The Demise

by Diane Moody

  “But—”

  “Besides, I’m a Lanham’s insider. I can save you hours, even weeks of research.” She leaned in, motioning him toward her, then quietly dropped the bait. “Did you know Donella Willet has been in love with Peter Lanham since the day she came to work for him more than twenty years ago?”

  “What?” He sat back. “I spent an hour with her today. She never told me that.”

  “Shhh!” She held a finger to her lips, then shot him her best cat-that-ate-the-canary face. “Let’s just say what goes on at the office has little to do with what is or isn’t happening at home.” She tossed him a flirty wink and imagined herself reeling him in like a prize swordfish captured off the coast of Florida. Zzzzing!

  “Wait, Lanham was married,” he argued. “Married for thirty-five years, according to what I heard today. From numerous sources, I might add.”

  “Of course you did,” she answered, arching a brow to drive home her point. “It’s like I told you—you’re an outsider. Town folks don’t tell town secrets.”

  He bristled visibly. “You think not? I could tell you a few things. Some of those people couldn’t wait to blab their dirty little secrets. Like, did you know Georgia Schwimmer’s husband left her for another woman who works for Lanham’s?”

  With a grand display of shock, she gasped, “No! Really?” She couldn’t help herself. This was too much fun.

  He affirmed the revelation with a proud “gotcha” nod while folding his arms against his chest. It reminded her of a classic Tom Hanks comedic gesture, and she fought the urge to laugh out loud.

  She zeroed in for the kill with animated exaggeration. “Oh, wait—now I remember. That was me who comforted Georgia the night she found out Edgar was cheating on her.” She pressed her lips together to stifle another smirk at his fallen expression. “But I suppose the germane question to ask is, how exactly will that help with your investigation of Peter Lanham’s death? Hmm?”

  His eyes narrowed as he pushed his plate aside. “Look, this is all lots of fun, and might I say, extremely insightful, Miss Parker, but I’ll do just fine without your help. Perhaps you can answer a question now and then, but I’ll be running this one by the book.” She sat back as he tapped his forefinger on the table to punctuate his declaration. “No offense, but in my business, we can’t base an investigation on hearsay and rumors or small-town gossip. We require hard evidence. Data like dates and times and corroborated proof,” he tapped again, point by point. “Forensics, timelines, receipts—”

  “Of course you do, but how exactly will you find that kind of information, pray tell? From me. I’ve got more documentation than you could dream of. As I’ve already told you, I’m a perceptive student of human behavior. I’ve kept copious notes of the comings and goings of that office since the day I started. I told you, Agent Bryson. You need me. Besides . . .”

  He let his head fall back against the wooden booth. “Okay, I’ll bite. Besides what?”

  She straightened her shoulders again, held her head high, and took a deep breath. “I once played the part of Miss Marple in The Mirror Crack’d at our community theater. Granted, I was young for the part, but ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you—I was Jane Marple. Which, I’ll have you know, taught me a great deal about criminal investigations.”

  He dropped his head in his hands and moaned.

  “I’ll also have you know I studied criminology while doing research for my role. I checked out all the Miss Marple movies from the library; I watched an entire Murder She Wrote marathon one weekend, I have studied numerous episodes of Law & Order SVU and several of the CSI shows. I know all about DNA evidence and blood splatters—”

  He moaned again, his head still cradled in his hands.

  She stopped, her quiet sigh falling between them.

  “No,” he grunted without looking up.

  “You’d be a fool not to take my offer.”

  He said nothing.

  “Okay, maybe that was too harsh. I apologize. I don’t think you’re a fool.”

  Still nothing.

  She changed her tone with one last try. “Matt, why won’t you let me help you? I can help. I know I can. Nothing gets by me. Nothing.”

  He finally glanced up at her. “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve just met, haven’t we?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Yet I already know a lot about you. You’re fresh out of P.I. school, aren’t you?”

  He laughed a scoff. “‘P.I.’ school? Oh please. No, wait—let me guess. You have the entire Magnum, P.I. series on DVD. Am I right?”

  Julie kept eye contact as she swallowed hard. “Granted, Tom Selleck is good-looking and gave a refreshing performance as the quirky private investigator, but no, I did not study Magnum in my research. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll continue.”

  He raised his palms. “By all means.”

  “You’re also completely intimidated by Berkowitz.”

  “Says who?”

  “You’re slightly vain about your appearance—”

  “I am not.”

  “—and you blush easily, which tells me you haven’t dated much.” She smiled with no small degree of satisfaction, watching his face blaze again.

  But just as fast, she felt the snark in her instantly drain away. She felt terrible. She had embarrassed this kind-hearted guy, a man she didn’t really know at all, regardless of her theatrical bravado.

  Suddenly at a loss for words, she searched for a fitting response. Then it hit her. A flawless exit would be required to make her point and seal the deal. What is it Marty always says? As it is upon the stage, so it is in life—timing is everything. Exactly.

  Matt dropped his napkin over his plate then stared at his hands. When he finally glanced back at her, his eyes looked weary and confused.

  She pulled a five-dollar bill out of her purse, tucked it under her plate, and slid out of the booth. “When the time comes, and it will, you know where to find me.”

  And there it was. That delicious tingle that always crackled up her spine after delivering a perfect line. With the unrivaled confidence of Betty Davis, she turned and walked away. And as she pushed open the door she gave herself permission to smile, certain his eyes were still glued to her back.

  In a manner of speaking, of course.

  Chapter 5

  Later that evening, Julie stepped onto the front porch of the brick home and rang the doorbell. She’d never been here before. Noticing the manicured lawn and landscaping, she thought the house a reflection of its owner. She wondered if anyone ever used the wicker furniture on the porch. Potted red geraniums gave a splash of color to the grouping of chairs, loveseat, and table. Yet even in the dusk light, she could tell it was rarely used.

  The door opened. Donella Willet, dressed in an oversized black linen shirt and matching slacks, stared back at her without a word of greeting, her eyes puffy and red.

  “Donella, I apologize for not calling before I dropped by—”

  “You should have. I would have told you not to bother.” Her eyes dropped to the plate of cookies in Julie’s hands. “Please don’t tell me those are for me.”

  Julie held the plate out. “Of course they are. I’ve been so upset about Mr. Lanham, and when I got home, I was just so restless, so I decided to make some cookies, and then I thought, ‘I wonder if I should take these to Donella?’ and so . . . here I am.”

  She cringed at the sound of the breathless explosion of nervous chatter. Knowing how adolescent she sounded, she offered a Sandra Bullock smile of innocence, tilting her head just so.

  “You needn’t have bothered,” Donella mumbled, stepping back to close the door.

  “Donella, please—I only came because I thought you could use some company. You knew Mr. Lanham better than any of us, so I know this has been hard on you. I’m not blind—I could see the grief in your eyes this morning.”

  A flicker of pain softened Donella’s eyes.

  “Please, I
just want to . . . I’m trying to say I care about you. That’s all. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Please, just let me come in for a few minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  The unyielding woman remained, her hand on the door, still avoiding eye contact. Julie could almost read her mind. The office matriarch whose well-constructed walls kept everyone at arm’s length was no doubt wondering if she could make an exception to her loner lifestyle in this moment of grief. Could she let down her defenses and accept an act of kindness? Could she?

  She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in, Julie.” Her tone was less than hospitable, but it was a start.

  Julie followed her into a small living area. She was surprised at the warm and cozy ambiance of the room’s décor, so different from the woman who lived here. Still, it didn’t seem appropriate to compliment the decorating taste of her hostess just now.

  “Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”

  “That would be lovely, Donella. Thank you.”

  As soon as Donella disappeared down the hall, Julie switched gears. As fast as she could, she began snooping around the room for anything that might be useful. Sure, she felt sorry for Donella, but the visit and cookies were merely an excuse to get her foot in the door. After Matt’s stubborn refusal to let her join him in the investigation, she was more determined than ever to uncover something—anything—that might shed some light on Mr. Lanham’s so-called suicide. The thrill of discovery raced up her spine as she pictured herself on the front page of the local paper: Hometown Sleuth Solves Suspicious Death of Peter Lanham. Who knows? A whole new career might open up to her—if someone other than Dennis wrote the story. Perish the thought!

  Maybe she could host one of those Court TV shows that spotlight real-life crimes. Or star in a television drama series like Kyra Sedgwick in The Closer. Either way, she knew in her heart that she was supposed to be involved in the investigation.

  Out of the fog of her fantasies, she spotted a roll-top desk in the back corner of the room. With the desk already open, Julie could see Donella’s leather Day-Timer and a neatly arranged stack of office materials—the calendar she kept for Peter Lanham, several Lanham’s company files in the familiar forest-green folders, and what looked like a checkbook. Julie tiptoed closer, lifting the edge of the cover to see a stack of checks in the name of Peter G. and Patricia A. Lanham. Why would Donella have the Lanham’s personal checks?

  Hearing footsteps approaching, Julie rushed to her seat on the chintz-covered sofa and quickly unwrapped the plate of cookies.

  “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Julie,” Donella began as she returned carrying a silver tray and tea service. “This has been an exceptionally difficult day for me, as you might expect. I suppose I’m still in shock.” It sounded more like an announcement than an explanation, but Julie knew she was trying.

  “I know, Donella. We’re all in shock. But of course, you were much closer to him than the rest of us.”

  Donella stopped pouring tea and looked directly at her, stiffening her posture. “Mr. Lanham was my boss for over twenty years. Ours was a completely professional relationship, I assure you.” The narrowed eyes stared a second longer then returned to the tea she was pouring into delicate china cups. She handed a cup and matching saucer to Julie. “He was a good and decent man, and it was my privilege to work alongside him all these years.” Her voice caught, but she pressed her lips together and focused on stirring cream into her own cup of tea.

  Julie felt a genuine pity for the sad, heartbroken woman. She has no one. All these years she’s adored a man who never thought of her as anything but a glorified gofer, catering to his every whim. How sad to live a life of unrequited love. Like poor Miss Moneypenny to James Bond, forever hoping.

  “And I’m sure he treasured you for all your years of invaluable service to him. I’m not sure he could have functioned without you, Donella.” She took a sip of tea then added, “Literally. You were indispensable to him, and you should be proud to have been such a faithful assistant to him.”

  Donella set her cup and saucer back on the table and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. She sniffed quietly, wiping her nose then a quick dab at each eye.

  The ticking of a grandfather clock accentuated the uncomfortable silence between them. Julie bolstered her courage and continued. “I can’t even imagine why someone as successful and respected as Mr. Lanham would . . . I mean, he had so much to live for! Why on earth would he—”

  “That’s not our concern,” Donella said, her words clipped and abrupt. Any hint of transparence had vanished.

  Julie startled at the reprimand. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t asking—what I was trying to say—” Julie huffed in defeat. She lifted the plate toward Donella. “Care for a cookie?”

  Without a word, Donella took one of the chocolate chip cookies and placed it on the saucer beside her cup. She suddenly sat forward in her chair. “I certainly hope that ridiculous TBI agent didn’t pry confidential information from any of our employees. His behavior was inexcusable. I can only imagine the tactics he used to gain information from—”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting the unexpected tirade. “Now what,” Donella groaned, heading for the door.

  From her seat, Julie couldn’t see who was at the door, but whoever it was must have surprised her hostess. Donella looked back and forth between Julie and whoever it was several times, then finally opened the door wider. “Forgive my manners, Patricia. Please come in.”

  Patricia Lanham? Here? Her husband just died this morning, and she pops in for a visit to his secretary? Julie stood to make the obligatory sympathetic gestures.

  The woman spoke before she rounded the corner coming into sight. “Donella, why haven’t you returned my calls? I must have left five or six messages on your—” She stopped suddenly, halting when she noticed Julie standing in the living room. She quickly veiled her surprise. “For heaven’s sake, Donella, the least you could have done is told me you had company.”

  Julie couldn’t believe the sight of Patricia Lanham wearing oversized sunglasses and a scarf wrapped tightly around her head. The spitting image of Audrey Hepburn playing the role of Regina Lambert in Charade. Hardly the garb of one in mourning. Why is the good widow traveling incognito?

  Donella closed the door and joined her guests, slowly folding her arms across her chest. “Patricia, you didn’t give me a chance. I assume you remember Julie Parker from the office.”

  Julie moved toward the Ice Queen, unsure how to approach her. “Mrs. Lanham, my condolences. I’m so terribly sorry.” She leaned in to give the woman a hug. Patricia arched away from her, evading the gesture by pulling off her scarf. Julie tried to save face by patting her on the shoulder, offering a smile that felt lame.

  “Yes, well. It’s all very sudden. Very unexpected.” Once the sunglasses and scarf were tucked into her Gucci shoulder bag, Patricia turned around to face Donella. “I need to speak with you. In private.”

  An uncomfortable pause filled the room as Donella and Patricia looked at each other. Julie felt like an intrusive gnat, but before she could offer to leave, Donella addressed her.

  “Julie, please excuse us. I’ll be back with you shortly.” She led Patricia down the hall, out of sight.

  At the sound of a door closing somewhere in the back of the house, Julie sprang into action. She sprinted to the desk and quickly rifled through the calendar and files, searching for any morsel of information that seemed out of the ordinary. She grabbed the checkbook and flipped through the pages of its ledger. Page after page was filled with Donella’s perfect penmanship.

  That’s odd. These are all checks for the exact same amount . . . each and every one addressed to someone named Jenny Gresham. She realized it wasn’t particularly unusual for a personal assistant to pay personal bills for the boss, but these appeared to be just one bill paid at monthly intervals in the amount of $5000.

  Fighting the urge to chicken out, she ripped a deposit
slip from the back of the checkbook, slipped it into her pocket, and returned the checkbook exactly where she’d found it. She glanced back at the Day-timer, thinking there must be a mother lode of information there she could use. Names, dates, times—

  Another door slammed, louder this time. The back door of the house? She hurried to her seat, grabbed a Southern Living magazine off the coffee table, and struck a disinterested pose as she browsed the pages. Outside, a car engine roared to life. Through the curtains she could see a large dark SUV backing out of the driveway.

  “I’m sorry, Julie. Mrs. Lanham is clearly distraught. I’m afraid she’s not thinking very clearly in her grief. I suggested she go home and get some rest until some of the extended family arrives.” Donella stood at the entrance of the room, making no effort to return to her seat.

  Julie took her cue. “It must be awful for her. I’m glad she could turn to you in her time of need. Donella, thank you for the tea. I should be going.”

  “Yes.”

  Julie made her way to the door and opened it. “Will I see you at work tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Good night, Julie.”

  “Good night.” Julie thrust her hands in her pockets. She grasped the deposit slip in her right hand, hidden from sight, and descended the steps into the night. With the chorus of crickets accompanying the walk to her car, she thrilled at the prospect of tracking down the Jenny Gresham listed on Peter Lanham’s checkbook.

  And she was positively giddy at the thought of sharing tonight’s discoveries with Agent Matt Bryson.

  Chapter 6

  At seven o’clock sharp the next morning, a Lanham’s security guard opened the lobby doors for Matt then escorted him up the elevator to the fourth floor. Once inside the executive office suite, the guard led him to Peter Lanham’s office which he unlocked then flipped on the overhead light.

  “Mr. Smithe arrived about an hour ago, but otherwise none of the other employees are in yet.”

  Matt set his briefcase on the large desk. “Is Mr. Smithe in his office?”