The Road to Mercy (18 page)

Before she could finish the thought, Josh returned to the room, waving a paper in his hand. “How much did you spend?”

“Josh, please.” She pleaded for his understanding. “Could you give me a break, just once?”

Anger filled his dark eyes, and his body stiffened. Beth braced herself for his words.

“Why don’t you give
me
a break,” he shoved the paper in her face. “I’m the one paying for all of this.”

“Yes.” She said almost under her breath. “You’re the perfect one. Always the perfect one, aren’t you? Just like that man said.” She pointed toward the door. “Well, I’ve got news for him. You may minister to others, but you sure don’t bring it home.”

The following Wednesday Josh switched on the small television in the bathroom before getting ready for a meeting at his accountant’s office. He was grateful to have the appointment. Anything to take his mind off personal problems.

He and Beth had hardly spoken earlier. Then she’d left with Alex for a grocery-shopping trip. Since arguing last week, they’d said very little to each other, with Beth staying in one side of the house, mostly in the baby’s room, and he in another.

Maybe Bob Bradford would have good news to share.

Josh flipped through television channels, stopping on the morning news. Sometimes it helped being reminded that others led imperfect lives, that everyone struggled from time to time. The news certainly substantiated that. War ravaged half the world. Pandemics threatened. And the economy had taken a bite out of the American lifestyle, including the entertainment business.

With less discretionary income, people downloaded less music, purchased fewer concert tickets, and bought less souvenir merchandise. Another issue Josh had to address with Bob Bradford today, waning merchandise sales.

In many ways, God had continued to bless the Christian music industry. People sought to be uplifted and reassured that problems of this world were exactly that: of this world. Christian music celebrated eternal life. Yet, Christians still expected their favorite entertainers to minister about contemporary issues. Hadn’t the deliveryman said just that last week?

Josh’s stomach turned at the thought of having to share his faith during the upcoming tour. He wasn’t sure he had enough to share. Of course, he believed in God and the promise of salvation. But the past few months had drained his spirit. He was no longer confident he had chosen the right path for his life. As a Christian entertainer, he was expected to encourage and edify others.

That was difficult for him to do from where he stood right now.

He washed his face and splashed on cologne while the Wednesday morning news ran through a laundry list of global problems. Financial scandals, celebrity infidelities, and the disgusting story about a mother who had strangled her four-year-old son so she could keep up with the party crowd. How could a mother kill her own child for convenience?

The pit in Josh’s stomach moved into his throat. That thought was too close to home. He turned off the television, walked out of the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.

Leaving early for the meeting gave him time to stop for breakfast. He pulled his Jeep into a metered slot on Church Street in front of the Haute Bean Coffee Shop across the street from Bradford’s office. The familiar surroundings of the coffee shop brought back memories. Many times, when he and Beth were dating, they had shared a cup of coffee or a sandwich here. Their usual table, now empty, sat in silence, just as he and Beth had done lately.

He was scanning pastries in the glass case, when a man with an accent of unknown origin greeted him. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like a muffin of some kind.”

“We have double chocolate chip, apple streusel, cranberry lemon, and low-fat pumpkin.”

“Chocolate chip. And a small coffee.”

“Regular, decaf, or today’s special, Jamaican Almond Mocha?”

“Regular, please.” Josh handed a five-dollar bill to the clerk. There were so many choices in life. And they all came at a price.

A few minutes later, he found a seat at a highboy table in the front of the shop. The coffee tasted better than any he’d had lately, and the chocolate worked to improve his mood. He checked his cell phone. It was time to head on over to Bradford’s.

Large flakes of snow began to fall as Josh stepped out into the cold morning. The white stuff was already sticking in the shadows between buildings. If the temperature kept dropping, traffic would be a mess by the time he drove home.

He pulled his wool scarf—the one Beth had bought him for Christmas—tighter to his neck and crossed the street. He swung open one of the massive lobby doors in the red brick building which housed Bob Bradford’s suite of offices. Bradford’s business provided financial management for many of Nashville’s hottest stars and occupied the entire third floor.

The nicely appointed, but nondescript, reception area reassured clients that Bradford Associates was a fiscally conservative operation. Their company slogan, “Our business is making your business a priority,” was posted below the company logo on the copper-colored wall behind the front desk.

Josh hadn’t been seated long before Bob Bradford’s assistant, Marcia, ushered him to the conference room. Bradford and a few other staffers were talking among themselves as he entered. A stack of paperwork was piled high on the eight-foot mahogany table.

Bob Bradford stood and greeted Josh. After a quick introduction to those he didn’t know, and a few words to acknowledge those he did, Josh took a seat next to Bradford, who got straight to the point.

“I wish I had better news for you.” He squinted his eyes. “But we’ve found an irregularity in your books.”

It seemed that no one in the room breathed.

“I don’t understand,” Josh said.

“Someone in your organization is keeping two books, son.” The accountant cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, never taking his eyes off Josh. “If you know anything about it, you should level with me now, so we can talk about the tax implications and resolve the matter quickly.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Josh said, studying his accountant’s face.
Was Bradford implying he could be behind such an impropriety?
“But I hope you will explain it to me.”

Bradford leaned forward. “Good. That’s what I thought. So let’s find out who is stealing from you.”

Because Bradford insisted on going over every detail, the meeting lasted more than two hours. Bradford explained to Josh that the perpetrator had been clever, but not as clever as the experienced firm of Bradford Associates. There was little doubt that merchandise profits were being manipulated.

Bob Bradford reminded Josh that, when he had initially signed on to use their services, they had insisted he request duplicate merchandise purchase orders from his suppliers. “It’s good business in case we need backup,” Bradford had told him. Now, it appeared he had been prophetic.

“It’s a tempting situation,” Bradford said. “Anytime you’re dealing with a cash business, there are otherwise honest people who can’t resist fudging a little here and a little there.”

Josh nodded.

Bradford continued. “After they get away with it, they become more daring. But the truth is always uncovered, either by us or by the IRS. You’re not the first musician to have this happen. But the figures are high in your case, almost reckless.”

According to Bradford, someone had mismanaged almost $50,000 in funds during the last quarter of the year. “We noticed a small discrepancy in the third quarter,” he explained. “We initially wrote it off as error, but something to watch. These year-end figures substantiated motive not mistake. No one makes a $50,000 error. No one deserving of having the responsibility for that much money.”

Josh’s heart went to his throat. The facts were certain. He had been riding the bus with a thief. Someone who pretended to be a friend had acted otherwise.

At this point, they couldn’t be certain who was responsible. Mitch, his merchandise manager, had the most obvious access to the books, but Ryan was now Mitch’s supervisor. Could it be both of them working together or one acting alone? Or were the merchandise suppliers setting someone up?

Josh kept thinking back to what Bradford had said initially. The problem, at least on a small scale, had started before Ryan took over the accounting, back when Josh was still managing the books. Could Mitch have been testing the waters?

Only time would tell as they prepared to set the trap.

Beth and Alex hurried through their grocery-shopping list in hopes of making it home before the snow completely covered
the streets. Alex scoured the organic aisles, while Beth gathered up chips, soft drinks, and cookies. They met in the dairy section. Beth grabbed two cartons of chocolate milk, and Alex picked out a bottle of pomegranate kefir and a carton of plain yogurt.

“Do we have everything?” Alex asked, marking items off a list. “How about dog food? Does Buster need anything? From the looks of this weather, we may be staying home for a few days.”

“I’ll grab the dog food and meet you at the checkout,” Beth said.

When she arrived at the cashier stand, Beth saw shoppers pouring in through the front door. Some scowling, some laughing, as they brushed the wet, sticky snow off their shoulders. Snow didn’t fall that often in Middle Tennessee, so when it did, it was a special occasion.

Whether they enjoyed it or not, Nashvillians always prepared for such storms. Before sunset on any given snowy evening, the milk and bread shelves of local supermarkets were virtually bare. Everyone joked about how the big grocery store chains sponsored the weather alerts.

The girls shrieked with delight at the assault of large, icy snowflakes on their way to Alex’s car. After piling groceries into the backseat, Alex dusted off her windshield. Settling into the warm car, she rubbed her hands together. “I think my freckles are frozen to my face. It’s cold out there.”

Beth laughed. “It’s pretty, though, isn’t it? I always feel like a little girl again when it snows. Maybe we can build a snowman.”

“Let’s warm up first,” Alex gave her a disdainful look. “I’ll make mugs of hot milk with honey when we get home.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Within a half hour of getting home, they had the car unloaded and were sitting at Beth’s kitchen banquette enjoying a steaming cup of honey-scented milk. Buster lay beside Beth, his head on her lap. The little dog was always content to sit quietly beside her, enjoying her company. Something she and Josh no longer seemed to do.

“This is relaxing,” Beth said. “I may take a nap and reconsider the snowman project.”

“I like the way you think.” Alex cracked a smile. “While you do that, I’m going home to organize what I bought today.”

Alex got up from the table and carried her mug to the sink. She looked out the window. “It’s getting bad out there. Do you think you should call Josh? What time are you expecting him home?”

“I’m not sure,” Beth said. “I’ll give him a call before I lie down.”

“Okay, girl. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you need anything, let me know. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone this evening.”

Yeah, right. Beth stifled an honest comeback. “Okay. Thanks for your help today, as always.”

After Alex left, Beth pulled the cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. She dialed Josh’s number. No answer. So she left a message saying she had made it home safe and would be taking a nap. She placed the phone on the sofa table in the living room and walked to the large windows where the Christmas tree had stood until a few days ago.

She spent a few minutes daydreaming about the fun she’d had as a child, building snowmen and sledding down the big hill in her neighborhood. Good times before the responsibility of adulthood. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, feeling sentimental, while she watched the accumulation pile up outside. Even now, slow moving cars slid sideways trying to traverse the street in front of the house.

Something at the end of the sidewalk caught her eye. It was the newspaper. She should pick it up before the snow covered it completely. Josh enjoyed reading the news when he was home.

“Mr. B., do you want to help me get the newspaper?”

The Boston terrier jumped and twirled beside her. “You’re always ready for a party, aren’t you, little guy?”

Beth scanned the room for the leash but didn’t see it. “Do you think you can walk out there and back with me without a leash?”

He responded with a yip.

“Okay, let’s hurry. It’s cold out there.”

Beth pulled her cable knit sweater close to her body and opened the door. The brisk wind blew snow in her face, the icy crystals stinging as they hit her skin and dissipated.

“Come on, boy.” She urged the dog to stay beside her.

Buster scampered to the end of the sidewalk, keeping his nose to the ground. He coughed and snorted when he reached the newspaper, inhaling the scent of it. Beth patted him on the head as she bent over to pick it up. Thankfully, the flimsy plastic covering appeared to have kept the paper dry.

She called Buster to walk with her back to the house, and he followed willingly. But when they reached the front door, the little dog started barking.