Christy Barritt - Squeaky Clean 07 - Mucky Streak

by Christy Barritt

  Holly had some kind of appointment in the morning, so she couldn’t hang with me. But she did drop me off to get a new rental car. Thankfully, the police had come and taken a report. Then the rental company had told me—after nearly an hour on the phone—to have the car towed in.

  Despite my misgivings about trying to navigate this city on my own, I had no choice. Vic Newport was available to talk. He and Edward had apparently been BFFs.

  I pulled off the Interstate. Straight ahead, I spotted a six-story building with Wimbledon Pharmaceuticals stretched across the top in bold, blue letters. I’d heard of them before. They not only made general medications like pain relievers and acid reflux aids, but they also had created some groundbreaking cancer and MS drugs.

  I’d done a little research on the company before leaving and had discovered that they generously gave to many charities, that they’d nearly gone under eight years ago when another company beat them at distributing a new chemotherapy medication, and today they were on the Fortune 500 list. The company was started by Reginald Wimbledon and taken over by Reginald Wimbledon, Jr. He ran the company until last year when he passed away. Since then, his son Smith Wimbledon had taken over.

  I found a parking space, then hurried inside. A receptionist ushered me upstairs, walking at such a fast clip that I was still trying to catch my breath when I reached a conference room.

  The woman forced a smile and pushed the door open. “He’ll be here in a moment.”

  I paced around the room, trying to cool my nerves. There was nothing to be nervous about. I’d done this a million times before. Just ask questions. Be nosy. Do what you do best.

  Still, this felt different. I’d never been paid to ask these questions before, which seemed to raise the stakes.

  I paced over to a marble topped coffee bar and ran my finger across it, staring at a stain there, just as the door opened.

  “Ms. St. Claire?”

  I straightened myself, a little too quickly. So much for appearing professional. “Mr. Newport. Thanks for letting me come out. I know you’re a busy man.”

  Mr. Newport wasn’t tall and wasn’t short. He had a severely receding hairline and an expensive suit. He must like jewelry too because he had a thick gold watch, a couple of bracelets, and even a necklace.

  “Anything I can do to help Edward and his family.”

  Maybe I could earn points with this man, just like I’d earned points with Detective Morrison. “In exchange for your time, I can give you a great trick for cleaning that marble top with just some baking soda and crushed chalk.”

  He stared at me a moment and said nothing.

  So much for earning points.

  He pointed to a stiff looking chair at the table. “Have a seat.”

  I obediently sat down at a long, glossy, conference table, rationalizing that I wasn’t the corporate type. Not with the sour faces, the stiff suits, and the office politics. Two other men filed into the room.

  I froze. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be joining us.

  Mr. Newport must have noticed my confusion because he paused. “I also have Smith Wimbledon here. Mr. Wimbledon’s grandfather founded the company and today Smith serves as the CEO. He knew Edward and thought he might add something.”

  Smith nodded. He was younger than I expected. Probably in his mid-thirties, but he had a head full of hair, an easy smile, and kind eyes.

  “My father was the CEO when Edward Mercer worked here,” he explained. “Unfortunately, he had a heart attack last year and here I am now, trying to fill big shoes.”

  I nodded, trying to calm my anxiety. “Thanks for being here.”

  “And this is Gil Portman from our PR department,” Vic continued.

  Portman, a forty something man who looked like he tried to be young and hip with his snug business suit and gelled hair, stood. “I’m just here to make sure the company doesn’t get any bad press. We’re not anticipating it, but we’ve had some experiences in the past where words were taken out of context, mostly with reporters. We don’t take any chances. Any interview taking place at Wimbledon is attended by a member from our department.”

  “Understood.”

  I bit back disappointment. I was counting on a nice private conversation where I could get this man to open up about the real Edward Mercer. Instead, this would be more like a board meeting where everything I asked was analyzed. Wonderful.

  All three of them sat with their fingers laced in front of them—had they planned it that way?—and stared at me.

  “Now, what can we do for you, Ms. St. Claire?” Mr. Newport asked.

  “I’m investigating the deaths of the Mercer family, and I understand that you were close friends with Edward.”

  He nodded curtly. “That’s correct. Our families often got together for dinners and other social events.”

  “Did Edward have any enemies?” The question sounded lame and expected, but I had to ask.

  His face twitched ever so slightly. “We all have enemies, Ms. St. Claire. Some people because they’re too ruthless and others because they’re too kind. There will always be people who don’t like us for one reason or another.”

  “Why didn’t people like Edward?”

  Portman from publicity spoke up. “I’d like to add that people here at Wimbledon respected Edward. We believe in nurturing people and creating a safe, healthy work environment.”

  I supposed they didn’t want to be known as a workplace full of bullying. I nodded. “Excellent.”

  I turned back to Vic Newport and waited for his answer.

  He adjusted one of his gold bracelets before coming out of his trance-like scowl. “Some people disliked Edward because he worked his way up at the company so easily. Others didn’t like him because his wife came from wealth. Like any good businessman, he was focused and some people saw that trait in him as an almost shark-like quality.”

  I wondered if that meant Edward saw people as a commodity? I didn’t ask.

  I needed to redirect my question. “Was there anyone in particular who had especially hard feelings toward him?”

  “No one that the police haven’t already questioned.” The answer came from Wimbledon, who had a compassionate smile on his face.

  Perhaps he’d noticed that Mr. Newport was a little too businesslike and not warm enough. Had he intervened for the sake of the company’s good name? Or was it because he was truly kind?

  “Edward wasn’t a perfect man, but he was a great asset to us here,” Newport continued, glaring at Smith Wimbledon. “While he was successful at business, I fear he thought of himself as a failure when it came to his family.”

  “I’m sure working a high-stress, demanding job like this will do that to a person.” Since my stain removal tip didn’t work, I tried a new tactic. I tried sounding like I was on their side, like I was sympathetic. I thought many things in life were more important than money, though.

  Mr. Newport nodded. “Something’s got to give. You know the saying, ‘You can have it all’? Well, you truly can’t.”

  “For the record, we do encourage our employees to utilize their vacation time in order to strengthen family relationships. However, we also feel like a person’s personal life isn’t ours to interfere in,” Portman added. “We believe in personal responsibility.”

  I glanced around the room. At least I agreed with that sentiment, even if Portman did sound like he was talking out of both sides of his mouth. “Could you tell me a little more about the company?”

  “We’re a pharmaceutical company,” Wimbledon interjected. “In a nutshell, we manufacture and develop drugs that save people’s lives.”

  “Sounds noble.”

  “We like to think we’re in the business of bringing hope to the hopeless. That’s what this is all about. We help to extend lives, as well as ensure a better quality of life for those faced with unfortunate medical conditions,” Portman added with the spin of anyone worth his weight in the PR field. “We take our jobs here very se
riously. In the past, we’ve lost millions we put into drug research because we discovered deadly side effects. That’s what sets us apart from other drug companies: Money isn’t our bottom line. People’s wellbeing is.”

  “Admirable.”

  Portman nodded. “And, if you’re interested, I have a sheet I can give you before you leave with a list of our philanthropic endeavors.”

  “Did Edward ever have any problems here at work?” Backstabbing, whistleblowing, stomping on people below him?

  “None whatsoever. Edward was a hard worker, and we were so sorry to lose him,” Wimbledon jumped in. “He brought a lot of experience in management to the company and really helped to tighten up the way the company is run.”

  “You have any theories as to what happened to him?”

  Mr. Newport grimaced. “A random crazy. It’s a reality I’d rather not think about, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

  “Would someone that random really leave no evidence behind?” I threw the question out just to see the reaction.

  Tension crackled in the room. “I suppose that’s for the police to figure out,” Mr. Newport said, his lips puckered. “I don’t consider myself a detective. I leave that to the authorities.”

  The man had agreed to meet with me, but he certainly didn’t seem too fond of having me here. Was this his personality? Was he like this with everyone? Or was the man acting like this because he had something to hide? I wasn’t sure. Best I could tell, the man didn’t have any motive to kill his best friend.

  Wimbledon stood. “I hate to cut this short, but we do have a board meeting. Have all of your questions been answered?”

  I nodded with a touch of hesitation. “I suppose.”

  “We wish the best of luck in finding this killer, Ms. St. Claire. No one deserves to get away with murder. I’d love to see justice for this family.” Wimbledon shook my hand. “You let us know if you have any more questions.”

  I told everyone thanks and then a thirty-something short woman with brittle, over-processed blonde hair escorted me toward the elevators.

  “Is Mr. Newport always that terse?” I asked. I probably shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have pulled her into this. But asking questions never hurt … until they almost got me killed, at least.

  The woman waited until the doors closed before answering. “Work is his life.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “That’s why I like my job. I’ve been offered promotions—based on merit, not on connections—but I just stick to being a midlevel manager. Sure, I may not make the most money, but I go home every day at 5 p.m., and I don’t take any work with me. No weekends, very little overtime. My husband’s job is the same way. We may not be rich, but we’re happy. I have time for friends, for books, and for a good movie on occasion.”

  I smiled, noticing we were almost to the first floor. “I guess Mr. Newport isn’t married.”

  “Not anymore. I doubt he’ll marry again. Not after that scandal involving his wife.”

  I perked. “Scandal?”

  “I shouldn’t really say anything.” She looked around, even though there were only the two of us on the elevator. “But it was bad. What woman wants to feel like second place, though? His wife was neglected. Not that that excuses anything.”

  “You said scandal.” I wasn’t dropping that point. “Was their conflict public?”

  “Everyone knows about it. No one speaks of it, though. Maybe it’s better that way.”

  I had more questions. Like, what kind of scandal was it? Certainly Portman from publicity wouldn’t approve of this conversation.

  The elevator dinged, and the secretary snapped back into professional mode so quickly it was almost comical. Her head jerked up, her eyes took on a cool appearance, and she strode forward like the two of us hadn’t spoken a word on the trip down.

  “Please sign out before you leave. We like to keep track of all of our visitors.”

  I nodded, knowing this conversation was over. No way did this woman want to risk her job by talking to me about things of this nature. And as stringent as the company seemed about their PR, she very well could lose her job over the comments she made.

  I chewed on her words as I signed out. The Mercer family and the Newport family had been friends, and I knew that Edward wasn’t always faithful to his wife. Had he been unfaithful with his best friend’s wife? Would that give Mr. Cold and Calculated Newport a reason to kill? The man certainly seemed meticulous enough to pull off a murder spree without leaving evidence behind.

  I shook my head as I stepped outside. Certainly I was reading too much into this. Certainly the police had looked into him, checked his alibi.

  But right now, Mr. Newport was all I had to go on.

  Mr. Newport and a mysterious man who was watching my every move.

  CHAPTER 9

  I had just enough time to grab lunch, so I decided to eat some more Cincinnati chili. It might be my new favorite food. I decided to branch out and try a chili-cheese sandwich, which was actually like a coney without the hot dog. I gobbled up every bite.

  After washing my food down with some soda, I called Jamie. Since she’d offered to help with research, I decided to accept. I asked her to see what she could find out about both Vic Newport and Sebastian Royce, who was next on my list. She quickly accepted.

  Sebastian was one of Edward’s friends and apparently they liked to play polo together at a local country club.

  I pushed aside any judgments that formed in my mind at the idea of polo and put my car into drive. I was beginning to get a better feel for navigating the city, and that was a good thing. I’d learned through life that the fewer people I had to depend on, the better. It was an unfortunate but true fact.

  My cellphone rang and, thanks to the handy-dandy Bluetooth feature, I was able to talk hands free. It was Jamie.

  “Where ya headed?” she asked.

  “I’m off to meet Ralph Lauren.”

  She let out a deep belly laugh. “You think that’s what this man will look like?”

  “Doubtful. Very doubtful. But it’s my first foray into the world of polo—beyond the shirt, that is. Did you dig up anything on him?”

  “I’m still looking.”

  “Not hacking, right?” I had to admit that the idea was intriguing. Too bad it was also illegal.

  “Give a sister some credit. I’m not hacking. Not yet at least. I’ll let you know if I find out anything, though.”

  “You’re the best. Thanks.”

  Twenty minutes later, I reached the east side of town and pulled into the drive of Rolling Hills Country and Golf Club. Well-manicured greens were on either side of the lane, adorned with preppy golfers who braved the cold weather with their caddies all for the sake of the game. Sacrifices. That was what life was all about.

  Memories filled me of the last time I’d felt like a fish out of water. I’d attended a law school reunion with Riley at a resort called Allendale Acres. Most people who frequented the place made more money in one month than I made in a year, and I wasn’t exaggerating.

  At least I’d worn my Sunday best today—casual black pants with a soft royal blue top and an infinity scarf. My dressy would never compare to Holly’s girly-girl dressy, but I was okay with that.

  Though I spotted a valet at the front doors of a massive white building in the distance, I tucked my car into a parking space. I wasn’t too cheap to pay a valet—I’d be reimbursed anyway. I just didn’t like the hassle. I was perfectly capable of parking my own car.

  I hurried up to the steps, nodding to the valets like I knew what I was doing and that I belonged here. I paused by the front desk. “I’m here to see Sebastian Royce.”

  The woman nodded. “Name?”

  “Gabby St. Claire.”

  “He’s expecting you. Go straight ahead and you’ll reach the White House Restaurant. The maître d’ will help from there.”

  The woman’s reverent tone alerted me that, even among the
wealthy, Sebastian Royce was like club royalty. Garrett’s note had said the man owned a line of successful sporting goods stores with attached athletic complexes that included batting cages and driving ranges.

  I tried to look like I belonged as I stepped into the restaurant. Before the maître d’ could say anything, I simply said, “Sebastian Royce.” The man nodded and led me to a window table.

  A man with what I’d guess to be premature white hair and oversized glasses sat at a table there. His face was nearly wrinkleless, he had a mustache that curled up on the ends, and an air of importance seemed to surround him. He was more King Triton than a Jamaican crab who randomly burst into songs like “Under the Sea” and “Kiss the Girl.” While I was making mental references to The Little Mermaid, I supposed I might cast myself as Ariel.

  King Sebastian didn’t even look my way as I approached.

  The maître d’ seemed hesitant to disturb, but I wasn’t. I slid into the seat across from Sebastian Royce and waited until he looked at me. Finally, he slowly turned away from his phone and stared at me without so much as a hint of warmth.

  I smiled—a little too brightly, just for effect—and said, “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “I’m sure this will be a waste of my time,” he started. He put his phone down and clasped his hands together on the table. “This case gets reopened every couple of years. People clamor to talk to me since I was a friend of Edward Mercer. There’s nothing new I have to offer.”

  It wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy greeting, but I’d heard worse.

  “I don’t expect you to have the answers. I’m just trying to gain insight into the family. I was hoping you could help.”

  “The only reason I agreed to meet was because of Garrett. I know he needs answers. Anyone in his shoes would. I’d hate to seem unsupportive.”

  I had a feeling that if I weren’t a woman, Sebastian Royce would have suggested we meet in the sauna to discuss this. With cigars. He just seemed like a guy’s guy who was stuck in a mindset prevalent many decades ago.