Weaving the Strands (7 page)

Chapter 16

A week had gone by since the
disquieting meeting with the mayor and Councilwoman Holmes, and the residents
at Fairview Terraces were still abuzz with chatter about the predicament they
found themselves in through no fault of their own. Many simply wanted to
complain, but a surprising number wanted to help.

“You know what?” Gloria said as she sat back and
observed the other diners. “There’s more energy in this room than there’s been
in I can’t remember when.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Glenn remarked.

“I’m serious. When was the last time you felt you
were working on something that really mattered? It’s been a long time for me.
That baby blanket was a start, but nothing like this. Look around you. We’ve
got people talking to each other who haven’t spoken in years.”

“You’re right about that,” Glenn said upon
consideration. “Gives us all something to rally around. But I haven’t seen
anything productive come of all this. We don’t have any direction.”

 “What do you want to happen?” she asked.

“I’d really like this whole problem to go away.
For Councilman Haynes to straighten this out.”

“Me, too,” Gloria replied. “But I
would
like Fairview Terraces to set up a gift shop or craft co-op or something like
that. I’d be willing to volunteer. I think it’d be fun.”

Glenn smiled at her. “That blanket got you going,
didn’t it? I’ve seen your knitting basket by your chair when I pick you up.”

“I have to admit that project brought lots of good
things into my life,” she replied. Glenn hoped she was referring to him. “What
would you like to do if we need to raise money?”

“I’ve been giving that some thought. Renting the
unused space would be the smart thing to do. It wouldn’t inconvenience any of
us. In fact, it could bring in customers for your gift shop.”

“It just might,” she replied

“But none of this is likely to happen. Nobody is
doing anything concrete, as far as I can see.”

“Then why don’t you make it happen?” Gloria challenged.
“You’ve got the business acumen and experience. You’re well known and well
liked around here. And you’re always talking about how much time you have on
your hands. So fill it with this project. Whether we wind up needing the money
or not, it’s a good idea.”

Glenn scanned the dining room as he considered her
suggestion. Maybe she was right. He’d always been a good organizer. He turned
back to her and nodded slowly.

***

Chuck Delgado paced in his office
above his liquor store. Noticing that he was sloshing whiskey out of his glass,
he exchanged his glass for the bottle on his next pass by his desk. He might
own a liquor store, but there was no point in wasting the stuff.

It had been months since Frank Haynes had
requested—no, demanded—one of these clandestine meetings in the wee
hours. After the indictment of that idiot William Wheeler, they had agreed to
keep their distance. Go dark for a while. Let the trail grow cold. As far as he
knew, no one had linked any of the councilmembers to the fraud and embezzlement
that had almost bankrupted Westbury. What had stirred Haynes up?

Delgado started at the rap on the door downstairs.
He pressed the entry button and settled himself behind his desk while Frank
Haynes methodically climbed up the stairs to Delgado’s lair.

Haynes paused inside the door, allowing his eyes
to adjust to the low light. He scanned the sofa and chairs for a place to sit
and decided to remain standing. “I see you haven’t bothered to straighten
anything up in here,” he sneered. “I think those are the same hamburger
wrappers that were on the floor the last time I was here.”

“What do you care? You call me here to lecture me
about cleaning my office? Go to hell,” he slurred.

“No, Charles, that’s not why I’m here.”

I hate it when this bastard calls me Charles,
Delgado thought.

The two men stared at each other.

“What’s up?” Delgado finally asked, breaking the
silence.

“The lease on Fairview Terraces. The increase in
those phony fees. You’re squeezing the town for the arrearage. Threatening foreclosure?”
he snarled. “Are you nuts?”

“It’s the landlord, Frankie. And it’s all in
writing. It’s in the lease. Legit.”

“I’ve done some digging. I know that the landlord
is you and your greedy cronies. It may be in the lease, but do you want to put
a spotlight on yourself? Now?”

“I know why you volunteered to straighten this
mess out with the landlord. Those old geezers at Fairview are your
constituents, and it’s hard to get re-elected when the seniors are against you,
ain’t it, Frankie? You might have to campaign and spend some money like the
rest of us.”

“I’m working on their behalf, yes. This isn’t just
about re-election, you moron. We don’t want anyone digging into anything even remotely
related to us. Scanlon’s interested in it, and they’ve got some professor from
a university consulting on how to get Westbury out of the financial mess it’s
in. Lots of eyes are going to be all over this.”

“Damn. That ain’t good,” Delgado replied, suddenly
sounding a lot more sober.

“No, it’s not. For now, Scanlon isn’t suspicious
of anything and is so busy that he’s willing to let me handle this. I need to
make this problem go away, fast, before anyone looks in this direction. Do you
understand?”

“You want us to back off for you, Frankie?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do. But let me
handle it all.”

“You want to be the hero?”

“Exactly. I’ll string this along a little bit.
Have meetings at Fairview where we get people scared and all stirred up.”

“Then you ride in on your white horse and save
them? Beat down the big, bad landlord. The great, compassionate Frank Haynes?”

“Would that be so bad? It’ll get me re-elected for
sure. And we need as many of us to stay on the council as possible. We don’t want
any more nosey councilmembers like that bitch Tonya Holmes.”

Delgado straightened in his chair. “Not a bad
plan, Frankie.”

“So you’ll get the landlord to stop the
foreclosure on the ground lease and quit trying to collect from Fairview
Terraces?”

Delgado nodded slowly. “I can try. I’ll make some
calls in the morning.”

Haynes stood.

“I’ll do my best with the boys, Frankie,” Delgado
extended his hand.

Haynes reluctantly took it and shook on the
agreement. He hurried down the stairs to his Mercedes sedan parked in the
shadows and reached for the hand sanitizer as soon as he opened the glove
compartment.

Chapter 17

Rain pelted the windows of the Town
Hall conference room where the finance committee had convened to hash out
solutions to the town’s growing budget crisis. They were to be joined, for the
first time, by Lyndon Upton. The professor’s plane had been delayed, rendering
him conspicuously absent from the meet-and-greet luncheon Maggie had arranged
to introduce him to the committee. When Russell Isaac grumbled that he didn’t
have all day to wait for this “know-it-all professor,” Maggie decided to start
the meeting without him or Frank Haynes, who had been delayed as well.

Lesson one in politics, Maggie had learned, is to
obtain support for any change in the status quo, no matter how deserving.
Professor Upton’s help had already proved invaluable. He’d suggested practical
solutions they could easily implement. Considering that he was working for a
stipend of one dollar, his collaboration should have been gratefully embraced.
Instead, the committee had greeted the news of his involvement with tepid
acquiescence.

Maggie turned toward the door as Professor Upton
burst through, tossing his rain-soaked trench coat on a spare chair. “So sorry
to be late,” he said as he confidently circled the room, shaking hands and
introducing himself. Maggie felt a chill settle on the already skeptical group.

“Let’s see where we are, then,” Professor Upton
began as he pulled a chair up to the table.

Oh boy,
Maggie thought.
I’ve got to rein
him in, fast.
She intervened as Upton bent down to retrieve a stack of
papers from his briefcase.

“Here’s an agenda, Professor,” she stated, sliding
a paper down the table. “We’re on item five, Fairview Terraces. I believe
you’re familiar with the issues?”

Upton was about to speak when Frank Haynes entered
the room. “Oh, good,” Maggie continued. “Let me introduce you to Councilman
Frank Haynes.”

“Nice to meet you, Professor,” Haynes said,
finding a place at the table.

Maggie continued. “Councilman Haynes has a lot of
expertise in leased properties and has done a thorough analysis of the
documents. He’s been negotiating with the lessor. Councilman, would you like to
report on your progress?”

Everyone turned to Haynes. Upton caught his eye
and raised one brow.

Haynes scanned his notes and began. “The lessor
has the right to an increase in our ground lease rent. His calculations are
incorrect, however, and he’s conceded that. We haven’t come to a final
agreement on the amount of the increase. I’m meeting with the lessor’s attorney
next week and hope to reach a final agreement then.”

“So we’ll need to raise the rent at Fairview?”
Isaac asked.

“Of course we will,” Chuck Delgado interrupted.
“The citizens of this town can’t subsidize those old folks.”

Haynes let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, we’ll
need to raise some revenue, Chuck. How we go about that is what this committee
needs to decide. Raising rent isn’t the only option. In fact, it’s probably the
worst idea.”

“That’s just because those old geezers are in your
district, Frank,” Delgado prodded. “You’re worried about your re-election.”

“There’s no call for this sort of accusation,
Councilman Delgado,” Maggie interceded. “Councilman Haynes has worked long and
hard to help us resolve this situation. He’s doing a fine job for both his
constituents and the town.” She turned back to Haynes. “Were you finished?”

“No. Thanks, Mayor Martin,” he replied, adopting
her formality. “I expect the lessor will take a discounted payment for the
past-due amount.” A hint of pride tinged his voice. “We just have to finalize
what that sum will be.”

“That’s just grand, Frank,” Delgado snarled.
“Beating up an honest landlord.”

“Lay off him, Chuck,” Isaac said. “I think you’re
doing a great job, Frank.” He swiveled in his chair to face Haynes directly.
“But I’m not sure where we’re going to get any of this money.”

Tonya Holmes raised her hand and Maggie nodded to
her. “Mayor Martin and I met with residents at Fairview Terraces recently.
They’re full of good ideas to raise funds on an ongoing basis. With a bit of
assistance from us, I think they’ll be able to handle an increase in their
sublease payments. Without raising rents for the residents.”

“That’s the point, Tonya,” Delgado stated
dismissively. “The town doesn’t have money to give them.”

“I’m not talking about monetary assistance,
Councilman Delgado,” she answered sharply. “Assistance with the permitting
process for a gift shop or licensing for a farmers market. We can ease them
through the red tape and bureaucracy at Town Hall.”

Delgado shrugged and looked at his hands.

“She’s right,” Haynes interjected. “We can do all
of those things. And a private donor might step forward to pay the past due
amount.”

Delgado’s head snapped up. “Like you, Frankie?” he
asked. “You’re the only private donor we’ve got in these parts.”

All eyes locked on Frank Haynes. He remained
silent, sorting his notes.

Maggie cleared her throat. “Thank you again,
Councilman Haynes, for your excellent work. We’ll look forward to your next
report after you meet with the lessor’s attorney.”

She rose and walked to stand behind Professor
Upton’s chair. “I’d like to formally introduce you to Professor Lyndon Upton.
As you know, he specializes in municipal finance. I’ve worked with him professionally
during my career as a forensic accountant. I have the highest regard for him
and am thrilled that we were able to persuade him to assist us in getting our
finances back on track. The fact that he’s helping us for free is nothing short
of remarkable.”

She patted the back of Upton’s chair. “The Town of
Westbury will be forever in your debt.”

Looking back to the assembled councilmembers, she
resumed her address. “Professor Upton has joined us today to give us his
preliminary conclusions. He’s put together a comprehensive review for us, and
has recommendations that I’ve found most encouraging.”

This last remark snagged the committee’s
attention.

“Would you like me to pass these out?” Maggie
asked, picking up the pile of neatly stapled copies stacked next to him.

Three and a half hours of deep concentration on
the exhaustive analysis presented and suggested resolutions followed. By the
time the committee adjourned, those in attendance had reached consensus on a
proposal to present to the entire council.

Chapter 18

William Wheeler sat on the edge of
his bunk, alone in his cell. He had at least an hour before his cellmate would
return from the meeting with his lawyer. Enough time to do the deed.

He rolled the small capsule around in his fingers,
feeling oddly exhilarated. With one small swallow, he’d join the ranks of other
notorious people who’d chosen this way out: Eva Braun, Heinrich Himmler,
Hermann Göring, and even Adolf Hitler (before firing his pistol into his right
temple) had poisoned themselves with cyanide. Over 900 devotees of the Peoples
Temple in Jonestown, Guyana. And countless fictional characters—from the
novels of Agatha Christie to William Styron’s
Sophie’s Choice
—had
followed this path.

He slipped the capsule carefully into his pocket.
His cell was cold and damp; he’d spent his last night shivering in his cot. He
straightened his blanket and pillow, indulging his almost-compulsive tendency
to be neat.

He’d read that cyanide poisoning is often
undetected, as detailed in a story about a forty-six-year-old lottery winner in
Illinois who died the day after he collected his winnings. He’d fallen ill and
was pronounced dead at the hospital, with death ruled a result of narrowing and
hardening of the coronary arteries. Absent suspicious circumstances, the
Chicago medical examiner didn’t perform autopsies on people older than
forty-five. When the dead man’s relatives insisted that the case be reopened,
the Cook County coroner’s office confirmed he had been the victim of cyanide
poisoning.

Given Wheeler’s age and the fact that he was a
smoker, he prayed fervently that they’d assume he’d had a heart attack. He
didn’t want to further shame or embarrass his family; he wanted his death to
firmly and finally close this chapter from which there was no way out. The life
insurance money would generously provide for them all—more than he would
ever be able to do with a felony on his record.

He thought about how easy it had been to obtain
the drug. One thing he’d learned in his time in jail—controlled
substances were readily available. His supplier hadn’t even been surprised at
Wheeler’s inquiry. As if anticipating Wheeler’s request, he’d had the drug on
hand.

Wheeler lay back on the cot, resting his head
uneasily on the pillow. He reached into his pocket with a shaking hand and
withdrew the means of his escape. He turned to the photos of his family, stuck
to the wall beside his bunk, and drank them in. Tears streamed freely down his
cheeks as he placed the tablet in his mouth and bit down. Death quickly
silenced his final prayers.