For Love of Money (7 page)

“Now, wait a minute.”

But Nicole stalked right past her and touched Tim’s arm. “You can leave now.”

Anger churned Holly’s stomach. Anything she said would make things worse. Gritting her teeth, she retrieved her shoes and briefcase. At the door, she made one more attempt. “Hope he’s okay.”

“He has
me
to take care of him.” Nicole repositioned Tim’s arms.

Poor slob.

Chapter Nine

Monday afternoon

Holly left the 70s-era concrete building that housed Tri-Ag’s business office. She managed not to strut or high-five herself on the way to her car. She’d rocked the meeting. It had taken a few minutes to get past the newspaper article which implied she was a murder suspect, but everybody had settled down and discussed ways to make use of the latest agriculture tax incentives.

She picked up Highway 240 and headed toward her office. Within minutes she entered the commercial district surrounding Columbia Mall. Traffic piled up around Costco and stopped for the traffic light at Grandridge. The Tom-Tom Casino was visible on a side street, behind a strip mall. The scene in Tim’s office ran through her mind, along with what Brea had said.

Tim was a gambler?

His drunken night at the Crazy Horse could’ve been a one-off, but according to Brea, he gambled a lot.

Win or lose, gambling wasn’t showing up in his financial statements.

Holly idled at the intersection and studied the casino’s sunbaked building. Brea had no reason to lie about Tim’s gambling. Even if she thought gambling was a waste of time and money, it wouldn’t bother her—if his financial records reflected it.

If he was only dropping a few hundred here and there, no big deal.

If it was more than a few hundred, and he was deliberately hiding it… That could wreck his credit rating.

Not to mention what would it mean if Desert Accounting had signed off on his finances.

She eyed the casino. Everyone connected gambling with money laundering, loan sharks, and the mob. But this was Richland, not Las Vegas. She didn’t see any way Tim’s gambling could be connected to Marcy’s murder. But if he was hiding things from his accountant, she needed to know about it, if only to protect Desert Accounting.

Impulsively, she turned into the casino’s parking lot. She
did
need to talk with the Tom-Tom’s manager, she rationalized. After all, he was one of Desert Accounting’s multiple casino clients. And besides, she had the gambling commission audit documents in her briefcase that she’d planned to deliver this week.

Her father understood gambling accounting. Thankfully, the rest of his auditing team was still in place, because her knowledge of the industry-specific accounting was…limited. The skills she’d acquired with the M&A Group—spotting risk patterns and anomalies—applied to any industry. But at times like this, she could’ve throttled her father with her bare hands for leaving the firm in the lurch.

If she knew where he and his yoga guru could be found.

Contacting the casinos about their gaming commission audits had been dumped onto Holly’s To Do list. She suspected her mother didn’t want any more reminders of her husband than absolutely necessary. Just coming to the office every day had to be a challenge, she realized in a flash of insight and empathy.

She could do this for her mother.

And satisfy her concerns about Tim at the same time.

Holly pulled open the blacked-out entry door and stepped inside. Instead of a pseudo-Native American look, the Tom-Tom had gone for Vegas flash—lots of fluorescent lighting, cheesy casino-themed wallpaper and industrial-grade plaid carpeting so appalling that not even absorbing sound, dirt, and random spilled drinks redeemed it.

With a quick glance around the main room, she spotted the office cluster and headed in that direction. She could introduce herself, drop off the engagement letter, and casually ask if Peter Ayers, the casino manager, knew Tim Stevens.

Adjusting her smile, she opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly modern office. “Hi, I’m Holly Price. I’m looking for Peter Ayers.”

Two women half-hidden behind cubicle walls looked up, but it was the man at the desk in the corner who rose and came forward with an outstretched hand. He gave her suit a quick scan. A frown twitched his eyebrows, but he smiled and said, “Donna mentioned you’d be by this week.”

An air of quiet confidence accompanied his firm grip. His poly-cotton shirt and giant western belt buckle were standard business attire for the area. Holly knew her designer suits were excessive, but since she was only going to be in Richland for a year, she couldn’t justify a new wardrobe.

Peter led the way to his desk. “Do you have a draft of the engagement letter?”

“In my briefcase.” She took the closest of the visitor seats.

The casino manager eased into a swivel chair. He moved a few things around on his desk, squirming a little. “Sorry to hear about your dad.”

She nodded, not interested in talking about her father’s desertion.

Peter gave her another doubtful inspection. “Will you be taking his place?”

Her father’s vanishing act had left Desert Accounting scrambling on too many fronts. “No, it’ll be the same team as last year. Amanda is our most experienced auditor and I don’t want to get in her way.”

His expression first gave away his relief—her inexperience wasn’t going to create a problem for him—and then showed his confidence in Desert Accounting in spite of her father’s AWOL status.

They discussed the initial fieldwork for the cage accountability and listed target delivery dates. “That’s all I need today,” she said. “I’ll stop by on Wednesday. We can wrap up the details then.”

“Okay.” Peter gathered the documents into a tidy pile. “I’ll follow you out. It’s time for me to do a walk-through.”

They angled across the main floor toward the entrance. Gamblers stood and sat in front of an astonishing variety of machines, with enough lights, whirlers, and sounds to please the most jaded five-year-old. An overweight woman slumped on a stool in front of the machine at the end of a row. A cup of quarters nearly disappeared in the folds of her thighs. She dropped coins, pushed the button, and frowned at the results.

Holly tilted her head and said, “I thought everybody had converted to electronic script.”

Peter gave the patron a quick glance, then scanned the remaining rows of slots. “We keep a few of the older machines. I’m not sure if it’s a nostalgia thing or if some gamblers prefer the tactile sensation of handling the coins.”

A grin lit his face. “Personally, I think they like the coins spraying everywhere when they hit a jackpot.”

He filled the remaining walk with pleasant conversation. Spillover from the local vineyards’ harvest tours was filling seats in the casino. The glorious autumn weather—blue skies and moderate temperatures—was drawing droves of tourists to the Columbia River Basin.

“One of my clients mentioned how much he enjoys coming here,” Holly said.

“That’s the sort of feedback I like hearing. Which client, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Tim Stevens. You know him?”

“Oh, sure. Nice guy. Comes in about once a week.”

With a sinking heart, she thought,
every week?
“I guess all developers are gamblers at heart.”

“Good point. Stevens is a good customer. Doesn’t make a scene if he loses.” Peter smiled. “He brought his wife in a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh?” Nicole didn’t seem like the type who’d enjoy it.

“She had a blast playing the slots. I was surprised he didn’t bring her in again.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just like seeing pretty women in here. I’m real partial to brunettes.”

“Brunettes?” She couldn’t keep the startled reaction out of her voice. Nicole was as blond as they came.

“No offense. Blondes are pretty, too.”

A brunette?
Oh crap
. She scrambled, thinking furiously. “That’s okay.”

Damn. Tim was gambling
and
cheating on his wife? What else was he doing?

Peter suddenly blinked and looked as if he’d love to rewind the conversation and answer a different way. “Uh, I could be thinking about a different guy.”

Before she could decide how to tactfully ask if the brunette was Marcy, Holly’s internal alarm sounded a warning. She glanced to the side, expecting to see one of the gamblers checking her out. Instead, she noticed a man leaning against the far wall. Deeply tanned with dark hair brushing his collar, he wore jeans, a fringe-trimmed shirt, and a cowboy hat with an intricate turquoise band. The hat-brim shaded his features, but his posture said he was watching something with fixed determination.

His body type—and the intensity of his scrutiny—reminded her of Frank. For half a second, part of her shrieked
Run!
while the rest chided,
Frank’s in Seattle
.

As subtly as she could, she scanned the room, looking for anything out of place. What had caught the man’s attention? Was something about to happen? Something bad, like a robbery?

She stole another glance. He’d moved away from the wall. Hands on his hips, he blatantly stared at
her
.

A shiver of unease ran down her spine. She hadn’t done anything he could consider threatening. Her briefcase looked out of place, but all it held was a bunch of papers.

Peter said something about the Basin’s winter gloom holding off, and then cocked his head. “You okay? You look a little peaked. Can I offer you something from the snack bar?”

“No. Thank you, though.” Holly lowered her voice. “Do you know that man? The one wearing the cowboy hat and fringed shirt?”

Peter craned his neck. “Sure, that’s my security manager. You want to meet him?”

She held up a hand, stop-sign style. “He just made me nervous. But that makes sense if he’s security. He’s scary enough to keep everyone in line.”

He must have seen her as out of place—a non-gambler. The suit, the briefcase. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Of course it isn’t Frank
. Just another cop-wannabe bouncer with an attitude.

“That’s what we hire them for,” Peter said.

Of course the casino needed protection. She had to remember that not all law enforcement people—even the intense ones—were crazy like Frank. “I’ll be careful not to attract his attention next time.”

Peter smiled. “Now, that’ll be hard to do.”

With a wave to dismiss his compliment, she escaped through the front door.

The sense of unease followed her to the car.

Chapter Ten

Late Monday afternoon

Multiple file reviews later, Holly restacked the folders on her credenza and placed the completed ones in her out-box. She checked in with the staff working on last-minute tax returns, then said, “I’m going out for a while to clear my head.”

The staff probably thought she meant
clear it from taxes
, but she needed to clear her head—and her name—from Marcy’s murder. She didn’t know if Tim’s brunette and gambling habit were connected to Marcy or if they were yet another ball to keep in the air, but she hoped Marcy’s sister, Yessica, could shed some light on her sister’s life—and death.

Holly crossed the Blue Bridge over the Columbia River and drove into Pasco. She suspected Yessica might have sought solace in the ordinary routine of managing her boutique. Otherwise, she’d respect the family’s privacy.

She knew La Boutique was located in downtown Pasco, but Marcy had driven the one time they’d visited the store. Holly cruised the streets around the courthouse and Farmer’s Market. She’d have turned on her GPS, but she couldn’t remember the exact name of the place. One-story buildings—some newly renovated with bright colors and awnings; others remained minimalist 70s-era bland—lined the roads. They housed businesses catering to the area’s predominantly Hispanic population. Twenty minutes and a few wrong turns later, Holly spotted the store and pulled into an angled parking space near Celia’s Confectionery.

Sweet, carbohydrate-laden odors drifted through the bakery’s door and permeated the air. Holly’s mouth watered and her stomach growled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch.

Pastry. Afterward.

Holly bypassed the bakery and entered La Boutique. Pristine First Communion dresses and frothy
Quinceañera
and Sweet Sixteen gowns crowded the racks. Based on the displays, she thought the
Quinceañera
more debutante ball than Hispanic religious ceremony and coming-of-age party.

The showcase of beaded “First Heels,” gloves, and sparkly tiaras snagged her attention. A small white purse—the perfect size for summer cocktail parties—caught her eye. She twisted, trying to read the price tag.

“Holly?” Surprise colored Yessica’s tone.

Holly jerked away from the purse display with a guilty start.

“You have a beautiful store.” She gestured at the clothes and accessories. “Marcy had a flair with clothes, too. She always looked so put together. I guess it runs in the family.”

“Maricella loved pretty things.” Yessica closed the cash register. “But I don’t think you came for a
quinceañera
present.”

“Actually, I hoped to see you.”

Wary surprise shifted the woman’s eyebrows and narrowed her eyes. The expression drew attention to the dark shadows underneath them.

“I saw your store was open and stopped in. I didn’t want to disturb your family by going by the house,” Holly said.

“I needed to get away.” Yessica no longer met her eyes. “People depend on me. If the store isn’t open, my employees don’t work.”

“You don’t have to explain.” Work would give Yessica something besides Marcy to focus on.

“Why did you want to see me?”

How to get into this? That Holly wanted to understand what was going on in Marcy’s life? That she should’ve known more than she did about her friend? “There are things I don’t understand.”

Yessica fidgeted with her rings, then looked directly into Holly’s eyes. “Me, too. The newspaper said you found her body. It mentioned the strange coincidence—very convenient—that
you
, her friend, were the one who found her. Are you here about Maricella or are you really looking to clear yourself?”

Holly went still. Her mind raced to get ahead of Yessica’s unexpected reaction. “Both. I really need to understand why she’s dead.”

“I know you two were friends, but it’s not your place to figure it out. You’re an accountant, not a police officer. It’s up to them to find who killed her. To clear you. Or not.”

How could she get past Yessica’s anger and reticence?
Yes,
I’m a suspect
probably wasn’t a good start and
JC’s ruining my business reputation
—definitely a bad follow-up. But this wasn’t idle curiosity. “Marcy was my friend. I swear I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her. That reporter—”

“I know you’d never hurt her.” Yessica waved her comment away. “And I know all about
that
reporter.”

“It seems murder sells a lot of newspapers.”

“He’s using Maricella, and my family, to sell his newspaper.” Yessica’s mouth twisted in a grimace. Color rose on her face, two hectic red spots on her smooth olive skin. “Where was he after she disappeared? When we wanted his help?”

“I don’t think he cares about Marcy at all.” Holly wanted to direct Yessica’s anger in another direction. JC had brought up an “ex” when she mentioned Lee, and Tim had talked about a guy named Alders who gave Marcy a lot of grief. Marcy’s reappearance in Pasco, meshed with her reluctance to talk about her past, created a troublesome combination. “Did Marcy have a restraining order against Lee?”

Yessica did a classic double-take. Drawing Holly with her, she moved closer to the wall. “Maricella told you about Lee?”

Was Lee his first or last name? Holly crossed her fingers and nodded. “A little. It was why she moved back here, to get away from him.”

A guess, but apparently it was right on target.

Lips pursed in silent contemplation, Yessica scanned the boutique.

Watching the woman from the corner of her eye, Holly made her own assessment of the patrons. Two girls who looked entirely too young to be planning a coming-of-age party rifled the frothy white dresses. A mother–daughter pair was engrossed in the wedding gowns.

“I’m glad she told you.”

Holly refocused on Yessica. Up close, the woman had the red-rimmed eyes and tight-pinched face of angry grief.

“Maybe it meant she really was moving on. I told her to stay away from Lee from the moment she met that man. I knew he was bad news even before the bastard started hitting her. Not that she ever admitted he did it.”

Lee hit Marcy? Outrage flared, but Holly forced herself to stay still, to listen and shoulder part of Yessica’s pain.

“Why didn’t I do more?” Yessica plucked a tissue from the box behind the counter. “I don’t think my parents ever believed me when I told them what he did to Maricella.”

Holly touched her arm, a tangible reassurance. “You did the best you could. Marcy knew you loved her.”

“Love.” Yessica snorted. “Maricella thought Lee loved her. I’ll never forget how she was. ‘He’s wonderful, Yessa.’” Her hands fluttered in exaggerated gestures of rapture, the tattered tissue a ragged banner. “All he loved was his money,” she added darkly.

Rich plus Seattle most likely meant Alders was in the high-tech industry and could’ve been the owner of a startup. Wouldn’t it be horribly ironic if her Mergers and Acquisitions Group sold his company? Ugh, then she might have made the bastard even richer and more entitled.

But damn, if Marcy had confided in her, she was supposed to already know all this. Improvising, Holly said, “Marcy never told me how she met him. Was he from Pasco or did they meet when she was living in Seattle?”

Yessica’s anger ebbed, replaced by weariness that bowed her shoulders and carved lines into her face. She stuffed the tissue remnant into a pocket. “They met at a coffee shop near her office. Knowing what I do now, I suspect he followed her there—made it look like an accidental meeting.”

“He was stalking her?” Holly kept her tone level—Yessica was already upset—but concern and futile frustration tightened her hands into fists. She knew exactly how it felt to have someone invade her life that way.

Her first date with Frank had been at a coffee shop, too. It had all started so innocently. Was that how Marcy got sucked in? A charming guy. A pleasant setting…

But things had deteriorated from there, apparently for both of them.

“Stalking her?” Yessica’s hands rose and fell. “Who knows? She seemed so happy, but when I met him, I got a bad feeling, you know?”

She
did
know. Her creep detector had saved her a few times, but it hadn’t kept Frank Phalen from stalking her.

“Maybe if I’d said more…”

Holly gave Yessica a reassuring squeeze. “If Marcy was that caught up in Lee, she wouldn’t have believed you. And you thought she was happy.” Maybe Marcy had been happy. Maybe Lee had simply pursued her. At least, at first…

“When she stopped coming home, we thought she was too busy and too happy to make the trip.” Yessica shook her head, tumbling glossy, dark hair across her shoulders. Hair so like her sister’s, Holly’s heart ached anew.

“Maybe she was.”

“I think she was afraid Mama and Papa would see the bruises,” Yessica continued as if Holly hadn’t spoken. “Or maybe that bastard Lee Alders wouldn’t let her out of his sight.”

Her stomach wrenched. When had Marcy realized she was in a destructive relationship? Had she ever admitted it, even to herself? Holly thought about the mystery boyfriend and kicked herself for not becoming a better friend. She should’ve given Marcy a chance to talk about it—with someone who understood.

What if Peter’s gambling brunette was someone else and Marcy had gotten mixed up with Lee again?

“The lies that man told. All ‘I’ve changed, baby. I’ll never do it again.’” Yessica’s voice mocked the clichéd phrases. “He better not show his ugly face around here again, or…”

Yessica’s glower warned that Lee might go home minus a body part or two if he showed up.

“Was he here? Last week?” Holly asked.

“A couple of weeks ago. Lee’s such a damn charmer. Mama never believed he beat Maricella. The bastard was smart enough not to hit her face. Mama kept telling her to stay with him like a good wife should.”

Mrs. Ramirez encouraged her daughter to stay with an abuser? Holly struggled to keep her dismay off her face. Her own mother had been as protective as a grizzly bear over her cubs when Holly finally admitted Frank frightened her.

She’d moved three hundred miles across a mountain range to get away from Frank, because when she stopped and admitted it, he
still
frightened her.

“He got Mama to tell him where Maricella was living and working. When she disappeared last week, Mama was convinced she’d gone back to him and his fancy Westside condo.”

“Do you remember the address?”

Yessica rattled off a Bellevue address, a condo in the high-rent district overlooking Lake Washington.

“Why did she attract that sort of man? Her childhood—our childhood—was sweet. Papa and Mama loved us very much. We had family. No one mistreated her. But it was like she thought she didn’t deserve to be loved by a good man.” Tears of frustration filled Yessica’s eyes.

What a sad and simple statement. Everyone deserved an opportunity for love. In spite of her career aspirations, she hoped for the same chance. “You can’t blame yourself. You tried, but nobody really knows what’s happening in someone else’s mind, or why they make the choices they do. Marcy loved being back here, close to her family. She talked about all of you, all the time.”

Yessica’s tears overflowed. “She spoke of you as well. She said you were a friend.”

Holly grabbed another tissue, then stepped closer. “I wish there was more I could do.” The only thing she could do right now was put her arms around a grieving soul and hold on tight.

A few minutes later, Yessica wiped her eyes and sniffled. “Thanks.”

Holly stepped back. “Have you told the police here about Lee Alders?”

“Don’t they know? Maricella got the papers, the restraining order.” Yessica dabbed at her nose.

“In Seattle?”

“Yes.” Confusion wrinkled Yessica’s forehead. “The women’s advocate took the papers to the courthouse and the judge signed them.”

“I don’t know exactly how it works, if there’s a central database or something. The local cops might not know about the restraining order.” Holly considered what JC would say if she suggested he look at Marcy’s ex. “It would be better if you told the police about Lee.”

JC needed to know what Lee had done. That was where he should concentrate, not on Tim and Alex.

Or her.