Chapter Eleven

I don’t know where Trace is,” Jessica said, twisting her hands in her lap. “He’s not usually late.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Paul said. He checked his watch anyway. “Kate tells me you started working at the elementary school yesterday. How is your first week going?”

“It’s great so far. Well, mostly great. I have a couple of overactive boys in the class, and getting them to sit still through a whole period is a challenge.” Jessica let out a laugh. “But somehow we managed to get a little bit of schoolwork done.”

Paul chuckled. Kate pictured pandemonium, but Jessica seemed happy to be working.

“But the strangest thing happened when I got home from work today. There was a little envelope on my dresser with a small key inside. But I don’t know what the key is for.”

“An envelope?” Kate leaned forward. “What did it look like?” Her mind flashed back to the scene in the attic. It had to be Flora’s key. But why would the woman be so secretive about it then, only to give it anonymously to Jessica now?

Jessica reached into her purse and pulled out a little yellowed envelope. She handed it to Kate.

Kate recognized it immediately. The envelope was plain except for a small pencil notation in the corner: 686. Kate opened the envelope and slid the key out. It was small and old-fashioned, but surprisingly heavy. She studied it for a minute, then a smile broke out across her face. She knew exactly what the key meant.

“Sorry I’m late,” Trace said, bursting into Paul’s office. “There was a problem at work, and then a traffic jam, and it took longer to get here than I thought. He kissed Jessica on the cheek and settled down in the chair next to her. “So, what did I miss?”

“We might as well launch right in,” Paul said, tapping a pencil on his knee. “Since we’re running behind.”

Kate nodded and handed the key and the envelope back to Jessica. She’d have a talk with Jessica about it later.

“We’re talking about family relations this week,” Paul said. “Trace, you’ve met Jessica’s father and stepmother. Jessica, have you met Trace’s family?”

“Yes. We went to Kansas over the Fourth of July holiday. They were wonderful. Everyone treated me like I was one of the family. I love how tight-knit they are.” She looked over at Trace. “So different from my family, I’m afraid. I just wish they trusted us,” Jessica said, shaking her head.

Trace sighed. “I’m the one they don’t trust. I’ll just have to prove myself to them. In time.”

“They’ll come around,” Jessica said, reaching out to Trace.

Kate only hoped Jessica was right. But without evidence of Trace’s innocence, how would Gordon learn to trust him?

DURING HER DEVOTIONS Wednesday morning, Kate’s thoughts kept going to the strained relationship between Trace and Jessica’s family. Through all her years as a pastor’s wife, she’d mentored many women who lived with fractured relationships. In this case, as in many, the problem hinged on money. Kate knew that most conflicts involved misunderstandings or misinformation. She needed to find a way to bring out the truth, whatever it might be. The truth will set you free, she thought, recalling the words of Jesus.

As soon as Paul left for work, Kate headed for the library.

Please help me find Art Franklin, she prayed silently as she drove. He might be the only one who can exonerate Trace.

Kate arrived at the library just as Livvy unlocked the door and held it open.

“Morning,” Livvy said. “You have the whole place to yourself. It could get noisy down here, though. The first-grade class at the elementary school is coming on a field trip in a few minutes.”

“That’ll keep you busy.”

“Yes, but I love it. This is the age to catch their interest.” Livvy grinned. She had such an infectious personality, the schoolchildren loved coming to the library. “I’d better go get ready.”

Kate went upstairs and picked the farthest computer from the stairs. On a hunch, she began a search for Special Olympics teams in Southern Virginia. She found listings of activities and meets, and pages and pages of wonderful pictures of competitions and proud winners.

Kate had participated in a walk-a-thon for the Special Olympics in San Antonio, but she hadn’t realized the scope of the organization. Athletes competed by divisions of age and ability level, and winners in each division advanced to state competitions, where the winners went on to national and eventually to international games.

She was disappointed to discover that the teams were sponsored not by individuals or businesses but by the Special Olympics organization itself. She’d hoped to find a direct link to the bank and Trace or Art Franklin. Businesses became community partners. So the Appomattox bank had sponsored employees and families who supported their fund-raiser, not a specific team.

Was that Trace’s only participation during his time at the bank? To find out, she backtracked. When she searched back three years, several references came up. Kate loved the fact that the Internet data banks never seemed to expire. She located a link to an old record of the Special Olympics in Lynchburg and clicked on it.

Pictures and reports of a Special Olympics softball tournament appeared. Scrolling down through the site, she suddenly perked up. Appomattox Commercial Bank topped the list of sponsors. Excited, she started reading everything about the tournament. She found no mention of Trace Jackson or Art Franklin.

On another page, future events were listed, but they were still three years old. Kate looked through them, then linked to another track-and-field event. That didn’t give her any helpful information either. Searching the pages on the event, she was pleased when pictures appeared. One of the coaches looked a lot like Trace, but the picture was grainy, and she couldn’t be certain.

She read the blurb beneath the picture. Sure enough, Trace Jackson coached track-and-field events.

A group of schoolchildren came bounding up the library stairs. More sounds of excitement and energy came from the group of about twenty children. Kate grinned. Two adults appeared upstairs with Livvy. Even with the teachers or volunteers, Livvy had her hands full. As she herded the children to a conference room, she glanced over at Kate and made an expression of mock exasperation.

Kate looked at the photograph on her screen again. Trace’s hand was on the shoulder of a young boy with a rounded face and small features. The names were alphabetical, so they didn’t match the picture, but the name Tim Franklin appeared with the others.

Could the young athlete with Trace have been related to the man who had worked with Trace at the bank?

Kate printed out a copy of the team photo and the names. She found an e-mail address for the team and sent a note asking to be put in contact with Tim Franklin’s father. She left her phone number and address as well as her e-mail address. She didn’t really expect a direct response, other than, perhaps, a note stating that the organization wouldn’t give out contact information. But it was worth a try. She hoped that someone would at least pass on her request.

Kate searched for Tim Franklin. She found lots of references to that name, but not regarding the Special Olympics or a young athlete. All dead ends.

She thought about how Trace and Jessica looked the previous night, so young and so much in love. She wished there was something more she could do to help them. Her mind picked over memories of the counseling session, trying to extract some detail that might clear things up.

Then it hit her. Kate almost smacked herself. In the midst of the family drama—and her confusion over Trace’s seemingly apathetic behavior—she had forgotten to tell Jessica what to do with the key.

“Please pick up,” Kate whispered into her cell phone. A moment later, Jessica’s voice mail kicked on. She was probably still in class, Kate realized. At the sound of the beep, Kate blurted into the phone, “Jessica, take the key to the bank, ask about safety deposit boxes, and then come see me.”

AS KATE WANDERED the aisles of the Mercantile, picking up groceries and a few items to winterize the yard, she saw Sam Gorman talking to a young, tanned man near the back of the store. Sam glanced up, saw her, then gestured for her to wait a moment. He opened the back door so the young man could carry a large sack of bone meal outside. Sam walked over to Kate.

“Will you be at choir practice tonight?” he asked.

“Sure will.”

“I may be late. Could you tell Renee and the others? Perhaps they can practice a cappella until I get there.” The choir met at Renee’s house, but Sam Gorman was their accompanist and director. “I got a special order today, and I promised I’d deliver it tonight.” He nodded toward the back door, where the olive-skinned man was just walking back inside. “He’s making big landscaping changes for the Mackenzie wedding,” Sam added conspiratorially.

So that was the famous Anthony. “I’d be happy to tell Renee. Practice won’t be as good without your organ playing, but we’ll manage until you arrive.” Kate smiled. “I can’t imagine how anyone could make the Mackenzies’ landscaping more beautiful than it already is, though.”

“They’ve been changing things around frequently since Anthony went to work for them, which is great for my business.” Sam grinned. “He orders a lot of supplies here.” They watched as Anthony hoisted another bag up on his shoulder. “I’d better go help him,” Sam said, hurrying away.

Kate finished her shopping, and when she got to the checkout counter, Anthony was paying his bill. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off several hundred-dollar bills.

Odd, Kate thought. Surely the Mackenzies had an account with Sam. Why would the gardener be paying cash? She didn’t mean to be nosy, but she noticed more hundred-dollar bills in the wad as he folded it and put it back in his pocket. He looked up and saw her.

“Afternoon,” he said cheerfully.

“Hi, I’m Kate Hanlon.” She extended her hand. “I believe we have mutual friends, the Mackenzies.”

“Friends, indeed,” Anthony said. Someone whistled from outside, and Anthony turned his head. “I have to run. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Hanlon. Have a lovely day.”

He left, whistling as he went down the aisle toward the back door. Kate followed him and poked her head outside. She watched him climb into a pickup truck with “D’Amico Landscaping” painted on the side. He revved the engine and drove away. He seemed to be a pleasant young man, not at all gangster-like, as Flora and Bertie intimated.

KATE CHOPPED WALNUTS at the kitchen counter Wednesday afternoon. Her mind sorted through Jessica’s mystery while she waited for news from her trip to the bank.

How did Anthony fit into the Mackenzie household, and why would he pay cash for landscaping supplies? Monica and Gordon had to know he was spending money. Did he pay cash, then turn in a padded request for reimbursement? That was possible. If Gordon hadn’t paid attention to Jessica’s trust fund, he probably didn’t scrutinize household expenditures. Did Monica watch what was spent?

Kate added the nuts and chocolate chips to the stiff batter and stirred.

Who was Anthony? He didn’t look the part of a mobster to Kate, although she only had a television idea of what a mafioso looked like. Anthony seemed charming. Bertie and Flora didn’t trust him, but the young man had usurped Bertie’s place, so Kate couldn’t give their judgment too much weight.

Kate considered Kristin again. She had an opportunity to steal Jessica’s money and a long-standing rivalry with her cousin. She also loved expensive things. Kate could see her giving in to the temptation of embezzling Jessica’s trust fund.

Monica seemed to think of Jessica as a rival too, rather than part of the family. That could have been motive enough to dip into Jessica’s trust, couldn’t it? Or was it possible that Monica stole the money to support her husband, who mistrusted Trace and opposed the wedding?

Kate was overwhelmed by the sheer number of suspects in this mystery, not to mention the list of possible motives. She also felt it was important to keep her inklings from Jessica; the last thing the young woman needed was more confused feelings about her family.

Kate was dropping spoonfuls of dough onto a cookie sheet when the doorbell rang. She washed her hands and dried them on a towel, then went to the door. A glance at the clock surprised her. It was nearly four thirty.

Jessica stood at the door holding a pale turquoise quilted-satin box. She was dressed in a white blouse, a blue cardigan sweater, and a tweed skirt.

“How did you know?”

“Come in,” Kate said, standing back. “You went to the bank?”

Jessica nodded, stepped inside, hung her coat by the door, then followed Kate into the kitchen.

“Yes. I went after school, as soon as I got your message. Mr. McKinney took me to open a safety-deposit box. Number 686. This is what was in it,” she said, holding up the box.

She set the box on the kitchen table and lifted the lid. Nestled inside, on a cushion of satin, was the most beautiful tiara Kate had ever seen. Lustrous white and pink pearls and sparkling crystals set in gold surrounded an ivory cameo of a classical lady. A smaller padded box sat in the center of the box. Jessica lifted it out and opened it. A necklace of perfectly matched, pale pink pearls sat coiled inside the satin lining.

“Aren’t they gorgeous?” Jessica held the necklace up against her neck. Her face glowed with joy. “I have a portrait of my mother in her wedding gown wearing these. Next time you’re at the house, I’ll show you. I’m going to wear them at my wedding.”

“They’re stunning! Your mother would be thrilled to have you wear them.”

“I think so too. But you still haven’t told me how you knew they were there, or how the key appeared in my room.”

“You mentioned that your mother said the pearls were kept in the bank,” Kate said. “When you showed me the key, I just put two and two together.” Kate touched the pearls gingerly, then looked up at Jessica. “But I can’t explain exactly how the key got in your room.”

One thing Kate knew for sure: she needed to have a chat with Flora.

As soon as Jessica headed home, Kate pulled out the phone book, looked up the number for Bertie and Flora, and dialed. The phone rang and rang before Kate realized they were not going to pick up.

RENEE WAS PUTTING AWAY her dinner dishes when Kate arrived at her house that night for choir practice. The scent of Estée Lauder’s Youth-Dew mixed with Italian food aromas filled Renee’s well-decorated home.

“What are you doing here so early?” Renee said, looking at her watch as she let Kate in.

“I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you,” Kate said, ignoring Renee’s bluntness.

“I’m not ready, but you might as well come in.” Renee scooped up her pet Chihuahua, Kisses, who was dancing around Kate and pawing at her pant leg. Renee held him out to Kate.

“Hold Little Umpkins while I finish up.”

Kate took the dog, who tried to lick her face. She held him firmly and scratched his ears as she followed Renee to the kitchen.

“Hello there, Kate,” Renee’s mother, Caroline, called from the living room.

Kate spent a few minutes chatting with the woman, then went to join Renee in the kitchen.

“Sam may be late this evening. He said to start without him and practice a cappella. He had to make a delivery to the Mackenzie place.”

“Really? I wonder what he’s delivering. I was there this morning, and Monica didn’t mention anything. It must be for the wedding. I’ve been advising her, you know.”

Kate nodded. Renee tended to exaggerate, but she loved to feel included.

“This was for the yard, I believe,” Kate said. “Anthony was at the Mercantile when I stopped by earlier.”

“Oh yes. He’s intent on restaging the grounds for the wedding. He’s making quite a name for himself, you know.”

Kate was a bit puzzled by Renee’s comment, but she didn’t want to raise Renee’s curiosity. “He does beautiful work.”

Were the massive changes Anthony’s idea and not Monica’s? She’d watched him pay cash for the supplies. Why would a hired gardener be paying out of his own pocket for the landscaping? And where did he get the money?