Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (27 page)

It lay in two pieces, and for a minute, I was afraid it had broken. Then I realized it was supposed to open that way in order to unmold the chocolate. As I gently lifted the two halves, I saw that there was something taped inside each part of the mold. Actually, there were three somethings: an old-fashioned computer disk, a flash drive, and a tiny vial enclosed in a plastic bag.

I immediately guessed that the items belonged to Colin. After all, he was the computer wizard, and Elise wouldn’t have sold me the molds if she knew there was stuff inside them. So what was the big secret?

Maybe if his wife hadn’t been killed and my best friend hadn’t been arrested for that murder, I might have given everything back to Colin without looking at the contents of the flash drive. But probably not. I had a nosy streak, and the mystery intrigued me.

My laptop wasn’t equipped to play the disk, but the flash drive was no problem. Sliding the thumb-size white rectangle into the computer’s port, I was half afraid it would be password protected. But, clearly, Colin didn’t think anyone else would ever discover the items, because with one click, a list of files appeared. Another click and I was looking at a spreadsheet.

At first I didn’t quite understand what I was seeing. The files were Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank records from fourteen years ago, but what was the big deal? Why tape them into a metal bunny’s rear end? Finally the significance of that date hit me. These were the records from the period when my father was suspected of embezzling funds.

I sank into the desk chair and took a deep breath. This could very well be either proof of my dad’s innocence or evidence of his guilt. My stomach sank. Since I had an MBA with a specialty in finance and had worked several years in the investment field, I was confident that I could interpret the data. But did I really want to?

Reluctantly I sat forward and began to study the figures. After a couple of hours, I pushed aside the laptop aside, leapt to my feet, and started to pace. Could I trust my conclusions, or was I too emotionally involved to be objective? A few more laps around the storeroom and I returned to the desk and rechecked the numbers.

Tears poured down my cheeks as I finally allowed myself to believe what I was seeing. There was no longer any doubt in my mind; my father was innocent of the embezzlement. Along with the relief came rage. Rage at all that my family had been through. Rage at the man who should have been in prison instead of my father. Rage at Max Robinson, the man who had really embezzled the money, thereby putting into motion the whole ugly sequence of events that had ended with my dad committing vehicular homicide.

I sat there stunned until I heard the sleigh bells above the front door ring. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was three o’clock. The after-school crowd was arriving. I quickly put both the molds and their contents back into my safe, locked it, then went out to feed my customers.

Ninety minutes later, the kids headed home for supper, and I sat down at the soda fountain to think. As I drank a cup of coffee, questions ping-ponged inside my head. Why did Colin have that computer flash drive? Did the disk contain the same material? Was it the original version, since flash drives weren’t around fourteen years ago? Could the information I had just discovered help my father, or was it too late for him? Although I could now prove he didn’t embezzle, he had still killed someone while driving drunk. And what was in the vial?

Setting aside my dad’s situation, I thought about Elise’s murder. If Colin hadn’t broken the glass coffee table in Max’s office, why had the bank president told us he had? If the table had never been broken, how did Max get those wounds on his leg? And, most important, did the answers to those first two questions have anything to do with Elise’s death and Colin’s possession of the flash drive?

While I was considering the possible answers to my questions, I heard someone enter the store. Swiveling to face the door, I was surprised to see Noah striding toward me.

As he took the stool next to me, he said, “Tryg texted me about Boone, and I came as soon as I finished with my patients for the day. How are you?”

“A few hours ago, I would have said frustrated, but now I’m not sure.” A warm feeling washed over me from Noah’s obvious concern.

“What happened?” He covered my hand with his.

I told him about what I had found in the chocolate molds, at the same time explaining how I had come to have the molds in my possession. Then I outlined the contents of the flash drive and the conflicting stories that Colin and Max had told us about the coffee table. I concluded with, “So my guess is that Colin was blackmailing Max.”

“It does seem a distinct possibility,” Noah agreed.

“But how does that fit in with Elise’s death?” I asked. “Presumably, Colin has been blackmailing Max for many years, so what’s changed now?”

Noah’s forehead wrinkled in concentration; then he announced, “The divorce proceedings. Colin was suddenly in need of more money than usual, so he might have increased his blackmail demands.”

“Okay.” I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s say that for all these years, Colin has been asking for a modest amount of money from Max. Maybe a monthly stipend or something. Then, suddenly, due to Elise’s manipulations, Colin finds himself strapped for cash and significantly ups the amount.”

“So, why wouldn’t Max kill Colin?” Noah asked.

“Because . . .” I trailed off, thinking, then snapped my fingers. “Because Max must have been willing to pay more—like a lump sum—but only if Colin handed over the evidence.”

“But computer disks and flash drives can be copied or even faked,” Noah pointed out.

“Then those weren’t what he wanted.” I bit my lip. “It must be the vial. I bet it has his fingerprints on it.”

“But what does a glass vial have to do with the embezzlement?” Noah asked.

“No clue,” I admitted. “But I think that Colin must have told Max the evidence was in the chocolate molds and Elise had the molds and wouldn’t give them back.”

“So Max broke into the house to get them.” Noah nodded to himself. “He probably thought no one was home, since St. Onge told us all the lights were off and it looked as if Elise had been napping in the back bedroom.”

“She must have woken up and caught him.”

“And he shot her.” Noah shook his head. “Max couldn’t allow himself to be arrested for breaking and entering. He could never explain that to the bank’s owner or its board of trustees.”

“So how do we prove it? All we have is a guess.” I slumped forward, cradling my chin in my hands. “Even showing Chief Kincaid what I found in the molds doesn’t tie Max to the murder.”

Before Noah could answer, I shrieked, “The wounds on Max’s leg.”

“What about them?”

“If Colin didn’t break the coffee table—and I believe that he’s telling the truth about that, considering how public Max’s office is and how easy it would be to check with the tellers—then how did Max get hurt?”

“How?”

“Tsar scratched him.” I explained about the torn claw.

“But why would Max tell such an easily refuted lie?” Noah tapped his fingers on the counter.

“Several reasons,” I answered slowly. “First, he had to come up with a fast explanation of his injury. Second, he’s used to being the boss, and no one ever checks up on the boss—his word is law. But most important, he got away with one crime, and from what I’ve read about criminals, if they never experience consequences for their initial crime, they feel invincible.”

“Then we’d better call the vet right now,” Noah suggested. “Tell him to save the claw and the other stuff they remove from the food pad. There’s a good possibility that Max’s DNA is on that material. And if it is, we’ve got him.”

“In that case, we’d better contact Chief Kincaid and get him involved before the vet does the surgery.”

“Why?” Noah asked.

“If the vet removes the material from Tsar’s claw without a witness, it might break the chain of evidence.” I flashed Noah a grin. “I knew watching all those TV crime shows would pay off someday.”

After I contacted the veterinarian and told him not to operate on the cat until he heard from me, I reluctantly closed the dime store for the second time that day. Then I filled a shopping bag with what I would need for our talk with the chief, and Noah and I walked over to the police station.

Chief Kincaid was in his office and agreed to see us right away. I wondered how many more times I could play the friend-of-his-daughter card before I had used up all his goodwill toward me.

Once we were settled in chairs facing his desk, the chief said, “There’s nothing I can do for Boone. The case is out of my hands.”

“We understand,” I assured him. “But if we have proof that someone else killed Elise, you’d reopen the investigation. Right?”

Frowning, he adjusted the leather blotter so that it lined up more perfectly with the edge of his desk. Then he stared at me, and when I didn’t blink, he said, “It would have to be extremely compelling evidence for me to be willing to do that, since any new investigation might weaken the case against St. Onge.”

Hmm.
I hadn’t considered that issue. I flicked a glance at Noah, and he smiled his encouragement. I took a moment to collect my thoughts. I wanted to present a concise and convincing account of what we believed had happened.

Laying the chocolate mold and its contents in front of the chief, I straightened my spine. “It all started fourteen years ago, when Max Robinson embezzled several hundred thousand dollars from the Shadow Bend Savings and Guaranty Bank. It ended last Saturday when he killed Elise Whitmore.”

As I told him the rest of the story, Chief Kincaid fingered his shiny brass nameplate, then rubbed the mark his thumb had made off the surface with his handkerchief. When I was finished, he looked up and said, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“Several points are easy to validate,” Noah said, joining the conversation. “For instance, you know I wouldn’t lie to save St. Onge, and I will swear to you that Robinson said that Whitmore broke his glass coffee table and that he showed us an injury he claimed was caused by the flying debris.”

“Why would Robinson lie about something that can be readily checked?” The chief answered his own question before either of us could respond. “Because he’s an arrogant twit who considers himself above the law.”

“That’s my guess,” I said. “And he probably thinks no one will dare challenge him.”

Chief Kincaid rose from his chair and said, “Wait here.” He scooped up the flash drive and marched out of his office, closing the door behind him. I was glad that I had copied the drive onto my computer at the store and made a printout before we left.

“Do you think there’s anyone at the station who can interpret the financial records on that drive?” Noah asked.

“I doubt it.”

We sat silently for what seemed like hours, but was really closer to forty-five minutes. When the chief returned, he said, “The coffee table is intact, just as Whitmore told you, and none of the tellers remembers any kind of altercation between Robinson and the victim’s husband.”

“You walked over to the bank,” I guessed. An advantage of a small town was how close by everything was located.

“Yes.” Chief Kincaid smiled as if I had said something clever, then pointed a finger at me. “And on the way I dropped off your flash drive with a friend of mine. He just called to say that on the surface, your analysis of its content seems accurate. He’ll need more time to be absolutely sure, but for now he’d say you’re probably right.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” I felt so tightly coiled, I ached.

The chief took a small notebook from his breast pocket, flipped it open, and read something, then said, “Max Robinson matches the description of the man that the neighborhood watch captain reported seeing lingering near the Whitmore residence.”

“I had forgotten about that,” Noah murmured.

“Me, too.” I turned to the chief. “So, what happens now?”

“We do a photo lineup for the watch captain and see if he picks out Robinson,” Chief Kincaid answered as he reached for the phone.

We were in luck; Captain Ingram was home and willing to come to the police station immediately. While we waited for him, the chief sent an officer to fetch a picture of Max from the local newspaper files, then assembled seven other photos of men in Max’s age range.

While all this was happening, Noah had to return to his clinic to keep an appointment, but I waited. If Poppy were on better terms with her father, I would have texted her to come over and keep me company, but considering their current relationship, I was afraid she’d jeopardize the cooperation I was getting from the chief. I contemplated contacting Tryg but thought that his presence might also be detrimental.

An hour later, Chief Kincaid returned to his office and said, “Ingram identified Robinson as the man he saw skulking around the victim’s house on Saturday night.”

“Is that enough to get Boone released?” I crossed my fingers.

“No, but I spoke to the prosecutor.” Chief Kincaid raised a brow. “She was not happy.”

“Oh.”

“I did talk her into getting a search warrant for Robinson’s house and office, and one to examine his bank accounts.”

“How about DNA?” I reminded him.

“And to get a court order for a sample of his DNA,” Chief Kincaid confirmed. “Now I’m heading over to the veterinarian’s office to witness the surgery on Elise Whitmore’s cat and collect the material from the animal’s claw.”

“How long will DNA testing take?” I figured it was a lengthier process than the TV shows depicted.

“I’ll pull in a favor or two, so if the samples are good, and barring any more urgent cases, I should be able to get the results by next Friday.”

CHAPTER 25

T
o say it was a long weekend and an even longer week would be an understatement. There were a couple of bright spots. Oakley Panigrahi was thrilled with the baskets that I delivered to him on Monday morning, and Boone was granted bail that afternoon. On the downside, I’d mailed five of the chocolate molds back to Colin—the sixth was in the hands of the police—and thus was out eight hundred dollars.