Kiss and Tell (12 page)

In the refrigerator were five extra plates full of the Thanksgiving dinner Charles had made for the dogs: chicken with all the trimmings. Myra heated them in the microwave, then set the plates on the floor. The dogs wolfed their food and settled themselves on the cushions by the fire. Time for a nap. Myra smiled indulgently. “It's like having five little kids, but less work.”

Annie nodded as she pressed numbers onto her BlackBerry. She stated her business, discussed payment, and ended the call. “That Handyman Mike I've used from time to time will be here at eleven o'clock to fix the door. He's bringing all the materials with him. I'm sort of thinking maybe I should try and gouge out the bullets. What do you think, Myra?” she asked fretfully.

“I'm thinking that might be a good idea. But we have time for that. Let's just drink our coffee and enjoy it. Three or four aspirin, Annie?”

“Four,” Annie said smartly. “Should we call the kids?”

“Yes, but not yet. After we shower and get ready for the day. Let's just sit here until our hangovers ease up. Annie, did you pick up on anything strange yesterday, and by strange I mean before . . . before the
main event?
”

“You mean like Jack's huddling with Harry, and Yoko suddenly in charge of Lily, and Jack and the other
men
huddling and whispering? Yep!”

“How can we find out what went on?”

“Don't you mean which one will squeal on the others?”

Myra cleared her throat. “That's one way of putting it. So, which one?”

“The newbie. Dennis is his name. I like that kid. I'm going to give him a raise.”

“That's nice. What if he won't give it up?”

“Then I won't give him a raise,” Annie snapped. Myra made a sound that could have been laughter. Annie wasn't sure. Whatever it was, she was assured that her best friend in the whole world was back among the living and not teetering over that black hole she'd been perched on just hours ago. She rather thought that the day was off to a good start.

“How are you going to get him to squeal?” Myra asked curiously.

“I'll think of something. But not right this second. I have an idea, Myra. After we take care of Manny Macklin, let's go to Vegas for Christmas. I'll shut down the casino, kick out all the guests, and all of us will have the run of the casino and hotel. We can take Lady, the pups, and everyone else's dogs, and whoop it up till our hearts are content. You up for a walk on the wild side?”

Myra didn't know if she was or not, but she gave a thumbs-up. Hearing her name mentioned, Lady opened one eye and offered up a soft woof before going back to sleep.

Annie grinned. “Guess that means she's up for it. I have another idea. The adults can party at night—Christmas Eve—and on Christmas Day we can host underprivileged children from all over the state. I bet if we call on Rena Gold—you remember how Rena helped us on one of our missions—she could get the ball rolling. Tons of presents, a service of some kind, with different pastors and priests, along with donations. We could even do an animal one, too.”

“Annie, that's a great idea. You're going to lose a lot of money shutting down the casino for twenty-four hours, though.”

“There is that, but think of all the happiness we can create. I know you won't want to be here at the farm on Christmas because of the memories. A Vegas Christmas is about as far as you can get from a Pinewood Christmas. I'll pay all the staff so they don't lose out. We might get so much good press, our revenues will double when we reopen the doors. Lizzie and Cosmo can work on the sidelines to help Rena. Should we do it, Myra?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! I think it's a great idea.” Myra massaged her temples. Thank God the horrendous headache she woke up with was all but gone.

“Good. I'm so glad that you agree. I'll get right on it. I do love to delegate. More coffee?”

Myra held her cup out for a refill. “I don't want you worrying about me, Annie. Yesterday was a . . . shock, a bitter one. Part of me always knew this was going to happen someday. I always wondered what I would do if it happened. Now I know. The answer is, I can't do anything but get on with my life and do the best I can. Do I like it? No, I don't. Will I get over it? Probably not. Will I falter and sink into depression? Not likely, but if you see that happening, give me a swift kick. And, of course, the last question is whether I need a man in my life to make me whole. And the answer is no, a thousand times no!”

“Well said, my friend. We're survivors, Myra. We've had full and rich lives, most of it good, but we've had some down-and-dirty bad times, too. And yet, here we are. And here we shall remain.”

Myra reached across the table to grasp Annie's hand. No words were necessary between the two women.

When the coffeepot was empty, Myra stood up and said she'd shower first while Annie started to put her Christmas plans into motion. When she returned to the kitchen, she'd call the girls to let them see she was okay. And then it was on to Manny Macklin.

At the landing on the back staircase, Myra stared out at the winter wonderland. It was so beautiful it took her breath away. It was all so pure and clean. Tears filled her eyes, but she brushed them away. She straightened her shoulders and climbed the rest of the stairs. Her steps were brisk as she made her way to her bedroom and the master bath.

Charles Martin, aka Sir Malcolm Sutcliff, was just someone she used to know. She bit down on her lower lip and switched her thoughts to Manny Macklin.

“W
hy do I feel like I'm in a cocoon?” Annie demanded as she tossed her pen across the kitchen table to make some kind of point.

“Because,” Myra said, raising her eyes from her laptop and pointing outside, “we
are
in a cocoon. There has to be at least a foot and a half of new snow out there. If you want my opinion, it's eerie. Now, Annie, having said that, do you agree or not that there is nothing we can do about it? Turn on the TV; at least that will give us some extra noise.” Annie got up and obliged.

Both women leaned forward to listen to a curly-haired blonde, dressed in what looked like an ermine parka, chortle about all the snow and what it was doing to the Black Friday shopping frenzy that was just going to devastate every retailer on the Eastern Seaboard.

“I'm just surprised we haven't lost power,” Myra said, getting up to pour more coffee into her cup.

Annie reached for the pot, rinsed it, and made fresh coffee—more to have something to do than anything else. “Did you come up with anything new?”

“You mean on the current Mrs. Macklin? She's just another bimbo. Thirty years younger, nipped, tucked, enhanced, and shellacked like the others. Spends her days and his money going to clubs, luncheons, and fancy stores. They've been married for three years and never seem to see each other. She stays in New York. He's all over the map. Her name was Jane Lincoln, twice divorced, no children. She was a hairdresser. Guess she coiffed Manny's hair at some point. Her current job seems to be spending her husband's money. Nice gig if you can get it.”

Myra stared, transfixed, at the coffee dripping into the pot. Annie didn't know if she'd heard her or not. “Don't go there, Myra. Come on, talk to me.”

Myra whirled around. “I was not thinking about Charles. I was just wondering who the beneficiary of our deceased clients is. I didn't come across a copy of their will in the folders they gave us. You didn't see one, did you?”

“No. But Nikki's firm represents . . . represented them. This is just a wild guess on my part, but I would imagine they left the bulk of it to charity, mainly the Salvation Army since that's the organization they were most loyal to. The people who helped them along the way. Do you think it's important for us to know that?”

“Well, yes, in a way. You don't think they'd leave anything to Macklin out of guilt or soft feelings, do you?”

Annie peered over the top of her reading glasses, which were perched high on her nose. “Surely you jest, Myra. They contacted us to
punish
him. Why on earth would they leave him anything?”

“Guilt!”

Annie poured coffee that she really didn't want into her cup. “The short answer is no. Nikki will tell us when she can. We're not going to be able to get to town for their memorial service tomorrow. Young Dennis is going to be upset.”

“Maybe he'll reschedule it. I'm sure Nikki wants to attend. The others left on the red-eye to return to Vegas. There's just us.”

“Well, there's nothing we can do about that either,” Annie grumbled as she sat back down at the table. “We need to make a plan, Myra. But first we need to talk to Abner so we know what we're doing here. We might have to create a legend for ourselves if we plan on a face to face. How smart do you think that guy really is?”

Myra propped her chin in the palm of her hand. “Well, Annie, he was smart enough to pull off his Ponzi scheme up to this point without getting caught. He's been at it for more than twenty years and must have amassed a fortune. I'm thinking there might be cracks in his system. I don't have anything to base that statement on, just my gut feeling. Right now, this is how I see it. We have to find the first wife. Next to talking to Sara and Tressie, I think she's the one who can help us the most.”

“I agree. If Abner can't find her, then we might as well give up. I don't know how else we can get to Macklin. The last article I read a while back said he's like a phantom—he's here, he's there, impossible to nail down. We missed our chance yesterday, but Dennis said Pauline, the receptionist, called to cancel his pot roast dinner once again, because she has the flu. She told him that Macklin canceled his Santa appearance yesterday. Said he was—the term she used was—
stuck somewhere
. She also said that was a first for him; he had never missed one till this year. So we didn't actually miss cornering him. I'm just wondering if this is part of his M.O.—you know, being on the move all the time—or if this is something new. And if it's the latter, then like I said, he's aware of the cracks. I wish Abner would get back to us already.”

“There's nothing wrong with calling Abner for an update.”

That was all Annie needed to hear. She had her cell phone in her hand and was punching out numbers in a nanosecond.

Myra carried her coffee cup over to the newly repaired back door and stared out at the blinding whiteness. Everything looked so beautiful, so pure, so chaste, so innocent. She crossed her fingers on her left hand and smiled to herself.
Life is what you make of it
, she told herself. No guarantees along the way. Her shoulders started to sag, but Lady nosed her leg as much as to say, no, no, no. Imperceptibly, Myra felt her shoulders lift. She looked down at her beloved companion. “You want to go out?” Lady backed away and trotted into the laundry room, where there were pee pads by the door for days like this.

“Woo hoo!” Annie shouted as she broke the connection and slipped her cell into the pocket of her sweatpants. “We have information!”

“So share it,” Myra said, excitement ringing in her voice.

“We have a name and an address for Manny Macklin's first wife, Mary. She changed her last name to Carmichael. She lives about ten miles outside of Washington. Seems she had a half brother, different fathers. That was the holdup in finding her. She took his last name. She lives a quiet life, doesn't have a full-time job but does volunteer her services at her local church, and there does not appear to have been any contact with the family she walked away from. She cut all ties when she departed. At least, that is what Abner thinks. He's going to send us a fax with all the information.”

Myra clapped her hands. “Good. Now we have a starting point. Did he say anything else?”

Annie grimaced. “The short answer is no. I guess you can say he failed.” At Myra's look of horror, Annie hastened to explain. “He didn't actually fail. He said he didn't come up with anything because there was nothing to find. According to Abner, Emanuel Macklin is a Neanderthal. He does everything the old-fashioned way. He deals with telephone calls, and the investment statements he sends out to his clients every month are done on a typewriter using—are you ready for this?—carbon paper. No computer trail.

“Going on nothing more than a hunch and his gut feeling, Abner said he went trawling and learned that his fortune is on the move. Millions and millions are moving at the speed of light. Abner said it was too complicated to explain over the phone. You aren't going to believe this, but that bastard opened up accounts in Lichtenstein in the names of
Marie Palmer
and
Sally Dumont
and
Mary Richardson.
So he probably does not know that instead of going back to her maiden name, Mary adopted her half brother's. Fifty million in each one. As in our dead clients, Sara and Tressie, and the ex-wife. The last time he moved the money was the Monday before Thanksgiving. Abner thinks he's getting ready to take it on the lam.”

“Oh my! That means we're going to have to work fast, then. Do you think our dumping our accounts had anything to do with this?”

Annie shoved her glasses higher on her nose and fixed Myra with a hard stare. “Well, he did it a few days
after
our visit to Queen's Ridge. We dumped our investments at that time. So, yes, I think it's a very good chance we had a lot to do with it. He's faxing that stuff, too.”

“Where do you think he'll go?”

“Abner said he has real estate all over the world. Some really fancy digs in exotic locations, others just houses in regular neighborhoods. In other words, safe houses where he can just blend in. He has almost a billion when you combine all his real estate, and not a single property is in his name. Most properties are in the names of Mary Richardson, Marie Palmer, and Sally Dumont. There isn't even a single property in the name of either of his kids. Tell me that guy isn't a skank! Now, all these years later, he's still using those two ladies and his ex-wife. What a guy!”

“Does he have any partners?”

Annie shrugged. “Abner didn't say, so I'd say no. Except for his son and daughter. They're on the books. Skeleton office staff. Mostly elderly people who have been with him for a long time. Six in all. Do they know? I don't know, Myra.”

“That almost has to mean he's a one-man operation. He really uses carbon paper? I didn't know they still made carbon paper. Abner is right, the man is a Neanderthal. With the exception of his two children, no one else appears on the radar screen. I suppose he thought it was safer that way. Too many hands in the pie would not be a safe option. Go it alone, and if anything goes awry, you have no one to blame but yourself. It also means no one can squeal or tip off the SEC. I don't think I will ever be able to understand how he could amass the fortune he did, pay off all those clients those high returns, and get away with it for so long. Didn't we say over twenty years, or something like that?”

“Think about it, Myra. The man would have had to work at something like that almost 24/7, and he must have a phenomenal memory to keep it all straight. Do you think he keeps two sets of books? We're going to need those books. I'm going to go down to the War Room to see if Abner's faxes came through. While I'm doing that, why don't you make us some breakfast, something beside toast and jam, okay?”

“How does a turkey omelet sound?”

Annie just rolled her eyes.

Myra walked over to the back door and stared outside. Déjà vu. She'd just done this a little while ago but still marveled at the pristine outdoors. The scenery hadn't changed one iota since she'd stood at the door earlier. Her thoughts were different now, though. They were across the pond with her husband. She felt her eyes start to burn. She clenched her fists at her sides and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Why, Charles, why did you do this?” she whispered over and over to herself. When she couldn't come up with an answer, she sighed mightily and made her way over to the refrigerator. She had orders to make an omelet, and an omelet was what she was going to do. She sniffed at what she perceived to be the injustice of it all.