Trust No One (7 page)

T
he phone rang just as Grace dropped a slice of multi-grain bread into the toaster. She glanced at the screen, saw her sister’s name, and took the call.

“Are you calling to tell me that you’re pregnant again?” she asked. “If so, congratulations.”

“I’m calling,” Alison said, “because I just saw the news about the embezzlement at the Witherspoon Way Corporation. Are you all right?”

Alison was using her crisp, no-nonsense lawyer voice. That was never a good sign.

“Word travels fast,” Grace said. “And, yes, I’m fine.”

Phone in hand, she walked to the window. It was her favorite time of day. The late winter sun was not yet up, but there was enough early light in the sky to transform the surface of the lake into a steel mirror. As she watched, a man dressed in gray sweats came into view. He was running at an easy, steady pace, as if he could run forever. He followed the public path that traced the shoreline. The lights were on in
her kitchen. She knew that if he looked at the house he would see her. She waved.

Julius raised one hand, acknowledging the greeting. For a few seconds she could have sworn he actually broke stride, perhaps even considered pausing to say good morning. But he kept going.

She had been living in the lake house for nearly a week. Although she had met Julius for the first time last night, she already knew his running schedule. He went past her place every other morning just before dawn. This was the first morning that she had waved at him. Until last night he had been an interesting stranger. Today he was a man with whom she had shared some secrets.

“I’m worried about this new development,” Alison said. “Embezzlement is dangerous territory. There’s a strong possibility that it was the reason for Witherspoon’s murder.”

Grace watched Julius until he was out of sight. When he was gone she switched the phone to speaker mode and put the device down on the counter. She reached for the jar of peanut butter and a knife.

“In a horrible way it would be almost reassuring to know that there was a logical motive like money involved,” she said. “Otherwise Sprague’s death makes no sense.”

She glanced at the clock. The early morning call was unlike Alison, who lived a well-scheduled, well-organized life that revolved around home and work. Even the birth of her first child a year earlier had done little to disturb the efficient household. She balanced career and family with an aplomb that made other women marvel.

Grace knew that at that moment Alison was putting the finishing touches on breakfast, after which she would dress in one of her tailored business suits before heading to her office. Alison looked great in a sharp suit. Actually, she looked terrific in just about anything, Grace thought. Her older sister was tall and willowy. But as a successful lawyer who specialized in estate planning, Alison elected to project a
conservative air. She wore her dark hair pulled back in a strict twist that emphasized her classic profile. Sleek, serious glasses framed her eyes.

“The problem with the embezzlement motive is that it points to someone who was working directly for Witherspoon,” Alison said grimly.

“That had occurred to me.” Grace took the lid off the jar of peanut butter. “You’re worried that the cops will think I was the one doing the embezzling, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one who made Witherspoon so successful.”

“That’s not true,” Grace said. “Why do I have to keep explaining that Sprague Witherspoon was the genuine article—a man who truly wanted to do good. And, yes, he had been doing very well financially in the past eighteen months. But that’s just it. Why on earth would I want to kill him? Why would any of us in the office want to murder him? He was making himself and everyone around him quite wealthy. Besides, we both know I wouldn’t have a clue how to go about constructing an embezzlement scheme.”

“Embezzlement is a lot easier than most people think,” Alison said. “There are so many ways to siphon off money from a successful business like the Witherspoon Way.”

“Oddly enough you are not the first person to mention that to me lately.”

“I can’t believe you walked in on another murder,” Alison said. “Statistically speaking, the odds of a person who isn’t in law enforcement or connected to the criminal world stumbling into two different homicide scenes must be vanishingly small.”

“Statistics was never my best subject. I keep reminding myself that coincidences do happen. That’s why they invented the word.”

“How are things going there in Cloud Lake?” Alison asked.

“Okay. I’m not making much progress on finding a new career path, though.”

“Give yourself some time. It’s not like you haven’t had a couple of major shocks lately, what with the murder and then finding yourself unemployed.”

“Tell me about it,” Grace said. The toast popped up in the toaster. She removed it, set it on a plate and spread some peanut butter on it. “But as much as I’d like to blame my lack of momentum on those things, I don’t think that’s the real problem.”

“What is the real problem?”

Grace hesitated, unsure of how much to confide to Alison. There was nothing her sister could do except worry. But they were family, after all. They had never kept secrets from each other, at least not for long.

“The dream is back, Alison. And so are the anxiety attacks.”

“Damn. I was afraid the trauma of Witherspoon’s death might drag everything to the surface again. Maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Peterson.”

“I already know what she would say. She would remind me to practice rewriting the dream script before I go to bed and to remember to use the breathing exercises and meditation techniques on a regular basis and, if necessary, take the meds. I’m doing all of that. It’s just that—”

A small amount of peanut butter dropped off the knife and landed on the counter.

“Hang on,” Grace said. She reached for a paper towel.

“It’s just what?” Alison pressed.

Grace used the towel to wipe up the peanut butter. “It’s just that I can’t shake this weird feeling that there’s some connection between Witherspoon’s death and the Trager murder.”

There was silence from Alison’s end.

“It’s the bottle of vodka, isn’t it?” she said finally.

“Yes.”

“Perfectly understandable, given what happened in the past. But you said that the police found a charge for it on one of Witherspoon’s credit card statements. Sprague Witherspoon bought that bottle of vodka a few days before he was murdered.”

“He didn’t drink vodka, Alison.”

“Maybe not, but he entertained frequently, right?”

“That’s true,” Grace said. “The police did say that there was a large selection of liquor bottles in his kitchen. But I told you, this particular bottle of vodka was sitting on the nightstand beside the bed where I found the body.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Grace took a bite out of the slice of toast that she had just slathered in peanut butter.

“Grace, do you want to come and stay with Ethan and Harry and me for a while?” Alison said after a moment. “You can work on your résumé here in Portland.”

“Thanks, but I really need to stay focused on my job hunting in the Seattle area. I can’t do that from Portland.”

“Have you got any idea what you might want to do next?”

“Zip.” Grace ate some more toast. “I’ve been told I should come up with a business plan for finding my next career.”

“A business plan for job hunting? I suppose there’s some logic to that. Who gave you that advice?”

“A man I met on a blind date that Irene arranged for me last night.”

“The two of you wound up discussing business plans?” Alison chuckled. “Sounds like a typical blind-date disaster.”

“His name is Julius and he was a lot more interesting than anyone else I’ve dated recently.”

“That isn’t saying much, is it? Your social life hasn’t exactly been the stuff of legend lately.”

“Let’s face it, my social life has never been legendary.”

“Your own fault,” Alison said. “You’re going to have to stop sending out vibes that attract men who are looking for a sister or a best friend.”

“I’ll work on that as soon as I get a new job.”

“Mom’s worrying about you again,” Alison said. “She thinks you’re too old to be ricocheting from one job to another trying to find yourself. She’s right.”

“I found myself a long time ago. It’s finding a career that is giving me problems. I’ve got to tell you, the job at the Witherspoon Way was the best position I’ve ever had. I would have been happy to stay there.”

“Well, that’s not an option now, is it?”

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Mom.”

“I’m just doing my job as your older sister,” Alison said. “You know that as far as Mom and I are concerned, Sprague Witherspoon took advantage of you.”

“That’s not true. He gave me opportunities.”

“You wrote that cookbook and blog that took him to the top of the self-help-guru world but it was his name on both.”

“I’ve explained to you that it is not unusual for successful people to pay others to write their books and blogs,” Grace said.

This was not the first time Alison had raised this particular argument. Grace decided that she did not have the patience for it this morning. She was working on a plan that had popped into her head a few minutes earlier when Julius had run past the house. Time was of the essence.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Where are you going at this hour of the morning?”

“I’m going to focus on the first stage of my new career plan. Inspiration just struck.”

“You sound serious,” Alison said. “I’m impressed. And, may I say, it’s about time you settled on a realistic career path. I was starting
to worry that you would end up working as a mime out in front of Nordstrom’s.”

“Thanks, Big Sister. You do know how to motivate a person. Now I really do have to hang up and get busy.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“I told you, my date last night suggested that I build a business plan designed to help me find a career path. He just went past the house on his morning run.”

“So?’

“He’ll turn around at the southern end of the lake where the path ends at the marina.”

“I’m not following you.”

“That means he’ll be coming back this way in a few minutes. I’m going to intercept him.”

“Why?” Alison asked.

“I’m going to ask him if he will consult for me.”

“On what?”

Alison sounded dumbfounded now.

“On a business plan,” Grace said. “Evidently he’s an expert on business strategy and stuff like that. Talk to you later.”

“Wait, don’t hang up. What do you know about this man you’re going to intercept?”

“Not nearly enough,” Grace said.

G
race ended the call and glanced at the clock. Given Julius’s pace and his adherence to his running routine she thought she had about ten minutes left to prepare. She opened the refrigerator and took out two hard-boiled eggs and a bottle of spring water. Next she went into the pantry and found the old wicker picnic basket.

Eight minutes later she was ready. She bundled up in her down jacket, picked up the picnic basket and went out onto the sheltered back porch. A light rain was falling. She pulled up the hood of the coat.

She crossed the porch, went down the steps and hurried through the simple winter garden. Now that her mother and Kirk were spending a good portion of the year in sunny locales, the landscaping around the house had been reduced to the basics. The hardy shrubs and the trees that remained made a stark contrast to the glorious greenery that surrounded Agnes Gilroy’s pretty little house. But then, Agnes was a serious Pacific Northwest gardener.

As if she had been alerted by a psychic intercept, Agnes came out onto her back porch and waved.

“Good morning, dear,” she sang out. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Agnes had always been one of Grace’s favorite people. Agnes was a relentless optimist but Grace’s mother had observed on more than one occasion that beneath her cheery exterior the older woman was not only smart, she was also a shrewd judge of character.

She wore her long gray hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and dressed mostly in baggy denim jeans, flannel shirts and gardening clogs. She had been born a free spirit and had evidently lived the lifestyle. A botanist by training, she had traveled widely in her younger days collecting plant specimens for academic and pharmaceutical research. If her stories were to be believed, she had also gathered numerous lovers along the way. Grace found Agnes’s reminiscences entirely credible.

After retiring Agnes had devoted herself to competitive gardening in Cloud Lake. She had never married and had made it clear that she preferred to live alone. But shortly after Harley Montoya had moved to town, that situation had been somewhat modified.

The competition between Agnes and Harley had led, perhaps inevitably, to a discreet, long-term affair. Without fail, Harley’s truck was seen parked in Agnes’s driveway every Wednesday and Saturday night. It was always gone before dawn.

“It’s risky to let men spend the entire night, dear,” Agnes had once explained to Grace. “It gives them the notion that you’re going to start cooking and cleaning for them.”

Grace paused halfway across the garden. “Hi, Agnes. Yes, it’s a great day.”

The rain was getting heavier but Grace knew that neither of them was going to mention that little fact. There was some natural, built-in
competition between positive thinkers, just as there was between gardeners.

“Going to waylay Mr. Arkwright, dear?” Agnes asked. “I saw him go past a while ago.”

“I thought I’d give it a whirl,” Grace said.

“I take it the blind date went well, then.” Agnes sounded gratified. “I was pretty sure it had when I heard you chase him out of the house last night. That sort of activity early on is always a sign of a promising start in a relationship.”

“Does everyone in town know about my blind date with Julius?” Grace asked.

“I expect there are a few folks who haven’t been paying attention,” Agnes said, “but for the most part I think it’s safe to say it’s common knowledge. You’re rather famous around here, dear, at least among those of us who have lived in Cloud Lake for a while. Have a wonderful day, dear.”

Agnes went back inside. The door banged shut behind her.

The little wrought iron garden gate was designed to be decorative. It was not a security device. Grace unlatched it and stepped out onto the path. Her timing was perfect. She could see Julius coming toward her.

When he saw her he slowed his pace. By the time he was a few yards away he was walking.

He came to a halt in front of her and smiled a slow, wicked smile that was reflected in his eyes. He suddenly looked younger and almost carefree.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood.” His smile widened into a wolfish grin. “And to think I never believed in fairy tales.”

Grace glanced down at her red jacket. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Okay, the red coat and hood thing is sheer coincidence,” she said.

“If you say so.”

Julius was drenched with sweat and rain. The front of his gray pullover was soaked. His hair was plastered to his head. Rivulets of water mixed with perspiration streamed down his face.

Normally she was not keen on sweaty men. She knew some women were attracted to males who looked as if they had just emerged from a cage fight but she was not one of them. But Julius Arkwright drenched in sweat was an altogether different beast. Standing this close to him aroused something primal deep inside.

Focus, woman.

“You probably wonder why I’m out here in the rain, barring your path,” she said.

“I’m going to take a flying leap and say the picnic basket has some significance.”

“Yes, it does,” she said. “Here’s another clue, I am not on my way to Grandma’s house.”

“That leaves us with a high probability that you have deliberately intercepted me.”

“A very strong possibility,” she agreed.

He glanced at the closed lid of the wicker basket with an expression of deep interest. “What have you got in there?”

“A bribe.”

“Who do you plan to bribe?”

“A consultant, I hope.”

He raised his brows. “You are in need of a consultant?”

“Apparently so.”

“What do you want the consultant to do for you?” Julius asked.

“Help me work up a business plan that will enable me to find a new career, one that I will find challenging, exciting and fulfilling—preferably a career that will last longer than eighteen months. I want to find my true calling.”

“I thought you were just trying to find a job.”

“My aspirations are actually somewhat more aspirational. I have my work at the Witherspoon Way to thank for that, I suppose. I’m sure that the right career for me is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find it.”

Julius studied the basket. “Am I to assume that in exchange for assisting you in finding your dream job the consultant gets whatever is in that basket?”

“Right,” she said briskly. “Do we have a deal?”

“You want me to agree to the deal before I see the nature of the bribe?”

“I suppose I could give you a peek.”

She raised the lid of the basket very briefly to reveal the items neatly packed inside—two hard-boiled eggs, an orange, two chunky slices of multi-grain bread, a little plastic canister filled with peanut butter, a bottle of spring water and a thermos.

“It’s a picnic breakfast,” she explained. She snapped the lid of the basket closed to keep out the rain. “There’s coffee in the thermos.”

“Huh. I don’t know about this. With the exception of the coffee and the peanut butter, it all looked sort of healthy.”

“It’s
all
very healthy. The coffee is fair-trade organic and the peanut butter is not only organic, it is unadulterated with sweeteners or stabilizers.”

“That picnic also appeared to be very vegetarian.”

“Is that a problem?” she challenged.

“Nope. Food is food.” He plucked the picnic basket from her arm with a quick, deft motion. “You’ve got yourself a consultant. When do you want to start?”

“How about this morning?”

“Let’s make it lunch. Your morning is already booked.”

“It is?”

“You’re having your little chat with Dev about those stalker emails, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

“See you for lunch.”

Julius loped off with the picnic basket. She stood there in the falling rain and watched him until he vanished from sight around a wooded bend. He made a very interesting Big Bad Wolf.

It’s just a business arrangement, she told herself.

But it was possible that wasn’t the whole truth. It was, in fact, conceivable that an objective observer would describe the situation in an entirely different way.

Some people—the unenlightened type—might say that she was flirting with the Big Bad Wolf.