Murder on the Potomac (14 page)

“What about her relationship with her mother?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Chip Tierney? How does he get along with the rest of the group?”

“Depends on who you’re talking about. He and his father are close. Real close. The kid is like a clone of the old man. Mr. T. can do no wrong in Chip’s eyes. Even treats his mother the way the old man does. Scorn. No patience with her.”

“An unhappy woman,” Smith said.

“Very unhappy. They treat the daughter, Suzanne, the same way. Mr. Tierney is unhappy with her, that means Chip is unhappy with her.”

“Sun Ben?”

“He and Chip seem to hit it off okay. Chip’s one of those guys should be in politics. Or front a fancy restaurant. Real pleasant, but I read it as all show. What you see ain’t necessarily what you get.”

Smith sipped his coffee. “While you’re doing psychological profiles, give me your read on Sun Ben.”

“Strange cat, but he’s got to be different from the rest of them. Hell, he’s Chinese.”

“You noticed.”

“I miss nothing, Sherlock. He’s
cold
, Mac. Never
smiles. Not friendly.” Buffolino leaned forward and motioned for Smith to do the same. He said in a stage whisper, “I ran some checks on him, too.”

“
Too?
Who else did you run checks on?”

“Everybody.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I wanted to get a handle on them.”

“Does Tierney know?”

“No.”

“You’re overstepping your boundaries, Tony.”

“Come on, Mac. Get real. I like to know the people I’m protecting. Am I right?” Smith said nothing. Buffolino continued. “Mr. Sun Ben Cheong-Tierney is a high roller in Atlantic City.”

“I heard he gambled.”

Buffolino laughed softly. “I heard he loses.”

“So?”

“He must be paid big bucks by Sam Tankloff.”

“I assume so. He’s considered a financial genius. Did you know he’s teaching a course at GW?”

“Yeah. But that’s not exactly big bucks.”

“What else did you find out about him?”

“That’s about it—so far. Except a hunch. I think he and his sister, Suzanne, might be getting it on.”

Smith’s expression was skeptical.

Buffolino nodded, smiling. “Just a hunch, Mac. I’ve never seen them in the sack, but I have this feeling.”

They argued over the check. Buffolino won, insisting he owed Smith for having gotten him the lucrative assignment with Wendell Tierney. They returned to the Aquasport, which was docked just outside the restaurant, and headed back.

They came around the channel side of the island and
went to where Tony had released the bumper. He’d been right. There was considerable debris clinging to it. Tony retrieved it with a boathook and, without striking the rocks that kept Mac on edge, returned safely to the Tierney dock.

“Thank you for a pleasant day on the water, Tony. You didn’t have to buy lunch.”

Buffolino shrugged and grinned. “Hey, for you, no limit. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Sure. Deliver those love letters Wendell supposedly wrote to Pauline Juris.”

“Deliver?”

Smith laughed. “Just a little fantasy of mine,” he said. “Simple curiosity. I’d love to know what they really said.”

As they ascended the wooden stairs to the front of the house, Smith said, “Watch yourself, Tony.”

“How so?”

“You’ve been hired to protect Tierney and his family, not to investigate Pauline Juris’s murder. I know it’s almost automatic for you, after your years on the force, but I’d go easy checking into the background of anyone in the family.”

“I suppose you’re right, Mac. But like I said, I like to know who I’m protecting. But, yeah, I’ll go easy. You coming inside?”

“No. Things to do. Thanks again. Keep in touch. And keep your head.”

Simultaneously

Mac Smith had no sooner left the house for his cruising date with Tony Buffolino than the phone rang in his study. The machine took the message:

Annabel arrived at the National Building Museum at 10:45 and browsed the book and gift shop just off the lobby. As she admired architecturally significant puzzles and games, she heard high heels clicking outside. She
looked at the open door as Detective Darcy Eikenberg walked by.

Annabel went to the lobby and saw Eikenberg turn left and disappear up a set of stairs. She followed, her crepe-soled shoes silently striking the floor. She reached the first landing. Eikenberg entered the executive offices. Annabel looked at her watch. Time to get to the meeting.

Others were seated at a small round table, in what had once been the pension commissioner’s suite, when Annabel entered. She poured herself coffee from a service in a corner and joined Hazel Best-Mason, Sam Tankloff, and three other members of the committee. Donald Farley chaired it. Farley, well into his seventies, was energetic and alert. Slender and fit, his face a series of briery angles and lines, he owned radio stations in Maryland and West Virginia. He got to the point. “The reason for calling this meeting is anything but pleasant,” he said. “Frankly, Hazel and I had hoped we could resolve it quietly without involving the committee. It initially seemed to be nothing more than a bookkeeping error, an administrative snarl. But it now appears that the problem is greater than that.”

Expressions on the faces of other committee members indicated they were as much in the dark as Annabel. “I think it best if Hazel lays out the dimensions of this problem for us,” Farley said.

Best-Mason, dressed in a coffee-colored suit with subtle white pinstripe, frilly off-white blouse that could have been created of gardenias, and her usual assortment of rings, necklaces, and earrings, opened a file folder, studied it, then took in each person. “Money is missing from the museum,” she said.

Annabel’s immediate thought went to Eikenberg. Was that why she was there that morning? She hoped not. You didn’t have to be trained in public relations to know that such matters were best handled internally. A nonprofit institution tainted by financial scandal invariably finds it more difficult to raise funds, at least in the short run.

“How much is missing?” a board member asked.

Hazel referred to her notes. “To date, approximately a hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”

Another board member whistled.

“You said the money was missing,” Annabel said. “Was it stolen?”

“That’s what I’m focusing on at the moment,” the controller said.

Tankloff met Annabel’s eyes and shook his head sadly. “It appears Pauline might have been responsible,” he said.

“Pauline Juris?” Annabel said. “That’s shocking.” She waited a beat before adding, “And unfortunate.”

“Extremely,” Farley said.

“I mean it’s unfortunate because she’s dead. Not here to defend herself.”

“I don’t think that’s the issue,” Best-Mason said sharply. “The important thing is to determine the extent of the theft and how it was accomplished. Then we can decide whether to attempt to recover any or all of it.”

“Recover?” Tankloff said. “Wendell is Pauline’s executor. He told me she had virtually nothing in her bank accounts at the time of her death.”

“Which doesn’t mean she didn’t have bank accounts not in her name,” said Best-Mason.

“What proof do we have that Pauline stole the money?” Annabel asked.

“These,” Best-Mason responded, overtly annoyed at Annabel’s questioning. She slid a stack of vouchers across the table, and Annabel flipped through them. They were receipts for cash disbursements, each signed by Pauline Juris.

“What dismays me is that she had free access to this account,” said Farley to Best-Mason. “No check-and-balance, no oversight procedure.”

“Are you accusing me of negligence?” the controller asked.

Farley smiled. His smile was sweet, but his meaning was otherwise. “Of course not. But it does seem that allowing easy access to such sums of money represents a lapse in our accounting procedures.”

His words angered Hazel. She responded coldly. “I suggest you talk to Wendell Tierney about that. The fund Pauline drew from was established by him personally. Most of it came from cash receipts from the bookstore and gift shop, and from tours. Only he and Pauline had authority to access it. I pointed out to him that it was an unusual arrangement. I suggested the money not be segregated into a separate account but be included in the general revenue fund. But he insisted. Talk to
him
, Donald.”

Farley was taken aback by Hazel’s clipped defense. He managed, “Yes, I will.”

The door opened, and museum director Joe Chester stepped into the room. As he did, and before he could close the door behind him, Annabel heard the click-click-click of high heels. The tall, graceful figure glided by.

“Sorry I’m late,” Chester said, not sounding as though he meant it. “I was with a detective.”

“About this?” Tankloff asked, his face reflecting displeasure.

“This? Oh, you mean the missing funds. No. She talked to me about Pauline’s murder. It’s the third time.” He pulled up a chair.

“Anything new?” Tankloff asked.

“No,” Chester said, “but I wish they’d solve the damn thing. I’m beginning to feel like a suspect. Someone told the detective that Pauline and I didn’t get along. You know that’s not true.”

No one replied. It was common knowledge that Chester and Wendell Tierney and Pauline were not members of a mutual-admiration society. It was also known that while Tierney disliked the young man, he appreciated his talents, even coming to his defense on occasion when other board members questioned Chester’s actions.

Chester sank low in his chair. “And now this,” he said. “How far have you gotten with your audit?” he asked Best-Mason.

“Far enough to know the funds are missing, and that they were taken by Pauline.”

Annabel spread her hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand. Pauline could simply sign a voucher for any amount of cash she wished and walk out with it?”

“Some system, huh?” Chester grumbled.

Annabel added, “And she didn’t have to indicate to anyone what she intended to do with it?”

“Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t,” Best-Mason replied. “She usually said she was drawing
money to make cash payments to suppliers. She’d scribble something on the vouchers about who was supposedly getting paid.” The vouchers still sat in front of Annabel. She thumbed through them again and saw what looked like hieroglyphics—a few letters of the alphabet followed by the word “services.”

“Isn’t it unusual to pay bills in cash?” Annabel asked.

Best-Mason sighed. “I don’t think this will help us get to the bottom of it,” she said curtly. “Frankly, I would have preferred to resolve this on my own without the need for a meeting. But Donald overruled me.”

Farley said quickly, “I think it’s of sufficient magnitude for the board to be involved.”

Tankloff concurred. “My only concern is that the more people who know about it, the greater the chance of leaks to the outside. We don’t need some creative reporter linking the missing funds with Pauline’s murder. If that happens, it will be all over the front page and on the nightly news.”

Annabel was thinking the same thing, but her concern was not publicity. Why shouldn’t the possibility be raised that the missing funds could be linked to Pauline’s murder? Maybe the motive for killing her had to do with the funds—and whoever they went to.

“And there’s a question of bringing criminal charges if someone else was involved with Pauline,” Farley said.

“I have to leave,” Tankloff said. “I have to go to another important meeting downtown. My suggestion is that Hazel be allowed to pursue this quietly, using her own considerable expertise. Unless there is a compelling need to know, I suggest we not meet again. People
who contribute money to this institution won’t be happy hearing that one of its own walked away with some of it.”

“I second that motion,” Joe Chester said.

Tankloff was not his usual polite self that day. He walked from the room without another word and closed the door with more force than necessary, as if the door were the final vote.

“Are we adjourning?” a board member asked.

“We might as well,” Farley said. “Unless anyone has something else to offer.”

No one did. The meeting was over.

Annabel and Farley were left alone in the suite. He said, “Sorry your early days on the committee involve this sort of thing.”

“That’s all right, Don. I just feel terrible that this has happened to the museum. Mind if I ask something that’s probably none of my business?”

“Of course not. If it has to do with the museum and the finance committee, it
is
your business.”

“If this thing happened the way Hazel says it did—Pauline drawing cash from the museum for her own use but with Wendell’s blessing—it means that he bears considerable responsibility.”

“You’re right, of course. I don’t know how many boards you’ve served on, Annabel, but—”

“One,” she said, smiling. “This one.”

He returned her smile as he explained. “Some boards are relatively balanced. No individual dominates policy and decision making. With others, there
is
a dominant force. That’s very much the case with Wendell. Don’t misunderstand. Besides being an extremely forceful leader, he has almost single-handedly turned the fortunes
of this museum around. He not only has the contacts from which to generate considerable money, he’s always been willing to use them. I remember when he announced the creation of the special fund. I objected. So did others. But he brushed our objections aside. I can’t even remember the reasons he gave, but as you know, he can be, ah, extremely persuasive. Our revenues have increased twofold since he assumed the chairmanship. Who were we to argue over a fund that amounted to only a few thousand dollars?”

“A few thousand dollars? Hazel said the theft amounted to almost two hundred thousand.”