Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (12 page)

“Liliane and Geoffrey’s son, my only grandson, is named Matthew. He’s fifteen now. He was born with….” She stopped and searched for the correct words. “Physical imperfections.” Damon and Rebecca looked at each other. “You’re aware of Jeremiah’s condition?” Glenda asked.

Damon and Rebecca were seated next to each other on a divan. They nodded in unison at Glenda who sat opposite them in an armchair.

Glenda went on. “Matthew was born with amniotic band syndrome disfiguring each of his fingers and toes. Just like Jeremiah. Alistair loves my grandson very much—he never married and has no children of his own.” She coughed. Damon interpreted the expression as disbelief that Alistair had never impregnated one of his young girlfriends. “So Alistair made damn well sure that Matthew had every advantage he could provide. My brother found the world’s leading pediatric hand surgeon to perform the necessary medical procedures. He bought Geoffrey and Liliane a large home nearby so he and I could spend more time with Matthew.” She explained that she’d lived with her brother, for the sake of companionship, since her husband had passed away.

“Alistair even tried to convince Geoffrey to give up working,” Glenda said. “When Matthew was born, Geoffrey was a partner at a large accounting firm downtown. The hours were brutal. But Geoffrey thought having a layabout for a father would be a bad influence on the children. So he and Alistair compromised, and my brother gave Geoffrey an executive-level position with Atwater Enterprises. That way, Geoffrey could reduce his workload and take time off whenever he needed to.”

Glenda crossed her legs. Her back was ramrod straight. “When Matthew began to walk, Alistair hired a physical therapist to work with the boy. I don’t think he needed the help—Matthew’s arms and legs have always worked just fine. But he did have to learn how to take on certain routine tasks with his fingers in ways that are different from the norm. For example, he can type on a computer keyboard, but he pecks with his middle fingers. There are, of course, a few things he can’t do. He never could swing across monkey bars as a child—the bars were too thick for him to grip.”

A tear started to drip from Glenda’s eye. Despite her upright posture and strict deportment, she was a grandmother to a boy who had dealt with difficulties his entire life.

“Things were all right until he hit first grade,” Glenda said. Damon recalled Dottie Milk reciting the problems Jeremiah had as an elementary school student.

Glenda Atwater described the teasing Matthew endured despite the best efforts of his teachers. “Alistair sent him to three different private schools,” Glenda said. “But it didn’t matter. Kids of that age will be kids. When Matthew was ten years old, before he started fifth grade, Alistair convinced Liliane to pull him out of school. My brother hired a team of teachers to homeschool him. Unfortunately, it didn’t solve his emotional problems.”

Glenda Atwater stood and retrieved a tissue box from a shelf. She brought it back to her chair and blew her nose gently. “Matthew went into a shell. He stopped speaking to everyone, including his parents and sister. Including Alistair. Including me.” She started to cry.

Damon thought that other than the private teachers and physical therapist, Matthew’s upbringing sounded eerily similar to Jeremiah’s.

Rebecca walked over to Glenda, crouched down beside her chair, and put a soothing hand on her knee. Glenda Atwater grasped it firmly, then recovered.

“For the next year-and-a-half,” she said, “Alistair hired a parade of specialists to see Matthew. He had psychologists, psychiatrists, and even a woman who claimed to be a ‘mind-healer.’ Nothing worked. Matthew would listen to his teachers and do his homework, but there was no other conversation between them. He spent all day, every day, in his bedroom. He’d order science fiction books online and have them mailed to the house. And he spent countless hours on his computer. Matthew didn’t go outside, and after a while, he didn’t even go downstairs for dinner.”

Glenda thanked Rebecca for her comfort and said she could rejoin Damon on the divan. Rebecca crossed the room and sat down beside Damon.

“Then I met Jeremiah Milk,” Glenda said. “It was almost three years ago to the day. I was at Tripping Falls State Park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t been there in years, but one of the charities I support was hosting a luncheon at the park’s visitor center. Jeremiah gave a talk to our group about land conservation. I noticed his fingers right away. They looked similar to Matthew’s. I had never met anyone else who had been born with the same deformities.”

“So you spoke with Jeremiah?” Damon asked.

“Yes, after the question and answer period. I didn’t ask about his fingers right away. Small talk first—I wanted to get a feel for him. He was naturally shy but pleasant. I asked him if he was married. Liliane and I were worried that Matthew would never have a girlfriend. Jeremiah said he had been married but his wife had passed away.” Glenda cleared her throat. “The charity had a nice buffet for us. After lunch, when the crowd cleared, I found Jeremiah in the exhibit section of the visitor center. This time, I told him about Matthew. He seemed sympathetic, so I asked if he would come to Liliane’s house to meet my grandson.”

“And he accepted?” Damon asked.

“He did. He went to see Matthew the following morning. Liliane and I were in her kitchen having coffee when Jeremiah arrived. Liliane hadn’t told Matthew he was coming. She directed Jeremiah to Matthew’s room and left them alone. That first morning, Jeremiah spent almost three hours with Matthew. I have no idea what they talked about—neither Jeremiah nor Matthew ever told anyone. But Jeremiah came back two days later. For six months, he spent two or three mornings a week with Matthew, depending on his work schedule. And Matthew slowly came out of his shell. First, he started to have dinner with his family. Then, he began talking with his parents and sister. Two months after Jeremiah first visited, Matthew ventured out of the house and came here.” Glenda looked around the room. “By the end of six months, Matthew was largely back to his old self—shy but not a zombie. He insisted on going back to school, and for the past two-and-a-half years, he’s been doing reasonably well. He’s not the captain of the football team, but he joined the math club, and he runs cross-country.”

“It sounds like Jeremiah helped him a great deal,” Rebecca said.

“He was a godsend. Once Matthew started back at school, Jeremiah’s visits became less frequent. First, he scaled back to once a week, then twice a month. In the past year, they probably only saw each other seven or eight times. I believe Liliane even took Matthew to visit Jeremiah in Arlington once or twice.”

Damon recalled Mrs. Chenworth’s story about Jeremiah playing catch with a boy at Hollydale’s picnic facility. It had probably been Matthew.

Damon shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Ms. Atwater, thank you for being so open with us. It sounds as if Jeremiah helped not just Matthew but your whole family.”

“Oh, he did.” She smiled sadly. “I can’t believe he was murdered.”

Damon filled her in on the details that the police had made public. “If you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Atwater, I’d like to ask you a question that’s a little sensitive.”

Glenda folded her hands in her lap. “Go ahead, Mr. Lassard.”

“Did you or your brother give Jeremiah a large sum of money? Two million dollars, to be exact?”

Glenda Atwater smiled. “Alistair gave him the money. He was so grateful to Jeremiah.”

Chapter 12

A door slammed. Seconds later, a thin man with white-tufted hair crossed into the living room. He waved away the housekeeper who had approached to ask if he wanted a drink.

“What’s going on here?” Alistair Atwater asked his sister.

Glenda introduced Damon and Rebecca.

Alistair directed his attention at them. “Just after Glenda called, my assistant told me that you two tried to see me this morning.” His voice was impatient but not unwelcoming. “Jeremiah Milk was murdered?”

“Yes, sir,” Damon said meekly.

Glenda stepped in and recounted the conversation she’d been having with Damon and Rebecca.

Alistair Atwater tousled his hair with a wrinkled hand. “I’ll have to tell Matthew.”

“Oh my,” Glenda said. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

“He’ll be devastated,” Alistair said. “Milk wasn’t a sociable man or even particularly interesting, but Matthew sure connected with him.”

Alistair remained standing and tapped a foot against an expensive rug. “Have you spoken with the police, Mr. Lassard?”

Damon said that he had, but his knowledge of their activities to date was limited. “The police know that Jeremiah received two million dollars about two-and-a-half years ago. And that a year later he spent $1.6 million of it. Last I heard, the police were planning to get a warrant to find out where the money came from and went.”

“Hmm…” Alistair mumbled as he sat down in an antique hard-backed chair. “I didn’t know Jeremiah spent most of the money.” After a moment’s silence, he said, “It may take the police a while to figure out that it was me who gave him the $2 million.”

“Why’s that, Ali?” Glenda asked. “Didn’t you set it up as a gift?”

“I did,” Alistair said to his sister. “But I paid out the money through a subsidiary of Atwater Enterprises. Twice, my personal tax filings have been leaked to some of my competitors and the press. I didn’t want the gift to become public for the sake of Matthew’s privacy. So I set it up with a complicated structure. Don’t worry, Glenda. Everything was perfectly legal.”

“So what would the bank’s records show?” Damon asked.

“Probably just the name of the subsidiary. But we closed down that company last year so it could take several days to piece it all together and get back to me. It doesn’t matter. I’ll call the police and tell them I was the source of Jeremiah’s money. How did you happen to find out about me, Mr. Lassard?”

Damon told Alistair about Marcus Pontfried.

“A private investigator?” Alistair asked rhetorically. “Now that’s curious. Why would someone hire a private eye to follow Jeremiah Milk?”

“I don’t know,” Damon said. “But I’d be surprised if it wasn’t directly linked to the murder.”

“I agree with you there,” Alistair said. “This Pontfried fellow probably followed Jeremiah and watched him go to Liliane and Geoffrey’s house. From there, he could guess that I was the source of Jeremiah’s wealth.” Alistair Atwater stood. “Let’s call the police.”

Damon provided the executive with Gerry’s cell phone number. After a brief exchange with Gerry, Alistair hung up. “Detective Sloman is coming right over.”

While they waited for Gerry, Alistair excused himself, relocating to his study to call Liliane. He’d tell Matthew in person later in the day. Glenda disappeared into the kitchen to provide the cook with instructions for lunch.

“Nice digs,” Rebecca said, looking around, when she and Damon were alone.

“That’s for sure. At least we know where Jeremiah’s money came from. Too bad Alistair doesn’t know how Jeremiah spent it. I wonder if Gerry has found out yet.”

Thirty minutes later, Gerry arrived at the Atwater mansion. He eyed Damon and Rebecca, shaking his head with incredulity. Glenda invited the group into the informal dining room for Camembert sandwiches and
pate
tartines.

Alistair provided Gerry with an abridged version of the history between Jeremiah Milk and the Atwater family, including the enormous financial gift Alistair bestowed on Jeremiah.

“Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Atwater,” Gerry said. “We executed a warrant for Jeremiah’s financial records, but we hadn’t yet linked the payment to you. We would’ve tracked down your gift eventually, but it’s always best to get information as soon as possible in a murder investigation.”

“What else can I do?” Alistair asked.

“We’ll want you to come down to the station in Arlington and provide a formal statement,” Gerry said. “And if you could give us back-up documentation on the payment you made to Jeremiah, that would be fantastic. We’ll keep everything strictly confidential.”

“Consider it done,” the commercial real estate billionaire said.

* * *

Damon and Rebecca left the Atwater home with Gerry. In the driveway, Gerry asked how they found the link between Jeremiah Milk and Alistair Atwater.

Damon relayed the chain of events, leading up to the search of Marcus Pontfried’s dumpster.

Gerry didn’t question Damon’s visit to York. “Pontfried is crafty,” he said. “He told Margaret that all of his investigation files on Jeremiah Milk had been destroyed, and he doesn’t recall any part of the investigation or who hired him.”

“Can you charge him with obstruction of justice?” Damon asked. “If he lies in front of a judge and says he doesn’t remember anything, couldn’t you get him on perjury?”

“Possibly, but Pontfried’s not an amateur. He had an experienced attorney deflecting questions when Margaret met with him. If he sticks to his story, we don’t have any evidence to contradict him.”

“Yes you do,” Rebecca said with excitement. “Damon, do you still have the scrap of paper? The police could match the handwriting to Marcus Pontfried’s.”

Damon blanched. “I accidently left it in the pocket of my pants when I washed them yesterday,” he said sheepishly.

Gerry and Rebecca moaned in unison.

“Gerry,” Damon said with uncertainty, “I know you’re not supposed to discuss the case with me….”

“But you want to talk about it anyway,” Gerry interrupted.

Damon kicked the ground near his car. “I just want to know if you found out from the bank records what happened to the $1.6 million a year-and-a-half ago.”

Gerry didn’t respond. He looked up. Damon followed his gaze. A faint midday moon graced the sky.

“You know Einstein developed a theory about space,” Damon said. “It was about time, too.”

Gerry laughed. “RDF Corporation,” he said a minute later. “I can’t tell you anything about the company because we don’t have any additional information yet. All we know is that about a year after receiving two million dollars, Jeremiah wired $1.6 million to RDF. Our initial search revealed RDF as an empty corporate shell. We can’t find any record of employees, property, or anything else.”

“Wow,” Damon said. “Too bad RDF is a dead end.”

“It is so far, but we’ll keep looking. And I think it goes without saying that this conversation never happened.”

“Absolutely,” Damon said, and Rebecca nodded in agreement.

“By the way,” Gerry said. “We got a warrant to check Lawrence Drake’s attic.”

“Let me guess,” Damon said. “It was empty.”

Gerry’s cell phone squawked. He unclipped it from his belt and peered at the screen. “Gotta run, sorry.”

“The attic?” Damon asked as Gerry bolted toward his sedan. “Was it empty?”

The detective looked back. “Worse. His house doesn’t have an attic.”

* * *

During the drive back to Hollydale, Damon and Rebecca decided that either Lawrence Drake lied to Aylin when he divulged hints about having a shrine to Veronica, or Aylin had fibbed to Damon and Rebecca. Neither explanation made sense. If Drake was the murderer, why fabricate a story about an obsession with the victim’s girlfriend a month before committing the crime? And what did Aylin have to gain by casting suspicion on Lawrence Drake? She had a rock-solid alibi for the night of the murder. Was she trying to save a colleague by diverting police attention to Lawrence? Or perhaps she knew Lawrence was the killer but had no proof, so she devised a falsehood to shift the focus onto him.

Damon dropped off Rebecca at The Cookery then spent two hours on the Internet looking for information on RDF Corporation. He came up empty.

That night, Damon returned to the Crime Solvers’ office armed with a book to while away the hours. By ten o’clock, he was up to his wrists in Buffalo chicken sauce from delivered hot wings. The Crime Solvers’ telephone shrilled.

Damon’s heart raced. He quickly wiped greasy fingers on a napkin and snatched up the receiver. “This is the Arlington County Crime Solvers’ Tip Line,” he said with as much professionalism as he could muster.

There was a male voice on the other end of the line. “I have a name for you. Beauregard Snead.”

“And what crime is this regarding?” Damon asked, as he wrote the name in his notepad.

The man was silent. Damon could hear rapid breathing.

Damon tried again. “Can you describe what you saw, sir?”

“Beauregard Snead,” the man repeated and hung up.

Damon stared at the name on his notepad. He hadn’t provided the caller with an identification number or asked him to call back in case the tip led to an arrest. The man hadn’t given him the chance.

Damon connected with the Crime Solvers’ liaison at the police station and described the call.

“We can’t do anything unless the name is tied to a particular crime,” said the officer.

“He wouldn’t tell me what the crime was,” Damon protested.

“Why don’t you call him back and try again?”

“He didn’t leave his number. Can’t you at least talk to Beauregard Snead?”

“We’re not authorized to do that, sir.”

Damon ended the call, unsatisfied. Who was Beauregard Snead and what crime had he committed? Could he have killed Jeremiah Milk?

A quick Google search yielded a single hit. An online White Pages site provided Snead’s address. Not only was the man from Arlington, but he lived in Hollydale. Yet, the name Beauregard Snead didn’t ring a bell.

* * *

Damon walked to his mother’s townhouse the following morning. He hadn’t called ahead. Lynne Lassard-Brown answered the door in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and slippers. Her delicate gray hair was covered by a towel.

“Damon, what a pleasant surprise,” she said. “Let me put some clothes on and dry my hair. Can you make coffee?”

Damon agreed and waited for his mother in her cluttered kitchen. The air smelled of silver polish.

Ten minutes later, Lynne sat at the kitchen table across from her son. He handed her a mug of hot coffee laced with milk.

“Thank you, Damon. What brings you by so early?”

Damon wrapped his hands around his mug. “I wanted to know if you know of someone named Beauregard Snead. He lives in Hollydale.”

“Of course I know him. So do you.”

Damon arched his eyebrows.

“No one calls him Beauregard,” Lynne explained. “He works at the garden center in Oakdale. Everyone calls him Clementine.”

Damon nodded with recognition. He knew Clementine as a certified master gardener. Almost everyone in Hollydale bought plants from him at The Garden Grove in neighboring Oakdale. Damon’s mind immediately jumped to the crepe myrtle trees.

“He helped me pick out a few shrubs when I moved into the duplex,” Damon said. “But I don’t know much about him. Do you?”

“A little,” she said. “Why the interest?”

“I suspect he may be the person responsible for the crepe myrtle infestation.”

Lynne sipped her coffee. “That wouldn’t surprise me. I probably should have thought of Clementine myself.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, he knows more about plants and trees than almost anyone in the area. And he’s always struck me as devious, though there’s nothing in particular I could point to.”

“My best guess,” Damon said, “is that under the cover of night, he’s repopulating destructive insects on Hollydale’s crepe myrtles. Do you have any idea why he would do that?”