“Hey,” she said. “If I’d known you were going to town, we could have gone in together,” Parrish said. “What’s up?”
“The sheriff called first thing this morning and wanted to ask me some more questions. About Wendell. The last thing I wanted was him showing up at Shutters with Mama hanging around listening, and Maggy right upstairs. So I agreed to meet him for breakfast at Onnalee’s.”
“What did he want to know? Did he have any news about the investigation?”
“I need a drink,” Riley said abruptly. “You want anything?”
“Nothing,” Parrish said. “I’ll save our spot.”
Ten minutes later, Riley was back with a plastic cup full of white wine. She took a sip and wrinkled her nose, but took another sip, and then another.
“Okay,” she said finally. “The sheriff asked me a bunch of stuff about when the last time was that I’d seen Wendell, and why I thought somebody would want to kill him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I thought it had something to do with money. And the business. At the time, I had no grasp of just how bad things have gotten.” Riley stared into the plastic cup, then dumped it over the side. “This stuff is too gross, even for me.”
“How bad have things gotten?” Parrish asked gently.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say my life, right now, is a ten in terms of awfulness. I’ll just give you the condensed version. The foreclosure is legit, my house is going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder next week, and that won’t be me, since I’m basically destitute.”
“That bastard,” Parrish said.
“Exactly.”
Riley filled her friend in on all she’d learned that day.
“So … Wendell got a new mortgage from a bank you’d never heard of, but it’s no longer that bank?” Parrish asked. “Not to mention he used your trust fund as his personal piggy bank?”
“As far as I can tell. And I guess I only have myself to blame.”
“Bullshit,” Parrish shot back. “This is all Wendell’s fault. What he did was totally illegal.”
“But it’s all on me, now. I’m the dumb bunny who let her big, strong, brilliant husband take control of all our family finances. I should have known better. I did know better, but with Maggy’s diabetes and all, I just allowed myself to slip into that clichéd helpless Southern belle stereotype.”
“I disagree,” Parrish said. “But do you really think Wendell took everything? I mean, how did he manage to access your trust fund?”
“Easy-peasy,” Riley said bitterly. “When Dad set it up, he put Wendell’s name on the account, too. It kind of bothered me at the time—I mean—it was supposed to be my inheritance—the same way he set up Billy’s trust. He certainly didn’t put Scott’s name on Billy’s account.”
“I’m assuming your inheritance was a pretty substantial amount?”
“Only if you consider six million dollars substantial.”
Riley paused a moment after Parrish’s eyes widened.
“I’m holding out hope that maybe he just opened another account at the bank that gave him the new mortgage on Sand Dollar Lane. But I won’t know anything until I get Melody Zimmerman the death certificate and the other documentation she says she has to have.”
“Melody? What’s she got to do with anything?”
“She was the loan officer who gave Wendell the mortgage. Apparently they were pals from Kiwanis. And now she’s some muckety-muck at the bank that took over the old bank. She was perfectly sympathetic, but she says that the banking privacy laws say I can’t access our financial records until I get the death certificate.”
“She’s probably right about that,” Parrish said. “I know after my dad died, it took my mother weeks and weeks before the bank would turn over her accounts. Can you imagine? She didn’t even know the passwords to their joint accounts. It took Ed forever to get everything straightened out. And then the insurance company was even worse to deal with. Hey!” She grabbed Riley’s elbow.
“What about Wendell’s life insurance? And a will—tell me you guys have wills.”
“I’ve got to see if I can find a copy of the insurance policy in Wendell’s office. All my papers are boxed up in storage in Raleigh. And yes, we did get wills done before I had Maggy. As I remember, it was all pretty basic. In case of either of our deaths, the surviving spouse inherits. That is, if there’s anything left to inherit.”
25
Billy Nolan could never keep his time zones straight. He’d tried calling Scott off and on all day Wednesday, but all his calls went directly to voice mail.
It was always like that when Scott had a big install. His total focus was on the job. When he was working he’d forget to eat, take his blood pressure meds, check his e-mail—or return his partner’s phone calls.
Billy wondered what that would be like—to be capable of that kind of concentration.
At the third or fourth private school he’d been bounced out of, his parents finally took him to a shrink, who gave them the news that their son had ADHD—attention deficit hyperactive disorder. He’d read up on the symptoms on the Internet and concluded that this, finally, was the reason his head often felt like a pinball machine—with ringing bells, flashing lights, and a little metal ball that careened wildly in one direction and then the next.
Although he’d always loved music and had taught himself to play piano and guitar, the ADHD diagnosis became a gift, because it helped him recognize that music quieted the constant noise in his head.
Finally, he gave up trying to reach Scott and headed over to Shutters for dinner.
* * *
As soon as he walked into his mother’s kitchen he wished he hadn’t come. The tension between Evelyn and Riley was palpable.
“Where’s Maggy?” Evelyn asked.
“Upstairs. I’ve called her twice, and she says she isn’t hungry.”
“Well, she has to eat, or she’ll get sick.”
“I’m aware of that, Mama,” Riley said, rolling her eyes.
“Call her again and tell her Mimi said we’re having Janice Snider’s chocolate delight for dessert.”
“Is that the stuff with the layers of cookies and chocolate pudding and cream cheese and Cool Whip?” Billy asked. “I friggin’ love that stuff.”
“It’s Janice’s signature dish,” Evelyn replied. “And it’s Maggy’s favorite.”
“Mama!” Riley exclaimed. “You know she can’t have all that sugar.”
“Hush. A little taste or two won’t kill her.”
Riley stalked out of the room. Five minutes later she was back with Maggy in tow.
Maggy’s slight form was ensconced in a blue-and-white-pinstriped men’s dress shirt with a button-down collar, which hung down to her knees. Her hair was mussed and her face was set in an expression best described as mutinous.
“Good heavens, Margaret, what on earth are you wearing?” Evelyn asked.
“She found one of Wendell’s old shirts in the laundry room,” Riley said, taking her seat at the kitchen table.