Drawing Close: The Fourth Novel in the Rosemont Series (11 page)

Chapter 24

Maggie Martin crossed the street in
front of the sedan with darkly tinted windows and entered the offices of
Stetson & Graham. In addition to offering the town the services of Forest
Smith to assist in the fraud investigation, the firm also allowed the town to
use its conference rooms. Maggie preferred to meet with Special Counsel Alex
Scanlon and Forest Smith outside of the prying eyes at Town Hall. The simple
fact that she was meeting with the two men in charge of the prosecution of the
case would appear on the front page of the next days’
Westbury Gazette
,
accompanied by the usual editorial lambasting the investigation’s lack of
progress. It was better this way.

She nodded to the receptionist, who pointed her in
the direction of their usual conference room. She was a few minutes early and
was surprised to see that Chief Thomas was already seated at one end of the
large marble table.

“Good afternoon, Chief,” Maggie said, taking a
seat across from him.

“I understand you uncovered some evidence on your
own,” he said with an unmistakable note of reproach. “You’re doing my job, now,
too.”

“Nothing of the kind. You know I have a
relationship with David. He’s done odd jobs for me at Rosemont. You can also
understand why he refused to come to you,” she said, staring at him over the
top of her glasses. “We were on a very tight time schedule,” she continued,
picking up steam. “The house is going into foreclosure today, and it was ‘now
or never’ if we were going to go through that house without a warrant.”

The door to the conference room opened, and Alex
Scanlon and Forest Smith stepped into the room.

“You didn’t follow proper channels,” the chief
retorted.

Maggie turned to the new arrivals. “The chief is
upset about how we obtained this latest spreadsheet.”

Alex nodded. “I understand. It was unorthodox. I
approved of it—Maggie didn’t act on her own.”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” the chief asked. “What
then?”

“I have a search warrant ready to serve on whoever
buys it at the foreclosure sale.”

The chief nodded stiffly and turned to Maggie.
“What did you find?”

Maggie handed each of them a copy of the
spreadsheet that they’d uncovered in the Wheeler home. “These are the accounts
that the offshore banks wired the stolen money into. They all belong to a
Delaware limited liability company.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “The Delaware LLC we
already know about from the records produced in response to our subpoena?”

“The same one,” Maggie said.

“The LLC where William Wheeler is—or rather
was—the sole member?” Forest Smith asked.

“I’m afraid so. These two spreadsheets corroborate
the evidence we already have. We can prove that the money went from the town
general fund and the pension fund into the offshore banks. It was transferred
by a whole series of wire transfers,” she said, pointing to the spreadsheet in
front of them, “to accounts of this limited liability company that were owned
by William Wheeler.”

“There are no new account numbers on there that
could belong to Delgado? Or anybody else?” Alex asked.

Maggie slowly shook her head. Alex sagged back
into his chair.

“This spreadsheet, and the other papers that David
found and gave us, were made in chronological order. They’re all neatly done by
hand. No erasures or whiteout anywhere. If I had to guess, I suspect Wheeler
copied these from other worksheets and organized them into categories: money
out of the town and pension fund; money out of the offshore banks into the
limited liability company; and there should be another spreadsheet that shows
the money going from the limited liability company to the accounts of the
perpetrators of the fraud.”

“You think there’s another spreadsheet out there?”
Smith asked.

Maggie nodded. “I feel sure of it. What I’ve seen
was methodically prepared and very accurate. Everything matches the limited
records we already have. Wheeler did this for a reason. He didn’t trust these
guys and thought he was protecting himself. In fact, now that I think about it,
this reminds me of something that Tonya Holmes told me.”

The three men leaned forward.

“Tonya was trying to get the other council members
to investigate the shortage in the town’s bank account. She suspected that
there was something seriously wrong with the town’s finances and was trying to
get her hands on the bank statements. She was at Town Hall early one morning
and overheard an argument in Wheeler’s office, when he was mayor. She heard
Wheeler say ‘I’m out’ and Delgado reply that he was out when they said he was
out. Something like that. Wheeler stormed out of his office and collided into Tonya.”
She tapped her index finger on the table. “I’ll bet he prepared these
spreadsheets after that meeting.”

The chief picked up his copy and flicked it with
his finger. “All of this implicates Wheeler and only Wheeler. Why would he keep
this around?”

“I’ll bet he had no idea that they’d set him up as
the sole owner of the limited liability company,” Maggie replied.

“I have to agree,” Alex said. “Wheeler was just a
good ol’ boy without much business acumen.”

“He was smart enough to make these detailed
spreadsheets,” Smith supplied. He turned to Maggie. “I agree with you. There’s
got to be another spreadsheet.”

“If there is,” Alex said, “it’s probably still
somewhere in that house. Did you look everywhere?”

“We removed every baseboard, yes. These
spreadsheets were both found behind baseboards. But that doesn’t mean he
couldn’t have hidden the final one somewhere else.”

“We need to get back into that house,” Alex
declared. “Do we know who bought it at the foreclosure sale? Did it go back to
the bank?”

“Tim Knudsen will find out for us,” Maggie said.
“I’ll call him when we’re finished here and let you know.”

Chapter 25

Maggie Martin stood back and
admired the painting now hanging above the carved stone mantel in Rosemont’s
living room. She’d tracked its journey across the Atlantic and had cleared her
calendar of appointments so she could be at Rosemont to sign for it when it
arrived. She and Sam Torres had uncrated it and placed it in its new home.
Maggie clasped her hands under her chin.
Just wait until John sees this.

Sam broke her reverie as he came down the stairs.
“I leaned the old painting against the furniture stacked up by the window in
the attic.”

“Thanks, Sam. The appraiser is coming back to look
at all of that. Who knows—maybe that old painting is valuable. I didn’t
see a signature on it, though.”

“This one’s a mighty pretty picture,” he said,
pointing to the mantel. “I can tell what it is. I’m not a fan of shapes and
lines that don’t look like anything.”

Maggie smiled at him as she snatched Blossom from
the back of one of the wing chairs flanking the fireplace. “You don’t belong up
there,” she scolded as she set the cat on the floor. “John’s with you on that.
We both fell in love with this one. It’s not signed—in fact it’s not
completely finished—but it may be the work of a famous artist.”

“Pretty countryside. The people look
old-fashioned.”

“It was probably done in the early 1900s. That’s
exactly the way Cornwall looks today. You and Joan should plan on going there,”
she said and instantly regretted it. Sam and Joan Torres had worked hard all
their lives, putting money into the pension fund so that they could travel when
they retired. The pension fund was now in serious financial trouble, thanks to
the fraud and embezzlement at Town Hall. The way things were, the Torreses
would be lucky if they got to retire in the next ten years, let alone travel.

Sam cleared his throat. “If you want it raised or
lowered, just take it down and adjust the wire on the back. John can do that.
I’ll gather up this packing material and get it out of your way. I was headed
to another job when I got your call, so I’d better go.”

“Thank you for dropping everything to help me,”
Maggie said. “I hope the other people won’t be upset.”

“It’s fine. David’s there now, and we won’t be
finished for another week. This didn’t make any difference.”

Maggie scooped up a piece of Styrofoam that
escaped his grasp and walked him to his truck.

“We’re going to get these guys, Sam,” she held his
gaze. “I can’t tell you anything about the investigation, but I promise you we
won’t let them get away with it.”

Sam nodded. “I understand that you’re doing
everything you can, Maggie. I don’t think about it much. I never figured I’d
retire, anyway. But Joan’s had a hard time with it all.”

“Tell her to hang on,” Maggie said, wondering if
they would, indeed, be able to successfully prosecute anyone for the crimes.
She stood and watched as Sam’s taillights disappeared from sight down the
driveway. She turned to mount the stone steps to Rosemont’s front door when she
saw the mail carrier coming up the driveway. She retraced her steps to meet
him.

“Afternoon, Mayor Martin,” he called. “Glad you’re
home.” He riffled through his bag of mail. “I’ve got a certified letter for
you. You need to sign for it.”

Maggie took the letter and pen he offered and
signed her name to the green card attached to the letter.

“I hope it’s good news. Maybe a big, fat check,”
he said as he released the brake and pulled away.

Maggie turned the heavy envelop over in her hands.
The return address showed Hirim & Wilkens, Attorneys at Law, with an
address in Manhattan. Why in the world were they sending her a certified
letter? She didn’t think the letter carrier was right. This couldn’t be good
news.

Maggie shut the front door and felt—just
like she did the very first time she entered the house and the door closed
behind her—that she was home. She leaned against the closed door,
supported by its strength, and pulled in a deep breath. Whatever was in this
letter, she needed to know.

Maggie stepped into the library and picked up a
letter opener from her desk by the window overlooking the back garden. She
carefully slit the envelope and extracted its contents, smoothed the thick
stack of papers on the desktop, and began to read. Before she got to the end of
the first page, she pulled out the desk chair and sat.

The letter was from an attorney named Simon
Wilkens, who represented Frank Haynes. He then recited a litany of facts that
he said proved her late husband, Paul Martin, had tampered with evidence and
willfully concealed the fact that Frank Haynes was a legitimate heir of Hector
Martin and that Haynes was, legally, owner of a half-interest in Rosemont.

Maggie slammed the papers into her lap and moaned.
Was this even possible? Surely Paul would not have done such a thing. She knew,
however, that Paul was capable of everything the attorney had accused him of
and more. After all, hadn’t Paul embezzled money from Windsor College, while he
was president of the college, for years? Hadn’t he secretly maintained a second
family—with Loretta Nash—in Scottsdale while they were married?
Stealing recorded documents seemed mild in comparison.

Maggie lifted the papers and re-read them. Frank
Haynes was asserting his half-interest in Rosemont.

She examined the attachments to the letter: a copy
of a birth certificate and the affidavit of a recently deceased attorney who
had aided Paul in carrying out his crime. These attachments would have to be
authenticated, but she knew instinctively that they were valid.

Maggie carefully folded the letter, replaced it in
its envelope, and propped it against the lamp on the desk. Once more, that bastard
Paul Martin was messing up her life. His evil grip reached out from the grave.

She pushed her chair back and rose purposely.
She’d be damned if she’d turn Rosemont over to Frank Haynes. She retraced her
steps to the living room and stood looking at the new painting ensconced over
the fireplace. It was a symbol of her new beginning with John and of their
commitment to create their own legacy at Rosemont. Paul had taken a lot of good
things from her, but she wouldn’t let him take this.

What was it the lawyer had suggested? That they
have Rosemont appraised and either party would have sixty days after the
appraisal to make a cash offer to buy out the other? If she knew Frank Haynes,
he’d already researched the value of Rosemont and had a cash reserve set aside,
ready to make his move. He was counting on the fact that Maggie and John
wouldn’t be able to lay their hands on the necessary cash to buy him out. And
on the surface, he was right. Buying out a half-interest in Rosemont would
require several million dollars.

What Frank Haynes didn’t know was that Rosemont
had presented Maggie with a fortune in silver from its attic. She’d planned to
auction the vast majority of it off, anyway, including the staggeringly
valuable tea set by renowned eighteenth-century silversmith Martin-Guillaume
Biennais. She had the means to raise the money. She just needed the time to do
so.

Maggie headed to her laundry room and the big
calendar that hung on the wall. The attorney demanded her response to his
letter in two weeks’ time or he would be forced to file suit. Filing suit and
serving her would eat up another month beyond that, maybe more. She’d have
twenty days to file her answer and the process of litigating the matter could
take years. The lawsuit, however, would be front-page news in
Westbury—probably the entire state. She had to avoid the notoriety it
would bring.

Maggie ran her finger along the calendar. An
auction sale of the silver would need to be advertised for at least ninety
days. If she acted quickly, she’d be able to liquidate the silver and have the
proceeds in hand by the end of the year. She’d hire an attorney to respond to
Wilkens and request an open extension of time to authenticate the documents.
Maggie prayed Wilkens would grant it. While her attorney investigated the facts
laid out in Wilkens’ letter, she’d get the silver auctioned off. If the auction
could be completed in time, she might have enough money in hand to outbid Frank
Haynes for Rosemont.

What was it that the appraiser Gordon Mortimer had
told her? That he’d worked for Sotheby’s and still had connections there?
Maggie went into the kitchen and retrieved her cell phone. She scrolled through
her contacts until she found him. It was time to take Mr. Mortimer up on his
offer to help her liquidate the silver.

***

Gordon Mortimer cut his eyes to his
cell phone in irritation. He should have set it to vibrate. The constant
interruptions by telemarketers were driving him crazy. The “do not call” list
was a joke. He looked at the number on his screen and there was something
vaguely familiar about it. He hesitated, then answered the call.

“Mr. Mortimer, Maggie Martin here.”

“Mayor Martin. I’m delighted to hear from you. Are
you ready for me to come see the furniture?”

“I am, actually, but that’s not why I’m calling.
I’d like to liquidate the silver. In the next four months at the latest.”

Gordon Mortimer gasped. “That can’t be done,
madam. Not if you want to realize its full value. It takes time to properly
catalog the items and advertise the sale. Putting the silver in the right sale
at the right time is supremely important.”

“I understand, but something’s come up, and I must
have it sold within the next four months.”

“Surely not the Martin-Guillaume Biennais? That
simply can’t be done.”

“That too. All of it.”

“You’ll be sacrificing price for speed. I
recommend a much longer time frame to allow the auction company to solicit
interest.”

“I understand that this isn’t ideal. It can’t be
helped. Do I remember correctly that you have ties to Sotheby’s? I was hoping
you could pull some strings and get us into one of their upcoming auctions in
New York.”

Gordon Mortimer sensed she was not going to be
dissuaded. Ordinarily, he distanced himself from reckless ventures such as this
hurried sale, but something in the tone of her voice made him change his mind.
“If you insist on going through with this—against my advice—I can
help you get placement in an auction. And I’ll notify my collector clients and
dealer network as well. The presence of such a large number of Martin-Guillaume
Biennais pieces in pristine condition should drive significant interest to the
sale. The big auction houses will like that. Maybe we can even get
The New
York Times
to do an article on Rosemont and how you found the silver. Give
it extra provenance.”

“No,” Maggie cut in sharply. “No one can know
where the silver came from. We must remain completely anonymous, and Rosemont
can never be mentioned.” If Haynes suspected Maggie might have money, he would
have the resources—and she was certain he had the desire—to offer
her double the appraised amount. She couldn’t risk losing Rosemont by tipping
her hand. “I’m sorry if I was short with you. I need to insist on total
anonymity.”

“As you wish, madam.”

“I knew I could rely on you. And I’m sure you’ll do
everything in your power to maximize my proceeds. I believe you will also
receive a commission on the sale?”

“I will. You can count on me. I’ll ring my
contacts immediately and get back to you within the week with the details of
the sale. I can’t promise you that we can make this happen so quickly, but I
shall do my best.”