I sighed. I really didn’t need or want any more drama in my life. “All right,” I said. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Coffee in twenty,” she said.
“Give me forty. I just got up.”
“Forty,” she said. “Bye.”
It took me a half hour to get ready. I felt heartsick knowing she had bad news. My mind ran the gamut of possible disasters, from finding out that a client was suing us to Carina quitting.
When I got to the coffee shop, Carina was sitting in a corner as far from humanity as possible. For once she looked unmade, her hair pulled back into a ponytail; her eyes, sans mascara, were rimmed with dark circles. Her appearance only added to my anxiety. She stood as I approached and hugged me. “I’m so glad you’re back. I got you a grande. I hope that’s okay.”
“Thank you,” I said, sitting down. “So, my heart’s pounding out of my chest. What’s so important?”
“How was your trip?” she asked.
“It was perfect.”
“And Andrew?”
“He was perfect.”
She looked more surprised than pleased. “Did he tell you much about himself? About his past?”
“A little. He was married before. He worked in finance but had some business problems just before he moved here from Colorado.”
“Did he tell you why he had to move?”
“He didn’t have to move,” I said. “He said he had some business problems.” Carina just shook her head. Her coyness made me angry.
“What is it you’re dying to tell me?” I said.
Carina took in a deep breath, then reached into her purse. She brought out a sheet of paper and set it in front of me. It was a copy of a newspaper article she had printed off the Internet. The photograph accompanying the article froze my heart. It was a picture of Andrew being led away in handcuffs.
Denver Man Found Guilty in $32 Million Investment Fraud
* * *
Denver investment fund manager Aaron Hill was found guilty on six counts of investment fraud after transferring nearly $32 million in investors’ funds into offshore bank accounts. Hill cooperated with security agents, who were able to locate and return all but $75,000 of the investors’ capital. Hill was the CEO and founder of Hill & Associates, an investment company.
A federal judge ordered Hill to repay the debt and sentenced him to three and a half years in prison with parole eligibility in 24 months. Hill’s sentence will begin on December 6. He will be incarcerated in the Englewood Federal Correctional Institution, a low-security facility for nonviolent offenders.
I looked up at Carina, my heart pounding wildly. “This man’s name is Aaron.”
“But’s that him, right?”
I looked again at the picture. It was definitely Andrew. The article was dated December 3, 2014, almost two years earlier.
“He must have changed his name,” Carina said.
“Where did you find this?”
“On the Internet. I googled him and this came up.” She looked at me anxiously. “There’s more.”
She set down another paper.
Wife of Convicted Fund Manager Alleges Assault
* * *
Convicted fund manager Aaron Hill is being sued by his former wife for $2 million for assault and battery. Hill has recently been convicted of six counts of fraud after embezzling nearly $32 million from his firm’s clients. Hill declined to comment, but his attorney said that his client denies the accusations and deserves his day in a court of law, rather than trial by misinformed public opinion.
I started to cry. Carina reached in her purse and brought out a tissue. “I’m so sorry, honey. I hate that I had to be the one to tell you. At least now you know why he’s gone every weekend.”
“What do you mean?”
“He probably has to go back to Colorado each week to check in with his parole officer.”
I rested my head in my palm. Tears streamed down my cheek and fell to the table. Carina slid her chair over next to me. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Every time I think I’ve found something I can trust, it’s false. I thought Clive was the ideal husband. Now Andrew . . .”
“Aaron,” Carina said.
“Whatever his name is,” I snapped.
“It’s okay, honey. You have every right to be angry.”
“What am I doing to attract this?”
“It’s not you.” She rubbed my back. “It’s not your fault. When do you see him next?”
“Tonight.”
Carina’s brow furrowed. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted the articles. “Can I take these?”
“Of course.”
For a moment we were both silent. Then I said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Call me tonight after you see him,” Carina said. “Or whenever. Any time day or night. I’m here for you.”
We hugged, then I followed her out of the cafe, holding back a torrent of emotions until I was in my own car. Then I leaned against the steering wheel and sobbed.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Two
I sent him away.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I cried most of the afternoon. I didn’t know what I should do. Should I confront him about what Carina had told me? Did I even have the strength to?
Andrew arrived a little after seven. He looked tired from travel but happy to see me. I’m pretty sure that I looked like emotional roadkill. I only partially opened the door.
“Hi,” he said, his expression changing at seeing me.
I sniffed. “Hi.”
“Are you all right?”
I shook my head.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallowed. “I just don’t feel well. It’s been an awful day.”
“Did something else happen?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did I do something?” I still didn’t answer. He looked at me for a moment, then said, “Do you want me to leave?”
I was seriously conflicted. I wanted him to comfort and protect me from him. Finally I said, “That would probably be best.”
“All right.” He looked at me. “Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?”
I hesitated for a second, then said, “Yes.”
He looked at me doubtfully. “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.”
He had started to step back when I said, “Where do you go every weekend?”
He looked at me for a moment. “You know where I go. Denver.”
“Why?”
“To see my brother.”
“Why?”
His eyes reflected his hurt. “Because it’s the only time I can.” Neither of us spoke for a moment, then he said, “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you distrust me, but something’s happened.” His voice cracked a little. “Don’t think this is easy for me either. Maggie, you’re not the only one who has reason not to trust.”
For a moment his words just hung in the air between us, then he looked as if he were going to say something but stopped himself. He just turned and walked away. Something in my heart told me to go after him, but I didn’t. I went back to my room and cried.
The next three days passed in a lifeless funk. While the world around me glistened with holiday tinsel, my heart was as dark inside as I kept my house. I didn’t even plug in my Christmas tree lights. The title of a book I’d read decades ago came to mind: The Winter of Our Discontent. That’s what this felt like—the winter of my discontent. And it seemed like this winter would never end.
Andrew didn’t call. Clive did. Three times. I didn’t answer. I just wanted him to go away. Part of me blamed him for what had happened between Andrew and me. Had he not broken my trust, I wouldn’t have been so untrusting. Or had he done me a favor? Like I said, I was conflicted. Then, late Monday, he texted me something cryptic.
CLIVE
It is what it is. Don’t worry about coming to trial.
I almost called him back to see what he meant. I didn’t have to. I found out soon enough.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Three
Someone threw a brick through my window. I’m afraid. What is wrong with people? Why can’t they just live their own lives?
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
My cell phone rang around six a.m. I rolled over and checked the caller ID before answering.
“Carina?”
“Are you up?” she asked.
“I am now.”
“Have you seen today’s paper?”
“I just woke.”
“Clive had another family.”
It took a moment for her words to gel. “What?”
“He had a third wife and three other children.”
I was stunned. “Where?”
“Spanish Fork, Utah.”
My already battered heart felt like it had just been delivered another sucker punch. More betrayal. More evidence of my stupidity. And still to come, more media circus. It was going to start all over again. Why wouldn’t it end? I knew the answer. It wouldn’t end until Clive stopped giving the media juicy things to report on. Or until it stopped selling newspapers.
“What are you going to do?” Carina asked.
“What is there to do?” I said. “Board up the windows for another storm.”
Ironically, my words were answered by the crash of a breaking window.
“What was that?” Carina asked.
I pulled on my robe and ran into the front room. There was a large hole in my picture window, and my carpet was covered with shards of glass. In the center of my living room floor was a brick. It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing.
“Maggie? Are you okay?”
“Someone just threw a brick through my window. I need to call the police.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“I’ve got to go.” I hung up and dialed 911. Then I sat down in my kitchen to wait for the police. How much worse was this going to get?
Ten minutes later my doorbell rang. It was a police officer. He looked boyish but was thickly built. I thought he appeared too young for the uniform.
“You called in a broken window?” he said.
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“Yes.”
I pulled open the door. He stepped inside and looked at the glass covering my carpeted floor. “I’m Officer Huber,” he said. He walked over and examined the brick. “Is this what they threw through the window?”
No, I always keep a brick in the middle of my living room floor. “It would appear so,” I said.
“Have you touched it?”
“No. That’s where it was.”
He took out a pad and wrote something down. “When did you notice the window was broken?”
“When I heard it,” I said. “About fifteen minutes ago.”
“So you were here when it happened?”
“I was in my bedroom.”
“Did you hear a car or motorcycle drive away?”
“No. I only heard the window break.”
“Is there any other damage to your property?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been out. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Do you have any surveillance cameras around the house?”
“No.”
“How about your neighbors?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He nodded. “I’ll check with them, see if they saw anything.” He again wrote something down. “Is there anyone you know of who is upset with you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“A boyfriend or ex-husband. This kind of vandalism is usually perpetrated by someone the victim knows.”
“They’re both upset with me,” I said, more to myself than the officer. He looked at me with interest. “But they wouldn’t do this.”
He lifted his pad. “I’d better take their names.”
“My husband was in the newspaper this morning. I think this may have something to do with him.”
“Then you think he did it.”
“No, I think someone who doesn’t like him did it. He’s a former city councilman. Clive Walther. He was arrested for bigamy.”
“Councilman Walther,” he said. “I know about his arrest.” He again wrote something on his pad. “And this boyfriend?”
“He’s not really a boyfriend. I don’t want you contacting him. It would be embarrassing.”
“You never know.”
“He wouldn’t do this. I don’t want you contacting him.”
A few minutes later there was another knock on the door. “That should be the detective,” Officer Huber said. “May I let him in?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door. A thin, bald man wearing an oversized down vest stepped inside my house. He held a camera in one hand and had a black, box-shaped bag hanging at his side.
“This is Mrs. Walther,” Officer Huber said.
“I’m Detective Frederickson,” he said to me. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m just going to take a few pictures for our records, then dust for fingerprints.”
“Fine,” I said, stepping back.
The detective walked over to the brick. “This is what was thrown through the window?”
“Yes.”
“Have you touched it?”
“She hasn’t,” Officer Huber said.
“No,” I said. “Can you take fingerprints off a brick?”
“Sometimes. Or DNA.” He leaned over and took a picture of the brick, then stooped down and brushed it with powder.
I sat down on the couch and watched the police work as if I were watching a crime show on TV. My living room was as cold as my refrigerator and getting colder. I could see my breath.
“I’m going to talk to your neighbors,” Officer Huber said. He pointed to the broken window. “You might want to hang something over that.”
After he left, I asked the detective if I could hang something over the window.
“Just a minute,” he replied. He took a few pictures of the window, then said, “Okay, I’m good.”
I got some duct tape from the garage and a quilt from the hall closet and brought them into the living room. I tried to hang the quilt myself but failed.
“Excuse me; could you give me a hand?” I asked the detective.
He glanced up at me from the floor. “Sure thing.”
He left his kit on the floor and came to the window. I got up on a chair and he held the quilt in place as I taped it around the sides of the window, darkening the room. I could still feel the cold coming through, but at least it was better than it was. I turned on the room light and started a fire in the fireplace.
The detective walked around my living room taking pictures for another few minutes, then said, “All right. I’m done here. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. I let him out the door.
Fifteen minutes later Officer Huber returned. I was in the kitchen making myself some toast when he knocked, then slightly opened the door. “Mrs. Walther?”
I walked back to the living room. “You can come in.”
He stepped inside. “I visited with your neighbors. None of them saw anything or have functional surveillance cameras.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket and wrote on it. “Here’s my info and your case number for your insurance. You’ll need it to file a homeowner’s claim. What’s the best number to reach you at?”
“My cell.” I gave him my number.
“If I find anything, we’ll give you a call.”
“Do you think you will?”
He frowned. “We’ll do our best. Have a good day.”
He walked out. I went back to the kitchen to get my toast, which was now too cold to melt butter. I had just put it back in the toaster when there was another knock on my door.
“What did they forget now?” I said to myself. I walked back out and opened it. A young woman with a pixie cut stood on the doors
tep.
“Hi, Mrs. Walther? I’m from the Herald. We received a report that someone threw a brick through your window. Is your husband Councilman Walther here?”
“No. And that’s ex-councilman and ex-husband. He was removed from the council, and we’re divorced.”
She lifted her pad. “So you believe that this act of violence was directed at you?”
“Why would someone throw a brick through my window because my husband cheated on me?”
“I really don’t know,” she said.
“Neither do I. Good-bye.” I shut the door with her still standing there. I went back to the kitchen. My toast was charred and smoking. I threw it away and started over. I was finally eating toast when the doorbell rang again.
I groaned. “Just leave me alone.” I walked out and opened the door. An elderly man stood at my doorstep. It took me a moment to recognize him as my neighbor, Mr. Stephens. He had a roll of plastic tucked under one arm and a roll of duct tape in his hand.
“Mrs. Walther, I’m Bryan Stephens from across the street.”
“Mr. Stephens,” I said. “Please come in.”
“Call me Bryan,” he said as he stepped inside. “A police officer just came by to ask if we’d seen who threw a brick through your window.”
“I’m sorry he disturbed you so early in the morning.”
“It’s no problem,” he said. “I’ve always been an early riser. I was just having coffee and doing a crossword puzzle. Only thing the newspaper’s any good for these days. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of assistance to the officer. But I figured you probably could use someone to patch your window.” He looked over at the window. “I see you put a blanket up.”
“It’s all I had,” I said. “It’s not working too well.”
“I’ve got this plastic painting tarp. It will seal up nicely until you can get someone to replace the glass. And it will still let some light into the room.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’re too kind.”
“I’m just glad to still be of use.”
“Do you need some help?”
“Nah, this is easy stuff.”
He took off his shoes and laid the plastic roll on the floor. He pulled down my quilt and measured the window with a tape measure. Then he rolled out a long, rectangular piece of plastic and cut it with a razor knife.
The Noel Stranger Page 15
