by Elle Gray
This is all news to me. Granted, I didn’t spend any time getting involved with foundations like this. Bringing art to the underprivileged never seemed like a worthwhile endeavor to me. But then, to be fair, until I met Veronica, I never spent a lot of time thinking about the underprivileged anyway. Much to my everlasting shame.
“I’m a product of those programs. They helped keep me housed. Fed. They helped put me through school,” she goes on. “If not for the Worthfield, I wouldn’t have had the know-how to do the things I’ve done to amass the fortune that I have.”
“And how have you amassed your fortune?” I ask.
“Tech,” she says simply. “My first project was a dating app, if you can believe it. It took off, and I sold it for ten million. I’ve designed a multitude of apps that I’ve built up and sold for… well… not as much as the Arrington clan, but I’m never going to be in the poorhouse again in my life. And I owe it all to the Worthfield.”
“Now that is an interesting story,” I note. “I had no idea.”
She shrugs. “I don’t advertise it. It’s my story, and I like to keep it private. But, when I made my fortune, I vowed that I would take over the Worthfield Foundation and start reinstating the programs they’ve scaled back or eliminated altogether. I vowed that I would make the foundation what it once was. Bigger. Better.”
A light shines in her eyes as she talks. She’s a true believer. Admirable, really.
“Don’t get me wrong. I believe in everything we’re doing now. I do think exposing the underprivileged to art is inspirational. It gives them the permission they need to dream and to tap into their creativity. And I encourage that and want it to flourish. But I also believe the Worthfield can be doing so much more, for so many, in a very real and very tangible way. And so long as I’m in charge here, that’s something I’m going to continue fighting for. The foundation used to be truly great, and I’m going to make it that way again if it kills me. I owe my life to this foundation, Mr. Arrington.”
“Please, call me Paxton. Or just Pax.”
“Okay... Paxton.”
As she speaks, it’s hard not to hear the passion and conviction in her voice. I can’t help but admire her for it. She is a woman who sees a wrong in the world and has gone to extraordinary lengths to make it right.
“Sorry,” she says, a slight flush in her cheeks as her voice returns to normal. “Didn’t mean to get up on my soapbox. You didn’t come here for my personal history lesson.”
“No need to apologize for anything. It’s an amazing story, and I’m grateful that you shared it,” I tell her honestly. “I had no idea the Worthfield did any of the things you mentioned.”
“Back in the day, they didn’t believe in thumping their chests about their good works. They just saw a need and addressed it without having a live streaming audience to tell them how amazing and generous they are,” she says.
As I sit here, listening to her story, I can’t help but think Veronica would like her very much. Like Turner, Veronica had a passion for helping those in need and doing right by those the world has done wrong.
“I would imagine you’re getting some pushback from some of the other board members,” I conjecture.
A rueful laugh passes her lips. “You have no idea. They all want the karma points without having to put in the good works. Some of them seem to think tossing a book about the Impressionist era at a poor child is enough to punch their ticket to heaven. Not one of them would ever deign to go work in a soup kitchen or volunteer at a shelter. Or heaven forbid, pay a bit extra in taxes to provide much-needed social programs. They always say the right things in public, and then behind your back, they’ll lobby for some massive budget cut that literally takes the food out of children’s mouths. For all their bluster, most of them have an utter disdain for the less fortunate. And they certainly would never condescend to mix with them. Like poverty is a contagious disease, right?”
Oh yeah, Veronica would have loved her. I seem to recall her hurling those very words, or something very similar to them, at me shortly after we first met.
“What about Charlotte MacMillan? Was she more like you or them?”
A sad smile touches her lips, and she looks away for a moment. “Her death is a tragedy. She certainly did a lot of good for a lot of people.”
“Forgive me for being so direct again, but that’s not actually an answer to my question.”
“It’s always been my practice to not speak ill of the dead,” she replies smoothly.
I arch an eyebrow at her. “I take that to mean she was more like them, then.”
“Charlotte was… complicated. She genuinely believed as I do. At least, as far as helping people goes. She just had a very specific idea of how that should be done.”
“And what was her idea?”
Turner frowns for a moment. I can see her struggling with her words. Struggling with whether or not she should continue speaking or how much she should tell me. But I need to know what she’s thinking.
“I understand you not wanting to tarnish somebody’s legacy. And I’m not here to do that,” I reassure her. “But if I’m going to find the person who killed her, I need to get as clear a picture of her as I can. I need to know who Charlotte MacMillan truly was, and not the carefully crafted public image.”
Turner sighs and runs a hand across her face. She looks at me, saying nothing for several long moments, and the conflicting emotions in her eyes are more than clear. I don’t like putting her in this position, but it’s unfortunately necessary.
“She believed that people should not be given handouts. She didn’t believe in some of the programs I hold dear. Nor did she believe we should fund the shelters. She firmly believed our social programs were a waste of resources and gave permission to these people to remain ‘stuck in the rut of poverty and addiction’,” Turner finally says. “She genuinely believed that exposing the underprivileged to fine art and culture would inspire them to somehow lift themselves out of poverty. She thought exposure to better things would help them help themselves. She wanted to use the funds to build more galleries and museums— free to these people, of course.”
These last words are delivered with a heavy roll of her eyes.
I sit back in my seat and wonder at that. It’s an either incredibly naive, incredibly ignorant, or incredibly callous position to take. Even I know that, and I’ll never claim to be some great socioeconomic thinker. It’s definitely not my area of expertise.
“It’s just... you have to understand she grew up wealthy. She wanted for nothing, and her family influenced her way of thinking about charity,” Turner explains. “And it didn’t matter how many scientific or social studies you quoted her, or even if you tried to appeal to her empathy. Her opinion was her opinion, and you couldn’t change her mind, and she controlled the purse strings. It’s what happens when you grow up the way she did.”
I scoff. “I grew up the same way she did and had the same advantages, yet my way of thinking couldn’t be more opposite.”
She arches an eyebrow at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Was it always that way, Paxton Arrington? Have you always been this bastion of charity, humbleness, and social compassion?”
I laugh softly to myself. Maybe at myself. ‘A bastion of charity and humbleness’ is not exactly how I’d describe myself. But she couldn’t have made her point more forcefully if she’d hit me over the head with a baseball bat. I’ll give her that. She’s sharp.
“No. I suppose I was fortunate to have a very different influence in my life,” I reply. “She helped me to see the error in the ways I thought of people.”
Her point made, she pauses a beat to consider her words. We’ve gotten pretty far afield from what I came here for, though everything she’s said is interesting and helps me paint an even clearer picture of Mrs. MacMillan. I’m just about to ask a question that will steer us back to my reason for being here when she jumps in again.
“I don’t want yo
u to get the wrong idea, Paxton. Charlotte and I disagreed on a great many things. But as a person, I found her quite lovely. She was genuine in her convictions, even if they were wrongheaded, and she truly did try to provide art for the people. As a person, I liked her a lot, and I will miss her.”
“You seem to be the rare person these days who can disagree with somebody and still like them as a person.”
“It is a sad state of affairs,” she agrees.
“What about Carson Falucci? How was his relationship with Mrs. MacMillan?”
Her smile and look of nostalgia fades quickly, replaced by one that’s tense and a little sour. She looks down at her desk, falling silent for a long moment.
“Trouble between them, I take it?” I ask.
“It would probably be fairer to say they had no relationship at all.”
“Why is that?”
“Other than the fact that they fought like cats and dogs and couldn’t agree on something as simple as the color of the sky?”
“Well...”
“I mean that literally, by the way. They got into a huge spat once arguing which of Monet’s Haystacks to hang in the atrium.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
“It’s a series of twenty-five paintings of the exact same subject, taken at different times of day and times of the year. The only difference between them is the color of the sky.”
We share a mild laugh, but the moment fades too quickly. I frown, trying to think of a delicate way to ask my next question. Before I can ask it though, Turner beats me to the punch.
“But before you ask, no, I don’t think Carson had anything to do with Charlotte’s murder.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Carson is a great many things— as I’m certain you know— but a killer is not one of them. He’s not nearly as bad of a man as he postures himself to be.”
I nod. Turner’s impression of Falucci matches my own. Falucci is a slick, wheeling, dealing, shady as hell guy. Though I’d never go so far as to call him a good man, he definitely doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d stoop to murder. He would consider that, as he said about the sex trade, beneath him.
“What was the reason for the tension between them?” I ask.
Turner sighs. “Charlotte had very strong opinions about criminals. She thinks— thought— they’re a plague on the world and that the justice system does not deal with them harshly enough.” This prompts another roll of her eyes.
“So far as I know, Falucci has never been arrested, let alone convicted of any crime.”
A small smile curls a corner of her mouth upward. “That was what I told her. But you and I both know Carson is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Convicted or not, that’s just how it is. And he doesn’t do anything to alter that perception, either.”
“No. No, he does not,” I chuckle.
“And that’s the reason Charlotte despised him,” she continues. “As well as the fact that he opposed the way she wanted to organize and run the foundation. Believe it or not, he was more in line with my way of doing things.”
“Is that so? And here I thought somebody like Falucci was one of those looking to punch his ticket to the Pearly Gates.”
“Oh, there may well have been some of that. But Carson always struck me as somebody who was sincere in wanting to help those less fortunate than him,” she says. “He came up much in the same way I did. After he decided he was not long for his family business, they cast him out, and he was left with nothing. He had to cobble together a living for himself, and that led him to make some… unsavory… decisions. But his reputation has been thoroughly overblown in that regard. He was not born into poverty, but he did have a rough upbringing, and he relates to the people we’re trying to help in ways Charlotte never could.”
“I guess Charlotte wasn’t the sort who could be friends with somebody she disagreed with, huh?”
Her lips are a tight line on her face. “It was a little more complicated than that.”
“It always is. What about the embezzlement?” I ask.
“There was no embezzlement,” she replies. “It was an accounting mistake. One that was caught and corrected.”
“Charlotte was under the distinct impression that Falucci was embezzling—”
“She was wrong when she made the accusation. I made it very well known when that rumor first started going around. But Charlotte would never acknowledge the truth of it. Not even when I showed her the books. In her mind, Falucci is a criminal, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Falucci seemed fairly amused by it.”
“He would be. When it came to Charlotte, he took very little seriously.”
“How did the rest of the board feel about him?”
A soft smile touches her lips. “Some of them like him, others don’t. Only Libby Walden believed he was embezzling. But that’s not surprising, given that she was Charlotte’s best friend.”
I lean back in my seat again and run a hand through my hair, absorbing all of the information she’s feeding me. It’s all interesting and will definitely be worth scrutinizing closer later. The next question I have might be considered indelicate by some, but Turner is as blunt as I am, so I don’t think she’ll be offended. At least I hope not, given how close she was with Mrs. MacMillan.
I wouldn’t ask, given that I don’t want to tarnish her saintly reputation and all, but one, I need to know. And two, Falucci’s voice is in my head, telling me not to believe the virtues heaped on Mrs. MacMillan. I know it could be him just piling on, now that she’s dead. But there could be something to it. And I won’t know which it is until I ask.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Did Mrs. MacMillan have anybody… on the side? Was she seeing somebody who wasn’t her husband?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I liked her very much, but we weren’t extraordinarily close or anything. I doubt she’d tell me even if she was.”
I nod, disappointed but not surprised. But at least I have a name. Libby Walden. If anybody is going to know Mrs. MacMillan's darkest secrets, it’s going to be her. So at least this trip to see Turner hasn’t been entirely without some benefit. But I have one last question before I’m done here.
“Do you know of anybody who’d be interested in hurting her? Anybody who’d threatened or accosted her? Anything that might lead you to believe they’d want to harm her?”
Turner shakes her head. “No, nothing at all. Nobody at all. She genuinely was well-liked by almost everybody.”
I nod again, hitting another dead end here. I’m not surprised in the least though. In death, the legend of Saint Charlotte continues to grow.
Ten
MacMillan & Associates Law Firm; Downtown Seattle
“You’ll have to excuse the chaos around here. With my dad taking some time away, we’re a little understaffed,” Sarah explains, sounding a little exasperated. “I’m having to pick up his cases and fit his court appearances in with mine.”
“It’s all right. I understand and won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to give you an update and to ask you a few questions,” I reply.
She glances at her watch and then at a stack of files on her desk. Her office is tasteful, but I’d say spartan. Her diplomas hanging in mahogany frames on the wall behind her are pretty much the only extravagance. Everything is neat and ordered; her working space tightly controlled and functional. The furniture is nice, but built for utility, not comfort, though it’s well built and obviously expensive.
The surface of her desk is in disarray. She’s got a Macbook Pro sitting open on one corner of her desk that’s surrounded by files and thick three-ring notebooks. Oftentimes, defense attorneys put together their own version of a murder book to use at trial and offer direct refutations of the evidence the police have gathered and turned over to prosecutors.
I get the idea this isn’t normal for her. Sarah’s workspace is likely just as tight and neat as the rest of her office. The one thing I no
tice about her office is that, aside from her diplomas, there is very little in the way of her personal life in it. There are half a dozen pictures on the shelving of her bookcase— three of her with various celebrity clients she’d represented. One is the same graduation photo that hangs on the wall in her parent’s home, and the other two are of her and her parents. None of the whole family, none of her brothers. It’s like they don’t exist.
“You were right. This wasn’t a home invasion or a robbery.”
“What’s convinced you?”
“A lot of things. One of the biggest being that for a robbery, very little was actually taken,” I explain. “I’m of the opinion, the condition of the house and the fact that the jewelry was taken was an attempt to direct and steer the course of the police investigation.”
Sarah’s expression darkens, and she frowns. “Successfully, it seems.”
“Indeed. I’ve also spoken with Marion Turner over at the Worthfield and Carson Falucci. Do you know them?”
“Not well. I met them a few times but only knew them well enough to say hello,” she replies. “They were more in my mother’s orbit than mine. Were either of them able to offer you anything?”
I shake my head. “Not much other than some interesting facts about your mother. It all helps fill in some blank spaces.”
Sarah looks down at her desk for a moment, then back up, a look of pained regret on her face. Her eyes shimmer with tears, but she’s able to bite them back. She sniffs loudly and clears her throat, back in control of herself again.
“Admittedly, there was a lot I didn’t know about my mom. I like to think we're close, but we operated in two different worlds. She had her own circle of friends, her own interests…”
Her voice trails off, and I nod. I get it. Being close to our parents when we’re older means something entirely different than when we were growing up. As we get older, we start to see them as actual human beings. They become fallible. We don’t always hold the same level of trust or esteem we have for them as children. But, in my opinion, getting to the point we see our parents as human beings is a good thing. It allows our relationships with them to become more honest. More real.
