Crime & Punctuation Page 15

  “If she’s been so good to you, why did you go to the police? You must have known it would get her into trouble.”

  “Did you listen to last week’s sermon?”

  I had to admit that although I’d gone to church services, I hadn’t paid much attention to Pastor Cameron’s words. He has one of those droning voices that causes listeners to tune out and, in some cases, fall asleep.

  “It was all about telling the truth, and I realized that meant more than not lying, and just the day before that the cops had been back at the house asking questions. They said they needed to get the timeline right. You know—figure out when Tiffany was last seen alive.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought the case had been closed.”

  “Not so you’d notice, and Ronnie’s never bought into the idea that Tiffany’s death was an accident. I could tell. Anyway, here’s the thing. I hadn’t told the cops about the quarrel, but after I listened to that sermon, I got to worrying that knowing about it might be important. I asked Pastor Cameron what he thought, and he said I should tell the detective, so I did, but then he ended up thinking Ronnie was a—what do you call it?—a person of interest. That’s just wrong. She’s got lots of faults, Lord knows, but she’s not a killer.”

  “No, I don’t think she is, either.”

  “Well, there. See.” She jabbed one long, thin finger in my direction. “I knew I was right to come to you.”

  “About that . . . why are you here?” A light breeze wafted into the open porch, blowing a strand of hair into my face. I brushed at it absentmindedly, until it was once more tucked behind my ear. It was Ann who held my attention.

  “Because you’re one smart cookie. Always were. I remember that from when we were in school.” Her tone suggested that this explained everything.

  “There were lots of smart girls in my graduating class.” Nine of the top ten, in fact.

  Ann waved this objection aside. “None of the others came to talk to me after Ronnie was taken to the police station. You did. You wanted to know about the quarrel. I don’t think you were just being snoopy.”

  “It was nosiness, at least in part. I have to be honest with you, Ann. I’ve never been all that fond of Ronnie.”

  “Maybe not, but you don’t want to see her railroaded for a crime she didn’t commit. I can tell. And I think you’ve been giving Tiffany’s death a lot of thought ever since you heard about it.”

  Her insight made me uncomfortable. “My husband used to say I obsessed about things.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  She’d succeeded in coaxing a smile out of me, and that was followed by the reluctant admission that I didn’t want to stop searching for the truth. “If Tiffany was murdered,” I said aloud, “there were at least two people in her life who were far more likely to have had a reason to kill her than Ronnie.”

  “The husband, right? Because the husband or wife of the victim is always a suspect.”

  “The husband, yes, but mostly because Tiffany was opposed to what he was planning. She left those shares in Mongaup Valley Ventures to her grandmother as a way to stop him. I’m a little unclear on what he’s been up to, but if he was afraid he’d end up in jail because of what she knew, that’s a pretty good motive to get rid of her.”

  “You said two people.”

  “The other is Alan Van Heusen, Onslow’s right-hand man.”

  “Huh.” All of a sudden, Ann became intensely interested in her empty coffee cup.

  “Huh, what?”

  She shrugged.

  “You came to me,” I reminded her. “I assume that’s because you think I can help clear Ronnie’s name. I won’t be of any use to you if I don’t know what’s going on.” I wasn’t sure how much I could do in any case, but it was clear that Ann was holding something back, and I wanted to know what it was.

  Ann fiddled with the only jewelry she wore, a plain gold pinky ring, twisting it around her finger as she spoke. “The name Alan might have come up during that quarrel.”

  “The quarrel you didn’t listen to?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Okay.” I could feel my brow furrow as I tried to work out why Ann thought this was so important. “That can hardly be surprising if they were arguing about something to do with Mongaup Valley Ventures.”

  “It was . . . more personal than that.”

  “Don’t tell me Tiffany was cheating on her husband with his flunky!” I started to laugh, but the sound died in my throat when I got a good look at Ann’s face.

  “Not Tiffany,” she said in voice rife with disapproval.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ann huffed out an exasperated breath. “And here I thought you’d be quick to pick up on hints. It wasn’t Tiffany who was defending Alan Van Heusen. It wasn’t Tiffany who’s been having afternoon tea with that jerk two or three times a week for the last couple of months.”

  “Van Heusen . . . and Ronnie? Are you talking about a . . . a romantic relationship?”

  My mind boggled at the very thought, but that scenario certainly explained Ronnie’s peculiar reaction on the day I’d given her a copy of Tiffany’s thumb drive. I’d suggested that either Greg Onslow or Alan Van Heusen, or both, might be guilty of sexual harassment in the workplace. She’d seemed shaken by the idea, even while admitting it was possible.

  “I don’t think they were actually doing the nasty,” Ann said in a surprisingly prim voice, “but Ronnie sure acted like she was fond of him.”

  “Fond enough to defend him to her granddaughter, if Tiffany made accusations against him?”

  Ann nodded. Her face crumpled into a mask of misery. “Maybe even fond enough to keep his name out of the investigation, even if that means making herself look guilty.”

  Chapter 28

  That evening I phoned Darlene.

  “I need you to come out of retirement,” I told her. “I want to tap into your research skills.”

  “Librarians never really retire,” Darlene informed me. “They just stop handling patron requests and stick to looking up stuff that interests them.”

  “Will you help me hunt for more information on Alan Van Heusen and Greg Onslow?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything shady. Where do we start?”

  “Online first.” She hesitated. “I’ve done some poking around already, back when we had our problem with Onslow. People where he lived before coming to Lenape Hollow weren’t willing to talk to us.”

  “What about the locals? What happened to the folks whose businesses he bought?”

  “I can try connecting to some of them, but between the threat of being sued and the fear of physical violence . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  Physical violence? I didn’t like the sound of that. I’d been hoping that Darlene was joking when she hinted that busted kneecaps weren’t out of the question. I toyed with the phone cord of my landline, considering. I’d worm the details out of her next time I saw her in person. Right now I needed her to get busy digging up dirt. If Onslow, Van Heusen, or Mongaup Valley Ventures had broken the law in any way, I was set on finding proof of it.

  “We need a list,” I said. “If we look at all the projects Onslow and Van Heusen have been involved in, we may be able to find a weak link.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  I ended the call feeling much more optimistic than I had been. I picked up Calpurnia, gave her a hug, and informed her that she was due for a treat. While she chowed down on cat candy, I helped myself to three scoops of maple walnut ice cream with double-chocolate sauce on top and considered what I already knew from my own research.

  I’d thought at one point that the fate of the character based on Onslow would provide me with a clue to his real-world dealings, but in the end Tiffany had whitewashed him, making him as much victim as villain. It was a neat plot twist, and it pointed to Alan Van Heusen as
the real evil-doer. Then she’d killed off his character, too. Proof she didn’t like him? Or just her awkward attempt at a surprise ending?

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t trust fiction to accurately reflect fact. Some things in Tiffany’s book seemed to fit reality. Others decidedly did not.

  Darlene must have stayed up all night, because she called me first thing the next morning, before I was even out of bed, to report on what she’d uncovered. “Can you come over?” she asked. “I can email the links, but I already have printouts here, and if we’re face-to-face I can connect the dots for you much more efficiently.”

  If I knew Darlene, she’d already annotated the pages and added footnotes.

  “Start the coffee. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Once I was dressed and had fed the cat, all I had to do was call the carpenter to let him know that I’d leave the front door key in the mailbox for his crew.

  Darlene’s husband was just leaving as I arrived. “Golf again?” I called as I got out of my car.

  Frank just grinned and waved. He was a good-looking guy, tall and trim with a killer smile. He still had all his hair, too. It crossed my mind, for just an instant, that almost daily golf games would make a good cover for a guy who was running around on his wife. Then I mentally slapped myself upside the head. I had never had any reason to think Frank and Darlene weren’t the devoted couple they seemed to be. It appeared that my recent interest in crime was making me mistrustful. I’d have to watch myself or I’d turn into one of those nasty old ladies who is suspicious of everyone.

  When I reached the kitchen, Darlene already had the coffee poured and was dropping dollops of pancake batter onto a griddle. In short order, she placed a short stack in front of me and supplied me with butter and maple syrup.

  “It’s from New York,” I complained, catching sight of the label. “The best maple syrup comes from Maine.”

  “People living in New Hampshire and Vermont would disagree. Besides, you’re a resident of the Empire State now. Get used to it.”

  “Where’s your sympathy?” I complained in a mock show of disgruntlement. Then I chowed down. Darlene makes a mean pancake.

  When we’d eaten and she’d cleared away the dishes and refilled our coffee mugs, she covered the kitchen table with the newspaper articles she’d printed out. They came from six different towns in three states.

  With Greg Onslow’s whole sordid history spread out in front of me, I didn’t need much help to connect those dots. The pattern was clear. Onslow went into a small town, set up shop, had one or two successes, and then, on the biggest of his deals, declared bankruptcy. His investors lost their money.

  “How could this go unnoticed?” I asked. “Didn’t anyone check his credentials when he came here?”

  “He wasn’t a new hire at a local company. He set up his own business, and he was rich enough to make the operation look impressive. Who, exactly, would investigate? Besides, in person he’s persuasive. If asked, he steers investors toward his successes and away from his failures.”

  “I’d think his temper would be a tip-off.”

  Darlene shook her head. “That quarrel he had with Joe Ramirez in the cemetery? That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him that riled up. He’s usually got perfect control of himself.”

  “Where did the start-up money for Mongaup Valley Ventures come from? If he declared bankruptcy, shouldn’t he have been broke?”

  “You’d think so, but somehow he always seems to come out ahead. He probably used his business losses to his advantage at tax time.”

  “I’d think that the banks would stop lending him money at some point. When the average person defaults on a loan, their credit rating goes straight into the toilet.”

  “I guess it’s true that the rich are different.” Darlene sounded bitter, and I couldn’t blame her.

  I gathered the printouts into a stack, squared the corners, and set them aside before meeting Darlene’s eyes across the table. “Will you share the details of what happened to you and Frank? It might help me to understand how Onslow operates.”

  She sighed, took a long swallow of coffee, and nodded. “You may as well know. You’re already privy to most of the embarrassing things that have happened to me, the ones in the distant past, at any rate.”

  I had to smile at that, remembering a couple of incidents from our high school days, but this was not the time to reminisce.

  “Do you remember the old tannery?” Darlene asked. “The one out on Collins Road?”

  I was at a loss and said so.

  “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that the building hasn’t been in use for decades. When the last owner defaulted on taxes, the town took over the property. They got some kind of grant to clean up the site—toxic waste and all that.”

  I nodded, encouraging her to continue, and took another sip of my coffee. I had no idea where this story was headed.

  “Everything was looking good. The town sold the property to Greg Onslow with the idea that he’d tear down the old building, put up a modern structure, and lure new businesses to the area. There were rumors about a call center and hundreds of jobs.” She paused to gulp down more of her own excellent brew. “Anyway, when Onslow opened up the project to investors, it sounded like a sweet deal. Everything was promising . . . on paper. Frank and I weren’t the only local people who thought so.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “What didn’t?” As she talked, she began to fold her napkin into accordion pleats, a sure sign that she was stressed. “The biggie was that there was asbestos in the walls of the old tannery building. The town should have checked for that years ago, but somehow it slipped through the cracks. Onslow discovered the problem early on, along with just how much the cleanup was going to cost. It’s specialized, you know, with all kinds of rules and regulations attached, and guaranteed that the project was sure to lose money. Knowing that, he kept that information to himself and continued to encourage people to invest. Meanwhile, he quietly unloaded his shares in the project. By the time word of the asbestos problem finally leaked out, Onslow was in the clear and only the people he’d talked into joining him in the venture were left holding the bag.”

  “That’s appalling. And unethical. And if it’s not illegal, it should be.”

  Darlene abandoned the mauled napkin to clench both hands around her mug. “We could have taken him to court, but it would have been a long, drawn-out, expensive battle with no guarantee of success. Onslow’s high-priced lawyers would have run circles around anybody we could afford to hire.”

  I frowned at the stack of printouts. “Given the pattern established elsewhere, shouldn’t that have been the point where he folded his tent and disappeared into the night?”

  “There was a difference this time. He’d just married Tiffany Scott.”

  “But after that shady deal, why would anyone around here do business with him? How did he find investors for Wonderful World?”

  “I don’t know about anyone else, but Frank and I were embarrassed that we’d been so gullible. We weren’t anxious to have anyone find out about it. Then, too, Onslow sent Van Heusen around with some cock-and-bull story about how sorry he was for our losses. Underneath the sympathy the message was crystal clear: Make waves and we’ll sue you.”

  “For what?”

  “Libel. Or is it slander? I can never keep those two straight.”

  “Libel is in writing. Slander is spoken. But since you’d have been telling the truth, he’d have no grounds to accuse you of either, let alone any hope of convincing a judge.”

  “Maybe, but it would still involve a long, drawn-out lawsuit. Onslow could afford that. We couldn’t. Plus he was already earning good will for his downtown revitalization project. People didn’t want to listen to any criticism of him.”

  “You mean those businesses he bought up? But people seem to know that some of the owners didn’t want to sell. You mentioned it. So did Ada Patel. The Thai restaurant, ri
ght?”

  Darlene stared into her now empty mug for a long moment before she answered. “There were a few . . . accidents on the premises. As far as I know, no one ever reported anything to the police, but Frank liked to have lunch there, so he witnessed one of them. He arrived to find the owner badly bruised and bleeding. The guy said he’d taken a fall, but Frank had just seen Alan Van Heusen leaving by the back door. He’s pretty sure Van Heusen beat up the owner, and I know for certain that two days later he sold the place to Mongaup Valley Ventures. Right after that he left town.”

  A chill ran through me when I remembered the way Van Heusen had invaded my personal space. That sort of intimidation fell far short of physical violence, but I had no trouble believing the man capable of hurting someone to convince him to cooperate.

  “I wonder if we can track them down. The owner of that restaurant, I mean.”

  “I can try.” Darlene sounded doubtful. And tired.

  I gave her a narrow-eyed look. For the first time, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “My neck was bothering me. I wouldn’t have slept anyway.”

  “Your eyelids are at half mast.” I stood, gathering up the stack of printouts. “Go lie down and have a nice long nap. I’ll take this stuff home with me and—”

  “Leave it here. I’ll take the nap. I will,” she insisted when she saw my skeptical expression. “After I get up again I want to keep going with this. I’ve left matters too long as it is. Frank and I can’t get our money back, but at this point I’ll settle for the sweet taste of revenge.” Suddenly she didn’t look so wiped out anymore. She fixed me with a steely gaze. “What I don’t get is why you’re so determined to bring Onslow down.”