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“Layne, I’m sorry,” Jeannie said from behind her. “I just don’t understand why you can’t work at a national magazine or major newspaper, at the very least.”
“You’re just making things worse, sis,” Jeremy told her, giving Layne a hug. “I personally want you all to quit your jobs and come work on my campaign next year. How about it, Layne? We can be the fighting McGraws, righting wrongs and bringing justice to a weary world.”
Layne loved her family, but sometimes she wished she lived in Timbuktu and only saw them on major holidays. “Save the campaign speeches, Jeremy. I’m staying at the Babbitt.”
“Here’s to our next U.S. congressman,” declared Barbara, handing Layne a glass of her favorite sparkling water.
Everyone dutifully raised their beverages and echoed the toast. Layne was certain Jeremy would be elected; he got everything he went after—like going to the Olympics.
“So when are you getting married, Jeremy?” Aunt Dee asked as they sat down to dinner.
“After Lissette is back from Antarctica and has finished her study on the emperor penguin.”
“It must be hard, knowing she’s down there in an observation station for the winter. It gets to almost a hundred below freezing, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but Lissette has been looking forward to being on an Antarctic research team for years. I couldn’t ask her to give up something so important because we’re getting married.”
Layne cast a grateful glance at her aunt as Dee continued asking questions.
The meal was one of Barbara McGraw’s healthy offerings—chicken breasts with mushrooms and asparagus in a light garlic wine sauce. Delicious, naturally. Barbara wasn’t an inspired cook like her sister, but when she did something, she did it very well.
The expected pitch about going to work at the university came when Layne was helping her mother wash up after dinner.
“Dear, Jeannie shouldn’t have said that earlier about the Babbitt,” Barbara murmured quietly, casting a displeased look into the great room where her husband and three eldest children were playing bridge.
“I’m not sure she can help herself. At least with me.”
“Perhaps. Relationships between sisters are complicated. But we’re all concerned that your talents aren’t being fully utilized at the Babbitt. I realize you love research, that’s why I spoke to Sheldon about your joining the study team he’s forming.”
“It’s not the same kind of research, Mom,” Layne returned drily. For a brilliant woman, Barbara could be quite dense when she chose to be.
“But it’s still uncovering information and learning new things. And if you went after your PhD, just think of everything you could find out. All sorts of new facts about diseases and how to cure them. Give Sheldon a call and talk to him.”
“I can learn new facts at the Babbitt without writing a dissertation and God knows what else is involved in getting a doctorate.”
Barbara’s eyes opened wide. “Layne—”
“I’m kidding, I know what’s involved in getting a PhD,” Layne said hastily. Her mother would have a stroke if she believed one of her children didn’t know every step, in detail, of getting an advanced degree. “But I’m not going to change my mind, I’m happy at the Babbitt and that’s where I’m staying.”
“Stubborn,” Barbara muttered. “You’ve always been just like your grandmother that way.”
Layne gave her a bright smile. “Gee, Mom, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
* * *
ON TUESDAY EVENING Layne was settled at Uncle Will’s desk, logging more items from his old office at work. She had a feeling she was missing something, she just didn’t know what.
Mostly she needed more information.
Maybe if Aunt Dee got the autopsy report she could approach the investigation from a different angle. Of course, that was a long shot, too. Right now she was operating on her aunt’s belief in her husband, and her own vague sense that something wasn’t right about what had happened. After all, where was the missing money? Aunt Dee sure didn’t have it, and in his letter Peter Davidson had made a point of telling her he’d personally repaid the stolen funds from his own pocket.
Moodily, Layne flipped on Uncle Will’s computer. It went through the regular start-up routine and she figured it hadn’t been turned on since before his death.
Then Layne frowned.
Who had turned the power off? Aunt Dee avoided computers like the plague and certainly wouldn’t have known how to turn it off properly. The police? Maybe if they’d confiscated the CPU and returned it, but it was unlikely they’d hook it back up again. And why would Uncle Will write and print a suicide note, then turn the computer off when he’d always left it on?
Maybe somebody else had been in the office...like a murderer.
You’re reaching, Layne thought impatiently.
After a few minutes Uncle Will’s favorite screen saver appeared—mostly pictures of Aunt Dee shifting one to the next—and Layne wiggled the mouse to show the desktop again. She opened Microsoft Word and looked at the recent document list. It was really old stuff and she was relieved not to find a saved file of the suicide note.
Next she opened Windows Explorer to look for files. There wasn’t much there, except a number of image files. She clicked on the first one, which turned out to be Aunt Dee in her wedding gown, nineteen and luminously hopeful. The next picture was of Layne as a toddler at the reception, held high in Uncle Will’s arms, dashing and handsome in his navy uniform. She pressed the print icon, wanting to take a copy home, but nothing happened. After ten minutes of investigation, she stared at the computer, puzzled.
“What do you think about that, JoJo?” she said to Aunt Dee’s cat. He was lying across a corner of the desk, methodically cleaning his paw.
“Think about what?” Aunt Dee asked. She stood at the door, looking like a Victorian lady in her long flowing gown. Her hair was loosely braided, and the thick gold plait hung over one shoulder, tied with a blue satin ribbon. She could have passed for twenty-five, instead of a woman close to fifty.
“Oh...the computer doesn’t have a print driver for this printer.”
“Speak English, not computerese.”
Layne pointed. “This computer hasn’t been told how to talk to that printer. Did you buy this device in the past few months?”
“Me?” Dee let out a short, humorless laugh. “You have to be kidding. I haven’t been in here since that night. Besides, you know how I feel about computers.”
“The same way I feel about oysters.”
They shuddered together.
Yet Layne glanced at the printer again and frowned. It seemed strange that Uncle Will would type and print a brief suicide note at work, then bring it home. Suicide didn’t fit his nature in the first place, but especially suicide planned in advance. “Uh, I hate to ask this, but where did you find the note that Uncle Will supposedly wrote? I mean the specific location...on the desk...or in his pocket...?”
Dee hugged her arms closer to her body. “I’m not the one who found it. I called 911 when I saw him lying on the floor and it was obvious he was... Anyway, it seemed forever before the ambulance got here, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The paramedics told me to wait in the living room and I knew they believed it was suicide when they came out and started asking questions. Until then I thought it might have been a heart attack.”
Her aunt was hovering at the door, still unable to come into the room where her husband had died. It gave Layne a peculiar feeling, too, even if she didn’t believe that spirits lingered behind to haunt the living.
“Actually, when the police arrived, I think they said something about finding the note on the printer,” Dee murmured. “They gave it to me to read and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”
“Was it in a plastic bag or anything?”
“No.”
Layne wasn’t an expert on police procedure, but if they hadn’t used an evidence bag, they’d probably never considered anything other than suicide. And the police should have handled it differently...if Aunt Dee was remembering correctly, the suicide note had been found on a machine that couldn’t possibly have printed it. She couldn’t explain why Uncle Will hadn’t set up the printer, but that probably wasn’t important now. All that mattered was the fact that nothing added up.
“Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep,” her aunt said. “I’m glad you’re spending the night. You’ve been stretching yourself too thin.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Layne hesitated, glancing at the computer and printer and back to her aunt. “Is the security system turned on?”
“You know I always turn it on before it gets dark.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
She listened as Dee’s footfalls faded down the hall, barely discernible going up to the master bedroom. Her aunt didn’t like admitting it, but Layne knew staying alone in the house bothered her, and having her niece spend the night sometimes helped her sleep.
Layne checked the printer again and tried copying something. It worked perfectly and she tossed the copy on the desk. She’d wanted to believe in Uncle Will because she loved him and thought he was a great guy, but this was tangible evidence.
Her heart raced with both excitement and fear. Nobody was idiotic enough to come back seven months after murdering someone, on the off chance they’d left a clue that the police hadn’t found, but she was glad Aunt Dee had a security system, nonetheless.
She pushed the sliding keyboard tray, but it still refused to go fully under the desk. Frustrated, Layne reached under the desk to find which part of the mechanism the cord was catching on. But it wasn’t the cord her fingers encountered, it was paper. She pulled out a thin, crumpled folder.
Uncle Will’s distinctive handwriting was on a sheet of paper inside.
“Notes for lawyer, if needed,” he’d scrawled at the top. Layne’s pulse jumped with hope it would contain the information she needed to investigate, but the short amount of text below seemed more like random thoughts than anything else.
We’ve grown too fast, that’s the problem. We need better IT support in the future.
First priority, assure clients they’ll be compensated.
Can’t believe Peter accused me today. I don’t think he’s responsible for the thefts, but why is he acting this way? Told him to get off his duff and help find the truth. I’m innocent.
My Darling Dee must stop worrying. The truth will come out.
Wire transfers have a time/date stamp. Can prove I wasn’t there, at least some of the nights, just have to get my records and everything else together.
My records?
Layne pulled the keyboard out and searched the sliding tray shelf in the vain hope something had fallen out of the folder, but she didn’t find anything else and could have screamed.
What kind of records, and which wire transfers?
These notes might be the last thing Uncle Will had written and the police weren’t going to take it seriously without something substantive to go with it. But at least she could discuss the printer issue with them—surely it wouldn’t compromise their “open investigation” confidentiality rules to verify where the suicide note was found, and maybe it would make them take another look. In the meantime, she could try to figure out what the “records” were that Uncle Will had referenced. And the “everything else.”
Exhilaration replaced the frustration simmering in Layne. She finally had something real to look for—if Uncle Will had believed he could prove his innocence, surely she could, as well.
* * *
“HERE YOU GO, MATT,” Gillian said on Friday afternoon.
She handed him the copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt that he’d requested and hastily exited the office. It didn’t take long to learn the reason. Just above the table of contents was the headline: Who Is Peter Davidson of the Eisley Foundation?
Hell.
He flipped the magazine open and began reading.
The article spoke of Peter’s marriage to Katrina Eisley, his recent altruism in donating time to his wife’s family’s charity organization, his investment acumen and his success in private business. It wasn’t negative, exactly, but it had a tone Matt distrusted.
The author didn’t mention the incident at Hudson & Davidson, but Matt knew it could just be the first of several articles, the opening salvo in an attempt to criticize either Peter, or him through his stepfather. The press had been quick to question every step Matt had made at the Eisley Foundation.
Or was he just being paranoid? And there was another question...did Layne McGraw and her aunt have anything to do with it? So far Connor’s background checks had shown that Layne was exactly what she claimed, a researcher for the regional news magazine, while her aunt was a graphic artist.
It was possible they were simply trying to find out more about what had happened so they could deal with it better. Problem was, it could result in the whole mess being dragged out again in public.
Matt’s jaw set.
However much he disliked getting negative press these days, he probably deserved it. Pete didn’t. Hell, Pete had given him the job at Hudson & Davidson. And his mother had virtually become a recluse after her divorce from Matt’s father, so the media had no business arguing she was a “public figure” and not entitled to her privacy because of it. Not that Matt bought that crap about a person giving up the right to privacy simply by choosing a more public life.
Matt had read the preliminary file Connor had put together on Layne. She had a degree in library science, owned a home in the university district and came from a highly successful family of professionals. No red flags. No reason to think she’d make trouble for the sake of making trouble. Yet that was part of the problem...if Layne didn’t have ulterior motives, she might sincerely wonder if her uncle was innocent. It didn’t mean she was right, but by stirring everything up, she could cause trouble with the best of intentions.
Frowning, he picked up the phone and dialed Connor.
“Yeah?” the security chief answered.
“It’s me. Can you come up to my office?”
“Be right there.”
Spinning around in his chair, Matt looked out the window at Lake Union; it was raining, so the view was partially obscured. Despite the weather, he saw a crewing team on the water, rowing toward the docks. He envied them—the effort, the teamwork, the burn of muscles being used, it was cleaner and simpler than changing your ways and running a multibillion-dollar philanthropic foundation.
Even as the thought formed, the door behind him opened. “What’s up, Matt?”
Matt turned and slid the copy of the Babbitt across the desk. “There’s an article in there about my stepfather.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Full of crap?”
“Not exactly. More like damning with faint praise. I have no idea if Layne McGraw is behind it or not.”
“Doubtful. It’s unlikely she’d want media attention on her uncle’s case.”
“I agree.” Matt looked down at the magazine, wishing he could get Layne McGraw’s voice out of his head...the voice that questioned whether there might be more to the embezzlement case than what everyone believed. Anything was possible. “Connor, what do you know about the thefts at Hudson & Davidson?”
“Not much. Mr. Davidson didn’t want me becoming involved with security issues at his company, before or after the thefts.”
Matt’s nerves tightened. “Why?”
“Ego, most likely. He’s wealthy, but it’s peanuts compared to Eisley money. Mind if I have a drink?” Without waiting for a response, Connor pressed a button on the wall and two heavy panel doors glided open, revealing the wet bar left from Gordon Eisley’s day. He poured himself a finger of whiskey before sitting and planting his feet on the office’s nineteenth-century mahogany desk.
Matt smiled. Connor didn’t have any reverence for antiques. He’d probably driven Gordon crazy with his offhand ways and strong language. Gordon Eisley had worked hard and made an obscene amount of money, but he believed in a rigid code of how things should be done. He must have tolerated Connor because he had recognized there wasn’t anyone better to handle the family’s security needs. Not that Matt’s grandfather was playing an active role in his business affairs or the foundation these days; he’d finally decided to listen to his doctor and relax.
“I’m getting rid of that bar,” Matt commented.
“Too bad, it’s the only thing I like in this office. Besides the view.” Connor waved his glass as if in a toast. “I hand it to you Yanks—bourbon whiskey is a fine thing the Americans gave the world, and your grandfather stocked the best.”
“Bourbon was never my drink, so I’ll take your word. Do you have any ideas for dealing with Ms. McGraw?” Matt asked.
“Talk to her. It could be a mistake, but there isn’t much else to do without getting heavy-handed.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me speaking with the press was the same as spitting into the wind? Not that I paid much attention at the time, but even if Ms. McGraw isn’t a reporter, she’s still connected to the Babbitt.”
