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Matt intended to be far more involved.
* * *
LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.
She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.
Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.
Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.
She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.
It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.
Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.
Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Yes?”
“It’s me, darling.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“I just talked with Sheldon at the university. He says you haven’t spoken to him about that position on his genetics project team.”
Layne gritted her teeth. Maybe she could pretend she was losing the signal, except her mother would just call back. “Mom, I’m not interested. I love my job at the Babbitt and I’m good at it. Why isn’t that enough?”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here, speak to your father.”
“Layne,” said Walter McGraw’s deep voice. “If you aren’t interested in genetics, I’m sure we can find another medical research study you could join.”
She wanted to scream. “Look, I’m at Aunt Dee’s right now. Could we talk about it on Sunday when I come to dinner? I promise you can nag for at least twenty minutes before I say no again.”
“We just want the best for you.”
“I know. Gotta go, Dad,” she said hastily, hating his hurt, offended tone. “Love to you both. Bye.”
She turned off the cell and dropped it back in her purse. For Pete’s sake, she was offended, too. Nothing she did would ever be good enough for her parents.
Layne leaned her elbows on the desk and studied the records she was keeping of everything found in the boxes so far; she didn’t want anything to go unnoticed. The rest of the office would receive an equally careful inventory and review. Most of it was deadly dull, but research wasn’t always exciting. It was more of a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other sort of activity.
An hour later she heard her aunt arrive home and went out to the kitchen to greet her—Aunt Dee cooked as a stress reliever, so she was in the kitchen a lot these days. Layne was just glad she earned money from the Babbitt part of the time for testing recipes. It wouldn’t fix her financial woes, but maybe it would help stave off disaster for a while.
“Hi. How was the gallery?”
“Fine. How was meeting the gorgeous philanthropist?”
“So-so.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Matthew Hollister is good-looking, but he isn’t that gorgeous.”
Liar, screamed her conscience. Matt Hollister was tall, dark and stunning. With his expensive suit, black hair and gray eyes, he could have walked off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Of course, he’d graced the cover of more than one magazine and scandal rag when he was still carousing...usually with a woman and a juicy caption. In person he was magnetic, one of those guys who made you want to tear off your clothes and throw yourself into his arms. Her sisters could get away with it, but her? Not a chance. She wasn’t Quasimodo, but she was hardly in Matt Hollister’s league.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Hollister wasn’t in the mood to talk. He practically had me thrown out of the building. His security guy showed up as I got off the elevator in the lobby and I thought he was going to pull a gun on me. Followed me clear out to the parking lot and watched me leave.”
“Are you all right?” Aunt Dee exclaimed.
“I’m fine. I’m probably overreacting, since he didn’t actually do anything. He was just menacing, in this quiet, intense sort of way. I bet he just looks at someone and they skedaddle.”
“Lani, I know I asked you to investigate, but it isn’t worth you taking risks. I don’t want you getting hurt, and William wouldn’t have, either.”
“I’m not taking any risks. It was just a conversation. Though I did hope Mr. Hollister would talk about the company and anything he might have seen or heard about the case. I mean, he worked at Hudson & Davidson through the main part of the investigation, so he must know something. I thought he could at least get his stepfather to meet with me, only he didn’t give me much chance to talk. But I can tell you one thing, Matt Hollister sure got uptight when I mentioned Peter Davidson. What can you tell me about Mr. Davidson? I don’t remember him very well.”
Aunt Dee pulled several items from the refrigerator, frowning slightly. “He was focused and dedicated. We became friends with Peter and his first wife at William’s last posting in Guam. It was Peter who suggested that Will go back to school and get a degree in accounting when he left the navy. That way they could go into business together when they were both out of the service.”
Layne scribbled a note on her pad. “I see. Is that why Mr. Davidson moved to the Seattle area, because you guys were here?”
“Yes, though by that time Shelley, his first wife, had died in an accident. I think that’s why he didn’t come to the house that much—it reminded him of those years when we were all so close.”
Not close enough, Layne added silently. Peter Davidson had hung his old friend out to dry the minute a whiff of scandal appeared.
“Anyway,” Aunt Dee said, “Will started an accounting firm when he got his degree instead of going to work for someone else, and when Peter took twenty-year retirement from the navy, he moved here. William sold him half the company so they’d be equal partners. By that time Peter had already made a fortune on the stock market.”
Layne stared at her aunt who was working at the sink. “You mean the company originally belonged to Uncle Will? I thought they’d started it together.”
“In a way they did—they expanded beyond accounting and the company grew exponentially after that, with huge corporate accounts and an A-list of wealthy clients.”
“I see.” Layne gazed out at the wooded backyard. The house faced on a shallow creek gorge and the yard took advantage of a divine natural setting. Whenever possible over the past seven months she’d helped with the upkeep of the property, though Aunt Dee was awfully touchy about it. “But if Mr. Davidson came out of the mess so clean, why won’t his stepson talk about what happened?”
“Who knows? It could mean anything from a bad relationship with his stepfather to concern about negative press coverage—it isn’t necessarily sinister.”
“I suppose.”
Matt Hollister had annoyed Layne, mostly because he was rich and spoiled and no doubt playing at philanthropy the way he’d played at everything else. There were men like him who’d changed their ways, but they weren’t usually thirty-two and in the prime of their life.
“I wonder how long he’s going to last running the Eisley Foundation?” she mused aloud.
“Is it important?” Her aunt put a plate of Cobb salad in front of Layne.
“Not really, though it isn’t as if he earned the job.”
Dee sat down with her own salad. “The Eisley Foundation does important work. Mr. Eisley earned a fortune in the shipping industry and lumber business, then funneled half of it into humanitarian causes.”
“I know, he’s the Andrew Carnegie of the Pacific Northwest,” Layne said, waving her fork. “But that’s the grandfather, not the grandson. After getting out of college Matthew Hollister mostly partied hard, drove fast and dated supermodels.”
Her research on him wasn’t flattering. Honestly, why did some women think a man who partied every night and risked his life in race cars and doing other dumb things was sexy? Except...Matt Hollister was sexy, his exploits notwithstanding. So sexy he’d tied her tongue into knots. She had to view him as a fact to be researched, instead of letting her feminine instincts jump in and turn her into a stuttering idiot.
“It’s a private foundation, Lani. Mr. Eisley can name anyone to the job. Including his grandson.”
“I suppose.” Layne took a bite of salad. Mmm. It was loaded with blue cheese, hard-boiled eggs and bacon, along with thick chunks of avocado. Not to mention her aunt’s homemade croutons, with fresh-baked yeast rolls on the side. “This is so good,” she murmured.
“It isn’t hard to make.”
“You don’t think anything is hard to make.”
* * *
DOROTHY HUDSON SMILED, trying to hide her concern. Her niece looked tired, no doubt from the late nights she’d spent in Will’s home office. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked Layne to investigate, but it was hard not knowing why her life had fallen apart. And while she didn’t want to be mercenary, she’d lose everything they’d built together if she didn’t get more than twenty-five thousand dollars from the sale of the company.
She’d talked herself hoarse to the police, calling every day and asking if they’d made any progress. Finally they’d referred her to the Carrollton D.A.’s office, who’d told her in no uncertain terms that while the case was technically open, the only continuing investigation would be to find the stolen money. But it kept bothering her. How could she accept what other people said about William, rather than what she felt in her heart? And lately she could barely sleep for thinking about it.
She believed he was innocent, didn’t she?
Sure, a few years ago, Will and Peter had built an expensive new complex for the company. The cost was astronomical, but they’d felt it presented the right image to clients. But then Will’s father had gotten sick. The elder Hudsons hadn’t had health insurance, so she and Will had helped out to make sure the best treatment was available. Their savings and investments were depleted, putting them in debt for the first time in years.
But millions of people had debts and didn’t resort to theft, and Will had always been so optimistic and scrupulously honest; it was one of the things Dorothy had loved about him. Suicide and embezzling were the last things she would have expected.
“I have to say that Eisley Foundation building has the most scrumptious view of Lake Union,” Layne said, distracting Dorothy from darker thoughts. “If I was Matthew Hollister, I’d just move in and make his office my living room. I nearly died of envy on the spot.”
Dorothy cocked her head. “Don’t you like your house?”
“Yes, and I wouldn’t have my garden in North Seattle, so it evens out. He was defensive about their upscale location, but I already knew the stuff he spouted about the Eisley Foundation restoring the neighborhood.”
“They’ve been criticized over the years for being there,” Dorothy admitted. “People forget how bad that area used to be. They just see that it’s pricey real estate and question a charitable trust operating in the middle of so much affluence.”
Layne gasped in mock horror. “You mean the press criticized old Mr. Eisley, too? I thought he’d been granted sainthood.”
“Almost. What did you hope Mr. Hollister could tell you?”
“More details about the embezzlement, for one thing. The police won’t release the evidence against Uncle Will or anything else about the thefts, and it’s difficult to investigate when you don’t have a clue what you’re trying to find out. But I’ll get another chance to talk to him.”
Dorothy pushed her salad around on her plate; she was rarely hungry these days, but she’d wanted Layne to have a good meal and her niece would have refused to eat alone.
“If Mr. Hollister threw you out, what makes you think you’ll have another chance?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
A smile brightened Layne’s face and she hopped down from the bar stool. A moment later she slid a copy of the Babbitt across the counter—it was open to the “Local Doings” section of the weekly publication. New Director of the Eisley Foundation to Attend Mayor’s Charity Gala read the headline of the top article.
“The gala is tomorrow,” Layne explained.
“How is that going to help?”
“Easy, I’m going, too. We always get two tickets to these events at the Babbitt. Naturally the social reporter gets one, but nobody wanted the other, so I grabbed it. Want to go with me? It admits two people.”
Dee didn’t hold with formal mourning periods where women wore widow’s weeds and did nothing but charity work for years, but that didn’t mean she felt like going to a party, especially something like the mayor’s gala.
“Can’t you go with someone else from the magazine?”
“I guess. Noah Wilkie is assigned to cover the event, only his wife is pregnant and the smell of food is making her gag. He suggested I go with him when he found out I was interested. Christine thinks it’s a great idea—she doesn’t want Noah attending with just anyone.” Layne put a finger on the magazine and drew it back toward her. “I’d never hit on a married man, but what does it mean if other women think their husbands are absolutely safe around you? Christine would never be okay with Noah going to a gala with one of my sisters and they wouldn’t run after a married guy, either.”
Dorothy regarded her niece with affectionate sympathy. Layne was lovely, but she’d grown up in the shadow of two strikingly beautiful sisters with classic figures and innate feminine allure. The rest of the family was tall, Layne was small and petite. At best she wore a B-cup bra, and she was direct, rather than flirtatious.
“It means you’re special,” Dorothy assured. “And you have real friends. I remember you getting a present for someone named Christine before you’d even met her.”
“That was for their new kitten. The Wilkies have never had pets and didn’t have any toys or other supplies.”
“You mentioned Christine was pregnant. What have you gotten for the new baby?”
“Oh, I found a terrific set of...” Layne stopped and looked puzzled. “How did you know I’d gotten her something?”
“Because I know you. Now, tell me why Noah wants someone to attend the charity gala with him.”
“He feels it appears less threatening to bigwigs if a social reporter comes with a date.”
“‘Social’ reporter?” Dorothy restrained a laugh. “Is that another name for gossip columnist?”
Layne chuckled. “More or less. Noah is the worst gossip I know. Anyhow, I’d much rather go to the gala with you, especially since I don’t want anyone at the Babbitt knowing about this. Come on, Aunt Dee, we wouldn’t have to stay for long. And even if Matt Hollister won’t talk to me, he might talk to you.”
“All right, I’m convinced. What’s your plan?”
“We’ll quietly approach Mr. Hollister and try to get him to agree to another meeting in a less public place.”
Dorothy ate a bite of salad. “What if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll think of something else. Don’t worry—besides the stuff in the office, there are public records and other places to search. You gave me the names of the employees you could remember and I’ll interview them if needed. And maybe there’s a way to get the rest of the names, even if Mr. Davidson won’t cooperate.”
“They may not talk to you, either.”
“I’ll figure it out. I just wish I knew more about how the embezzling happened.”
Dorothy nibbled a bite of dinner roll.
The sensation of Will being in the house was even stronger than before, sometimes she even smelled the shampoo he’d used and his pipe tobacco, or heard the low murmur of his voice. Or maybe it was just her imagination and a guilty conscience because she hadn’t cleared his name and it was the only thing left she could do for him.
She just hoped Layne could find the answer soon.
CHAPTER THREE
ON SATURDAY EVENING Layne smoothed the front of her dress as she regarded herself in the mirror. Her aunt had just finished doing her hair for her, twisting both sides and fastening it with enameled combs that matched the green silk of Layne’s evening dress.
Still peering at her reflection, Layne turned sideways and sighed. Thin ribbon straps crisscrossed over her shoulders, holding her dress up, and the thing sort of swirled to her waist, and then to her feet. But nothing, not even a clever bra, could give her a respectable silhouette.
“I didn’t want to buy something new that I’d never use again, but I don’t want to be a laughingstock. Do you really think no one will guess this started life as a bridesmaid’s dress?” she asked her aunt.
“Honestly, it’s fine without the cape over the shoulders,” Aunt Dee replied. “And naturally that bow had to go.”
“Yeah, that looked stupid on me. I’ll never forgive Carla for making me wear it. You’d think she’d be nicer to her own cousin.”
She twisted, trying to see the back of the dress. Aunt Dee had removed the girlish bow and created a slim belt to cover any evidence of its removal, saying it would make the “lines” of the gown more classic. Since her aunt was an artist with exquisite taste, Layne would have to take her word for it. She didn’t object to wearing pretty clothes every now and then, but too much froufrou made her resemble an over-decorated birthday cake.
