushed, empty.

  She closed her eyes for the briefest moment then shook her head. "No. It's just me." Her voice was matter-of-fact but I had a sudden urge to hug her.

  "Why don't you let us make you a cup of tea?" I said.

  Her gaze passed from me to Roman and back to me. "In light of ... the circumstances ... the Moores probably wouldn't be happy to hear that you're consoling Fred's widow."

  Roman cleared his throat. "We don't believe for a minute that Chip killed your husband," he said in a gentle voice.

  She threw both hands in the air and waved away the very notion. "Of course he didn't. But seeing as how he's apparently going to take the fall for it, you still ought not to be here."

  * * *

  Marilee sat at her kitchen table while Roman poured her a cup of ginger tea. I held my questions until she'd completed her lemon, honey, stir, milk, stir again ritual and had rested her spoon on the saucer.

  "Did you tell the police that you think Chip's being framed?"

  She nodded then sipped her tea. "I certainly did. I can't say I got the sense they were listening. But perhaps some of it did sink in--after all, they did let Chip leave the island."

  Roman turned a kitchen chair backward and sat down in that uniquely male posture with his arms resting on the top of the chair's back. "Do you know who killed your husband?"

  Her blue eyes were grave. "No. But I sincerely doubt it was Chip."

  "Why?" he pressed.

  "No reason, several reasons. Mainly, it's just a feeling. I've known Chip Moore since he was a teenager out on the junior tour. He doesn't have a temper."

  I'd been hoping Fred's widow would have some special insight, some information, some something to support her statement. But what she had was some weak, weak sauce. I caught Roman's eye across the table and could see from his expression that he had the same reaction.

  Marilee must have sensed our disappointment, because she went on. "Now, don't get me wrong--I'm not claiming Chip's a saint. In fact, I believe that human nature's a dark thing. I suspect many people are capable of murder. I just don't think it's Chip's style to fly into a rage and strike a deadly blow. He'd have planned it more methodically." She said it in a perfectly calm, agreeable voice

  Chip was in love with his Day Timer, but I wasn't sure I agreed that being a scheduler and being a cold-blooded killer went hand in hand. I was beginning to think that Marilee Spears was either in shock or a very odd bird.

  Roman coughed into his fist. "Mrs. Spears--"

  "Given the circumstances, I can think of far more likely candidates than Chip. Why, Louie Lewis has a mean streak a mile wide."

  "Do you know if anyone had any particular problems with Fred?" Roman said.

  "Son, everyone had problems with Fred."

  "Everyone? Even you?"

  I shot Roman a look that said 'easy, cowboy.'

  She reached for her teacup again. Her hands trembled, and the cup knocked against the saucer. She raised the drink to her lips. She drank a sip slowly and then returned the saucer and cup to the table with a steady hand. "Even me," she answered softly.

  We waited.

  "Fred seemed to think there was an endless supply of money. He loved the finer things--the fancier, the better. All of this was Fred's idea." She paused and swept a graceful hand across the kitchen as if she were a game show hostess. "But the last time Fred won a title was 2006. He hasn't finished in the money in at least five years."

  "Then how ...?" I trailed off, unable to tactfully ask how they afforded their lifestyle.

  "We made some good investments, but our money was running out. It had been a source of tension between us for the past two years. He just shrugged off my concerns and kept spending. It was ... a problem." She stared into her cup.

  "Does Fred's death alleviate that concern?" Roman asked.

  She met his gaze. "As a matter of fact, it does. Assuming the police don't decide I killed him, I'll collect under his life insurance policy. And, from what lawyers and his agent say, his death will also result in the payment of additional sums." She laughed bitterly. "After all these years of living as if we were rich, I apparently actually am now. That's why I asked for a meeting with the bank. I'm not sure what to do with all this money."

  I said, "You need a wealth management plan. Talk to a financial planner."

  She shook her head helplessly. "I don't even know where to begin."

  "Sage can help you," Roman volunteered. "She used to be an accountant."

  I was gearing up to reject that idea when Marilee melted with relief. "Oh, thank heavens," she breathed as she sagged against the back of the chair.

  'Thanks a lot,' I mouthed over her head.

  Roman just smirked.

  Chapter 9

  Thanks to Roman's generosity, I spent the better part of Saturday morning hunched over a desk putting Marilee and Fred's bank statements, bills, and related papers in order. Somehow, they seemed to have missed the whole conversion to paperless records thing. Marilee had dumped a stack of overflowing shoeboxes on the desk in Fred's study and gone off to make the final arrangements for the memorial service.

  I started by putting all the documents in chronological order to get a sense of what I was dealing with. Then I organized them by category. Only then did I begin combing through them for substance. The house was oppressively quiet, and more than once I wished I'd thought to bring my ancient iPod. I didn't want to stream music on my phone and burn through my data plan, so I settled for humming tunelessly to break up the silence.

  When the numbers began to swim and the ache in my neck had ramped up from a dull cramp to a burning pain, I stood, arched my back, and stretched. Marilee had said to make myself at home, so I headed down the hall toward the kitchen for a glass of sweet tea.

  When I'd first landed on the island, I'd considered the sugary beverage undrinkable. Now, I found it refreshing. Thirst-quenching, even. I poured myself a tall glass, downed it in two large gulps and eyed the pitcher, contemplating a refill.

  All things in moderation, I told myself, reciting Rosemary's favorite nutrition mantra. Of course, judging by her own eating habits, that seemed to be a maxim she observed in the breach.

  I was reaching for the handle, under the theory that I'd earned my sugar rush, when a tapping noise on the window scared the daylights out of me. I bobbled the crystal pitcher and barely caught it before it slid off the counter. Once I was sure it was stable, I looked for the source of the sound.

  Roman waved at me through the perfectly Windexed window then trotted toward the back door.

  I shook my head and met him there. It took me a minute or two of fiddling with the lock to get the door open.

  "Speak of the devil," I said by way of greeting once I finally managed to unlock the darn door.

  "Oh, yeah? Who were you speaking of me to?" he asked as he stepped inside and scanned the room.

  "Oh, no, I'm alone. I was just cursing your name."

  He leaned in toward me, close enough that I caught another whiff of his fresh-scented aftershave. "Really? Because it looked like you were guzzling iced tea."

  I felt my cheeks flush. "I was thirsty."

  He lau
ghed, and I noticed that it started deep in his throat then bubbled up, warm and quiet. It fit him.

  I caught myself about to say, I like your laugh, and clamped my mouth shut to stop the words.

  "Are you okay? It sounds like you're choking." He eyed me with some concern.

  "I'm fine. I have something caught in my throat."

  He raised an eyebrow at that but didn't comment.

  "What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked.

  He gave me a sheepish smile. "I guess I felt sorry for you. I know you don't get many Saturdays off, and, here you are, bean counting and numbers crunching. So, I came to whisk you off for a break."

  Yay, first a pretend date. Now a sympathy date.

  "I'm not hungry. And I'm nowhere near done."

  He scooped my tote bag off the counter by the door and handed it to me. "One, I didn't say anything about lunch. And two, you need to take a break. All work and no play is no good. Now, let's go."

  I rinsed my glass and put it in the sink then scribbled a note to Marilee. As I trailed him through the door and locked it up tight with Marilee’s spare key, I wondered when Roman had gotten so chatty.

  * * *

  We reached the end of Marilee's driveway and Roman stopped beside a bright red VW bug.

  "This is yours?"

  "Yes, ma'am, it surely is," he said as he hit the remote lock on his key and then held the passenger door open for me. "Hop in."

  When he was settled behind the wheel, I leaned over and took in the sight of his giant frame crammed into the tiny driver's seat. "I didn't know you had a car. You're always on your bike."

  He started the engine and glided out onto the empty street before answering. "Well, sure. Driving around this island is for the foolish and brave-hearted. And I'm neither. The traffic's too aggravating. Besides I like cycling. And Chip and I usually just take the cart to the club. And when we're on the road, he likes to drive himself."

  "Then why even keep a car?" I knew from experience that one wasn't necessary on the island. I could walk almost everywhere the kids and I went. For long trips, I'd pull them in their red wagon. The pedestrian-friendly lifestyle had been a bonus when I landed my job. I hadn't had a car when I lived in DC because I took the Metro everywhere. I'd been relieved to learn I wouldn't have to spend money I couldn't afford to part with to buy a car I didn't want.

  "I pretty much use it to go visit my family on weekends." He palmed the steering wheel one handed and draped his free hand over my headrest, behind my shoulders--almost, but not quite, putting his arm around me. I settled back against it. He didn't move.

  "Where are they? Savannah?"

  He shook his head. "No. Frogmore."

  I looked at him blankly. In the eight months that I'd worked for the Moores, I was positive I hadn't heard anyone mention a place called Frogmore. I was sure I'd have remembered.

  "You know Saint Helena Island?" he asked.

  "Sure," I agreed. I'd never been there, but I'd heard of it.

  "Saint Helena Island is Frogmore. Well, technically, Frogmore is the center of town, but for as long as anyone knew, the island was always called Frogmore. Then one day the U.S. Postal Service decided it's Saint Helena Island."

  "Why?"

  "Probably because it sounds fancier. I don't know. Anyway, that's where we're headed--Frogmore."

  "You're taking me to meet your family?" He was moving sort of fast for one fake date and one sympathy date.

  He laughed at the panic in my voice. "Settle down, Sage. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

  I felt the heat creeping up my neck and knew I was blushing. "Oh," I mumbled.

  He glanced at me. "Don't get me wrong--they'd adore you and your crazy Yankee accent. But today I just wanted to show you something that'll help you understand Mr. Lewis's view of me."

  I was all set to protest that I didn't have any accent, thank you very much, but when he mentioned the dig Louie had made the night before, his voice shifted from teasing to something between resignation and anger.

  "Oh. Well, I'd love to see where you grew up. But, frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn what Louie Lewis thinks." I put on my thickest Southern accent to lighten the mood.

  His eyes crinkled with laughter and he shook his head. "You're not right. Anyhow, are you finding anything interesting in the Spears' finances?"

  His casual tone didn't fool me. "Wait a minute--that's why you volunteered me to help Marilee? So I could snoop? And here I thought you were just being kind."

  "You're kidding me. I mean, sure, she seemed like she genuinely needed your help. But, of course, this is the perfect way for you to poke around in their life. I mean if you actually ever were a forensic accountant?"

  "Of course I was," I huffed.

  "Okay, okay." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "It's just an odd career change--accountant to nanny."

  "That's a long story. And would you mind keeping at least one hand on the wheel. This isn't your bicycle," I reminded him.

  He returned his left hand to the steering wheel and his right to my arm rest. This time, though, he unmistakably put his arm around me and gave my bare shoulder a soft squeeze. A tingle worked its way up my spine. I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus on his question and not his caress.

  "So, the Spears' finances--" I began in a voice that sounded like I was giving an oral report to my supervisor. Pull it together, Sage. I stopped and took a breath before continuing, "Their financial situation is certainly interesting."

  "Interesting how?"

  I watched the tall marsh grasses bend in the breeze out my window while I gathered my thoughts. "Well, for one thing, Marilee was both right and wrong. They had blown through their savings and were pretty much doing the credit card shuffle for a few years."

  "The credit card shuffle?"

  "They'd run up charges on a card until they hit their limit. Then they'd transfer the balance to a new, higher-limit card under a zero percent interest offer and start all over again."

  He winced. "That had to catch up with them after a while."

  "It sure did. That's when Fred took out a home equity line of credit, which I'm not sure Marilee even knows about."

  "Is that even legal?"

  "I'm not sure. It doesn't look like her name's on the mortgage, so it may have been on the up and up. But, regardless, it was a terrible financial move. The HELOC had a crazy high interest rate."

  "Had?"

  I nodded. "That's where Marilee was wrong. Fred's death will certainly increase her wealth, but it's not saving her from a life of poverty. He may not have been winning any tournaments, but about a year and a half ago, Fred started bringing in money from somewhere."

  Roman turned away from the road for a moment and looked at me with a spark of interest in his eyes. "Endorsements?"

  "Nope. No record of any contracts with golf equipment manufacturers or anything like that."

  "Maybe he hit the lottery?"

  "Doubtful. Unless the South Carolina Lottery pays out in cash."

  "Cash?"

  "He started making multiple cash deposits every month beginning eighteen months ago. At first it was just one deposit a month. Then two, three. For the last six months, he's made four separate deposits into two different accounts. All in different amounts. Big amounts, but sufficiently irregular so as to avoid a structuring charge."

  He threw me a puzzled look.

  "That's when someone deliberately deposits just under the amount that triggers the financial institution's reporting obligation," I explained.

  "Once more, in English, please."

  "Structuring, or smurfing, which is what we used to call it, is when someone tries to get around the Bank Secrecy Act or, more typically, the Internal Revenue Code, by making deposits in amounts that would otherwise cause records and reporting requirements.”

  “Why smurfing?”

  I shook my head. “No idea. Focus. So, a bank has to file a form under the Banking Secrecy Act if someone depo
sits more than ten grand in cash. Because most criminals aren't stupid, they'd deposit nine thousand dollars instead. Or they'd come in four times in a month and deposit three grand each time. So that practice--trying to deliberately avoid scrutiny--was itself made illegal. I used to see it a lot in money laundering and tax evasion cases." I paused to make sure I hadn't lost him.

  He gave a little satisfied-sounding grunt. "Huh. I guess you are a real bean counter, after all."

  "Gee, thanks. Anyway, I didn't see a clear pattern in his deposits. But he sure deposited a lot of cash."

  "How much money are we talking about?"

  "I want to double check my numbers, but it looks like all told he deposited nearly two hundred thousand dollars."

  "Cash?"

  "Cash."

  He let out a low, appreciative whistle then fell silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you think he was laundering money?"

  "I have no idea. But I'll tell you this much--I think there's probably more than two hundred thousand."

  "Why?"

  "Because whatever he was up to, Fred was careful. And it just so happens that the FDIC limit--that's the amount that the federal government will insure--is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per depositor. So, even with whatever other money was flowing into and out of those accounts, he never exceeded the insured amount."

  "Where's the rest of it, then?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just getting started. They may have more bank accounts, maybe an online bank somewhere or a credit union. I'll have to talk to Marilee."

  We drove several miles without speaking. Roman seemed to be lost in thought, so I occupied myself by watching the scenery pass by outside the window, which, to be honest, wasn't much to see. Mostly trees.

  Finally he said, "What would you do with that kind of money?"

  "What would I personally do with it or what do I think Fred did with it?"

  "Well, both."

  "I can tell you what he did with some of it. He paid off the HELOC and the mortgage."