Bad to the Last Drop (14 page)

"Want to tell me about it?" Pat asked, using her best concerned-pastor voice—not that she was faking concern. She liked Sarah and hoped she could help.

Hesitating, Sarah said, "Oh, well. It was one of those times, you know? When you think you've hit bottom, and then the other shoe drops. I had been sick—in the hospital—and my husband had been running the store, and my son was getting into trouble at school. The day I came home from the hospital my loving husband informed me he just couldn't take it anymore and walked out. I thought, what could be worse? The next day I found out. Going into the shop—my first real decorating shop—I found the books in a mess. Bills were stacked everywhere. Orders hadn't been filled for customers, and the rent was due. I started making calls. Contractors were angry, and vendors were refusing service." She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at Pat. "You sure you want to hear this?"

"Of course," Pat assured her. "Please go on."

Sarah sighed slowly and then continued. "So there I sat, and I just cried and cried ... and then, in walked Joe. He took one look at me and before I could say anything, he walked right back out the door! But two minutes later, he was back with a triple espresso, just the way I like it, and he handed it to me and said, 'Come on, Sarah, it can't be that bad. Tell Joey about it.' And I don't know why, except no one else had asked, so I did." She closed her eyes briefly, as if picturing the scene in her mind. Then she shrugged and smiled at Pat. "Frankly, I felt embarrassed that I had told my personal problems to the town wacko—a guy who wore the same clothes for days. But Joe placed his hand gently on mine, like a child trying to comfort a frightened bird. And he said, 'How much?' So I asked, kind of stupidly, 'How much what?' And Joe shook his head, as if to keep it clear, and said, 'To stay in business. How much do you need to stay in business?'" Sarah's smile broadened at the memory. "Well, I thought I'd just play along with him, so I counted off creditors, vendors, and of course, there were hospital bills. So I said I supposed maybe ten thousand dollars would do it, but that it might as well be ten million. So Joe said, "Ten million, I can't do," and he got up and left. He wasn't gone but a few minutes—I'd just turned back to the pile of messages from unhappy clients when he came back in the door." Sarah leaned forward now and spoke almost in a whisper. "He put an envelope in my hand. 'Here,' he said. 'You need to stay open.' And then just ... left." She pointed to the scrap of paper on the table. "See this line here—'By design'?"

Pat nodded but didn't say anything.

"That's me. The ten stands for ten thousand dollars, and the next ten means I paid back every cent. I don't know where he got it. I never asked. But I swear he saved my life that day." Picking up the keychain, she asked, "Do you mind ... could I have this? To remind me of Joe?"

"Of course," Pat agreed. "That was some story. Thanks for sharing it with me. Do you mind if I share it with Joe's sisters? I'm sure they'd love to hear it."

"No, of course not," Sarah said, rising.

"Before you go," Pat said, putting out a hand to stop her, "would you look at the list again? What do you think the other numbers mean?"

Sarah quickly glanced one more time at the torn paper. "Well, if this one is me, then I suppose the other numbers might be people who owed him money, too. Looks like they still owe him, doesn't it?"

Later that day, Pat was surprised by an insistent ringing of her doorbell. She opened the door and greeted Deb with a hug. "Good to see you," she said sincerely. "Come on in and tell me what's on your mind. You've got that determined set to your chin."

Deb grinned at her friend as she plopped on the couch, coming right to the point. "I'm starting to worry, Pat."

"Not having second thoughts about your marriage, I hope?" bantered Pat, trying to take the frown lines out of Deb's forehead. Married twenty-three years, Deb would never think of living without Marc.

"It's nothing to do with home." Deb shook her head impatiently. "It's this case."

Pat sat down by her friend, her smile fading. "I'm sorry. I was only teasing. Are you having trouble with the Russians?"

Deb shook her head once more and appealed to Pat. "It's not that. Of course, it will take a while to sort all the money stuff out, but I'll get it done. It's ... frankly, Pat, until now, this has seemed like a game to me, and I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, but it's been fun. Now, all of a sudden, it seems real. This is a real murder. Not some fantasy we cooked up. I'm uneasy about it all. Maybe we should just help the sisters as best we can and drop the whole thing."

Pat opened her eyes wide. "Why, for goodness sake?"

"Don't look at me that way. It's not because I'm afraid or anything, but we
know
the people in this town—every one of them. And in the time you've been here, you've gotten to know them too. They aren't suspects, for God's sake; they're people we've had coffee with, invited to our homes. Father Luke even did a blessing on your new home!" she wailed. "This isn't fun anymore."

Pat put her arm around her friend. "I see. You wish it was the CIA who was responsible, or the army, or just about anyone who didn't live in Ashland."

Deb shook her head. "I know it's wrong and that whoever killed poor Joe should be punished, but I can't help feeling that it would be better if ... if we had never known it wasn't an accident or a health problem—if it just hadn't ever been discovered that it was murder. And we're part of the reason they found out. And now everyone is suspicious of each other."

Leaning over and touching her head to Deb's, Pat said, "Oh, you're not the only one who seems to wish that. Your feelings are shared. You can be pretty sure that from Detective LeSeur all the way down our list of suspects that there are others who are feeling the squeeze. Even his poor sisters probably wish it would all go away. They all must be feeling a bit nervous, although Bill Montgomery didn't seem that nervous about it. I'd say he was one who was more interested in the gossip. Remember? He stopped over the other afternoon."

Deb gave a startled look. "He did? Did he say anything? Did he have any theories or ideas who might .?"

Pat slowly shook her head. "No, just like everyone else we've talked to, he hadn't a clue."

"No, I suppose it would be too much to expect," sighed Deb. "I just ran into Sarah again on the street. She's another one who's upset. I can't explain it, except it was in her voice. Worried—even scared."

"Well, what do you expect?" Pat asked. "She has a money connection that is bound to come out."

"What"
Deb looked at her friend wide eyed. "What money?"

Pat proceeded to tell her what she had learned from

Sarah.

After listening, Deb continued. "But why would she be so upset? I've got to tell you, Pat—she's scared. Do you think she knows something?"

"Well, I suppose that could be."

"But she's my neighbor? Has been for twelve years. And I can't look at her without thinking that she might be the one," wailed

Deb despairingly. "I just wish it would all go away."

"And if it never would be solved—if it would just 'go away,' as you say—do you think we'd all just live happily ever after?"

"Yes," Deb insisted. "I do."

"Pish-posh!" Pat said, walking her friend to the door. "Not for an instant. You'll be at the rectory for a meeting and wonder at the odd taste of the cake. Or you'd be alone with Sarah and see her putting sugar in your tea, and you'll hesitate to take the cup. And you know what? Everyone else would be thinking it, too. All of them. At least, all the innocent ones. It will never be the same again. No, we've come too far. It's all the way now, my girl, whether you like it or not. We're in for the long haul." Patting her on the shoulder, Pat closed the door on her friend, sighed, and said softly, "And it's just beginning, my friend."

Mike Williamson stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Seated on the bench, chatting companionably, were Sarah Martin and Father Luke Grayson. Mike shot them a look of relief mixed with apprehension. He had been irritated to get a call from Detective LeSeur during the busy morning business hours, when he was completely booked to meet with clients, but he had to respond— Detective LeSeur had made it clear that a visit to the station was not optional.

"Just a few questions," LeSeur had said firmly. "This is important, and it can't wait. The sooner you come in, the sooner we can clear this up."

Mike had been stunned that he was
a potential suspect
in the Abramov murder case—the first murder that anyone could remember having occurred in this town.

"We have information that you had a special relationship with the deceased, Joe Abramov," Det. LeSeur had begun. "That your bank benefited greatly over the years from Joe's benevolence. When was the last time you saw Joe?"

Mike flinched and his eyes flashed. "If you are asking me to make a voluntary statement, without my attorney present, you're out of your mind. I know my rights and I'm not talking to you about this. I'm calling my attorney first." With a vigorous nod for emphasis, he was gone, leaving the detective pondering his next move.

In the hallway, Sarah and Father Luke were commiserating about the waste of time it was to be left waiting.

"It's almost Christmas, for heaven's sake," Father Luke complained. "I have sermons to write and a tree to put up and greenery to hang and people to see."

"And God only knows how many more people won't speak to me if they don't get their decorating done before the holidays," Sarah said with a sigh. "Why do you think you were called in, Father? Did you get money from Joe, too?"

Father Luke averted her perceptive and piercing gaze. "I'm afraid to admit it, but the church can't afford to be selective on from whom it receives offerings. It's not like a political campaign, you know." He gazed compassionately at the harried decorator as he recognized by her demeanor that she, too, had been on Joe's payroll.

"I don't need this," Sarah lamented. "I have things to do, people to see, and places to go!"

"Next!" Det. LeSeur called out, as he opened his door and gestured for Sarah to come in.

"Hi, Deb. I was hoping it was you," Pat said, answering her cell phone awkwardly with her left hand as she tried to keep the car straight with her right. "Damn," she muttered as she swerved into the Wal-Mart parking lot, just missing an old pink Caddie driven by a gray-haired lady who could barely be seen over her steering wheel. Pat pulled into an open parking spot and put her car in park, but left the engine on so she could talk while running the heater. "So what's up?" she asked, staring out her frosted window at a man ringing a bell by familiar red kettle. He seemed exceptionally happy in spite of the cold. She watched as many shoppers stopped to drop coins into his kettle.

"Pat, are you listening?" Deb asked.

Abruptly, Pat came back to the voice in her ear. "Oh, sorry," she said. "I got distracted. Say, Deb, have you ever thought of ringing the bell for the Salvation Army?"

"Great minds think alike," Deb responded, "or at least our minds think alike. I signed us up for Thursday night."