The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (18 page)

“Good thinking,” Maud said with an approving nod.

Brooke, who had been looking thoughtful, said, “I think you—we—need to look at the
un
likely allies. I mean, look at
Orient Express
.” She nodded toward the TV screen, which was frozen on a still of Albert Finney as Hercule Poirot. “You'd never think half those people would even know each other, much less conspire to kill someone together. Maybe some of the suspects have connections we don't know about.”

Kerry threw up her hands and sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils. “This is hopeless,” she said. She immediately added, “I'm sorry, Amy-Faye; I didn't mean that. Even if we don't discover who killed Gordon, I'm sure Derek won't get convicted. If the moving parts and timelines and possible suspects are confusing us, just think how the poor jurors will feel. There's enough reasonable doubt in all this to fill an Olympic-size swimming pool.”

“It's okay,” I said, knowing she hadn't meant anything by her outburst. I was frustrated, too. I rose to go. “Thanks for having us over, Maud. And thanks for playing corpse, Joe. You've got a real future in the acting biz if you ever decide to give up on photography.”

“Be on the other side of the lens? No, thanks,” he said, unexpectedly rising and folding me into a comforting bear hug. “Don't let it get to you, Amy-Faye. It'll all come out right.”

I sniffed. “Thanks, Joe.” I was grateful for the kindness of this man I didn't even know very well. “I'm sure you're right.” I looked around at the Readaholics. “Thanks to all of you for helping, and for caring about
Derek. Keep drinking Elysium beer—it's paying his legal bills.”

They laughed, and some of the others also got ready to leave. As we walked out in a clump, I reflected on how blessed I was to have such wonderful friends. The thought warmed me all the way home. For my bedtime reading, I picked up the latest Royal Spyness book from my to-be-read pile. The 1930s setting reminded me of the movie we'd just watched, and I was in the mood for Lady Georgie's antics. Snuggling into the crisp white sheets, I drifted off to sleeping, thinking hazily that if only America were a monarchy, I could have been a minor royal, too.

I
woke Friday morning with an idea for getting in touch with Gene Dreesen. It had come to me in a jumbled dream that included both the Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov Hercule Poirots, Lady Georgie, a train that went round and round on a circular track, and, for some unknown reason, a ballerina dancing to the Sugar Plum Fairy song. She broke her arm halfway through her solo and had to finish dancing in a cast. Somewhere out of that strange collage had come the idea: Gene Dreesen was an accountant and I was a business owner who employed an accountant. Suppose I met with him, pretending I was looking for a new CPA to do my books and taxes? I said a silent apology to Perdita Coss, my real accountant, and hoped word wouldn't get back to her that I was looking to replace her.

Accordingly, after stopping for a large coffee at the Divine Herb, and eyeing the women coming downstairs from yoga enviously—I needed to put yoga back in my schedule—I called Dreesen's firm as soon as I walked into the office. When I explained that it was urgent, they were happy to give me an appointment at one o'clock.

I put thoughts of Derek and the investigation out of my mind, working feverishly all morning on the events
we had on the books for this weekend. Chasing down murder suspects had cut into my work time and I was not as prepared as I liked to be for what was shaping up to be a busy weekend with a bachelorette party tonight, a community yard sale Saturday morning, an anniversary do Saturday night, and a brunch Sunday morning. Al drifted into my office midmorning, wanting to talk about Courtney, but I wasn't able to tell him anything about her relationship status.

“All I can say is, she's not dating my brother.” I remained focused on the toast I was editing for the husband of the anniversary couple tomorrow night. When I'd started out in event organizing, I'd had no idea my English degree would actually come in useful, but it did on occasion. I was constantly amazed by the number of best men; maids of honors; corporate honchos making remarks at promotions, retirements, or other events; and others who asked me to either write their remarks or edit them.

“Eliminating one possible boyfriend still leaves her a lot of scope,” he pointed out dolefully.

“Look her up on Facebook.”

“Already did. She's not on there.”

I finally looked up from the notes I was making. “Call her and ask her out.”

“Like on a date?” He looked comically surprised at the notion.

“Exactly like that. An assignation, a rendezvous, dinner and a movie . . . a
date
.”

Al wandered out so gobsmacked by the idea that he couldn't even respond.

I grinned and returned to my editing.

•   •   •

At twelve forty-five, I climbed into the van and headed for the east end of town and the office building where Madrid, Dreesen, and Jones had their CPA firm. I climbed the stairs to their third-floor office, wanting the time to collect myself and go over the new approach I planned to take. Instead of impugning Perdita by hinting that there was something amiss with Eventful!'s books, I was going to say that we—my family—needed Elysium's books audited by an independent firm because we thought there was something amiss in the wake of Gordon's death. I'd called to discuss the idea with my mother and Derek, and they were on board with it, as long as I didn't actually turn over the books to Gene Dreesen.

“He's got a conflict of interest, doesn't he?” Derek asked. “Being Gordon's brother-in-law?”

“Probably.” I didn't know what the CPA code of ethics looked like. “I'm just using it as an excuse to get in and see him, so it won't matter if he ends up saying he can't do the audit. In fact, it makes it easier if he recuses himself, because then I won't have to come up with an excuse for not giving him the job.”

Smoothing my pale blue skirt over my thighs, and lifting my hair off my neck for a moment, I pushed through the door and into the CPA firm's reception area. I barely had time to note glass end tables flanking a black leather sofa, and a flourishing ficus tree before the male receptionist whisked me back to Gene Dreesen's office.

“Your one o'clock,” the receptionist said, reducing me to an appointment time. He hurried back to the reception desk to answer the ringing phone.

The office was minimalist, the desk a slice of black acrylic or some kind of space-age material, the desk lamp made of industrial pipe with a wire basket over the bulb, and no desk clutter except a slim laptop and a framed photo of a girl who had to be Kinleigh. A gray cellular shade cut the glare from the large window but allowed plenty of natural light. There wasn't a piece of paper in sight—Maud would approve.

“Amy-Faye Johnson,” I said, smiling and extending my hand.

“Eugene Dreesen. Call me Gene.”

He was about ten years older than Dr. Angie Dreesen, I thought, which put him in his mid-fifties. His hair was prematurely white, but full, framing a long face and mostly covering thick-lobed ears. When he stood to shake my hand, I saw that he was tall and slightly stooped. His charcoal pin-striped jacket fit loosely, as if he'd recently lost weight, and I suspected the groove between his brows and the lines bracketing his mouth were deeper now than they had been six months ago, before his daughter's death.

“How can I help you, Ms. Johnson? You own an event-organizing business, I understand.”

He must have looked up my Web site after I called.

“Amy-Faye,” I said, “and yes, I do, but that's not why I'm here.”

“Oh?”

“I don't know if you've heard,” I lied, “but a new
brewpub opened in Heaven last weekend and one of the investment partners was killed. My brother owns the pub and my parents are currently managing it, and we want to have an independent audit of the books conducted.”

Dreesen gave me an assessing stare from deep-set eyes. “Gordon Marsh was my brother-in-law. I was at the party last Friday.”

“No!” I hoped I didn't overdo the astonished bit. “I don't remember seeing you.” Actually, I remembered seeing him leave with Angie, head bowed against the torrential downpour.

“I got there late . . . got tied up here and then stopped to help a distressed motorist.” He linked his fingers together and rested his hands on the desk. “I got there right in time to evacuate for the fire alarm. I never even got to congratulate Gordon that night, never laid eyes on him. It's strange . . . You rarely think that the last time you see someone is going to be the last time. It must have been a week earlier that I last saw Gordon, and that was a chance encounter at the Pancake Pig, where I was meeting a client for breakfast. He was there with Kolby, reading him the riot act, it looked like, and we didn't say more than ‘Good morning' to each other.” He looked pensive.

“Yeah, Gordon didn't hang around long after the preparty with the VIPs. He disappeared when he saw the Women Outing Serial Cheaters marching across the parking lot,” I said. “Did you know about them?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Susan was mixed up
with them, right? I think she told Angie about them. Sounded like an utter waste of time and money to me. And possibly actionable if their slander harmed some man's reputation.

“Do you have reason to suspect there are irregularities in the pub's books? Are you saying you think Gordon was embezzling?” He scratched the side of his nose.

“Not necessarily,” I said, wanting to keep all options open. “We recently found out that one of the pub employees was a man with a grudge against Gordon—”

“No shortage of those.” He caught himself up short and pressed his lips together. “I apologize. You were saying?”

“—who sabotaged the pub opening in various ways. We want to make sure he wasn't also stealing or monkeying with the books.”

“I'm sure the executor will order an audit as part of the probate process, and maybe GTM as well,” Dreesen said, “so you should probably wait for that. Regardless, I'm sure you can understand why I'm not the man to do the job.” His tone said
wrap it up
and his gaze flicked to his computer screen.

“No, of course not. I feel so silly for calling you. I must have subconsciously recognized your name from the grand opening attendees' list when I was searching for accountants last night. You know”—I wrinkled my brow in pretend puzzlement—“I thought Gordon said he didn't expect to see you and his sister at the party even though he put you on the guest list?”

“Gordon was family,” Dreesen said, putting his palms flat on the desk and pushing himself up. “We wouldn't have missed it. I'm only sorry the evening ended so tragically. And now, Ms. Johnson, if you'll excuse me . . . ?”

I had no choice but to stand, thank him for his time, and go. He sat again as I passed through the door. When I reached the reception area, the receptionist was finishing a call. Feeling as sly as Kinsey Millhone, I said, “I guess you work some long hours here, huh? Mr. Dreesen was telling me how late he was here last Friday.”

“Tax season is our busy time of year,” the young man said. He wore suspenders with whales on them over a crisp yellow shirt. “We're pretty slow right now. And, honey, I'm just the receptionist. That five o'clock whistle blows and I'm outta here.” The phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

I left slowly, pondering what I'd learned. Not much. Dreesen hadn't come across as a man bent on vengeance, and he might or might not have been here late on Friday as he said. Just because the receptionist hadn't confirmed his alibi didn't mean he wasn't here. As I well knew, partners in a firm frequently worked longer and harder than employees. All in all, I'd say my visit to Gene Dreesen was a waste of time.

•   •   •

Since I'd be working late tonight, I decided to take a small break on my way to the office and detour by the pub to see Derek and my folks. I hadn't eaten, and I was starving. At two o'clock, it was past the standard
lunch hour, but a handful of people still lingered over burgers and fish and chips. Derek was behind the bar, looking better than he had seemed in days.

“I'm working on a new IPA,” he greeted me when I plunked myself onto a stool, “and I think it's an award winner.”

That was why he looked better. Nothing revived Derek like creating a new brew. “When can I taste it?”

“A couple weeks, maybe. I'm still tinkering with it.”

“Could I get a bowl of the beer-and-cheddar soup?” I asked. The rich, creamy soup was my favorite thing on the menu, even though I'd guess it had four thousand calories per spoonful.

“Sure thing.” He put a glass of water in front of me and went to get the soup from the kitchen.

He returned moments later, bearing a tray with the soup, utensils, and crackers. Savory steam rising from the bowl made me salivate and I took the first ambrosial spoonful as soon as the bowl hit the counter.

“Doing your starving-wolf impression, sis?” Derek asked, drawing his hand away quickly, in mock fear that I would tear into it next.

“Hungry,” I muttered. After a few more bites, I felt human enough to ask, “Mom and Dad around?”

“In the office. Dad's paying bills. I think Mom's making up next week's schedule, or else she's redecorating.” He rolled his eyes. “She got rid of my poker-playing dogs and brought in a bunch of flowers and plants.”

The way he said “flowers” made it sound like she'd brought in a cockroach farm.

I laughed. “They'll brighten the place up for her. You can dump them when you're back at this full-time.” Crumbling crackers into the soup, I finished it off and resisted the urge to lick the bowl. Not couth.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Aw, I don't know—maybe I'll keep 'em. If they're not too stinky.”

I took a swallow of water, stood, and left a ten by my bowl. “I'll say hi to the folks, and then I've got to put my nose back to the grindstone. I've got a bachelorette party tonight, and then that big community garage sale and the anniversary party tomorrow. Busy weekend.”

Derek slid the ten back toward me. “On me. I owe you a lot more than a bowl of soup.”

“You don't—” I stopped as if I'd suddenly had a thought. “I do need some help tonight. Raven, the male stripper I usually hire for these types of things, has come down with the flu. Do you still have that George of the Jungle costume you wore to the Aikens' Halloween party a few years back? If you could dress in that and come dance for the ladies, we'd be square. Nine o'clock? I'm sure Mom and Dad can hold down the fort here for an hour. I've got a sound track, and, oh, you'll need to wax your chest and maybe oil it. Or use some spray tan—you're looking pretty pale.”

He was staring at me in horror. The glass he was filling from the tap began to overflow. I reached over
the bar and turned off the tap for him while he gobbled, “You can't—I can't—Amy-Faye, I can't even keep a beat. My only dance move is the moonwalk. I can't dance naked in front of—”

“Oh, not totally naked,” I said reassuringly. “Just down to one of those glittery jockstraps. Or lamé. Your choice.”

“I don't have—” His hand raked his auburn hair, making it stand out.

I couldn't hold back my giggles any longer. He glared at me, caught between relief and pissed off. “You were joking. Thank God. I thought—”

“We're fam. You don't owe me squat. Besides, I've got my reputation to think of and you doing a Chippendales routine for fifty women would not enhance it. Sorry, bro, but there it is.” I levered myself up on the bar so I was balanced at my waist and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

“Ick, girl cooties,” he said, scrubbing at his cheek in pretend horror.

I could tell he was pleased. I waggled my fingers at him in farewell and trotted up the stairs to the third-floor offices. I found my dad in Gordon's office, writing checks. His head was bent so I could see the bald spot on top, and he wore a chunky gray cardigan Natalie, or maybe Peri, had given him for Christmas a couple of years back. A vase of coral-colored gladioli brightened the desk, floral throw pillows had been placed on each of the visitor chairs, and the window was open to let in a soft breeze, sure signs that Mom had been here. I hugged Dad and asked how it was going.