Beads of Doubt (18 page)

Maybe it was Lauren who had made everything so orderly.

“What have you got?” I asked Beth.

“I’m not sure what all is here. Are your files color coded or is that random?”

“Green for investments and one blue for a client. Apparently the police missed that one. Why?”

“Well, then I have yellow for ovarian cancer in general; orange for Rebecca’s tests, diagnosis, etc; and red for insurance filings,” she said.

“Anything on the Manse? Or on attorneys?”

“Wait, I think I do.” She pulled out a tan folder, and I crawled over beside her. “Houston’s personal business.”

Together we flipped through the folders. Beth found bank statements for the past three months in one but nothing earlier. “Do you want to see them?”

“No. That would be just plain nosy of me, and they won’t tell me anything about the Manse, anyway, “ I said.

She put away the files. “Nice to know you still have your scruples.”

“Not to mention my standards and morals.”

“Although they may be sagging in spots.”

“That comes with age,” I said. “Here we have paid bills, and this folder has travel brochures. Someone’s thinking about going on a cruise.”

Beth was putting everything neatly back in the drawers when she said, “We missed one color. Brown. Business expenses. Promotion, travel receipts, professional dues, employment taxes, employee files, office expenses—do you want me to go on?”

“No, thanks.” I stood up and stretched. If this was the way my luck was going to continue to run I might as well go home.

Beth was rubbing her back. “Want to try his desk?”

I circled around the expensive mahogany piece and rolled his chair to the back of the plastic mat it was on. There were drawers on both sides but not a center drawer. I guess that’s what you get with modern furniture.

“We might as well,” I said. “I feel my scruples drooping.”

The small drawers on the right-hand side held little things like breath mints, paper clips, pens, a pair of sunglasses, and such. It was the left-hand side that had a file drawer. I slid it open and began to smile. The very first folder was labeled
Camden Manse
. The second had one scribbled word on the label:
Harrington
.

“You try this one.” I handed her the one for the attorney, and I took the Manse.

The folder wasn’t as thick as I might have expected, but then Houston didn’t live in the Manse and didn’t have anything to do with the day-to-day workings of it. Instead he had kept the corporate reviews that were sent out every year. Expenses, repairs, taxes paid, and alterations to the grounds or the house. Big sloppy check marks went through most of the expenses. He had put exclamation marks—large ones—beside some of the expenses that came out of the corporate funds. One notation was
Bullshit!
It was beside the cost of new drapes for the sitting area upstairs. Apparently my cousin didn’t like the fact that I was keeping up the Manse.

I was getting very tired of files. “This is so boring,” I said.

“I have the letter of engagement for Harrington and a copy of the letter he sent out to all the stockholders. Oh, and look at this.” She was holding one paper closer to the flashlight. “This must be Houston’s handwriting.”

“Big and messy?”

“That’s it. This is a time sheet for Harrington,” she said. “His rates aren’t outrageous, but it appears he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to call you. The notation says he repeatedly spoke with your mother. Guess she didn’t give you the messages.”

“Good job, Mother.” I flipped over the last of the papers. “Finally! This list of stockholders and voting shares. And guess what? They all have Houston’s notes. This is it!”

A male voice came from the front office and called out my name. “Kitzi?”

For just a moment my heart stopped.

The voice came again. “Kitzi? Beth?”

It was Nate. I heaved a breath that was so deep I almost fell over. “Back here.”

Beth opened the door and held up the flashlight so that we looked like Halloween spooks. “We’re almost done. Is everything okay out there?” she asked.

Nate came in and shook his head. “Lauren is not a patient young woman. She’s driven off twice and come back. Are you about ready to leave?”

I said, “I have to make one quick copy, and then we’re out of here.”

Except I couldn’t find the copy machine immediately, and by the time I did, and it had warmed up, all of us were getting antsy. Finally I was done and had everything put away. Beth had gone back to the car, and Nate was at the front door, holding it open for me. I pulled the desk drawer open and carefully refiled the folder; the original was right back where it had been, and I tucked the copy in my waistband.

On the way out I made sure the copy machine was turned off.

I can’t say how relieved I was when I was finally outside, breathing fresh air.

Lauren had the SUV running with the lights off. Nate and I jumped in the backseat and closed the doors. “We can go,” I said.

“Do you realize you were gone for over twenty minutes?” Lauren asked, switching on the lights and taking off. “I was afraid something terrible had happened.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There are a lot of files.”

“You went through the files?” She was appalled. “Which files? Can anyone tell?”

Beth reached over and patted Lauren on the shoulder. “Relax, Lauren. We didn’t take anything. Kitzi remained scrupulous throughout our quick look around the office.”

Lauren was driving a bit faster than I would have preferred, but I suppose it had been hard sitting in the car wondering what we were doing. I wasn’t going to show her the two copies I had tucked away.

“And it’s over now,” Nate said. “Consider it an adventure. How often do you get to break and enter with a senator?”

“Former senator,” I said. “And I didn’t break a thing, except maybe my elbow. I have a new rule for life: never crawl on concrete.”

“Yes,” Beth said. “And go to the bathroom before you leave the office. Which is where I’ll be running to as soon as we get back.”

We weren’t far from the house, and when we pulled into the driveway I reached around to pick up the flashlight. Everyone was out of the car so fast it looked like a Chinese fire drill, especially since Nate went to the driver’s seat. Beth said good night, then dashed off toward the Manse. Lauren was right behind Beth on the walkway.

The flashlight wasn’t on the backseat, so I felt under the front seats and between them. Nothing. It wasn’t beside me, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen it. In Houston’s office? At the copy machine?

“I guess we’re alone,” Nate said, interrupting my thoughts. “Thank you for another fun evening.” He slid his arms around me.

“It was only fun because you were along.”

He smiled and kissed me like he really meant it. I kissed him back a couple of times just to show that I meant it, too.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said.

I hurried to the house. Nate stayed until I turned and waved from the back door, then he drove off. I loved kissing Nate, but this time I’d been distracted. It was that damned flashlight.

I went straight up stairs, turning off lights as I went. Lauren’s door was closed. I didn’t really want to talk to her anyway. She didn’t have the flashlight, and she’d be upset that it might have been left behind. My only hope was Beth. Her bedroom door was closed and a light shone under it; I knocked softly. “Beth? Can I come in?”

No answer. I knocked again. “Beth?” I was louder this time.

We’re good enough friends that when she didn’t answer this time I opened the door and walked in. As I’d guessed, Beth was in the bathroom. The water was running in the shower. I looked around the room quickly, but I didn’t see the flashlight. Damn. If she had it, she wouldn’t take it in the bathroom with her. It would be sitting on the dresser or someplace out in the open.

I looked around again, like maybe I’d missed it. It’s a fair-sized room, but there wasn’t much in it. Beth’s suitcase was zipped closed, the shoes she’d worn were beside the closet door, and the bed was neatly made.

As I stared at the bed I saw something poking out from under the bedskirt. Of course! She’d brought the flashlight in and put it on the bed, but it had rolled off and kept right on going.

I knelt down and put my hand under the bed to pull it out. I found something metal, all right. And it could provide light, but it was much heavier than the flashlight.

It was one of the big brass candlesticks from the conservatory.

I would like to say that I sat up all night worrying
about why my dear friend Beth had the missing brass candlestick under her bed. Or that I stayed up reading the copies from Houston’s office. Or even that I went over the rules for Texas hold ’em, but the truth is that I have my own method for dealing with stress. I sleep. That night I slept long and hard.

Not only that, I didn’t wake up until almost nine in the morning, so apparently my mother, Beth, or maybe Lauren, opened the doors to let the volunteers in. The day was getting away from me, and there was a lot I needed to do.

“You want a shower?” I asked Sinatra, who was sleeping on the foot of my bed. He looked up but went immediately back to sleep, which wasn’t a surprise. He didn’t even help me make the bed.

I showered as quickly as possible, put on some makeup, which I can do in seven minutes flat, and brushed my hair. I was carefully avoiding thinking. My daughter and grandkids would arrive by nine thirty, probably a little earlier if Katie was true to form. This morning I would concentrate on poker and the Manse. Life and death could come later.

There was a tap on my door, and Beth’s voice said, “Kitzi? I’m going down to open up the booth. Are you awake?”

“Yes, I’m just getting ready.”

“I’ll meet you at the gatehouse.” Her steps grew fainter as she moved toward the stairs.

Life supports you when you vote to avoid things. The Beth problem neatly sidestepped, I looked through my closet and skipped over what I call my senator suits and went to the next level down: professional casual. I selected an emerald green knit top with three-quarter-length sleeves. That sleeve is always a good length—covers enough of my arms in case I get carried away and start waving to people. The top went nicely with charcoal slacks and black shoes.

I added some emerald-crystal drop earrings that I had made myself, and a matching bracelet. I might not have been ready for the red carpet, but I could sure knock them dead at the senior citizens center.

Last thing I did was take the two-page copy I’d made at Houston’s office, the one with all the voting shares and who owned them, and folded it neatly into my pocket. A lot of things had to happen today.

Below me I heard voices; I took a look out the window and discovered that the tent flap was open and the place was ready for business. Guests were already arriving.

I closed my door and put up the blue rope, then hurried down the back stairs. In the kitchen I did my best to stay out of everyone’s way while I grabbed a handful of strawberries and a scone. Beth might question my choice of the scone, but I could make up the calories by walking briskly to the gatehouse. I was on my way there when I spotted my mother.

“Good morning,” I said. “Another gorgeous day.”

“Yes, and look how busy everything is already! I was just going to thank everyone.”

My mother can be truly wonderful. I knew that she would thank each of the volunteers, then go booth to booth, telling the vendors how grateful she was that they were donating a portion of their profits to the Ovarian Cancer Organization. I’ve watched her do it at every event at the Manse, and everything she says on these occasions comes straight from her heart.

While my father made his contribution in office, my mother made hers every day in the small ways that have a personal impact. In her younger years, I had seen her work in soup kitchens and treat everyone she served like a guest in her home. She was one of the first to have extra meals from banquets taken to homeless shelters. She made sure that the workers got fed, too, not just the homeless who were in off the streets.

When she couldn’t be there in person, she did what she could from a distance. As first lady of Texas she would have thousands of thank-you notes printed every year at her own expense. Then her assistant would go through the paper each morning and give my mother a list of people who had been involved in a charitable event, done a heroic deed, or achieved some special distinction. Mother would send them a handwritten thank-you.

She spoke to so many kids at so many schools, they should have given her a teaching certificate.

It’s not that she’s a saint. She’s still a perfectionist, and sometimes downright critical, but she learned at the side of her mother-in-law, my grandmother, that giving back is the one thing that everyone can do.

“I owe you a thank-you, too,” she said before going on her way. “Your aunt Miranda said that Houston was allowed to go home last night. For whatever you did, we are all very grateful.”

“Just a conversation,” I said. Then I smiled, thinking of the Camden lawyers. “And a touch of arm-twisting.”

“You get that from your grandfather.” She shook her head. “I suppose there are times when that’s necessary. Oh, and Katie is already waiting for you at the gatehouse. That little Gabrielle is so adorable.”

“Isn’t she?” She looks, and has begun to act, more like her mother and my mother every day. She doesn’t get a thing from me, but I love her dearly.

I went to my mother’s house through the sliding glass doors and found Katie just closing her cell phone.

“Gran Kitzi!” Three-year-old Gabrielle reached up and threw her arms around my hips. “You’re late! We missed you.” I had to laugh. First thing and already there was that slightly problematic tone. She was fine—I was the problem.