Uncovering Secrets: The Third Novel in the Rosemont Series (17 page)

Chapter 41

Irritated by the interruption, Special Counsel Alex
Scanlon shifted his eyes from his computer screen to the paralegal standing in
his doorway. “Yes?” he snapped.

“Sorry
to bother you, but you’ve got to see this.”

“What?”

“Just
come. To the reception desk,” she said over her shoulder as she turned away.

Alex
sighed and pushed his glasses onto his forehead. He needed to stretch his legs,
anyway. He followed her to the lobby and was greeted with the sight of two tall
stacks of cardboard boxes. The deliveryman was wheeling in another load.

Alex
rubbed his hands together as he gleefully inspected the shipping label on top
of the nearest box. It was from a bank in the Caribbean. The courts had granted
their motions to compel document production weeks ago and now, finally, the
banks were complying.

“You
know what this means?” he asked the paralegal.

She
nodded. “I’ll spearhead the effort to unpack, catalog, and organize all of
this. It may take us a week or more, especially since we can’t work overtime.”

“You
get started and work as much as you need. I’ll get the overtime approved. The
good citizens of Westbury are clamoring for answers, and we finally have what
we need to get them. Forest and I will start our detailed review this weekend.”

“I’ll
do my best,” she replied.

“You
always do. Sorry I was so testy when you knocked on my door.”

She
smiled. “No worries. I knew you’d want to see this.”

Alex
nodded and turned back to his office. It was time to launch this investigation
into high gear. He’d tell Forest Smith to clear his schedule for the next
month.

***

Forest Smith hung up on the call from Alex Scanlon. He
understood what he needed to do next, and it made his gut churn. How in the
hell had he allowed himself to get into this predicament? He knew painkillers
could be habit forming, knew he was falling down the slippery slope of
addiction with each pill he took. And now Delgado—someone with mob
connections—was blackmailing him.

Smith
pulled the crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket and stared at the 800 number
of the twelve-step program. It was time. He picked up his cell phone and walked
out into the parking garage to place the call in private. With any luck, they’d
have a meeting in town that evening.

***

Forest Smith tucked his car into an opening between the
trash dumpsters behind the Episcopal church and turned off the ignition. He
leaned back against the headrest. He’d graduated at the top of his law school
class and landed a prestigious job. He was an excellent lawyer who always
exceeded his quota of billable hours and was on track to make partner at Stetson
& Graham. And then he’d had his accident and become an addict. He’d been
lying to himself for months, telling himself he could quit at any time. But he
hadn’t quit. And now he was being blackmailed by the mob. He’d heard that
people needed to hit bottom before they were willing to admit to an addiction.
He’d hit rock bottom.

He
rubbed his hand across his eyes. There had to be a way out of this. Facing his
problem was the first step. Forest got out of the car and entered the church by
the rear door. He followed the hallway, heading toward a room at the end where
light from an open door spilled into the corridor.

He
wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him when he tentatively stepped into
the room. Forest was acquainted with everyone in the room, including the leader
of the meeting, Special Counsel Alex Scanlon.

Forest
froze. Alex came over to him and held out his hand. “You’re welcome here,
Forest, and everything is confidential. Have a seat, and we’ll talk after the
meeting. It’s time to start.”

An
hour and a half later, when the room had cleared, Alex and Forest sat facing
each other. “I had no idea so many of us are in the same boat,” Forest said.

Alex
nodded. “I remember my first meeting. I came away feeling less alone and much
more hopeful about my situation.”

“You’ve
been clean for a while. How hard has it been?” Forest asked.

“It’s
been a whole lot easier since I’ve been part of this group. And my sponsor has
been extremely helpful.” Alex looked directly into Forest’s eyes and held his
gaze. “Would you like me to be your sponsor?”

“Will
it be awkward, since we work together?”

“I
think it’ll be helpful. I understand the pressures of your life.”

Forest
nodded. “If you’d be willing to do it, I’d be grateful.”

Alex
took out a business card and wrote a phone number on the back. “The only people
who have this number are my brother and Marc. And now you. Feel free to call me
any time, day or night. And there will be many times when you’ll need to call.
Do you understand?”

Forest
nodded. He added the number to the contacts in his cell phone and tucked the
card into his wallet.

He
exited the church through the rear door. He’d known he could rely on the
confidentiality of the other attendees in the meeting, but he didn’t want his
car to be seen by anyone driving by, particularly Delgado.

He
felt more hope than he had in months and approached his car with a spring in
his step. He was reaching for his seat belt when a hand reached over the
seatback and clamped onto his right shoulder.

“Gettin’
ourself straight, are we, Smithy?” came the familiar voice.

“What
the hell do you think you’re doing?” Smith retorted, locking Delgado’s gaze in
the rearview mirror.

“Scared
ya, didn’t I?” Delgado laughed. “I’ll bet you pissed your pants.”

Smith
remained silent.

Delgado
released his grasp on Smith’s shoulder and leaned forward, the whiskey strong
on his hot breath. “I came lookin’ for ya tonight ’cause we heard that fag
Scanlon got a bunch of those documents you’ve been tryin’ so hard to get.”

“So?”

“So,”
Delgado thundered. “We should have heard it from you, first. That’s exactly the
kind of thing we need to know. Since you didn’t call, the boys thought you
needed a reminder. They was gonna do it themselves, but I said, ‘No. Smith’s a
good kid. Let me do it this time.’ Lucky for you, Smithy, they agreed.” Delgado
leaned in, and Smith could smell the whiskey on his breath. “This’ll be the
only time. You understand? Next time the boys’ll come, and you won’t like
that.”

“How
did you know where to find me?”

Delgado
sat back. “We always know. Don’t forget that.”

“We
received documents. That’s all there is to tell.”

“And
do you remember what you’re gonna do with those documents? You’re gonna get
your hands on every scrap of paper that came in and tell us everything that’s
on all of them. We decide what’s important and what’s not.”

Smith’s
shoulders sagged and he nodded.

“You
report only to me.”

“That’s
it?”

“For
now. We’ll have more for you to do, you can be sure of it.” Delgado reached
into his pocket and tossed a bag of painkillers onto the front passenger seat.
“I brought you a little present. Just to show how much we care,” he said. “Pity
you’re trying to give ’em up. I guess you can always throw them away.” He
reached for the door handle and heaved himself out of the car.

Chapter 42

Maggie was answering email when her phone chirped to
alert her to a text message from Susan:

All coming to carnival except Aaron. Need to plan
wedding. Talk tonight at 7?

Maggie quickly typed back

YES!!

and returned to her inbox with renewed vigor. If she
knew her daughter, she already had a boatload of ideas to discuss.

***

Maggie popped a low-calorie frozen entree into the
microwave and fed Eve and the kittens as soon as she stepped through her
kitchen door. She raced upstairs to shed her business suit and heels, and was
back downstairs in her favorite sweats by the time the bell on the microwave
pinged to signal her dinner was ready. She ate standing at the counter while
sorting through the day’s mail, ignoring her grandmother’s voice in the back of
her head saying a lady always sat down to eat.
Not today’s ladies,
she
thought.

Maggie
ensconced herself in her favorite overstuffed chair in the library by the
French doors, with Buttercup curled up on her lap and Eve snoozing on the
hearthrug. Blossom and Bubbles chased each other in and out of the room. Maggie
relaxed in the silence and was just starting to nod off when her phone rang.

“Okay,
Mom,” Susan said. “Do you have something to write with?”

“How
about ‘Hello. How are you?’ first?” Maggie replied.

Susan
laughed. “Sorry, Mom. I guess I get a bit hyper-focused at times, don’t I?”

“You
most certainly do. And it’s generally a good trait. But sometimes you need to
stop and smell the roses.”

“We’re
on such a tight deadline for the wedding.”

“We
are on no such thing. We’ve got plenty of time. John and I aren’t kids anymore.
We’ll just do something small and simple.”

“That’s
ridiculous. The whole town will want to attend. Since you’ve decided to marry
at Rosemont, you have a venue with plenty of room. And you said you want to
have it outside—on the back lawn? So the weather needs to be good. No
winter wedding, although those are so pretty. Fur wraps over our dresses and
snow-dusted trees …” she trailed off wistfully.

“We’re
still aiming for June. Right after school is out. What’s on your schedule?”

“It’s
open the entire month. Aaron has boards at the end of May, so that should work
for him, too. We were talking about coming out to visit Alex and Marc this
summer. Aaron hasn’t spent much time with Marc, and since he’s Alex’s partner,
he’d like to get to know him.”

“Then
you can kill two birds with one stone. I’m thinking a late morning wedding,
followed by a buffet luncheon. That should cut down on the cost,” Maggie said.
“I’ll get the invitations from Judy Young; Pete can cater the luncheon; Laura
will do the cake; Marc can play his keyboard; and we’ll make bouquets and
boutonnieres and centerpieces out of the roses that bloom all over the back garden.
So that takes care of it all.”

“That
most certainly does not ‘take care of it all.’ You’ve got to decide on your
dress, your hair, and your makeup. Who’s going to stand up with you? Will you
have a wedding party? I assume you’ll have Sophie and Sarah as junior
bridesmaids?”

“Of
course I want the girls to be in the wedding. Everything’s so much more
involved now than when I married your father. I wore a nice dress I already
had. I did my own makeup, fixed my own hair. I didn’t dream of doing anything
else.” She paused. “I guess I’ll need your guidance—will you be my maid
of honor?” she asked. If her daughter was this excited about her wedding, she
wasn’t going to throw cold water on her ideas. Why not let Susan have some fun
with it?

“Oh,
Mom, of course! I know I’ve been busy, but I want to help any way I can. I’ve
started Pinterest boards for everything—your gown, John’s tux, the
decorations, the girls’ dresses. And I’ll get one set up for me now, too. It
takes at least eight weeks to order a dress, so we need to decide on them
fast.”

“You’ve
been busy on this.”

 “I’ve
been working on them since we talked on New Year’s Day. I pin things while I’m
talking to Aaron on the phone—he’s working and studying for his boards
and this trial’s been eating up a lot of my time, so we’re both too exhausted
to do much of anything. And I usually pin a few before I fall asleep in bed.
I’ve got about two thousand images already.”

“Holy
cow. You have been busy, honey. I’m not sure I have time to look through all of
them.”

“That’s
okay, Mom. I’m doing this mainly because it’s fun. I’ll send you any that I
really want you to see.”

“Perfect.”

“I
also have some makeup ideas for you. You’ll need to have a couple of trial
sessions with makeup artists before you pick one. Expect to pay about two
hundred fifty dollars for each trial.”

“What?
That’s crazy. There’s not much anyone can do with this old mug of mine. I’m not
sure that Westbury has anyone who claims to be a makeup artist, anyway.”

“Westbury
has to have a makeup counter. We’ll find it when I’m there for the carnival
this spring. Maybe I should start a Pinterest page for the carnival. How’s that
coming along?”

“Other
than the date and that it’s being held at Rosemont, I have no idea. The same
people are working on it again this year. Tim Knudsen’s been soliciting
donations, and George Holmes has added some new games. It was so successful
last year that I’m not worrying about it.”

“That’s
a first, Mom. Good for you. You’ve got your hands full as mayor.”

“I’m
so glad that you’re all coming for it. Why don’t we carve out a day while
you’re here and devote it to wedding planning? We’ll pick out our dresses, and
you can drag me to the makeup counter.”

“Genius
plan. Let’s do it. And set up a cake tasting at Laura’s, too.”

“The
twins will love that. We’ll let them choose. I’ll get it all arranged. I can
hardly wait to have you here again. Are things still good between you and
Aaron?”

“Sure.
I just didn’t know being in a relationship could be so lonely—we barely
see each other. But I’m fine. I’ve got Pinterest and your wedding to help me
cope.”

“You
can call me anytime. You know that.”

Chapter 43

Maggie Martin dabbed at her nose with a wad of tissues
and juggled a large plaque as she waited for the elevator to take her to the
first floor of Town Hall and the large employee break room where a retirement
reception was in full swing for the Vital Records clerk. The
eighty-two-year-old woman was retiring after sixty years of service—a
record for the town, as far as anyone knew. Maggie should have made her way
downstairs an hour ago, but this cold had settled upon her like shrink wrap and
she didn’t have the energy or inclination to be social.

Maggie
scanned the row of offices on the executive floor. All doors were firmly shut
except the third from the end. Could Frank Haynes be at Town Hall this
afternoon?

Maggie
made her way down the hall, and a coughing spell announced her presence before
she could knock. Haynes swiveled in his chair and looked up.

“Good
grief, Maggie. You should be home in bed. What are you doing here?”

“I
agree. I feel terrible. I think I’ve got a fever,” she managed between coughs.
“I stayed to present this plaque to the Vital Records clerk. She’s retiring
after sixty years. And all the town is doing for her is giving her a plaque and
a little punch-and-cookies reception in the break room.”

Haynes
became suddenly attentive. “Would you like me to deliver it to her?”

“Would
you, Frank? I’d really appreciate it. I need to get out of here. And I don’t
want to give her this nasty cold. Some sendoff that would be.”

“I’d
be delighted to. Just leave it there at the end of my desk,” he said, pointing
and reaching for his package of sanitizing wipes.

“Good
idea, that,” Maggie said, eyeing the wipes.

“What
time is the reception?”

“Now,
I’m afraid. They’re waiting for you.”

Haynes
looked at his watch. “It’s almost five. If no one else is doing anything for
her, I’ll take her to dinner. How would that be?”

“Very
thoughtful, Frank. I’m sure she’d love that,” she said, eyeing him curiously.
She wished she knew what caused the nice Frank Haynes to come out of hiding.

Haynes
finished sterilizing the plaque, grabbed his coat from the hanger on the back
of his door, and turned out his light. “I’ll make your excuses for you. Why
don’t you duck out the back?”

***

Frank Haynes strode into the break room as the crowd
began to thin, leaving the remaining two employees of the Vital Records Office
and a handful of other senior staff to witness his presentation to the clerk.
Haynes rose to the occasion and made flattering, if generic, comments about her
exemplary dedication to duty and leadership of her office. The woman flushed
and seemed genuinely pleased with the recognition.

Haynes
stepped aside to allow her to receive the well wishes of her coworkers. When
they were alone, he asked if she would like help carrying the plaque and her
small box of personal items to her car.

“I
don’t drive anymore, Mr. Haynes,” she said. “I’m going to wrangle this home on
the bus.”

“Nonsense.
I won’t hear of it. Let me give you a ride home, please. In fact, I’d like to
take you to dinner, on behalf of the council,” he added, “to thank you for your
service.”

“Well,”
she hesitated. “That would be very nice.”

“That’ll
give me a chance to hear all about the department that you’ve run so well for
over half a century. Imagine that,” he said. And to probe what she might know
about the possible theft of his mother’s birth certificate from the Vital
Records Office. Fate might have delivered into his hands the perfect person to
answer his questions about the Vital Records Office at the time of Hector
Martin’s death.

***

Frank Haynes asked Pete to show them to a quiet booth
where they could talk. He held the clerk’s chair and insisted that she have a
glass of wine to celebrate her retirement. Alcohol always oiled the tongue. He
ordered a seafood appetizer to share, and the clerk gasped. “We can’t eat all
of that. And it’s so expensive.”

“Don’t
worry about the cost. Pete can box up anything that’s left over, and you can
take it home. What are the most unusual things you can remember happening in
your department?” he asked.

“The
change over from typed index cards to the computer system was traumatic, to say
the least. It was wonderful, though. I always thought it would be, you know. I
wasn’t one of those who feared change. Oh, no. Not me. Why …”

Haynes
stifled a yawn and refilled her glass. He’d let her ramble, then steer her to
the time period around Hector Martin’s death. He finally found his opening as
the waiters placed their entrees in front of them.

“What
about the months after Hector Martin died? I heard there were some real issues
then,” he said, baiting his hook.

“Well,”
she paused, leaning over the table toward him and lowering her voice. “I should
say so. That lawyer from Chicago came in as we were closing. I told him he’d
have to come back the next day. I always closed the department on time. You
could set your watch by the hours we kept,” she said proudly.

Haynes
nodded.

“He
pleaded with me to let him get in. Said it would only take a moment. That his
wife was pregnant and about to deliver. He needed to drive home that night.”
She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Why’d he come in the first place if his
wife was about to give birth any moment?—that’s what I want to know,” she
said. “Anyway, I let him in—for just a few minutes, mind you. And he was
quick about his business. Thanked me profusely, and he was gone. I locked up
and went home.”

“That’s
all?” Haynes asked, stifling his disappointment.

“No—that’s
not all. Don’t you remember? That’s the night that the fire broke out and
destroyed all of our paper records. The fire examiner said it smoldered for
hours before the alarm came in. Most of our records had been put onto the
computer by then, and we backed up our systems, so the damage wasn’t great. But
the real old stuff hadn’t been scanned and it was all lost.”

“I
don’t remember hearing about this.”

The
woman shrugged. “It didn’t get much attention. They blamed it on faulty wiring
and figured we lost a bunch of old stuff that we didn’t need anyway. The
council at the time was delighted to save the money it would have taken to get
all of those old records onto the computer.”

“So
what was lost?”

“Everything
before 1951.” She shook her head. “To this day, I think something fishy went on
that night.”

“Is
that so?”

“I’ll
bet dollars to doughnuts that attorney took something out of the records and
set that fire to cover his tracks. I tried to tell the fire chief that, but he
wouldn’t listen to me.”

Haynes
nodded. “You might be right,” he said. He needed time to think this through. He
signaled to Pete to bring him the check. “I’ve imposed on you long enough, but
I’ve really enjoyed our conversation. May I call you again sometime to hear
more?”

She
raised an eyebrow. “Of course you can. You’ll know where to find me when you
drop me off.”

***

“I’m glad you called, Mr. Haynes. I was just finishing a
letter to you,” Simon Wilkens said. “Your grandfather’s law firm cooperated
with us—after a bit of gentle persuasion,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “They
sent an attorney to the Vital Records Office in Westbury before they closed the
estate. He didn’t find the birth certificate that you provided to me. It wasn’t
part of the official records.”

“So
that means they weren’t negligent in handling the estate?”

“Precisely.”

“Unless
the attorney stole the birth certificate.”

“That
seems very far-fetched, Mr. Haynes,” Simon Wilkens said. “Malpractice is one
thing; malfeasance is quite another.”

“I
called you, Simon, to report a very interesting conversation I had with
Westbury’s Vital Records clerk. Former Vital Records clerk, actually. She just
retired after sixty years in that office. I took her to dinner last night to
celebrate her last day and a few glasses of wine loosened her up nicely.”

“What
did she say to convince you that this lawyer expunged the birth certificate
from the public record?”

“She
remembers an attorney from Chicago who begged her to let him have access to the
records at closing time. He used some sob story about his wife being about to
give birth and he couldn’t spend the night in Westbury—he had to get
home. She remembers that he was only there for a few minutes and that a fire
broke out later that night. They were in the process of scanning records into
the computer but hadn’t gotten to any of them dated before 1951. All of the
records prior to that year were destroyed.”

“That’s
quite a story. Did they conclude it was arson?”

“She
says that the town council was relieved they didn’t need to spend any more
money scanning old records and dropped the matter. The fire marshal wasn’t
interested in her mystery man from Chicago.”

“There’s
nothing to connect this to your case,” Wilkens added.

“Except
the timing. She remembers that it was shortly after Hector Martin died.”

Wilkens
was silent, digesting the information. “If we could prove that the estate’s
attorney was paid off by Paul Martin, we’d have a case to bring against the
firm and Paul’s heirs. It seems like a very long shot.”

“I’ll
work on getting the evidence,” Haynes said. “I’ll use my connections here in
Westbury. Sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”

“Remember
to stay on the right side of the law, Mr. Haynes,” he admonished. “Even smart
people do stupid things when a lot of money is involved.”

“You
don’t have to worry about me getting caught on the wrong side of the law,”
Haynes assured him as he hung up the phone.

He
wouldn’t step across that line again.

Westbury
was a small town, and people in small towns talked. Secrets that had been
buried for decades could be uncovered. Or so he hoped.