by Clea Simon
Laurel’s house was the default option, and as I drove, I realized I was eager to return there. Now that I had a bit of distance on what had happened, I wanted to see if I could find out why. Creighton, after all, didn’t have all the resources that I did. And I thought there might be more than kibble left behind in the shrink’s showroom house.
Spot began whining softly as I turned into the drive. The crunch of the gravel under my tires made me aware again of how quiet this dog usually was. “Spot, do you ever let loose?” We were alone; the house was dark. “I mean, do you even want me to call you Spot?”
He turned to me, his large eyes liquid. “Protect you.” I got that loud and clear, but I left him in the car anyway as I went out to forage. The house was dark under the still cloudy sky, but I’d assumed that Creighton would have left an officer on guard. It might, after all, be a crime scene. When nobody answered the door, I realized with relief that whatever had happened had probably happened elsewhere, and that I had to consider other options. No matter what Spot might think, I wasn’t quite a helpless female. And as I wandered around to the back, I worked my knife out of my jeans. I was thinking of it as a tool; its blade is sturdy enough to shimmy most locks. Still, despite the absence of Creighton’s techs, I couldn’t help wondering where Laurel had been attacked, and the blade’s weight, slight but balanced, put a little more strut in my step.
It also made quick work of the porch door. In fact, the only delay had been a momentary hesitation: a woman like Laurel Kroft, used to the city, might well have installed an alarm system, living alone in a big, old house like this. But the techies and the troopers I’d seen here before were unlikely to have bothered with it. Worst case, I told myself, I’d set it off. In which case, I could simply wait it out and tell whomever that I’d come back for the dog’s provisions. It was simple and had the added benefit of being mostly true. Assuming that most of the local force also knew I had a thing with Creighton wouldn’t hurt. I’d get yelled at, but I’ve been through worse.
I wiped my feet carefully before entering: if nobody knew I’d been here, I didn’t want to make it muddily obvious. Once in, I found Spot’s kibble easily enough. Everyone keeps their pet food in the same place: the low cabinets by the sink. Maybe that’s natural when we stock the twenty-pound bags, but I think it’s something else as well. It’s as if we all expect our pet to get the food himself. I left it on the counter, though. If we were interrupted, that was my excuse, lame as it may be, and went to explore the rest of the house.
Bedroom first. I’ll confess to a strange jolt of something as I looked through the top drawers of the dead woman’s bureau. It wasn’t her lacy underthings—I always considered La Perla overpriced—it was that this is where women hide their secrets. Still, when nothing more telling than a torn negligee came to light, I was happy to shove the drawer shut. Creighton had chosen me, the thought popped into my head. The rest was—like the woman—history.
The second bedroom—this house was as big as mine—had been turned into a home office, and I felt better about rummaging here. Partly, that was because someone else already had. Jefferson, I figured, or at least members of his crew, considering the smudges of print dust that marred the glossy cream windowsills. Vacant spaces showed where something had been taken. I was betting on a laptop, from the size. But Laurel was old school enough to have made printouts, and I was hoping that something in these would click for me.
I had no excuse for being in here, if anyone came in, and so at first I just stood there—one eye on the door, the other on the papers as I started casually rifling through them. The first few were obvious—spreadsheets of accounts and billing. I could see how she afforded this beautiful place, with those rates. Granted, most of the bills seemed to be going to corporate rather than private clients. The next few were household expenses and the like. Dull stuff, the kind of financial planning I’m too lazy—or just too scared—to do. Why tally up what you spend unless you know all the bills can be covered by month’s end?
Five minutes later, I hadn’t found out anything more incriminating than that she was addicted to eye cream. The pricey kind. This was turning into postmortem voyeurism, and I knew I should get out of there. On the odd chance that anyone was watching the house, I was spending way too long. Not to mention that Spot had spent most of the day in my car, and my own belly was rumbling now. Still, I might not have a chance like this again. I needed to see what was inside the desk.
Promising myself I would be quick, I pulled out the chair to sit and heard the slight crackle of paper. There was no way anyone would be able to tell I’d looked through the files on top of the desk, they had been left in such a mess. The drawers, however, proved to be a disappointment. The top had the usual pens and rubber bands, but the sides were largely empty. Any checkbooks or address books—assuming Laurel kept these in paper form—had been taken. The bottom drawer, deep enough to hold files, only held the paperwork on the house, including the bills for what were indeed pricey renovations and what looked like tax files that would put mine to shame for both intricacy and order.
I poked around some more. It wasn’t likely that the good doctor had been done in by one of her patients. Most of them, according to what paperwork I had found, were in the old folks’ home. If there were any others, their files weren’t here. Creighton probably had them, I told myself. Still, my skin was tingling slightly as I pushed the chair back. I was ready to go, that was probably all that was getting to me. As I did, I heard that slight crackle again. The chair, I saw as I ducked down, had rolled over a stray page. I retrieved it and sat down again to read.
“Dear Valued Donor. Thank you for your recent donation.” The heading—probably the top third of the folded page—had been torn off. Still, the page in my hand was clearly a letter, the kind that serves as a tax receipt. “The Vision Institute of New England appreciates the generosity of your recent gift, valued at…” Here the form letter ended and some poor slob had typed in $48,833. The uneven spacing might have been an error, but I saw it as a protest by some underpaid clerk. “Such beneficence helps us see our way to a brighter future.”
Money. People who have it don’t want to hear about it. That’s why they use words like “generosity” and “beneficence.” “Thanks for the cash” would be considered crass.
At any rate, it was no concern of mine who received the late doctor’s bountiful gifts. Unless there was some strange payback going on, between this eye charity and Laurel Kroft’s work, or some kind of a tax dodge, I couldn’t see it being evidence of anything. I could see why Creighton’s minions had overlooked this page. I was about to follow his lead and toss it onto the pile on the desk when something about it caught me: the amount.
Maybe it was the typing, that uneven spacing. It wasn’t that I doubted Laurel Kroft made the kind of money to give nearly fifty K away. It was a lot, but I remember what city salaries were like. Hell, I now knew that the new floor downstairs had cost as much. Plus, Laurel had always seemed like the type who would donate in such large amounts—earnest, liberal, a little showy. Confident enough of her place in the world that she probably wouldn’t even want to squirrel any extra funds away for herself.
But something about it made me stop, and in a moment, I had it. If you’re writing a check for charity, you write it in whole numbers, right? This letter implied a different kind of donation. In its irregularity, if not its size, it reminded me of when I’d dragged a bunch of my mother’s stuff to the Salvation Army. The hospital bed had been a rental, but the stool for the shower, the walker. The clothes. I’d still had my old hatchback then and I’d filled it to the brim with stuff I no longer wanted to look at. My receipt had said $186.38, though how they’d figured out those last few cents were beyond me.
In this case, I knew how the total had been arrived at. It was simple. What I was looking at was the Kelley Blue Book value of a 2011 Mercedes Benz SUV. Assuming, of course, that it had been in go
od condition, and had been packed with all the trimmings.
Chapter Forty-two
I had no idea why Laurel Kroft would have a receipt that belonged to the Haigens in her office. I also had no idea why the Haigens would have donated those fancy wheels. Just because I didn’t like them didn’t mean they wouldn’t have found a buyer, especially if they were willing to knock a bit off the price. But I was pretty sure that that’s what I was looking at: a receipt for Richard Haigen’s SUV.
As I sat there, another thought came to me. Forty-eight thousand. That was probably more than they paid Mariela in a year. Well, I had chided them for not caring about her, about a human being who lived with them. Maybe they didn’t care about money either, except as a means of obtaining those pretty toys of which Richard was so fond.
That seemed unlikely, and I found myself re-reading the words on the page. Donation. That much was clear. Dierdre had said that they were selling the Benz, and Tracy Horlick had indicated that the sale had been at a loss. But maybe neither woman knew the whole truth. I briefly played with a scenario in which Richard gave the wheels to Laurel and maybe told his wife that he had sold it short, to explain why he didn’t have any extra cash on hand to show for the deal. Nick had been the one handling the so-called sale, but that part didn’t surprise me. Wingmen have been covering for their friends’ affairs since long before SUVs had hit our little town.
That left Laurel’s role in the little charade open. Or maybe not: I didn’t see her as one of his pretty toys, but from what Creighton had said, she enjoyed playing the field. Personally, I found Richard Haigen repugnant. Then again, I wasn’t so crazy about Laurel, and women have been swayed by money before. Especially women with expensive taste.
If she had been more involved with Richard Haigen than she had let on, then her reticence in talking to Creighton made sense, too. She wouldn’t want to tell him that she and Haigen had been lovers. Wouldn’t have wanted a payoff, either, and might have—out of guilt or remorse—donated the pricey car. In that light, the choice of charity seemed almost like a kiss-off. I liked that scenario. It had style.
It also didn’t fit. Why, exactly, I wasn’t sure. At first, I told myself that it wouldn’t be on the floor. Laurel was too neat to have left this letter lying about. I was sure her taxes were a lot higher than mine, but I’d also have bet they were a lot better organized. On a whim, I went through her drawers again. Yes, there they were. Deductions, office. Deductions, home. Both folders were empty, the contents undoubtedly off with some forensic accountant. Creighton might know who—and for the span of a breath, I thought about telling him. About giving him this receipt and asking if, in fact, it was being deducted from the estate.
Of course, it could be that this receipt simply hadn’t been filed yet. This one page could have been neatly stacked with the other bills and papers on her desktop. Probably had been, before the techs got here. But no. That tech—Jefferson?—he’d been rude, but I’d bet he was neat. They all were.
Still, that wasn’t it. This had been dropped, and then left in situ. Someone had deemed it unimportant without the context. Even the charity sounded innocuous. I shook my head and stood up. I was tired. Hungry. Spot was waiting.
I nearly sat back down, it hit me so hard. The charity was wrong. Granted, Laurel Kroft hadn’t been under oath at the time, but I could still hear her going on about service animals. “People underestimate the range of a living creature,” she had said. “What these animals do is priceless, and if I’m ever in a position to really help them, that’s what I’d do.”
Laurel wouldn’t have given a car to research on eyesight. She’d have given it to help service animals. The only person who cared so much about vision research was Richard Haigen. It was his car. This letter had come from his house.
It was a leap; I knew it. And I had no idea what it meant. Just the same, I was sure I was right. And that I’d been in Laurel’s place long enough. Folding the letter into my pocket, I went downstairs and grabbed the sack of dry food and Spot’s dish. For a moment, I considered exiting through the front door. It would serve Creighton right if I left the big house’s main entrance unlocked. It might also get a tech in trouble, and so I slipped out the back, the same way I had come in. Besides, I might need egress again, and it would be better if nobody had known I was there.
Spot smelled the kibble as soon as I opened the car door. He was too well behaved, however, to beg, and all I got was an echo of my own rumbling innards.
“Let’s get you over to the Haigens.” I said, giving him a pat. Maybe they’d have some answers. Maybe they’d feed me, too.
***
“Did we have an appointment?” Dierdre Haigen was looking better today, and as she eyed me up and down, I realized I, on the other hand, was probably the worse for wear. For one thing, I was still damp, as was Spot, and the smell of wet dog was stronger than the wood smoke I’d caught a whiff of as I’d walked up to the door. “Because Richard is taking a nap, and I would really prefer he not be bothered.”
“Didn’t Officer Creighton call you?” She shook her head, then caught herself. “He may have spoken to my husband. As I’ve said, he’s now taking a nap. I assume it had something to do with that unfortunate woman?”
I nodded. That was one way to put it. “I’d say that you’ve acquired a service dog a bit earlier than scheduled.”
She blinked at me and down at Spot, and it hit me. She didn’t know about Laurel. She thought I’d been referring to Mariela, and my follow-up must have sounded like a non sequitur. Well, there would be time for that. Spot, looking up at her, remained quiet. In my head, however, I heard one word: “Hungry?”
That was enough of a cue for me. “Here,” I said, holding out Spot’s ceramic dish and making a big show of wiping my feet. “Why don’t you take that into the kitchen?”
With little choice, she took the bowl and we followed her down a hall. While I’d been hoping for a cozy hearth with a spring fire roaring, I should have known better. With its white tile and stainless fixtures, the Haigen kitchen looked as sterile as the rest of the house and even less used. Two ovens, at least that I saw, would have made some women very happy, but Dierdre skirted these with distaste. I’m no homemaker, but it all seemed pretty nice to me. Nice enough so that when I spilled some of Spot’s kibble, pouring it into his bowl, I felt compelled to pick it up.
“So, who will be in charge of Spot’s care?” It was too much to hope that Raul might be back, but I certainly couldn’t picture Dierdre doing anything in this room.
“Oh, we haven’t yet figured things out.” She giggled, a little nervous, I thought. “We’ll be hiring somebody, I’m sure. But for now, well, we may have to cut back a bit.”
“Huh,” I said, trying not to sound curious. I had wondered about the lack of staff, but had put it down to the move—the self-imposed rustication—or to Richard’s discomfort with his growing disability. If they were cutting back to economize, why donate a pricey car? Even if Dierdre hadn’t been able to get the blue book value for the Benz, she could have made enough to pay a maid for a year, easily. Then again, if her husband had given it away behind her back, that could be a cause of the tension I had sensed. I wondered how long he’d be asleep and what I could do until he woke. In the meantime, I handed her the bag of dog food. She took it as if it were a sack of coal, holding it away from her body. I couldn’t imagine her with anything less clean.
“I do offer my services as a dog walker.” I didn’t want to trek out here every day. Then again, that could be a useful entrée. And, yeah, I felt sorry for Spot. “For a fee,” I hastened to add.
“I’m sure Richard and I will arrange something.” She made a vague gesture, like maybe the house would be able to run itself.
“Is Nick around?” I still didn’t know his place in the scheme of things, but I was willing to bet he’d have one.
“Nick? Why, no.” She wa
s looking increasingly uncomfortable. “He’s not been around for days.”
That was curious and almost certainly untrue, but I couldn’t think of a way to call her out. Meanwhile, Spot, always attuned to moods, had stopped eating and was looking up at us.
“Full,” he said.
I almost replied out loud. “You can eat.” I worked instead to project my thoughts. “Be comfortable. Eat as much as you want.” I felt bad enough leaving this animal here. I wasn’t going to have him make himself sick because Dierdre Haigen wasn’t comfortable with animals.
“She’s full.” He looked up at me. I could sense frustration and something else: a sense of discomfort. “Too much…”
I got it. I nodded. Dierdre had her hands full. She wasn’t the one who had my sympathy, though.
“Perhaps I could take him around now?” I really didn’t want to encourage Dierdre to think of me an on-call walker. I did, however, want an excuse to poke around.
“Oh, sure.” Her pretty face would have been creased in concentration, if it weren’t for the Botox.
“Do you have any questions?” I didn’t care about her. Spot, however, was going to be here for a while. “About the dog’s care?”
“No, no.” She waved the idea away. “I just—we weren’t prepared. It’s been a shock.”
There was no answer to that, so I signaled to Spot that he could lead me, thinking we’d go out back. The guide dog stopped before we reached the foyer and turned, sniffing the air, down a well-lit corridor.
“Walk.” I gave him the command before Dierdre could say otherwise. Silently, I added to it. “What’s here, Spot? What are you smelling?”
