Bad to the Last Drop (9 page)

"Done and done," Deb responded. "I'll bring them in, but I'll leave the telling to you. And LeSeur, just one question, please?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, Deb," he responded. "But in this case, the cat was poisoned. Is that your question? See you at 1:00." And with a click the phone went dead.

"Kris," Deb called out to the reception area. "I really think it might be a three-cup day. Could you get the Abramov sisters on the phone?" Then as an afterthought, she shouted, "Are there any of those great cookies left out there?"

A nap hadn't been on Pat's agenda, but she dozed off over the latest mystery she had picked up at the Book Nook. The phone startled her out of a pleasant dream about beaches and cabana boys. By the third ring she had managed to find the right button and answered, a little louder than necessary, "Hello? Hello? Did I press the right button?"

A stifled laugh from Deb on the other end told her she had. "I just have a minute, but I just had to call, so listen and don't talk," Deb said hurriedly.

Pat bristled momentarily but then asked, "What?"

"I said
listen
," Deb repeated. "In half an hour I'm taking the ladies to meet with 'Detective Hunk' about the autopsy report. Guess what? You won't believe it ... it really was murder. Poison, specifically. Gotta go. Say a prayer for me that I'll do the right things when the sisters learn of this." And without waiting for an answer Deb hung up, leaving Pat with her mouth open, looking quizzically at the phone.

As Pat glanced at the calendar in the kitchen, she chided herself.
I really am going to have to get to making Christmas cookies soon
Wiping off the crumbs on the counter from lunch, she hedged.
But it doesn't really have to be today. Of course, it can't be tomorrow because we're meeting the sisters, and then we might be going down to the Cities for the weekend.

She was still thinking about it with distaste when the door bell rang. The god awful one at the back door that played
God Bless America. Someone's come to visit us in our new house,
she thought. And throwing the dish rag into the sink and smiling, she went through the hall to answer it.

The man standing at Pat's back door seemed buried in his jacket, hat, and scarf—he was so completely covered that Pat didn't recognize him.

"Yes?" she asked tentatively. "Can I help you?"

"Pat, it's me, Bill Montgomery from the Black Cat," he said, taking off his scarf so she could see his face. "I thought I might be able to help you. I knew Joe as well or better than anyone in town, and I know this town well, too."

Pat looked confused. "I'm sorry, Bill ... help me in what way?"

Bill stamped his feet and blew on his mittened hands. "I imagine many people are willing to help you and Deb all they can for poor Joe's sisters' sake, but you might not know who they are. So I thought I would just stop by for a chat." He stamped his feet again and tugged his hat farther over his ears. "Can I come in?"

What am I doing?
Pat thought. "Of course, Bill," she said, opening the door and drawing him inside. "You must be freezing."

Once the door closed behind him, Bill shook the snow off his boots and hat. Pat took his coat and hat and hung them up in the mud room before leading Bill into the kitchen. The room was warm and cozy, just right for a chat, and she put on the tea kettle. Bill settled himself at Pat's kitchen table as if he had been there many times before.

"Did you know Liz Case, the woman who lived here before?" Pat asked as she got the cups and some cookies from the cupboard. "Oh, yes, we were good friends, Liz and I," Bill replied. "She bought some photos from me and helped me quite a lot. She talked me up to her society friends, and they bought drawings and photos, too. Too bad she split up with her husband and moved away. She was a lot of fun." Settling more comfortably in his chair, he continued, "But I came to help you with your search for Joe's killer."

"Killer?" Pat repeated curiously. "Why would you think Joe was murdered?"

"Joe was a good guy, you know," Bill went on, as if he had his own agenda. "Kind and certainly trustworthy. He knew secrets all around town. All the little things he saw and never said a word about. We used to make dinner together a couple of times a week. You didn't know that, did you?" Bill reached out for the hot cup that Pat had set in front of him.

Pat would not be deterred. "The coroner's report hasn't come out yet, as far as I know. And who told you Deb and I are helping the sisters? Frankly, we haven't even decided there is anything we can do to help them. Although for Joe's sake, I suppose we will try." She put the cookies on a beautiful plate.
That always makes them taste better,
she thought as she brought them to the table.

"Thanks. I guess I just assumed that you two were helping them. After all, everyone knows Deb is helping them with his estate, whatever there is. As for murder, don't you think he died rather strangely?" Putting the cookie down, Bill backtracked. "I really was just speculating about his being killed."

"What I guess I really would like to know," Pat said thoughtfully, "is who might have taken advantage of Joe." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I don't mean you, obviously, but who?"

"You know that he won that lottery ten years ago, right?" Bill replied. Seeing her startled look, he said, "Sure, I know all about that. Joe told me long ago. He was naive in some ways, and I'm afraid people took advantage of that."

Then they put their heads together, trying to think of different people in town who might have been in a position to borrow money from Joe.

"Well, let's see," Bill said, as he poured them each another cup of tea. "The good thing about a small town is everyone knows everyone else's troubles. The bad thing is everyone thinks they know each other's troubles, but that's not always true. For example, there's Mike Williamson."

"Oh, yes," Pat agreed. "I met him today. He's the banker, right?"

"Yup, a local boy who has taken over Great Northern Bank, the only privately owned bank here in Ashland. Took it over from his father. Now Mike is the third generation of Williamsons to try his hand at the banking business. His grandfather, Sam, was well respected in the community for his willingness to help his patrons. With Sam, a person could get a loan with a promise and a handshake. None of the elaborate appraisals, long financial forms, committee meetings, and crazy loan fees. Yes, those were certainly the good old days. Sam was a good judge of character and knew everyone. He inspired trust and confidence, you know what I mean? People felt good handing over their money to him for safekeeping."

Bill continued regaling her with his knowledge of local history. "Now, his son, Mike's father, Charlie, just wasn't cut from the same cloth and didn't seem to have the same people skills as Sam. Like anyone who has to follow in the footsteps of a founder of a successful enterprise, Charlie just never was able to fill his dad's shoes. And he could only go so far on his father's name and reputation. People in town soon discovered he lacked the interest and know-how that inspired trust in a banker. He cared more about his golf game than the bank. In time, a lot of people took their banking to the new S&L down the street, even though it wasn't locally owned and operated. Like the old saw says, familiarity breeds contempt."

"This is very interesting," Pat said. "But what does it have to do with Joe and Mike?"

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," Bill assured her. "I just wanted you to understand what Mike walked into. When Mike took over the family business eight years ago, he had been gone a long time. After graduating from UW Madison with an MBA, he went to the Twin Cities to work. He always thought he would make it big, but I don't think that really happened. He was already middle-aged and graying when he was called home to save the bank. Mike was thrust into the position as bank president out of a combination of family loyalty and duty. Charlie, the bank president, had been forced out by the board of directors after he was committed to the local detox unit for the third time in three years. Even in a small town, you can only look the other way so many times before being confronted with the miserable reality of a failing bank. I might even feel sorry for Mike if he wasn't such a horse's rear end most of the time. That guy is so full of himself, you would think one day he will just explode."

"So how did he save the bank?" Pat asked.

"It looked for a time as though the bank couldn't survive. Reports and records were in disarray, and the state audit disclosed negligence and questionable loan practices. It seems old Charlie wasn't beneath giving loans to his golf buddies, for whatever they wanted. Mike is a hybrid of his father and grandfather. He came in determined to save the family name and reputation, come hell or high water. Whoo-ee, he hired all new workers, gave the bank a facelift, and began taking an active role in the community. You ask me, he is a busybody, with an inflated sense of his own importance. You know the kind. Someone who likes to put his two cents in by serving on lots of civic committees and who believes his ideas for the community are better than everyone else's. I've got to admit, in the last few years it seems as if the bank has been doing better. It's almost like Mike had a magic wand. No one is quite sure how it happened, but each year for the past five, the amounts of deposits in the bank have shown a dramatic increase. My question is: how or where did he get the cash he needed to keep that place going until it turned around?"

"Doesn't sound like you like him much."

"I don't, and that's the truth. I needed money a few years back. I had a show coming up and needed just a small loan to tide me over. He acted like he was affronted by me asking. 'I'm not my grandfather or my dad,' he said to me. 'If you need the money, get a job like the rest of us.' No, I don't like him one bit," Bill said firmly, taking another bite of his cookie.

"So why is this related to Joe?" Pat asked.

"Joe had money. And he had it in that bank. I know for a fact he didn't trust leaving his money there. He had some trouble a while back, because he realized the interest wasn't being put in his account. If you're having trouble in a bank, I would think having a few hundred thousand to play around with might be helpful."

"Anyone else you think might have needed money?" Seeing Bill look at the empty cookie plate, Pat hurried to fill it again.
Cookies are little enough payment for the local scoop,
she thought.

"Next," Bill said, counting off on his fingers, "that would be Sarah Martin. Sarah moved here twenty-eight years ago with her first husband and settled on Chapple to raise her children. She quickly became an outspoken and involved community leader, even as she went through two more husbands. She has great taste in decorating. I wish I could afford to hire her to come and do my apartment. Her taste in men is dubious at best. Man, how that woman can pick 'em!"

Pat leaned forward with great interest. Encouraged by Pat's eager anticipation, Bill continued. "Driven by frenetic energy, she opened a decorating business on Main Street and quickly gained a reputation as a fashionable designer who knew the insides of nearly everyone's home. Yet at the same time, she had trouble finding her way around her own office. And being in all the best houses, she knew more secrets, like whose husband was sleeping with whom or what business was about to go under. If there is a new building project going on in the county, you can bet that Sarah is somewhere in the middle of it." Bill obviously relished his role as gossip monger. "Now here's the good part: Sarah's third husband, Jack, had joined her in the business in the role of helping out, whatever that means. In his case, it was mostly going fishing. At least that was how he explained his increasingly frequent absences from the store. But Jack was out fishing for more than trout, if you know what I mean. When she found him in their bed with a young chippie from the college, she ended up paying him an inflated sum in order to be rid of him. Everyone thought Sarah's decorating business would be unable to survive after that. But my question is, even with laying off most of her employees and working twelve hours a day, how does she, out of the blue, purchase the big empty storefront across the street from her dinky store? Somehow, she managed to completely refurbish it, rent out the empty spaces, and even acquire several other rental properties. How did she do that?"

"Maybe she had finally got herself a sugar daddy," Pat suggested.

"The way she picks them?" he snorted. "No, but she
was
friends with Joe."

Pat shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I like Sarah," Pat confessed. "She's a good neighbor. But it's true that decorating stores aren't known for making the most money. I wonder where she got the money." She shifted uncomfortably. "Isn't there someone else with motive to kill Joe? Some other reason?" she asked.

"Only one I can think of off hand," Bill said, grinning. "But you're not going to like it, you being a pastor and all."

"What do you mean?"

"Our local Catholic priest."

"You've got to be kidding!"