Dead Canaries Don't Sing (29 page)

He stood up. Our meeting was over.

“Give George my regards, will you? Tell him I wish him the best.”

As I walked out, I snuck one last glance at the photographs. They said so much more than the little I’d been able to pry out of Joe DeFeo, and I wanted to imprint them in my brain.

I’d come looking for answers, but all I’d come up with was more questions. From all indications, there was a great deal more to Tommee’s business than just getting coverage in
Long Island Business Beat
and on Channel 14. Tommee seemed to have been in the middle of everything—business, government, the media.

What his role was, I had yet to learn. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to find his killer until I had a better understanding of what he was up to.

Fortunately, I still had a couple of tricks up my sleeve.

I was glad I’d had the foresight to hold on to the business card Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA, had given me at Tommee’s funeral. At the time, I’d thought Havemeyer was one of the least interesting people I had ever met. Now, I wondered if he had the potential to be one of the most useful.

Even before I left Pomonok Properties’ parking lot, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the card I’d stapled into my notebook. He answered on the second ring.

“Havemeyer.” I’d forgotten how high-pitched his voice was. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I was talking to a teenaged girl.

“Mr. Havemeyer, my name is Jessica Popper. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at—”

“Frack’s funeral. Of course I remember you.”

“You do?”

“I remember everyone I meet.”

“I’m impressed. You must have a good mind, not to mention an excellent eye for detail.”

Actually, I found it kind of creepy.

“So you probably also remember that I’m a veterinarian,” I continued. “I have a mobile services unit that treats animals all over Norfolk County. Anyway, you gave me your business card on that terribly sad day—”

“I remember.”

“And I suddenly find myself in need of an accountant. The person I was using is moving to another state. I was wondering if you and I could get together to talk . . . maybe even later today?”

To my delight, he agreed.

The rest of the morning was filled with house calls. As I periodically checked my voice mail, I found more messages from clients and scheduled additional appointments throughout the day. But I made sure I left enough time to rush home and shower before hopping into my VW and scurrying to my late afternoon meeting with Tommee Frack’s former accountant.

At five minutes past four, I sat opposite Jonathan Havemeyer. He ran his one-man operation out of a complex like Nick’s, a cluster of small buildings occupied by other small businesses: a pediatric dentist, an architect, two lawyers who apparently specialized in estate planning. Havemeyer’s office, like the man himself, was strictly no-nonsense. White walls, gray carpeting, the requisite framed diplomas and certifications behind him. His personal life—assuming he had one—was clearly not invited to encroach upon his professional life. No photographs, no homemade paperweights, not even a decorative pencil mug.

As for the man himself, he was just as buttoned up as last time. He looked like someone who routinely had his entire being cleaned and pressed.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I began politely. “And under much happier circumstances, I might add.”

He peered at me through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. They made his eyes so blurry I was having trouble focusing on them. “What can I do for you, Dr. Popper?”

So much for chitchat.

“As I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking for an accountant . . .”

We spent the next thirty-six minutes talking about my billing procedure, my experience with bad debt, my estimated tax payments—in short, the kinds of things I generally tried to think about as little as possible in my day-to-day life. While I had to admit it wasn’t the most scintillating conversation I’d ever had, Jonathan Havemeyer clearly knew his stuff.

Still, I hadn’t really come here to discuss my bottom line.

“I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job,” I said as a way of wrapping up the business portion of our meeting. “But I’ll be talking to a few people before making a final decision. The relationship between a small-business person and an accountant is extremely personal. I want to be certain I choose the right person.”

“Of course. Why don’t you give me a call once you decide?”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it, especially since I can see how busy you are.” I motioned toward the pile of envelopes on his desk, the only clutter in an otherwise meticulous room. “Especially if you get that much mail every day.”

“Interestingly, most of it’s for our friend Tommee.”

I shook my head to show I didn’t understand.

“Payments. Remember I told you that I was amazed at how many clients Tommee had?”

“I remember.”

“They’re still paying him. The checks keep coming in, even now.” He picked up the pile. “The odd thing is that Tommee is making as much money dead as when he was alive.”

“Maybe some of his clients haven’t heard.”

“Oh, they’ve heard. I saw most of them at his funeral.” He smirked. “They all know he’s dead. They just don’t seem to know that means they don’t have to pay him anymore.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of time-lag thing,” I suggested. “A paperwork glitch in Accounts Payable.”

Havemeyer eyed the stack in his hand warily. “I suppose all this money will just be passed along to Babcock.”

I sat up straighter. “George Babcock? What does he have to do with this?”

“Do you know George?”

“Yes. I mean, we’ve met. In addition to shopping for a new accountant, I’ve also been exploring the possibility of hiring a public relations firm. I met with George last week.”

“You’d better hire him now, while you still have the chance.” Jonathan smiled coldly. “Babcock’s about to get more business than he can handle.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I went to the reading of Tommee’s will three days ago. His lawyer said he’d just revised it in October. He also said Tommee had made some dramatic changes, including leaving his entire business to George.”

“But—why—how—?”

“There’s no reason for you to know this, of course, but Babcock gave Tommee his start. Then Tommee started his own PR firm, one that competed directly with George’s. He even walked off with half of George’s clients.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I used to be Babcock’s accountant.”

Small world, I thought, still dizzy over having learned that George—who had every reason to hate Tommee—had inherited his business. In fact, it’s turning out to be smaller than I ever imagined.

“According to the will,” Jonathan went on, “Tommee had a change of heart. He said in it that he wanted to make amends. That was why he left his greatest asset, his business, to George.”

“I’m curious: When did you stop working for Babcock and start working for Tommee?”

“Right after Tommee left The Babcock Group.” Sounding suddenly defensive, he continued, “Tommee offered me three times what Babcock was paying me! There was no way I could turn down an offer like that!”

“Of course not. Who could blame you?”

He didn’t acknowledge my words of support. “Besides, it was an exciting time for Tommee. Overnight, he went from being a mere employee of The Babcock Group to becoming the center of the universe, at least in terms of Long Island business. Within weeks, he started picking up even more accounts in addition to the ones he’d had at the start. It was absolutely phenomenal.”

“More accounts? Like . . . five or six?”

“Like twenty or thirty. Good ones, too. Local government, even. He started doing PR for the town. They have their own internal public relations department, but Tommee did extra work for them. Setting up press conferences, arranging special events, you name it. And he’d barely been in business a month when he picked up the Norfolk County PBA, the police union, as a client.

“But the bulk of his business was always private companies, everything from that fancy catering place Hallsworth Hall to big land develpers. Charities, too. Not-for-profits, but still huge, powerful organizations. A lot of the work was supposed to be pro bono. At least that’s what he wanted people to believe. But I knew the truth—that those clients were sending in fat checks every month, too.

“Tommee was everywhere. Every high-profile event, every restaurant opening, all the chic events out on the East End like the Hampton Classic Horse Show and the annual Long Island Feeds Long Island fund-raiser.

“From day one, the money just kept rolling in. That’s always the bottom line, isn’t it? Money? Even though Tommee loved being the center of attention, hobnobbing with movie stars and CEOs, even being Mr. Popular pales beside having a fat bank account.”

Everything Jonathan Havemeyer was telling me was consistent with what I’d heard from everyone else I’d spoken to, not to mention the photographs I’d seen on the walls of Pomonok Properties. Tommee Frack
was
everywhere.

And I still didn’t understand why.

“Wow. What a success story,” I gushed. Fishing for some insight, I added, “But I guess he deserved it. Everyone says he was an incredibly talented man.”

“For Tommee, it was a dream come true. It’s like he had a fairy godmother or something.”

“But it sounds as if it all happened so fast,” I mused. “And so easily. What was his secret? How did he do it?”

Havemeyer shrugged. “Who knows? Don’t ask me; I’m just the accountant. For all I know, he made a deal with the devil.”

I nodded. Maybe he had. Had it killed him? “And now, it’s all going to George Babcock. In the end, he’s the one who benefited most from his protégé’s success.”

And perhaps the one who had the most to gain from Tommee Frack’s untimely death, I wondered.

“George certainly hit the jackpot,” Havemeyer agreed. “Now that he’s getting sixty new clients, he’ll have to get bigger offices, hire more people, and start thinking on a whole new scale.” More to himself than to me, he mused, “I wonder if he needs a new accountant.”

I pretended I hadn’t heard. I stood and was about to say goodbye when I thought of something else.

“What about you, Mr. Havemeyer? Did Tommee leave you anything in his will? It sounds as if you were with him from the very beginning.”

“Yes, I was.” His tone became strained. “In fact, he used to say to me, ‘Jonathan, I never could have done it without you. I’m good at shaking hands and making people feel important, but the sad truth is that I don’t know the first thing about how to run a business.’ And it was completely true. The man couldn’t have balanced a checkbook if his life depended on it. He really couldn’t have done it without me.”

“So what did he leave you?”

In response, he opened his top drawer and took out what looked like a pen. Gold-plated, but a pen, nonetheless.

“A pen?” I asked, confused.

“That’s right.” He stared at it as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “But not just any pen. His favorite pen. In his will, he said he valued my loyalty as much as my ability, and he hoped I’d remember him every time I used this pen.”

He tossed the pen back in the drawer. “He got that right.”

I was still replaying the words of our conversation as I left Jonathan Havemeyer’s office.

I remembered that after talking to Babcock’s receptionist, Belle, about what really went on at The Babcock Group, I’d asked myself if George Babcock’s business was something he was willing to kill for.

I was convinced I had the answer.

It was already dark by the time I came out of Havemeyer’s office. As I headed toward my red Beetle, parked right outside, I noticed something white stuck under my windshield wiper.

A parking ticket?
I thought, instantly outraged over what I was sure was some overly zealous cop’s mistake.

When I got closer, I saw it was the wrong shape. Probably a takeout menu from a local Chinese restaurant, or maybe an ad for a car wash. My scruffy VW was certainly a likely candidate.

But when I grabbed it, I saw it was an envelope, the kind that comes with a greeting card. It was sealed, with no writing on it.

A secret admirer?
I wondered if someone—like, oh, maybe Nick Burby—had thought it would be cute to communicate this way. I glanced around the dimly lit lot. There were no signs of life, and I didn’t see his black Maxima anywhere. If Nick was behind this, he was lying low.

I got into my car, holding the envelope with both hands. All the raw emotions that had been dredged up that morning as I watched Nick walk away were suddenly back. I dreaded reading whatever was inside. If it
was
from Nick, it could only be one of two things: a desperate plea for us to get back together . . . or a complete kiss-off.

I didn’t know which would be worse.

I was tempted to toss it out, sight unseen. But I’ve never had much willpower. Even though I figured this was one of those no-win situations, that whatever was inside was bound to throw me into a state of emotional turmoil, I couldn’t resist opening it.

When I slid my finger under the flap and tore it open, I was hit with a wave of disappointment. Empty. There was no note in the envelope.

I peered inside, utterly bewildered. I didn’t stay that way for long.

Lying at the bottom was a single yellow canary feather.

Chapter 15

“A forest bird never wants a cage.”

—Unknown

My first instinct was to lock the car doors. Then, with the metallic taste of fear in my mouth, I turned the key in the ignition and hightailed it out of the parking lot.

As I drove home, I nervously checked my rearview mirror every few seconds to see if the black Jeep was following me. There was no sign of it. And when I reached Joshua’s Hollow and turned onto Minnesauke Lane, mine was the only car on the road.