Chapter Forty-three

The arrangement between Claire and Robert to communicate only once a week and under strict conditions, was often frustrating, and today was one of those times. Oh, they had many reasons to keep their relationship under wraps, reasons that dated back to before Scott died and Jacqueline lost her mind. Theirs was a complicated relationship based on mutual interests and values, a strong attraction, and a closely guarded secret that must never come out.

Claire trusted Robert in ways she could never trust anyone else—her children, her granddaughter, or her employees. Robert was brilliant, an eclectic reader and a savvy businessman. He had been the one to introduce Claire to Brock Thornton, and whenever she received investment reports, Robert helped her evaluate them. So far, this arrangement had worked out well. Claire’s money was multiplying beyond her wildest dreams, and if Thornton himself had been unavailable whenever she had a question, Robert would always step in and give her the satisfactory answer.

This was Tuesday afternoon. Claire had been trying to contact Thornton for days now, and the financial planner had not returned her calls. Normally, Claire could be patient, but the past week had tested her to the point where she considered switching investors. None of her friends had trouble contacting the people who managed their money. Of course, no one claimed to have increased their holdings the way she had, either. At this point, if she cashed out, she could set up a world-class nature farm in Brandywine Valley and still have enough left over to take care of her heirs.

She wasn’t due to talk to Robert for two more days, but she didn’t think she should wait. Screwing up her Old English stubbornness, she called the financial planner’s number, expecting to have to leave another message. When Thornton’s golden-toned voice answered the phone, Claire thought it was the answering machine. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Mrs. Whitman,” he said, before she could even identify herself. Of course, he had caller ID. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, ma’am. I’ve been out of town all week.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Well, a lot has happened this week, and I’m in need of money.”

“Would you like to make an appointment? I can come to Sweetgrass, and we can talk about your needs.” Beneath the syrupy words, Claire could detect a stall when she heard one.

“Actually, why wait? We can talk about it now, over the phone.” The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to get started immediately. “I’m sure you remember my bank barn renovation. Because of that project, I reserved a few million dollars from my investment portfolio.”

“I remember. I still wish you hadn’t done that. Think of the amount that couple of million dollars could have earned in all this time.” He paused, as if adding numbers in his head. “But what about the barn?”

“It’s burned to a cinder. A meth explosion.” Claire held back on mentioning the dead body. For this conversation, Tripp’s death seemed unnecessary, and perhaps it was disrespectful to talk about Tripp in the same breath as talking about money.

“Someone had a meth lab in your barn? How terrible.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It was quite horrible.” Knowing how gossip spread in Brandywine faster than the horses ran at Steeplechase, she wondered if the financial planner was pretending not to know.

“I’m sure the barn was well-insured. Have you filed a claim?” Thornton covered the phone and called out to an unknown person. “I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

This was not the first time he had rushed her off the phone with this tiresome tactic. Claire wondered how the man had held on to so many wealthy clients if he treated them all like this. “I haven’t talked to my agent yet. I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with firefighters and police. I’m calling because I want to withdraw a large sum of money from my investment portfolio.”

Thornton’s voice morphed into a warm, compassionate melody, played by a full orchestra. “I understand if you want to rebuild the barn, but before you take out money that’s working for you, you should see how much your insurance company will cover. That’s the prudent thing to do.”

“If I were planning to rebuild the barn, I would wait, but I have no intention of doing that. I have other ideas, some personal projects to enhance the land here at Sweetgrass. How soon can I get my hands on my money?”

“How much are you thinking you’ll need?”

Claire hated the feeling that she was a child, asking her father for her allowance. The money was hers. She could find another way to invest whatever portion she didn’t use for the nature preserve. And, with Tripp’s death, she had some other ideas, as well. “My last statement from you, the bottom line was over twenty-two million. I want to take it all back.”

“Argh. You’ve got to be kidding. That would be a very foolish move. The market’s been exceptional this year. Also, you should consider the taxes you’d incur. I’d strongly advise against it.”

“Why? Isn’t this my money to do with as I see fit?”

“Listen, Mrs. Whitman. I have to hang up now. My wife needs me to help her with something. Why don’t I call you back? Maybe we can meet with your daughter, Jessica. We can work out something less drastic that won’t cause you to shoot yourself in the foot financially.”

Brock Thornton could have said many things that wouldn’t have angered Claire as much as threatening to involve Jessica. Claire prided herself on her independence. For as many years as she had left, she would grip the reins of her own destiny. No one was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do with her own money.

Her face burned, and the hand holding the phone shook as she replied. “Today is Tuesday. How long will it take you to sell out my holdings? And if you breathe a word to either of my daughters, I will sue you for breach of fiduciary duties, breach of privacy, or both.”

Claire wanted the last word, and she got it, because the next thing she knew, a dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Chapter Forty-four

When Parrott finished interviewing Tucker Anderson at the coroner’s office, he found a text from Wilcox of the Wilmington Police. You’ve been cleared to see Wyatt Wukitsch. He’s in isolation but wants to talk. Delaware Rehab was a shorter drive from Chesco than from the station, so Parrott jumped on I-95, delighted with the results of his colleague’s intervention.

Soon Parrott was in a tiny, but well-appointed room that smelled of pine disinfectant. Everything was spotless, from the sparkling windows facing the afternoon sun to the glossy linoleum floor to the crisp white linens on the hospital bed.

The patient in the bed looked like hell. Long hair was pasted to his head, a day’s growth of beard roughened his face, and the hospital gown he wore was stained with something brown. An orange ring of light surrounded the bed on the floor, signaling the patient’s confinement to the bed as a fall risk, but, atop the bed, his body twitched, as if tied to a live electrical source. Worst of all, the patient’s bloodshot eyes told of torment and exhaustion. Still, when Parrott introduced himself and thanked him for the interview, Wyatt’s lips curved into a semblance of a smile.

Wyatt’s voice was trembly, weak. “N-not my best day, but maybe not my worst either. As my d-dad says, I’m one step closer to living my best life.”

Parrott had seen worse. “Your dad has spoken with me. I interviewed him the day he was rescued from being assaulted and restrained in his home.”

Throwing his arm over his eyes, Wyatt said, “Let’s cut to the chase. I’m the one who tied up my dad. I’m totally ashamed about it, but I need to own up to it and face the consequences.”

Glad for the quick confession, Parrott said, “I assume you had a reason for doing this to your dad.”

“Yeah. The same reasons I’ve done every bad thing in my life—money and drugs.” Wyatt groaned and rolled over onto the side facing the wall.

Unruffled, Parrott planned his next question. He didn’t care whether Wyatt made eye contact, as long as he kept talking. “You saying someone paid you to rough up your father?”

“Yeah, yeah. I needed cash bad. In-between jobs, and I owed a lot of money. This seemed like a perfect answer. I didn’t have to hurt him. I just had to make it look like I hurt him.”

“Who hired you?”

‘No idea. To start with, somebody put a note on my windshield outside the hole where I live in South Philly. Told me if I wanted to earn some quick cash to hang a dollar bill on my rearview mirror. After that, a couple more notes—instructions, date, time—that kinda stuff. Paid me a thousand ahead of time. Stuck under the floor mat of my back seat. Another thou the day after.”

“You still have those notes?”

“Nah. I dunno what happened to them. I was strung out.”

“You know the dates?”

“Not exactly, but it warn’t much more’n a week between the first and the last.”

“You have the money?” It was a longshot, but Parrott could dust the bills for fingerprints.

“Long gone. I needed it to pay off debts.”

“What about your car? I’d like to check it out for evidence.”

“Sure. Talk to my dad. He’s got the car and keys. I doubt you’ll find anything, though.”

“So, an anonymous person paid you two thousand dollars to terrorize your father. You have any thoughts about who that person might’ve been?”

“I dunno--been thinking. Whoever it is knows where I live, what car I drive, who my dad is. Pretty scary.”

Parrott found it fascinating to hear what would frighten a person who has already succumbed to the scariest nightmare of illegal drug addiction, one of the ironies among criminals. “Yes, and the timing—just before a barn where your dad lives and works blows up. Probably not a coincidence.”

“Yeah. Was I being set up as a patsy for blowing up the barn? Or was I just there to keep my dad away? Maybe I’ll never find out.”

“You ever cook meth?”

“Nah. That stuff’s dangerous. And even if I did, I wouldn’t cook it in a nice lady’s barn. I know you suspect me. I don’t have a lot of cred with cops, but all’s I did was mess up my dad and take his keys. He can tell you I’ve given them back to him now.”

“Where were you when the barn blew?”

“I left Dad’s and went straight home. I wanted to stop somewhere and call in an anonymous tip to the police, so Dad wouldn’t have to lie there so long, but I was afraid. I had no idea about the barn until Dad called me.” Wyatt’s speech had grown faint, and his head flopped against the pillow.

Pleased with the information so far, Parrott didn’t want to push his luck. He took down Wyatt’s address and the make and model of his car. “Your dad knew it was you, tying him up at the time?” He was pretty sure of the answer, but if Wyatt answered in the affirmative, he would peg his dad for withholding evidence.

“I didn’t tell him, but he prob’ly figured it out. Radar didn’t bark much. Anybody else would’ve hurt him more. I was careful.” Wyatt’s legs shot around under the covers as if seeking refuge from the worst kind of torture.

“You’ve given me some good information, Wyatt, and I appreciate your help. Just wondering why you’ve decided to come clean. Why detox? Why talk to the police?”

“Oh, man. You really mess up when you got it so bad, you commit a crime on the one person who’s always been there for you. I gotta get clean for good this time—for my dad’s sake and mine. All’s I can say is I feel like shit.”