Beware False Profits (22 page)

If he returned.

A buzzer sounded, and Cilla grimaced. “Darn. They need me downstairs in the store. They always buzz if they have a problem at checkout. Are we done?”

“Not quite, but I can wait a few minutes.”

“It might be longer.”

My gaze flicked to one of the end tables. “You’ve got magazines.”

“Okay. Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

I don’t necessarily believe things happen for a reason. To me the world seems chock-full of incongruities. But occasionally, everything just falls into place. Call it the “tickle” fingers of fate, some cosmic force with an irrepressible sense of humor. Sculptors don’t chisel that grin on Buddha’s face for nothing.

I was just feet from the locked door of Joe’s office. I had time alone. Along with Hazel’s pocket money I was carrying her keys in my purse—on the off chance I ever saw Brownie Kefauver again.

I didn’t let myself consider what to do next. If I had, I would have bolted to my van. From the weight of Hazel’s keys I was guessing she’d had access to every room in the buildings. After a few heart-stopping moments of trial and error I found the right one.

In a moment I was inside Joe’s office.

I closed the door and stood with my back to it. This room was as tastefully decorated as the reception area. Joe’s desk was larger than Cilla’s. Instead of vegetable pillows there were paintings of farmland with grazing cows. But the impression was indistinct, because in a moment I was racing to the filing cabinet.

The top file drawer had personnel records and reports to the board for years past. I closed it and moved on to the second. This one was filled with files about other similar programs, and grant proposals.

I opened the third drawer. The first hanging folder was labeled “Bills,” the second “Receipts.”

I was overjoyed to see that credit card statements were neatly filed by month in the second folder. When Joe came back I would ask for organizational pointers.

I pulled the statements and started through them, listening as I did for footsteps on the stairs outside the reception area. With the door shut I wasn’t sure I would hear Cilla’s approach, but I really didn’t want anyone who just happened by to find me rifling through Joe’s files.

I started at the back of the file. The last statement on Joe’s Visa card had only gone through the end of March. I found charges in New York. The Chelsea Inn, a couple of restaurants. I thought Joe had tried to conserve funds, since not one meal totaled more than fifteen dollars. On a handy pad I jotted down the names of every Manhattan business he had used, then did the same for February’s statement. Joe also had an American Express card, but nothing interesting turned up on it.

I paged through the rest of the bills, paying special attention to his phone bill, but the bill was too old to help me trace him now. I couldn’t find any long-distance calls to or from New York and guessed that he had used his cell phone for those. Maybe he paid the cell bill automatically, because there were no records here. I finished with a folder marked “Tax-deductible Receipts,” but again, nothing turned up.

Time was passing quickly. Cilla had been gone for more than five minutes, and I knew that at the most, I had just a few more. I closed the drawer and opened the bottom one. What I wanted to see most of all were copies of bills Joe had submitted for reimbursement. My luck was holding. Halfway back I saw a folder labeled “Expenses.”

I perched on the edge of Joe’s desk and opened this folder. These were as neatly compiled as the credit card statements, with receipts or copies of receipts clipped to each page. I checked and rechecked the file and my relief grew.

At no time had Joe charged
any
of his New York trips to the food bank.

Once a month Joe left to attend meetings at Funds for Food. Only there was no Funds for Food. He could easily have charged every penny to the food bank and gotten away with it—at least as long as he got away with the trips themselves.

But Joe was a stand-up guy. He was living a lie, but he wasn’t asking anyone else to pay for it.

This was an interesting ethical problem. Joe had lied, but if I was right, Helping Hands hadn’t paid any price for it except his occasional absence.

More interesting was whether Hazel Kefauver had gone through these same records, made the same observations, come to the same conclusions, and realized something strange was going on in New York.

Was this what had brought her to the Pussycat Club? The fact that Joe wasn’t charging the food bank for his trips? Had that been a red flag? From his credit card statements she would know the hotel he usually stayed in. She would know where he ate and shopped. Had she gone to New York to snoop, hoping to catch him in a lie that would be grounds for dismissal?

But if she learned the truth, why hadn’t she told anybody when she returned? What else had she hoped to learn first?

My time was up. If I stayed even a minute longer, I would probably be caught. My hands were perspiring and the still small voice inside me, the one I was supposed to cultivate, was screeching like a hungry toddler. Letting myself into Joe’s office was one thing, but lying about it? I
so
didn’t want to go there.

I replaced the folder and crossed the room. I cracked the door and listened. I thought I heard footsteps. Go? Stay?

Go! I slipped through the door and saw, with relief, that I was still alone. I managed to lock up and pocket Hazel’s keys just seconds before Cilla came through the doorway.

She looked annoyed. “I’m sorry. A volunteer jammed the cash register. It’s easy to do because it’s so old, but of course Hazel Kefauver told us we couldn’t buy a new one.”

“Not a problem.” My heart was beating so fast I was afraid she could hear it. I spoke louder. “I didn’t mind waiting. But I really ought to get out of here and let you get back to work. I just had one more question. This probably sounds silly, but did Joe get a lot of annual leave?”

“Yeah, a lot. The board could never give him the kind of raises he deserved, so they gave him more vacation time. It was no skin off their noses, because he never took it all anyway. He and Tyler used to go camping for a week in the summer, but that was about all. Maura didn’t like to leave her garden for long. So if they went away, it was just overnight. She was perfectly happy staying in Emerald Springs and taking care of their house and yard.”

I wasn’t surprised. Not only had Joe not charged his expenses to Helping Hands, he had probably counted those days against his vacation time, even if they didn’t show up on any records.

I flashed her a smile. “Okay, I’m done here. Thanks for your time.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help with those lists. I did think of one thing, though.”

“What was that?”

“Well, Joe told me once that there are two kinds of people in the world. The kind that takes things at face value and trusts that for the most part, the world’s a good place.”

“He was talking about himself,” I said.

She nodded. “Then there’s the kind that examines every little thing, picking it apart, searching through the debris, because they’re convinced that something terrible will turn up if they just look hard enough. Joe said Hazel was that second kind of person, that it was in her nature. He thought eventually she would dig up some problem or other here, because she wouldn’t be satisfied until she did.”

I was afraid I was that second kind of person, too, although I wasn’t looking for something negative as much as I was looking for truth and justice. But linking my own actions to Hazel’s made me wince.

“Joe sounds like he was pretty tolerant,” I said.

“A lot more than I was. I wanted him to come out swinging and find a way to stop her, but he said no, that in the end one of them would just have to leave. It was only a matter of time.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? In the end
both
of them left. Only by different routes.” I only hoped that someday soon, Joe would find his way home.

I found Chad Sutterfield coming out of the warehouse with two other men. I can always tell how serious guy conversation is by the amount of horseplay that accompanies it. Chad socked the guy closest to him on the shoulder. Then that guy—burly and bald—shoved the blond coming up behind them into a holly bush.

I discounted any possibility the trio were discussing war, avian flu, or the second coming. That left women, beer, and football, all of which can be discussed simultaneously in grunts and words of one syllable. There wasn’t a drop of class prejudice in my assessment. Had they been walking across Harvard Yard in academic gowns, I would have guessed the same.

The men caught sight of me, and the high spirits dimmed. Chad left the others and cut across the grass to say hello. Like the other two, he wore a spring green polo shirt with the Helping Hands insignia embellished by a photo ID card hanging around his neck on a chain.

In the distance I could hear families laughing in the community garden. I wondered if our family should try to reserve a plot. But then what excuse would I have to visit DiBenedetto’s to spy on Marco?

“Mrs. Wilcox.” Chad held out his hand. “Can I help you?”

I could see this young man taking Joe’s job. Chad had remembered my name. He had the good sense to greet and impress me with his manners. I just wondered why he hadn’t already moved on to something better? Was this the big frog in the small pond syndrome? A guy who had leaped to the biggest lily pad Emerald Springs had to offer but knew he would be treading water and dodging bass and walleye if he headed for the Great Lakes?

We shook. “I was just on my way to see you. I was curious about something, and Cilla thought maybe you could help.”

He glanced at his watch. “If it won’t take long. We’re due at a local farm to pick up some beef. And I never keep donors waiting.” He flashed a grin. “We want them to love us.”

I wondered who didn’t love Chad. He had everything going for him. And yet, here he was, working in a warehouse at a nonprofit organization during the years when he should be vaulting to the top of his chosen field.

“It can wait,” I said. “Or I can ask somebody else. Unless everybody’s going with you?”

“Phil O’Hara’s staying behind. He’s not much for talking, but he can tell you about the way we do things. Is it that kind of question?”

All my instincts told me to nod. I was no longer certain I wanted to pick this man’s brain, and I wasn’t sure why. Because he was good-looking and smart and this was a podunk Ohio town? After all, Ed and I lived here, as did any number of good-looking, smart, and supremely nice people.

Or was it because Cilla and Maura thought Chad wanted Joe’s job? Of course he did. That made perfect sense.

Or maybe it was just something about Chad’s smile, something that said there wasn’t as much inside to back it up as there ought to be. Chad was in charge of the warehouse. I’d hoped to watch him closely as he scanned the lists, but now I wasn’t sure this was a guy who would give anything away. Alerting him that I was on the trail of a problem probably wasn’t as good an idea as it had sounded a moment ago.

“I’ll check with Mr. O’Hara,” I told him. “It’s nothing important. I’m just…looking into some facts about nonprofits in general.” Facts like how they were cheated and abused.

“He’s inside. Just don’t keep him up too long. I think he likes to nap while I’m not standing over him.” He laughed at his own joke. I forced a smile.

We said good-bye, and I watched the three men climb into a van with the Helping Hands logo on it before I finished my hike to the warehouse.

The door was open, so I walked in and wandered a little before I saw a man in tan coveralls moving food from a platform cart to a deep row of shelves.

“Mr. O’Hara?”

He stopped, his hand, complete with canned goods, hovering in midair. Then he finished putting the cans on a shelf, dusted his hands on his coveralls, and started in my direction.

O’Hara was built like a stevedore, but his head was too small for his body, as if it had shrunk with age while the rest of him stayed fit. And he was old. I guessed well into the Medicare years. Too old to spend his days stocking shelves.

“Chad Sutterfield said I could find you here.” I introduced myself and held out my hand. He shook without a word. “I was going to ask Chad about something, but he was in a hurry. He said you might be able to help.”

He shrugged. Definitely a man of few words.

I explained about the rummage sale and Hazel’s clothes. I was beginning to think I ought to print up the story to save my vocal cords. I pulled the lists from my purse and handed them to him.

“I found these in her pockets. And now I’m curious. Why do you suppose she would have had them? I’m just trying to understand what she might have been doing in the days before her death.”

He didn’t take the papers. “Why?”

Clearly it was a good question, with an answer I couldn’t easily give. “It’s a combination of things,” I said. “Most of all, because I’m a friend of Joe Wagner’s, and before I turn this over to the cops, I want to be sure it’s not going to reflect badly on him.”

I had chosen this explanation among many. If O’Hara didn’t respond favorably, it probably meant he wasn’t a supporter of Joe’s. If he wasn’t, then how much could I trust his explanation, anyway?

He held out his hand. Now I wished I’d copied the forms first, but I gave them to him and hoped for the best.

He took his time, but there was so little to see, he finished the first page quickly. He looked up. “Nothing but a list of donations.”

“Why would she have it?”

He shrugged.

I expected him to hand the pages back. Instead he went on to the second one. Now he really took his time. He held the list closer to his face, then he retrieved reading glasses from a pocket and read it all over again.

Finally he removed his glasses and pocketed them. He held the papers at his side and tilted his shrunken head.

“Can I keep ’em?”

“Why?”

“Need to check things.”

I already knew enough about O’Hara to realize this was all I would get. “I don’t think I can leave them.”

He toddled off, as if he hadn’t heard me. I followed behind, hoping I hadn’t been dismissed. We ended up at Chad’s offices in the back of the warehouse. This was quite a comedown from Joe’s. I could see where spending days in this utilitarian space without Maura’s comfortable touches could make him yearn for something more.

O’Hara went to the copier sitting on one side among other office paraphernalia and turned it on. I knew better than to chat. I waited in silence. He made copies and handed the originals back to me.

“How do you know Joe?” he asked, surprising me.

“My husband is his minister.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m told New Jersey.”

He gave a humorless laugh.

I had questions; he probably had answers. Never the twain shall meet. I thanked him and he shrugged. I left him in the office and found my way out.

Call me an optimist, but I thought maybe O’Hara and I were on to something. Hazel’s lists had set off an alarm. I wondered what else Hazel had found and copied, and whether I’d only gotten a taste of the good stuff when I searched her pockets. Would he actually talk to me if I brought him more?

The time was right to swing back by the Kefauver residence and see if I could catch his honor for a little chat before I picked up the middle schoolers and Teddy. Maybe Hazel had kept records at home that would help me draw some conclusions.

I found a pack of cheese crackers in the glove compartment and called it lunch. Then I headed for Brownie’s house. I was getting tired of chasing him. He had asked me for help, and by golly, I was going to give it to him whether he wanted it or not.

In that mood I turned on to his street and crawled the length of it behind a small moving van. I was unpleasantly surprised to find we were heading for the same driveway, and that somebody with a low-slung black sports car had gotten there first. No cream-colored Lincoln was in sight.

I parked on the street and started up the herringbone path. Somebody had to be here. I rang the doorbell and rapped sharply. If nobody answered, I planned to gnaw through the wood panels like a belligerent beaver.

The door swung open, and Brownie stood on the other side. Just beyond him in the hallway a woman in her late twenties was bending over a box, apparently to demonstrate the elasticity of a stretch lace thong under a microscopic skirt. She straightened, and waist-length brown hair swung like a curtain over her bare shoulders.

“I’m afraid I’m busy…”

Brownie drew a sharp breath as I pushed him to one side and strode into the hallway. There were boxes stacked along the walls, and into the living room. “I can see that. Now you’re going to be even busier.”

“We’re packing up the rest of dear Hazel’s things. This is Diana Diva. I just hired her as my personal assistant.”

My eyes flicked to Miss Diva, who had probably come into the world with a less exotic name. I wondered when and where the new one had first appeared in lights.

“You have a couple of choices,” I told him. “You can start behaving like a grieving husband and give the police fewer reasons to suspect you of Hazel’s murder. Or you can spend some time on the Internet checking out prisons where you’d like to serve your time. Be sure you choose one with a comfy death row. Ohio is a capital punishment state.”

He blanched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that Miss Diva’s car in your driveway? She needs to get behind the wheel and drive to Michigan.”

“It’s
my
car. The Lincoln had too many memories. And it’s black because I’m in mourning.”

I stood right on top of him, peering into his eyes. “Don’t mess with me. Not if you want my help.”

His gaze flicked between me and Diana, who was standing there as placid as a well-fed milk cow.

“Shall I call her a cab?” I asked. Emerald Springs has a brand-new fleet of two, most often sitting idly in the garage.

He slumped. “I’ll do it.”

“You owe me,” Diana said, in a melodious voice, holding out her hand. “Severance pay.”

I figured I’d go for broke. “And while you’re at it, tell Va-Va-Voom her probationary period at City Hall isn’t working out. Start looking for somebody’s grandmother to act as your secretary.”

“Her name is Rachel Rapture,” he said haughtily.

Was there really an employment agency that specialized in rehabilitated strippers? Or were both these women just hanging out with Brownie until they got their big break in triple-X movies? I was afraid to ask.

He slid bills out of his wallet and handed them to Diana, then he left to make the phone call.

“I kind of liked this job,” she said.

I really didn’t want to know why.

Brownie returned and escorted her to the porch. Once she was gone, he came back with two guys in overalls and caps with the same logo as the moving truck.

Brownie looked harried. “I really am busy. These men—”

“Are going bye-bye,” I finished for him.

“What possible harm can there be in—”

“Plenty.”

He escorted the movers back to the door, more bills changed hands, and finally he shut the door behind him.

He stood with his back to it. “I just—”

“You just despised your wife and your life with her, and now you feel like a canary who’s finally escaped his cage. The thing is, there are bigger, deadlier birds out there waiting to nab you. And the more you flaunt your freedom, the more you attract their attention.”

“I didn’t despise her.”

“Let’s not argue over my choice of words. She ran your life, and now you want to run it your own way. Unfortunately you need a few flying lessons.”

“But I’ve told people and told people I’m donating her things because the memories are so painful.”

“Brownie”—I shook my head—“take the sports car back and get a sedan. Leave the furniture and whatever else you planned to erase from your life until Hazel’s murderer has been caught. Can’t you see how this looks?”

“We were married a long time,” he said at last. “And I never dreamed I…” His voice trailed off.

I finished the sentence silently. After all those years of an unhappy marriage, Brownie had stopped dreaming that someday he would be able to live the way he wanted. And now he could. He didn’t want to waste another minute.

But his next words surprised me.

“I never dreamed I would miss her.” He looked down at his toes. “I’m not even sure what I miss exactly. We understood each other. We made allowances. Maybe we were happy together, and we never even realized it.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He pushed himself away from the door and started toward the box Diana Diva had been taping for him. “I can’t bring her back. I’ve just been trying to move forward.”

“I’m sorry.” And I was. For his loss. For my conclusions—at least some of them. For not always understanding what lies beneath the surface.

He began to pull tape in long strips from the box, as if he planned to reassemble what he and Diana had undone. “Have you found anything? Do you have any idea who might have murdered her?”