In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (22 page)

I sat in the faculty lounge with Dee Gamay and a couple of other adjuncts after class, all of us bent over stacks of papers, red marking pens in hand. Her cell phone rang while we were grading, and she answered, “Dee Gamay.” She listened for a minute, then said, “I don’t speak Spanish. Speak English, god dammit,” and then slammed the phone shut.

“I tell you,” she said, and her accent made it sound like she was saying, ‘I tail you.’ “I get these calls every now and then—people just start in talking in Spanish, like I’m supposed to understand what they’re saying.”

 “Do you speak Spanish at all?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not a word. And I’m not about to start learning.”

“I learned a little, living in California,” I said, sipping my tea. “And I know that
digame
means ‘speak to me.’ So even though you think you’re saying your name, some Spanish person is going to think you’re saying ‘talk to me’ in Spanish.”

“I never heard of such a thing,” she said, as if she didn’t believe me.

“Check with the Spanish department if you want,” I said, as I went back to work. Most students had improved enough that I could get over the basics of grammar and punctuation and focus on content. Menno’s paper was one of the better ones. Though I didn’t have much interest in offshore banking, the paper was well-organized, with a solid thesis statement, topic sentences for the paragraphs, and correct punctuation.

I’d just given him an A for the paper when something caused me to look back and pay closer attention. He’d mentioned that the Cayman Islands were one of the prime locations for offshore banking, and something clicked. I remembered that a great deal of Edith’s money had been transferred to accounts in the Caymans. Was that a coincidence, or was it significant? I wasn’t quite sure.

I got through half a dozen papers after Menno’s before I had to give up. Cruelly, the weather had warmed up, and spring had sprung in Bucks County. I put the windows down in the Beemer for the drive back down the river and enjoyed the only time I’d be out in the sun for the next few days.

I spent an hour whipping the house into shape for company, baking potatoes in the oven and tossing a salad. The guests started arriving at five, and by quarter past everyone was enjoying a quick sangria I’d tossed together and making appreciative noises about the scent rising from the crock pot.

I held off talking about Edith’s problems until we were relaxing over decaf cappuccino and slices of Gail’s chocolate raspberry torte, which was worth all the work I’d gone through on Edith’s behalf. I could definitely fall in love with a woman who baked like that. I missed Mary’s cooking more than I was willing to admit, even though she’d stopped preparing most of her special dishes after the first miscarriage.

“With your permission, Edith, I’d like to share what I’ve found about your problems with Rick, Gail and Irene,” I said. I knew Irene could provide moral support for Edith, and Rick could help us figure out her legal recourse. Gail, of course, had brought the cake.

“I just feel so terrible,” Edith said. “Walter would be so disappointed in me.”

Irene reached over and squeezed her hand. In broad strokes, I sketched out what I thought was happening. “Somebody got into Edith’s mail,” I began.

Homes in Lake Shores had mailboxes at the street, so anyone could walk or drive by, open the mailbox door, and pull out anything they wanted if they knew Edith’s schedule—the day she taught at Eastern, for example, or the way she could be found at The Chocolate Ear nearly every afternoon.

“The thief did a couple of things,” I continued. “Some of her brokerage and bank statements haven’t been coming in, because the delivery address was changed. There are checks Edith should have received from those accounts and she hasn’t. Those appear to have been cashed by the person who set up the account at Quaker State Bank in Easton and who changed the addresses on her accounts.”

I saw Rick pull out a pad and start to take notes. Gail and Irene looked concerned, and Edith just looked miserable.

“Walter left Edith a number of investments,” I went on. “Some stocks, some municipal bonds, some certificates of deposit.” I looked at Edith. “Now, I don’t want to speak badly of Walter, but I have to say he didn’t make it easy for you to keep up with things, Edith. There are so many different accounts, and loans he made to people, mortgages on property and so on—there’s no way he could have expected you to keep track of it all.”

Edith’s lip was quivering. Irene said, “Now, Steve, remember, Walter didn’t plan for his death. He had a heart attack.”

Edith said, “Steve’s right, Irene. Walter used to spend hours looking after things, and he should have known I didn’t have the head for numbers he had.”

Somehow, a change had come over Edith. Her chin had stopped quivering, and she didn’t look ready to burst into tears any more.

I looked over at Rick. “What do you suggest we do next?”

He turned to Edith. “First of all, you have to contact every one of the places where you have accounts, everyone Walter loaned money to, every IRA and 401K and what have you, and make sure that they know someone has been messing with your accounts, and that all communication has to come to your address.”

“I’ll help you with that, Edith,” Irene said. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll come over to your house before I go to the café, and we’ll start calling people.”

“I have the folders in the living room,” I said. “Everything is organized by account. You may have to look up a few phone numbers, but you’ll have the account numbers and the names of the companies.”

“Good,” Rick said. “Now, you say there’s an account at Quaker State Bank that Edith didn’t know about?”

I nodded.

“Then I think she ought to go over to the branch where the account was set up and talk to the manager. You want him to put a fraud alert out and monitor any activity in that account. Maybe even some of the money that was stolen from Edith is still in the account, and he can freeze it. It’ll take you a long time to get the money back, but at least it’s a start.”

“When do you teach at Eastern, Edith?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I teach until 1:45. The bank branch is in Easton, so why don’t we meet up at the music department and I’ll drive you up there?”

Edith smiled. “You all are being so good to me.”

Rick promised to file a police report for Edith the next day, and he said he’d get her the information on filing a fraud report with the FDIC. Irene had already helped her call for copies of her credit reports the day before.

“We’re making a lot of progress, Edith,” I said. “You’ll see, we’ll get this all sorted out.”

 I wished I felt as confident as I tried to sound.

“Now it’s up to Rick to get poor Caroline’s murder sorted,” Irene said.  “Did you all see the
Boat-Gazette
?”

The
Boat-Gazette
was Stewart’s Crossing’s weekly newspaper—a few pages of grocery ads, church service listings, and the occasional article on a local retailer. Irene pulled the paper out of her big canvas pocketbook and flourished it. “Is Stewart’s Crossing safe?” the front-page headline blared.

“It’s all taken out of context,” Rick said.

“Can I see?” I asked, and Irene gave me the paper.  Rick was busy explaining while I scanned through the article, which mentioned the “crime wave” that had hit our little town—the burglaries, the acts of vandalism, Caroline’s murder.

“I think it was a mistake for the chief to decline to comment,” Rick said.  “It gives them a chance to blow everything out of proportion.”

“I’m worried about the vandalism,” Gail said.  “It says there’s a gang called the SC Boyz who have been damaging local businesses.”

“I saw something down by the river that read ‘Black Power,’ Irene said.  “It made me very nervous.”

“Who here went to Pennsbury High?” Rick asked, raising his hand, though he already knew the answer. Gail and I raised our hands too.  “And what are our school colors?”

“Orange and black,” Gail and I said together.

“Kids have been writing ‘black power’ slogans as long as I can remember,” Rick said. “Along with ‘orange rules’ and a bunch of other variations.”

“There’s still the murder,” Edith said. “People are saying it just isn’t safe to walk around Stewart’s Crossing after dark any more.  They’re bringing up the shooting at The Drunken Hessian again.”

“Now, you know that’s silly, Edith,” Rick said. “Two murders in ten years is not a crime wave.”

“But people are talking,” Gail said.  “I hear it at the Chocolate Ear every day since this article came out.  Are you any closer to finding out who killed Caroline?”

“I wish I could say we were. But the trail is cold and until we get a break, I don’t know what else I can do.”

After everyone left, I graded research papers for a couple of hours, then sat with Rochester on the living room sofa, stroking his silky golden head.  “There has to be something I can do to help,” I said to him.  “The question is what.”

The next day, Thursday, the mystery fiction class handed in their final papers. I was carrying the stack out of Blair Hall when I heard two girls talking.

“What’s with the whole list thing?” the first girl asked. Frizzy-haired and chunky, she looked like the stereotypical best friend on some eighties sitcom.

“It’s like a hobby,” her friend said. She was the pretty one, wearing a form-fitting tank top in black with silver spangles, and white slacks. She looked like she was ready for a night on the town, not a lecture in economics or history. “I keep lists of the guys I’ve slept with, looking for patterns. I’ve got a Matthew, a Mark, a Luke and a John, and when I was on vacation in Florida I even slept with a Jesus, though he pronounced it Hay, Zeus.”

“You are nuts, girl,” the best friend said.

“Now I’m working on the rest of the apostles.” The pretty girl, whose brown hair was cut and styled like some MTV goddess, started counting on her fingers. “Peter, Andrew, two James, John, Philip, Thomas, and Matthew were pretty easy. I even lucked out and met a British guy at a club in New York whose name was Simon. But I’m lost when it comes to Thaddeus, Matthias and Judas. You know how hard it is to find a guy named Judas? It’s not exactly the most popular name in the Bible.”

“You could always stretch the point and find a lesbian named Judy,” the best friend said. “Or maybe a drag queen with a Judy Garland fixation.”

I had to turn left for the music department, so I missed what the first girl had to say in response. I was heading toward Granger Hall, one of the newer buildings on campus. Harley Granger had made a fortune in the pharmaceutical business, and had donated a couple of million bucks for a building for visual and performing arts, provided the building would be shaped like a pill bottle.

It was round, six stories, with tall glass windows that wrapped around three-quarters of the building. The roof was white, with a white cornice and an extra tab so that a giant could flip it off if he chose. The soaring lobby provided a gallery space, and the current exhibit focused on the landscape of the Delaware Valley. Pretty river scenes alternated with stark lithographs of trees in winter. The art studios were on the second and third floor, and the music department was on the floors above.

When I exited the elevator on four, I was surprised to see Melissa Macaretti sitting at the reception desk. “Hi, professor,” she said.

“Your work-study job?” I remembered we’d discussed music topics for her research paper.

“Uh-huh. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Passis,” I said, and she directed me down the hall to a wedge-shaped room where a violin quartet was practicing something baroque. Behind them, through the tall windows, I could see down to the Delaware, where a small power boat was creating a v-shaped wake behind it. Edith sat in the back of the room, a happy expression on her face. Her smile darkened a bit when she saw me and remembered what we were going to do.

When the concerto finished, we walked out to where Melissa sat. “Goodbye, dear,” Edith said to her. “You be sure to say hello to your young man for me.”

Melissa said she would. As we waited for the elevator, Edith said, “I hate the idea of going up to confront this bank manager, but I know it has to be done.”

“It won’t be so bad,” I said. “Remember, they’re the ones at fault, not you.”

Though there was still a chill in the air, the drive up the River Road to Easton was very pleasant, and we chatted about spring and the exhibit in Granger Hall.

Easton is an old stone city which grew up around the intersection of the Lehigh and Delaware Rivers. The canal that passes through Stewart’s Crossing on its way to Bristol begins up at Easton, where it connects to a similar canal along the Lehigh. As in New Hope, you could take a mule-drawn boat down the canal, or you could walk along Lafayette Hill, around the Lafayette campus—or you could just pass through town on I-78 on your way to or from more important places.

The stately granite building had First Valley Bank and Trust etched in the stone lintel over the front door. Inside, the two-story lobby showed its age as well as the attempt to update to modern banking practices. The tellers stood behind a marble counter with decorative wrought-iron grilles that slid down when the station was closed, and four desks clustered in one corner of the cavernous space.