Read A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) Online
Authors: Ellie Ashe,Elizabeth Ashby
A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (19 page)
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Ellie Ashe has always been drawn to jobs where she can tell stories—journalist, lawyer, and now writer. Writing quirky romantic mysteries is how she gets the "happily ever after" that so often is lacking in her day job.
When not writing, you can find her with her nose in a good book, watching far too much TV, or trying out new recipes on unsuspecting friends and family. She lives in Northern California with her husband and two cats, all of whom worry when she starts browsing the puppy listings on petfinder.com.
To learn more about Ellie Ashe, visit her online at:
http://ellieashe.com
Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.
* * * * *
Danger Cove Bookshop Mysteries
Miranda Vaughn Mysteries
:
Chasing Tinsel (holiday short story)
One Red Cent (short story in the
Killer Beach Reads
collection)
* * * * *
of the first Miranda Vaughn Mystery
CHASING THE DOLLAR
by
ELLIE ASHE
CHAPTER ONE
"Not guilty."
The two words sliced through the thick atmosphere in the courtroom, and my heart leapt. The boa constrictor of stress that had been wound around my body for the last year and a half eased a tiny bit. Next to me, my attorney, Robert Fogg, tensed. We weren't remotely done, his body language warned.
"As to Count Two, wire fraud, the jury finds the defendant—"
A pause.
Why was the clerk pausing?
"Not guilty."
The breath escaped my lungs, but Rob put a cautious hand on my arm warning me not to get too excited yet. He'd spent much of the last fourteen months explaining the odds, explaining the process that I'd face if I insisted on going to trial, comparing the risk I'd face with the known quantity of the plea offer—a mere four years in prison if I agreed to a plea deal and admitted to defrauding clients of the investment bank where I'd been an analyst, compared to ten years or more I risked if I was convicted at trial. And I'd almost certainly be convicted, Rob had assured me. Even if the witnesses against me were convicted felons, liars, conmen who would say anything to get a break on their own prison sentences. The documents were undeniable, incontrovertible evidence of my guilt.
"As to Count Three, wire fraud, the jury finds the defendant—"
Damn her, why the dramatic pause?
"Not guilty," she finished.
This time I glanced over at the jury and made eye contact with several of them, my heart still in my throat. Instead of the impassive expressions they'd worn in the last two weeks, they looked relaxed. Friendlier. Less scary. And they were looking at me. That was one of the signs Rob told me might signal a favorable verdict. If the jury walked in and wouldn't look at me, they probably had convicted me. When they had filed in with their completed verdict forms, I was too nervous to look in their direction.
"As to Count Four, wire fraud, the jury finds the defendant not guilty."
No waiting this time. The clerk flipped the page to the next form and continued reading, her pace picking up. She must have realized that if she kept pausing before the big reveal on each charge, we'd be here until dark.
"As to Count Five, wire fraud, the jury finds the defendant not guilty."
I couldn't relax yet, not quite yet. There were still ten more opportunities to hear I was going to prison.
Fifteen fraud charges. Fifteen chances to hear the clerk announce that the jury had believed my former boss, his former boss, and the government's accountants and investigators who had testified that I, Miranda Vaughn, participated in a conspiracy to defraud banks and investors. That I, with my business degree from a state school still freshly inked, managed to find a way to outwit regulators for the entire six years I worked at Patterson Tinker Investment Strategies to reap huge profits at the expense of the most established investment advisors in the industry.
Rob's hand gripped my arm, and I realized that the clerk was done reading the verdicts. The room was blurry, and I felt the wet tears running down my cheeks for the first time. The stress of holding those tears back in the last year had caused me to lose sleep, lose hair, and develop a nasty habit of grinding my teeth when I finally managed to close my eyes at night. But I knew that if I had let loose those emotions, I'd never be able to rein them back in and would have ended up in a stark white room with no interior door knobs where I'd spend my days rocking back and forth and waiting for my next round of pills.
"We did it, Miranda," Rob whispered, putting an arm around me in an awkward hug.
I looked up to see the judge watching me. Instead of the stern glare I had grown accustomed to, he was almost smiling at me. I blinked. It must have been the tears in the way. But when I wiped my eyes, there it was—Judge Smith's softening expression, looking like someone's granddad instead of the dour arbiter of my fate.
The judge addressed the jury, thanked them for their service, directed them to the jury commissioner's office to turn in their parking passes, and then looked back at me.
"The bond is exonerated. You're free to go, Ms. Vaughn. Court is recessed."
He stood, and everyone in the room followed suit. The jurors filed back into their room off the side of the courtroom to collect their belongings. Several of them smiled at me, and I smiled back but could feel my lips start to tremble. I swallowed hard and tried to pull myself together. Rob began gathering the legal pads that littered the defense counsel table.
I stood next to the table, still stunned and unsure what I was supposed to do now. Part of me expected to be found guilty, even knowing that I hadn't done what the prosecutor accused me of. I had prepared myself for that. Studied the post-conviction proceedings, the deadline for filing a notice of appeal, researched sentencing procedures and even federal prisons. I hadn't planned what would happen if I were acquitted of all the charges, and I was at a loss as to what to do now.
Turning to the nearly empty courtroom, I saw my lone supporter. The entirety of my cheering section was blowing her nose noisily into a hankie. She came toward me, pulling me into a warm hug over the low railing that separated the gallery from the attorneys and defendants.
"Aunt Marie, when did you get here?"
She gripped me harder. "Somewhere around count seven," she said. "Rob sent me a text when the jury came back. I hot-footed it right down here."
I relaxed into her embrace. The familiar scent of Chanel and baked goods that always permeated her clothing soothed me and took me back to the safety of my childhood. She had come straight from work because she was still wearing her apron with the Sugar Plum Bakery logo.
"Miranda, I'll take care of the bond paperwork," Rob said, interrupting our family reunion.
I pulled away from Aunt Marie and nodded. Rob's face was flushed, and he looked two decades younger than his sixty-three years. He seemed incapable of suppressing the huge grin on his face. Suddenly I felt awkward, unsure how to tell him how grateful I was.
"I don't know what to say," I said. "Thank you, Rob. Thank you so much."
The words were inadequate. During the fourteen months since my arrest, I always felt that he believed I was guilty of
something
, but despite that, he had done an admirable job defending me. He gave me a crooked smile.
"You're welcome," he said. "We'll talk soon. I'm going to see if I can catch a few of the jurors and talk to them. Come by the office later. We'll celebrate."
He leaned across the railing to shake Marie's hand and was pulled into a tight embrace. When she finally released him, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and smiled as he gently wiped a tear from her face. Then he turned back to the counsel table and continued clearing it of folders and notepads and his laptop computer, sliding the whole mess into the large black case that he'd been wheeling into court every day of the trial. He zipped the case, gave me another quick hug, and walked over to the other counsel table.
I turned to see how the prosecutors were handling the news. My tormentors—an older, brittle veteran prosecuting attorney named Donna Grayson and Matthew Reese, her younger co-counsel, a clean-cut young man who looked like he was my age. Neither of them would look at me, and their expressions were grim as they shook Rob's hand. Finally, Matthew Reese made eye contact with me and gave me a nod.
"Good luck to you, Ms. Vaughn," he said.
I almost believed his words were sincere, but then I remembered three days earlier when he called me a thief in his closing argument. I returned the nod without a word, not trusting myself to hold back if I spoke to him—something I'd been forbidden to do for well over a year.
I slipped through the low swinging gate and took Aunt Marie's arm, leading her out of the dark courtroom into the bright, wide, and empty hallway. When I had been arraigned on the fraud charges in this courthouse, the hallway had been packed with reporters clamoring for a comment. But since then, they had lost interest. The prosecutor's office wouldn't be putting out a press release on the loss, and I wondered if anyone would even care that I had won. That the woman the government had called "a slick con artist and one of the masterminds of the greatest financial fraud ever seen in this state" was walking out of court and not heading to prison.
I was free to go. No longer facing a decade in prison. Not under a cloud of allegations that had cost me my career, my good name, and my peace of mind. That had driven off friends. Led to the break-up of a five-year relationship. Cost me every last dime of savings and most of Aunt Marie's retirement as well.
I walked up to the wall of windows and looked down on the city, the busy intersection by the federal courthouse, the people jaywalking to get to the Starbucks across the street. A normal day, with everyone bustling about in the bright afternoon sunlight, enjoying a typical California summer day.
I was free to go.
Free.
To go where?
CHAPTER TWO
The temperature in the bakery was stifling, hotter even than the record hot temperatures outside. The ovens heated up the commercial kitchen early in the day, and the temperature never really dissipated. I fanned my face with a menu and checked the supply of muffins and pastries in the racks.
"Miranda, sweetie, can you bring out the apple turnovers?"
Aunt Marie poked her head through the swinging door, letting some of the cooler air from the front of the bakery into the steaming hot kitchen.
"Be right there," I said, grabbing the tray from the rack.
Marie pulled out the empty tray, and I slid in the full one as a crowd of hungry office workers watched. Sugar Plum Bakery was in the heart of Sacramento's downtown and did a brisk business starting before 7 a.m. when office workers stopped by for their coffee and breakfast. The bakery was hopping through the busy lunch hour, even though the menu was limited to soup and sandwiches, and into the late afternoon, when many of those same workers returned for a second blast of caffeine to keep them going into the evening.
That had been my schedule for six years when I worked at Patterson Tinker Investments, just two blocks away from the Sugar Plum Bakery. Now I was waking up at 4 a.m. to start work in the kitchen and get the store ready to open at 6 a.m. My arms and back were sore and aching by mid-morning, but it felt good to be working hard.
Good thing I liked it, since I wasn't having any luck finding a job in my field. I had degrees in economics and finance, but the best job offer—oh, hell, the only job offer I'd had was as a bookkeeper at an auto body shop. The owner called later and said his daughter was going to do the books after school. After I was beaten out by a teenager for my only promising employment lead, I decided to stop looking for a little while and just focus on helping Marie at the bakery. Two employees had retired recently, and she needed someone to fill in until she could hire replacements.
It had been nearly two months since the verdict, and I was still there, rolling out dough in the morning and hiding in the kitchen during the lunch rush to avoid seeing anyone I knew in my former life.
"Oh my God, Miranda?"
And so much for that plan. I stood up and dusted my hands on my apron and found myself facing Katrina Lore, the receptionist at Patterson Tinker. Though she was certainly popular with most of the investment bankers, I had never been a fan. Maybe because her fan base included my former fiancé, Dylan Holland. I'd heard that they'd been seeing each other for about a year now.
"Hello, Katrina. How are you?"
She tilted her head and smiled in a condescending manner not normally seen outside of country clubs. Her hair was pulled up in a smooth French knot, and her makeup was toned down from the gloss-and-glam style I remembered. Her wardrobe, too, had been upgraded. Gone were the tight, short dresses and 4-inch heels. The new, more refined Katrina was wearing a silk sheath in a lovely shade of coral and a pair of diamond earrings that practically screamed for attention. Even her blond hair had been subtly improved, lightened a couple of shades to a pale corn silk. More the color of my hair than her former brassy golden shade. I noted with some satisfaction that the darker blond at the roots was starting to show, something I didn't have to worry about.
"I'm fine, Miranda, thank you. How are
you
?"
As if she cared.
Not chasing after your boyfriend, so don't worry
, I wanted to say. "I'm doing well, thank you."
The bakery was too busy to give a truthful answer.
"Well, it's really good to see you," she said, her voice taking on a higher pitch that made her sound even less sincere.
"You, too. Take care," I said, bagging the apple turnover and handing her the bag.
She was already holding a cup of coffee in her right hand, so she reached up with her left, and as she did, I saw it.
An engagement ring.
My
engagement ring.
The engagement ring I had been wearing before the legal nightmare began. When Dylan called off our engagement, I had done the right thing and returned the ring. I didn't want it anyway. I didn't want any reminder of the man who said he'd love me through good times and bad, but who then fled when put to the test. Plus, it had belonged to his grandmother, and I would have felt funny keeping his family's heirloom. Even though his family was a bunch of tight-assed, boring snobs who could have bought the country where the diamond had been mined.
I must have let out a gasp because Aunt Marie turned from the espresso machine and gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head and turned back to Katrina, whose smirk made me doubt it was coincidence that led her to the bakery.
"Deb will ring you up," I said, ignoring the giant, sparkling elephant in the room. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of addressing her engagement. I forced a smile, or at least an expression that I hoped didn't look like the snarl I felt on the inside.
I started to turn back to the kitchen, but not before seeing a tall, silhouetted figure enter the bakery. The broad shoulders, the close-cut hair, his ears pink from the sun shining behind him. At one time, I thought those teacup ears were cute. Now I gritted my teeth and continued back to the kitchen, before I did something that I would regret later.
I fought the impulse to slam the metal tray on the wood top work surface because I didn't want to alarm Sheldon, my kitchen coworker. Instead, I pressed my lips together and put the tray in the dishwashing stack with the others.
"Shel, I need you to handle the counter for a few minutes," Marie said, coming into the kitchen.
Sheldon looked at us and then slipped out of the kitchen without comment. He was a man of few words anyway and seemed to know better than to argue with Marie at that moment.
"That woman," Marie said. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"
I smiled. "I'm fine."
She shook her head. "You're not. I should have spit in her half-caf cappuccino."
"Probably so, but that would be bad for business," I said.
She sighed. "Well, I thought she'd have the good sense to stay out of here. Did you see him?"
I nodded. The vision of Dylan Holland, even in silhouette, had caused my stomach to do a flip. Not because I loved him still. I didn't. I pretty much hated him, and I certainly didn't want to see him. Or his girlfriend—or rather, his new fiancée. It was a reminder of what I dearly hoped was the low point of my life. I wanted to start over now, rebuild my life. And seeing him made the last year feel too recent, like I was still scrabbling around at the low point and hadn't moved up at all.
"I'll be fine, Aunt Marie," I said, taking her soft hands in mine.
Her lips were pursed and her head tilted, but unlike Katrina's pose, Marie's concern was sincere. She loved me like no one else—not my parents who left me on her doorstep twenty-seven years earlier, not my untrustworthy former fiancé.
"But here you are, hiding back in the kitchen," she said. "There's nothing to be ashamed of working here. This place raised you up."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. She was right. There was nothing shameful about working in the bakery. Marie had done it her entire adult life and provided me with a wonderful childhood. We hadn't been rich, but I hadn't wanted for anything. Or at least my wants had been modest enough that Aunt Marie could indulge me. I hadn't meant to insult her and struggled to explain how I felt.
"That's not why I'm not comfortable out front," I said.
But it was. I was embarrassed to be working here. I had been working in a prestigious investment bank, in a responsible position, in line for a promotion, engaged to a handsome and accomplished man. And I had lost it all. No matter that I knew I hadn't done anything illegal. Others would think that I had, and that made me want to hide my head under the covers. Or hide in the kitchen.
Marie clasped my hands tight in hers.
"You should be holding your head up high. You're a survivor!"
"I just don't want to see anyone," I said. "The ones who talk to me would just ask about the trial, and the ones who won't talk to me…"
Marie's lips tightened, and I felt a knot grow in my throat. I swallowed hard and exhaled. I still had the lunch rush to get through. I couldn't lose it now.
There was a slight knock on the swinging door, and it opened slowly. I gripped Aunt Marie's hands tighter when I saw Dylan's face peer around the edge of the rubber stripping.
"I keep knives back here," Aunt Marie said by way of a greeting, her eyes narrowing.
"Hello, Marie," Dylan said.
"Sharp knives."
"I'd like to speak with Miranda," he said. An uncomfortable expression crossed his boyishly handsome face. "Please."
I squeezed her hands until Marie looked at me then gave her a nod. She frowned but nodded.
"I'll be right on the other side of that door," she said, picking up a cleaver on her way.
Dylan scooted out of her way and stood near the center island in the kitchen. I moved to stand on the other side of it from him, not entirely trusting myself to be within knife's reach of him. In his tailored light grey suit, Dylan looked out of place in the middle of the bakery kitchen after a sustained morning rush.
"How are you doing?" Dylan asked, his voice low and concerned.
He also tilted his head as he looked at me. It was hard to tell if he was concerned about me, or if he was concerned that I'd make a scene in public with his new bride-to-be. That wouldn't do for the newest vice president of the newly reconstituted Patterson Investment Company. The company had dropped any mention of founding partner Ralph Tinker after his arrest and seemed to be thriving, despite the unfortunate scandal.
I shrugged and hefted a block of dough onto the floured surface in front of me. "I'm fine, thank you," I said, grabbing a wooden rolling pin.
He gave me a half-smile. "You look beautiful."
I closed my eyes. That used to turn me inside out. He'd tell me how beautiful I looked, and it made me feel loved and worthy of this man, this beautiful man who was privileged and was wealthy enough to have whatever, and whomever, he wanted. I'd have done anything for him, walked through fire. He was my prince charming.
I opened my eyes and saw him now as he really was, as he probably always had been. He was weak and spoiled. And he had replaced me with the receptionist within weeks of our breakup. And he owed me—big time.
"Thank you," I said, turning back to the dough.
"I was happy to hear about the verdict," Dylan said. "Are you doing all right?"
"I've been better." I laughed and died a little inside at how bitter I sounded. "I told you I didn't do it."
He gave me a long stare and I was caught in his cool blue-grey eyes. "I never thought you did."
"You just didn't want to stick around to be sure of that," I said.
He gave me a reproachful look.
"You know that's not the full story," he said softly. He sighed and ran a hand through his carefully combed hair. "I'm sorry that Katrina came in. I didn't know you'd be here. I wanted to tell you myself, but well, I wasn't sure how to."
"Oh, right. Where are my manners? Congratulations," I said. "I hope you two will be very happy together."
In hell
.
He nodded and studied me as if he were going to take a test later. His scrutiny made me hyper-conscious of my jeans, T-shirt and flour-dusted apron. My face was no doubt shiny from the heat in the kitchen. I had been working for five hours without much of a break and hadn't bothered with make-up. I wasn't entirely sure I'd brushed my hair before I had pulled it up into a messy knot.
"I've missed you," Dylan said, moving around the center island. His hand reached up, and he touched my cheek. "You really are beautiful, Miranda. You look amazing."
The touch sparked something, but it was a memory, not an emotion. His gaze moved over me from my feet to my face and reflected the approval I no longer sought. The ten pounds I constantly battled and stressed over when I was with Dylan had melted away after I was arrested, along with another ten that I didn't need to lose. The unjustly-accused diet was good for unnatural and unhealthy weight loss.
"You should go. Your fiancée is waiting."
His hand dropped. "Sorry," he said, giving me a smile. "You're right. Is there anything—can I—do you need anything?"
Dylan's stammered offer threw me off balance. He was always so poised and polite. He truly seemed at a loss about what to do with me.
"Yes," I said, before I could change my mind and talk myself out of it. "I need a job. I can't even get a call back."
"Where have you applied?"
I listed several banks and investment houses, and Dylan nodded. "I'll see what I can find. I'll make some calls."
He walked to the kitchen door and paused. "Take care," he said. "I'll call you soon and let you know if I hear of any openings."
"Thanks, Dylan."
He disappeared behind the door, and the breath left my body. I hadn't realized how tense it was being around him until he was out of sight.