"Ladies," he said as he ushered us inside, "I took the liberty of opening the vault in anticipation of your arrival. Mrs. Spears, I trust you have your key?"
I passed the time wondering if Rin Tin Tin or whatever he was named was always so stuffy while Marilee dug through her shoulder bag for the key. After approximately eight million years, during which the banker stared at me with crazy-eyed intensity, she found the thing and held it high in triumph.
"Very good," he said as he removed a master key from his chest pocket. "And may I trouble you to also sign the register card?" He slipped a Rolodex card out his pocket as well and proffered it to Marilee along with his white-capped Mont Blanc pen.
This guy was straight out of banker central casting. But Marilee was either playing along or eating it up with a spoon--it was impossible to tell which. She dipped her head, took his pen, and scribbled her name and the time and date on his little card. He compared the signature to the one she'd provided when she and Fred had opened their account, returned it to his pocket, and patted it as if to ensure its safety.
"So ..." she began, and I realized she was as out of her element here as I was. It was an immensely comforting piece of knowledge. And I had to give her credit for playing the wealthy lady role so well. It was clear Fred had handled the safe deposit box when he'd been alive; I'd bet a week's salary the last time she'd seen the box was the day they'd leased it. I had to wonder what other Fred tasks were suddenly in her lap, with no warning, no preparation. Marilee was tougher than I'd given her credit for being.
The banker seamlessly steered her toward a wall of inset metal boxes. Each numbered box had two locks drilled into it. He gestured toward the box numbered '248.' "After you."
"Which lock does my key open?" she asked.
"Oh, apologies. The one on the left."
She inserted the key and seemed to hold her breath as she turned it to the left. He did the same with his master key in the other lock then opened the door and eased out a slim, rectangular box made of the same metal as the door.
He handed her the box and cleared his throat. "I'll leave you ladies to inspect the contents in private. Just buzz me when you're ready for me to lock it back up." He pointed toward a buzzer near the door.
"Thank you, Mr. Martin."
"Please call me Burt. And it's my pleasure. Again, we're all so sorry about Mr. Spears’ unfortunate passing." He bobbed his head then turned and left.
Marilee stood there, clasping the box to her chest, and gave me an uncertain look.
"Why don't you put it down over there?" I suggested pointing to the far corner of the narrow room. A small table sat flush against the wall with a chair pushed underneath.
I pulled the chair out for her and she lowered herself into it. Then she rested the box on the table and looked up at me.
"I don't know what's gotten into me, but I'm feeling somewhat unsteady. I think my emotions are getting the better of me. Would you ... could you go through the box for me, please?" Her voice was measured, but her eyes were pleading.
"No problem."
She pushed back the chair and stood. "Here, you sit."
I took her seat and lifted the lid off the box while she looked over my shoulder. It was about half full with what looked to be official documents. I narrated as I removed each piece of paper and placed it on the table. "The title to the Mercedes. Your marriage certificate. Fred's original Social Security card. Your birth certificate. His birth certificate. A stock certificate for the Mid-Southern Oil and Gas Company."
I took out the next two documents, scanned them, and cleared my throat, "A birth certificate for Jessica Abigail Spears. A death certificate for her." I stared down at the paper. Marilee and Fred had had a daughter who'd died at four months old. I twisted my neck and looked at Marilee. "I'm so sorry."
"Crib death," she said in a quiet voice. "I guess it's called SIDS now."
I nodded and removed the next item, a plaster footprint that had to be the baby's. I placed it on the table without comment. She reached out and stroked it.
"Um, a set of car keys." They clattered to the table. "A certificate of deposit that hasn't matured yet. An award from the Lions Club to Fred."
We were getting close to the bottom of the box. I took out a thick, business-sized, manila envelope. Nothing was written on it. "It's sealed. Should I open it?"
"Please."
I slit it open with my fingernail and looked inside. "Um ..." It was stuffed full of cash. I leafed through the stack. They were all crisp one hundred dollar bills. I removed the two-inch wad and handed them to her. "Here."
She stared down at the money in her hand. "I don't understand. Where did this come from? Why didn't he put it in the bank?"
"Well, technically, I guess he did. But I imagine he planned to open a new account and never got around to it." It was as good a guess as any. I looked in the box. It held three envelopes, identical in size and thickness to the one I'd just removed, and a pocket-sized notebook.
I pushed the empty box toward the back edge of the table and stood up,
"You sit down." I physically maneuvered Marilee into the chair and placed the remaining three envelopes in front of her. "I'm guessing these are full of hundreds, too. You should count it, and we'll figure out what to do about it."
She nodded dazedly and started counting silently.
I turned my attention to the notebook. It was about three-and-a-half inches by five-and-a-half inches in dimension and thin, maybe sixty pages--the perfect size to slip into the breast pocket of a man's dress shirt. It had a solid black cover, front and back. I flipped it open. The first page was blank.
Well, that was anti-climactic, I thought as my shoulders sagged in disappointment.
But when I paged forward my heart ticked up a beat. The second page had been divided into three columns. Blue-inked row after blue-inked row of initials, amounts, and dates. I flipped ahead--each of the next eight pages held more of the same. The rest of the notebook was blank. I skimmed the columns: LL, GV, CM, LL, GV, CM, repeated over and over. The amounts ranged from 1,000 to 5,000. The earliest date was almost two years earlier. I thumbed to the last page to contain writing. The final entry read CM, 4,000, 4-12-16. Just ten days ago.
I flicked my eyes toward Marilee. Her head was bent over the piles of money on the table. She was concentrating hard on counting the bills. My heart seemed to leap into my throat as I weighed my options. This notebook had belonged to Fred. So now it belonged to Marilee.
But I needed it.
I could just slide it into my purse. She'd never notice.
That's stealing, I reminded myself.
Borrowing, I argued silently.
My hand moved toward my bag as if on its own accord. And then I stopped.
"Marilee, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's what looks like some sort of register here."
She paused, placed a finger between two hundreds to mark her spot, and looked up at me. I waved the little book at her. "May I borrow this for a few days? I'd like to take it back to your place and compare it to the bank statements." Which was all true--as far as it went.
She gave me a distracted frown. "Sure, that's fine."
"Great." I dropped the notebook into my purse and then leaned over her shoulder. "How's it going?"
"I've counted the first two envelopes. They each held fifty thousand dollars exactly. So, assuming this stack and the last are the same, there's two hundred thousand dollars in cash in this box. Where on earth did Fred get all this money?"
While I had the beginnings of an inkling of an idea, I certainly wasn't ready to share it with Fred's widow. I shook my head. "Who knows? But you need to talk to your lawyer and your financial advisor and figure out what to do with it."
We stared down at the piles of money for a few seconds. Then she said, "You're right. But, what do I do with it in the meantime?"
I raised my palms to the ceiling. "Beats me. Put it back?"
Chapter 14
"You really think he was blackmailing people?" Roman whispered. His mouth was just above my ear, and when he spoke his breath tickled my skin. His arms were around me, and his strong hands covered mine. It would have been super romantic except for two minor details: One, he was correcting my golf swing. Two, instead of sweet nothings, he was whispering murder motives in my ear. But other than that, it was a dream date ... with a guy who wasn't interested in me. So make that three minor details.
I craned my neck to see his face. "You don't? He had a box full of money and a book with names, dates, and amounts."
"He could have been betting on golf," Roman offered as he released my hands.
I bent my knees, wiggled my butt, and took a swing. The golf ball flew through the air, smacked into a tree ... and ricocheted off the trunk and landed smack in the middle of the fairway.
"Just like I planned," I said.
"Member's bounce," he retorted. "You couldn't do that again if you tried."
While that was undeniably true, I wasn't going to concede the point. I returned to our original topic of conversation instead. "Do you really think Chip, Louie, and whoever this GV guy is bet somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred thousand dollars on friendly rounds of golf?"
He shrugged and took his shot before he answered. The ball rose higher, higher still in a beautiful arc, seemed to touch the sun, and then soared out of sight. He turned to me. "Rich people are weird, Sage. I don't pretend to understand them. All I know is lots of guys put money on every hole. Not usually that much, but ..." he trailed off as a golf cart chugged up the path toward us.
He raised a hand to the golfers in greeting and they waved back before continuing on their way. He shouldered his bag and started down the fairway. When Roman suggested we play nine holes, I agreed provided that we could walk instead of ride in a cart. If I were going to spend my Sunday afternoon frustrated and looking foolish, at least I could get a walk in and listen to the birds singing.
I trotted along beside him.
"GV is probably Giorgio Valetta," he mused.
I shook my head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Is he a golfer?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yes?" It's not like my job was to hang around the golf club, after all. My job was to hang around the playroom.
"Uh, yeah, he's a golfer. He's the newly elected president of the club, which is pretty hilarious, because this isn't his home course anymore."
"It's not? Why?"
Roman shook his head. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. But folks are all up in arms about it. It's sort of a scandal."
We reached my ball. I dropped my bag and selected a club at random.
"Don't use that. You want your eight iron," he told me, taking the club I was holding and replacing it with a different club.
An eight iron. Just like what someone used to kill Fred. I looked at the club in my hand and tried to imagine braining someone with it. Ugh. I shook off the morbid thought and painted Roman with a meaningful look. "So people are all worked up about some scandal involving GV. Yeah, you're right. There's no chance that Fred was blackmailing those guys."
I got myself into position, checked the distance to the pin, reminded myself to keep my eye on the ball, and swung. Whoosh. Whiff. My club sliced through the air. The ball stayed right where it was, winking up at me in amusement.
"Son of a ..." I mumbled.
"You're trying too hard," Roman told me. "You need to try, but not so hard. Get out of your head."
"Thanks, Obi-wan," I managed through gritted teeth. Now I was sweaty and flushed. Not from the strong sun overhead but from embarrassment. What had I been thinking agreeing to golf with a tour caddy, let alone one I had a crush on?
I stared harder at the ball and took another ferocious swing. And, once again, I missed the blasted thing entirely. I made a strangled noise that was somewhere between a growl and a whine.
Roman clasped me on the shoulder. "Seriously, Sage. You need to relax. This is supposed to be fun."
A stray tendril of hair that had escaped my ponytail hung over my left eye. I blew it out of my line of vision then bit my tongue to stop myself from snarking at the coaching effort.
Relax. Fun. Right.
I remembered the children's meditation Thyme had taught Skylar and Dylan when we visited New York. Breathing in, I smile. Breathing out, I touch joy. I focused on my breath and raised the club again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the club fall. The head connected with the ball and sent it flying up and over the hill. It landed on the green. I blinked.
Beside me, Roman let out a whoop. I turned and grinned at him in triumph. "This is fun!"
We started toward the green. Roman interrupted my daydream about becoming a respectable scratch golfer. "Here's the thing about your blackmail theory."
I stopped and turned toward him. "What's the thing?"
His golden eyes were serious and his smile had faded. "If Fred was blackmailing Chip, then that means Chip was doing something worth blackmailing him over."
My excitement dissipated and a heavy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach when I realized there was no way to deny the truth of what Roman was saying. My throat tightened. But I forced myself to answer. "You're probably right. But, who said it--Shakespeare?--'the truth will out.' If Chip's hiding some dark secret, it's going to come to light eventually. And it can't possibly be worse than being accused of a murder he didn't commit. Can it?"
Roman's eyes pierced mine. "What if it is?"
Chapter 15
Monday morning, Roman's words rang in my ears as I padded around the Moores' kitchen, barefoot but properly pajamaed.
What if Chip's secret was worse than being a murder suspect? What could be worse?
I was so caught up in the questions swirling in my mind that I didn't hear Roman walking down the back staircase. Suddenly, he just materialized in the kitchen.
"Morning. What smells so awesome?"
"Dark chocolate-cherry coffeecake. But don't get too excited. I made it to take to Marilee's after the memorial service." I pushed the ceramic fruit bowl across the island toward him. "Have a piece of fruit and some coffee."
He pouted but snagged a banana. "Are you sure about this memorial thing?"
"Oh, no, you're not. You're not backing out on me. We agreed. First of all, Marilee could use our support. Second of all, it's the perfect opportunity to observe Louie and Giorgio. If they were being blackmailed, their behavior might give them away. And one of them might have killed Fred."
"If Giorgio even shows," he said around a mouthful of banana.
I poured us each a cup of coffee and handed him one. "He'll be there. Marilee said he's giving a eulogy."
He nearly dropped his mug. "For real? Well if he is our killer, he has giant balls--sorry, that was crass. I'm sorry."
I waved off the apology. "Giant, brass ones."
He laughed, sipped his coffee, then screwed up his face the way Dylan does when I try to feed him kale chips.
"What's wrong?"
"Is this black?" he sniffed at the mug.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. How do you take it?"
He shook his head in disbelief. "Yankee." He reached for the sugar bowl and plunked two lumps into his cup, followed by a splash of cream. "I like it sweet and light, just like me." He winked.
See, this behavior confused me. Was he flirting with me? He sure seemed to be flirting. But this was the guy who had told me in no uncertain terms that he didn't think it was appropriate to get entangled in anything romantic.
You have more important things to worry about, I reminded myself.
"So, the memorial service," I prompted.
He nodded into his cup. "I know. I still don't love the idea. But you're right. We need to go for Mrs. Spears." He narrowed his eyes. "Let's keep the detecting to a minimum."
"I'm not making any promises." I pulled aside the curtain and peered through the window over the sink. "I need to go get dressed. Do you see anybody?"
He joined
me at the sink, standing unnecessarily close, if you ask me. His hip grazed mine as he leaned forward and scanned the yard.
"No. But I'll walk you to the cottage just in case."
"No need!" I practically yelped. Then I tore out of the kitchen as if my hair were on fire. As I hustled through the door, I got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me.
* * *
Neither of us was laughing an hour later, though, when we walked into the country club's banquet hall. Rows of padded chairs covered with black fabric occupied the dance floor. Large urns filled with perfumey, white flowers tied with black crepe ribbons anchored the corners of the room. People milled around, chatting, while the catering staff passed trays of champagne.
"Champagne?" Roman asked in a hushed, disbelieving voice.
I smiled at a cluster of Muffy's mom friends and answered him out of the corner of my lips. "Remember, it's not a funeral. It's a memorial service."
"What's the difference?"
"Money, I guess."
He swallowed a laugh. "This is weird. Why is it here anyway?"
"Marilee said he spent all his Sundays on the course, so it would have been inappropriate to do this in a church. But she's doing it on Monday because that's when the course is closed, so she knew she'd get a better turnout." I parroted the pragmatic reasons she'd given me when I’d asked and shrugged at him.
I'd never attended a memorial service before, but Marilee had described it as an opportunity to celebrate Fred's life. I hadn't expected the celebration to involve actually popping a cork, on a Monday afternoon, no less. But the rich were different.
"Let's just try to blend in."
"One of these things is not like the others," he retorted, and I could tell he was feeling like the poor black kid from Frogmore again.
I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "You fit in better than I do. I don't know a birdie from a bogey." It was a bit of an exaggeration but it made him smile, and I felt his hand relax ever so slightly in mine.
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