Heaven Preserve Us (14 page)

Unfortunately, his computer was password protected.

Crap.

I got up and paced a few times in the narrow aisle between desk
and file cabinets. Stopped and looked out the window, thinking.

I had no clue what Philip might choose as a password. I just
didn't know the guy well enough.

Movement down the block caught my attention. Someone
crossed to the other side of the street, deep in the shadows. The
figure jogged down to the vehicles parked across from Heaven
House. It was a man, and he wore what looked like an old army
pea coat and a funky knit hat with long tasseled earflaps. He
stopped behind a truck. Didn't come back out. Then a pale face
slowly edged around the cab of the pickup.

The guy was looking straight at me.

My head jerked back from the window. Was that Allen? I peeked
around the sash again, only to see his retreating back. I seemed to
have scared him as much as he scared me. Still, fresh air had lost its
charm. Down came the window, quickly followed by the blinds.

It was just some guy who couldn't sleep, out for a walk. Right?

Back at Philip's desk, I parked my posterior in his fancy ergonomic chair. Leaned back. Considered whether I could sleep here all
night instead of trundling out to my truck in the alley in the dark.

The chair was comfy, but not that comfy.

Absently, I glanced at the post-its Philip had stuck around the
perimeter of his monitor. Call Gloria. Dry cleaning. Marlboros.
Paycheck to Maryjake. Snickerdoodle.

Snickerdoodle?

Looked like a password to me. I entered it and waited expectantly.

Nada.

Wait a minute. One post-it was wrinkled and smudged, like it
had been there a long time. And how many smokers needed to remind themselves to pick up more cigarettes?

None, that's how many. I squinted. That wasn't an ess at the
end of Marlboro. It was a five.

I typed in Marlboro5.

Bingo.

Feeling pretty darned pleased with myself, I clicked around and
found more of the same information I'd discovered in the hard
copy files: grants, foundations business, etc. I felt kind of bad as I
opened his email. There were bound to be some secrets in there I
didn't want to know.

At least I didn't want to admit I wanted to know. And, I argued
with myself, whatever I stumbled into might help to find his murderer. Even Philip would have agreed that was worth a little invasion of privacy, right?

But I didn't have a chance to invade much. Right there in his
email program was a "folder" he'd named Mean People.

It would have been cute if someone hadn't killed him.

Only two emails occupied the folder. A quick scan revealed
each contained a certain amount of vitriol. I clicked the print button in the email program.

Headlights illuminated the other side of the window, and I
glanced at the clock on the computer. Almost one o'clock. I sighed
and began a more careful reading of the first email in the Mean
People folder.

The sender's address was [email protected]. I couldn't tell
who it was from exactly, but Tootie's favorite nurse, Ann Dunning, fit the initials. If she wasn't the one who'd sent it, it wouldn't be
hard to find out who did.

Once again, I couldn't help but shake my head at Philip's tendency to make promises and not follow through. He'd agreed to
put together a visitation program for some of the nursing home
residents who didn't have family or many local friends. The idea
was to tap into the Cadyville High School's requirement that seniors perform a certain number of hours of community service
before being allowed to graduate. It was a great idea, and should
have worked. But once again, he'd dropped the ball; the Caladia
Acres participants had been disappointed, and several students at
the high school had to scramble in order to graduate on time.

The program had been salvaged at the last moment, from what
I could tell, but only because whoever had sent the email to Philip
had stepped in and taken over. And boy, was she, at least I thought
it was a she, peeved at having to do so. Her anger snapped and
snarled throughout the email as she outlined Philip's various failings. She ended by saying she planned to pass on details about his
ineptitude to the Heaven Foundation Board.

"They should know how ineffective the head of their community center in Cadyville is, even if he is a member of the precious
Heaven family." Especially since Philip was a Heaven, I thought.

I frowned. The printer hadn't made a peep. I checked to make
sure it was on and had paper. Tried again. It wasn't doing a dang
thing. Fine. I went back and forwarded the email from Caladia
Acres to my Winding Road email address and opened the second
threat.

This one was less businesslike than the first and had a shrill
tone to it. Apparently Philip had been answering the Helpline just after starting it, and a runaway teenaged girl had called. Instead of
giving her the 800 number that would enable her to talk to someone who specialized in runaways and would help her find a place
to stay, contact her parents for free, or help her get back home,
Philip had taken it upon himself to advise her personally. She had
apparently told him how much she hated living at home.

He'd had the audacity to tell her he thought she'd be better on
her own.

Well, this girl, Lisa Koller, was seventeen and headstrong. The
email was from Lisa's mother, Mandy Koller, infuriated that Philip
would say such a thing. Lisa's father had recently died, and Lisa
had a mad-on at the world. She'd gone back home the next day.
Again. She'd actually been staying with friends, as she always did
when she wanted to punish her mom, only to throw Philip's "advice" in Mandy's face for weeks.

I wondered how bad Mom really was. The email was well-written, no spelling or grammar mistakes, and simply, if vehemently,
accused Philip of overstepping his bounds. She sarcastically
thanked him for giving Lisa more ammunition to use against her.
And finally, she informed him that she was going to report his
abuse of the Heaven House Helpline to the Heaven Foundation.

Sounded familiar.

It didn't look like Philip had responded to either of these
emails. I forwarded the second one to my Winding Road address,
wondering whether both senders had indeed contacted the foundation. Then I erased my tracks in the "sent mail" folder.

Car headlights washed the drawn blinds once again as I shut
down Philip's computer. A few people must be moving around
Cadyville at this late hour, keeping odd work or social hours, but the bars and restaurants had been closed since midnight. I chided
myself for being paranoid, for having the ego to think the sporadic traffic in my sleepy little town could have anything at all to
do with me personally, and shut off the overhead light.

Got pretty dark again after that.

Out in the hallway, I felt my way toward the stairwell. There
was Philip's apartment, right there, at the other end of the hallway.
It would be locked, right? I couldn't help it, though. I tried the
door.

The knob turned easily in my hand. Uh, oh. Ethical dilemma.
But when would I get another chance to look around where
Philip lived? When might I be able to check out where he-and
Barr-must have been poisoned? My bone-crushing weariness
evaporated. In the dark, my shoulders straightened a fraction. Not
much of a dilemma after all.

I walked in and flipped the light switch by the door. Sconces
along the walls illuminated the ceiling, painted the same sage tone
as the walls. A huge-screen TV dominated one corner, and a bank
of dark brown leather furniture curved in front of it. Thick Turkish rugs punctuated and softened the beautifully grained cherry
wood floor. Recessed lighting accentuated the modern paintings
on the walls. I ventured closer and peered at them. The artists
were just names to me. Still, I bet they were quite expensive; everything in the place had that feel.

The kitchen must have been completely redone before Philip
moved in: slab granite counters, saltillo tile floors, maple cabinets,
and a sink you could take a bath in. I continued, almost against
my will, into his bedroom and bathroom. Expensive fittings, marble and fine linens. Philip had generally opted for casual clothes. Lots of cotton and wool. Jeans. Now that I thought about it,
though, he'd dressed more Town and Country than LL Bean.

This was the abode of a man with a ton of money. What the
heck was he doing in Cadyville, running community programs?

Maryjake had an obvious crush on Philip. Why? He may have
had money, but he didn't have much in the way of class. Had he
returned the interest?

Back to basics. Not a lot of food left in the kitchen-either he
didn't eat at home much or else the Health Department had stripped
out the remaining food for testing.

A thought struck me-could there still be a danger of botulism
poisoning in here?

That did it. I'd looked enough. Trotting back toward the door,
though, I saw a beautiful roll-top desk, and paused. I mean, he was
dead, right? What did he care?

The articulated top rose, smooth as silk, exposing a series of
cubby holes and drawers. God, I'd always wanted a desk like that
one. Rummaging through the neatly organized paper, I discovered
a notice from Cadyville Electric. The bar of red ink along the top
grabbed my attention, as it was intended to do. They were getting
ready to shut off the electricity at Heaven House. Last notice.

Under it was a shut-off notice from the gas company. And a
first notice of non-payment from the phone company. What the
heck? Why wasn't Heaven House paying its bills? And why were
the notices in Philip's apartment instead of his office? Or in Maryjake's desk downstairs? I knew she wrote out some of the Heaven
House checks, and then gave them to Philip to sign. I'd seen her do
it. Maybe the utility bills were handled differently. Sent to the main
foundation office, for example.

Only, they hadn't been.

Then I found a bank statement. Heaven House had only four
hundred dollars in the checking account. There should have been
more. I squinched my forehead. Maybe the foundation sent a
monthly stipend. Maybe ... I shook my head. I didn't know what
to think.

And why were the Heaven House bank statements in his apartment as well?

Chewing on what I'd learned so far, I shut off the lights and
locked the apartment door behind me. Unsure of what I'd expected to find, or what to do with what I had discovered, I had an
odd sense of making progress.

Hopelessly lost, but making good time, as the bumper sticker
says.

I BELIEVED RUTH HADN'T canned the beets that killed Philip. I
believed Philip had been threatened in a way that made him afraid,
something beyond a threat to report him to the foundation. A
physical threat. Something dire enough that he actually inquired
about how to take out a restraining order. A threat from someone
he didn't want to name. Because he didn't want to get them in
trouble? Because he was so afraid of them? Because he wasn't sure
who they were? No, not the last one. He knew who his killer was,
and would have told me, or someone else, if he hadn't died from
the botulism poisoning so quickly.

Seemed a risky proposition for his murderer, but the gamble
had obviously paid off.

The late notices and unusually low bank balance at Heaven
House were odd, but not that surprising. Philip's inefficiency was
mind-blowing. I could easily see him grabbing the mail on the way
in, taking it up to his apartment so he could drop his coat or
change his shoes or use the bathroom, and leaving it there instead of taking it over to his office. He wasn't a man used to consequences, and a few late payment notices would likely leave him
not only unfazed, but oblivious. As for the bank balance, if he
were the one in charge of the banking then the same thing applied. On the other hand, if Maryjake was involved with the banking, it made very little sense.

Early Friday morning, I dragged my tired carcass out of bed
and padded downstairs. Stumbling into the kitchen, I found
Meghan eating a muffin that looked like it was made out of wet
sawdust. At least she'd slathered it with some of Jude's tasty-looking apricot jelly.

I shook my head at the notion of joining the fiber fest, opened
the refrigerator and reached for the bacon. It was a bacon and eggs
kind of day. And fried potatoes. A woman needs her sustenance, if
not her sleep.

Meghan said something as I clattered pans in the cupboard.

"What?" I came up for air holding the old cast-iron frying pan
that had belonged to my grandmother.

"I've got a date tonight. You can watch Erin this evening, can't
you?" she repeated, turning to the editorial section of the Seattle
Times and feigning what I knew wasn't really nonchalance.
Meghan Bly, cute and lithe and intelligent Meghan, hadn't gone
on a date for at least two years.