Dead Man’s Hand
Karen McCullough
Caroline’s hand shook as she stuck the key in the door of her home. She hadn’t been inside since that hideous night a week ago, when she’d found her husband’s body on the floor of his office. The police had kept her out while they investigated his death.
Emptiness echoed through the place as she walked in, the silence louder than her footsteps on the hardwood floor of the hall.
She stopped for a moment in the kitchen. She’d have to clean out the refrigerator, replace all the staples, sort through the accumulated mail, do laundry. The white board over the desk caught her eye. It bore a note from George reminding her to pick up his gray suit from the dry cleaner. He must’ve written that between the time she’d left to go shopping and his death a few hours later. A tidal wave of grief washed over her, blotting out everything else. What was the point of doing anything with George gone? She dropped into a chair and cried, letting the tears flow in a way she hadn’t been able to while staying with her sister-in-law.
When the spasm wore out, she blew her nose, and sat up straight. Before anything else, she needed to face the hardest test, to go back into George’s office.
She steeled herself and opened the door. The strange aroma that she’d smelled in her dreams since that night lingered—gunpowder, blood, excrement—and there was something new, a chemical tang. Nausea surged through her. She covered her mouth and made herself survey the dark stains on floor and wall.
When she’d had all she could take, she backed out quickly. Everything else could wait until the cleaners who specialized in crime scenes had done their job.
She retreated to the living room and sank into the couch. George had handled all the financial things, not just because he didn’t want to talk about the cost of his gambling, but because he was also a control freak and it made him nervous to leave it to anyone else. Before his death, she’d lived with the stress of his gambling addiction. When he locked himself in the office for hours, when he refused to discuss their finances, she’d tried to convince herself it was all right. He gave her a generous allowance and the credit cards were never refused; no bill collectors ever called. Now, not only did she have to grieve for the man she still loved, she had to come to grips with how he died.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The caller ID said it was Jeff Campbell, her lawyer.
“Caroline?” Jeff said. “I hear the police are closing the case. Calling it suicide.”
“They are. I still don’t believe it.”
“Even without a suicide note it sounds like the coroner was convinced he shot himself.”
“I know. But I’m not. We need to talk.”
“Of course. This afternoon?”
She agreed to be there at two. As she hung up, the doorbell rang to announce the arrival of the cleaning crew.
While they worked, she retreated to a corner of the dining room and booted up George’s computer. The police had found nothing incriminating on it, but they didn’t know all the things she did.
There were several emails to and from his nephew on the day of George’s death. The last one made her gasp and read it through twice.
Dave—
This can’t go on. It’s starting to drain my resources and you and I both know it’s not healthy. One way or another, it’s got to stop. I can’t support this anymore. Let me know when you can come by to talk about it.
George
George had always treated Dave as the son he never had. Dave’s mother, Margaret, was divorced and George was the only father figure Dave had. George enjoyed the role. He’d even loaned Dave the money to start his own engineering business. George told Caroline that Dave was repaying the loan on a regular basis and he was proud of him.
So, what did this mean? What couldn’t go on?
She read through the other emails to and from Dave, but they were all mundane business issues, setting up times to meet for lunch or a baseball game, questions about relatives, or discussions of sporting events and the fantasy football league they were involved in. Not even a hint of what had to stop.
The cleaning service continued its work. Their equipment was loud. The workers wore overalls and masks. She wondered when she could call her life her own again, then dug deeper into George’s computer files. She hoped that somewhere in the laptop, she’d find the key to understanding his death.
Jeff Campbell was the family lawyer and a long-time friend of George’s. When she was shown into his office, he stood and came to hug her. “How are you, Caroline? I’m so sorry about George. What a shock.”
“Yes, it was. Is. I’m not sure how to go on. But I have to. George would expect it.” And, she thought, I’ll have to be strong if I want to figure out who killed him.
Jeff took her arm and escorted her to the client chair at the desk. Then he took his seat opposite her. “You already know how George’s will was set up. Fifty thousand to his nephew, plus forgiveness of the rest of the loan. The balance of payments from their parents’ trust go to Margaret for her lifetime, then the principal passes to her son. The rest of his estate goes to you. Most of his accounts and investments are already held jointly with you, so they pass to you automatically. One of his partners in the accounting firm has already approached me about buying out his share of the business.”
“Can you manage that for me? I trust you’ll get a fair price.”
“I can. And there are papers to sign, of course.” They spent the next thirty minutes dealing with the details of the estate. Once that was done, he said, “This wasn’t the only thing you wanted to talk about.”
“No. I still don’t believe George killed himself.”
“I get that. But there’s not much you can do about it.”
“But protect myself,” Caroline said.
Jeff’s eyebrows rose. “You think you’re in danger, too?”
“I think it’s entirely possible I’ll find out why George was killed and that may well lead me to who did it. The police said there was no evidence of forced entry. The implications are pretty obvious. Plus, I found this in George’s email.” She handed the printout of George’s message to Dave to Jeff. “So, I plan to change the locks, have a security system installed, and learn to use George’s gun. I also want to leave a couple of things with you.” She pulled out a sealed letter and handed it to him. “I put a copy of the email in here and some other things, too. This is to be opened only if something happens to me that isn’t clearly natural causes. I have another copy that I’m giving to the police detective as well.”
“You really think Dave could be involved?”
“I don’t like to think so, but it’s hard to see what else this message could mean.
His expression suggested he took her fears seriously as he pulled out a file folder, slipped the letter in, and then put it in his bottom desk drawer. “I very much hope you’re wrong about this.”
“I do, too. And it’s still possible it was an accident, though I find that hard to believe. But I can’t afford to take the chance.”
Jeff nodded.
“One more thing. I need to know about George’s gambling debts. Am I obligated to pay them?”
“It depends on who he owes and what kind of agreements he signed. Certainly the lines of credit from the casinos have to be paid. Have you any idea how much it is?”
“No. It will take some work to find out.”
“Why don’t you let me do that for you? If you want to just box up all his papers and bring them to me, I’ll be glad to sort it out for you. In fact, since he was a friend, I can just come by and pick up everything. We might be able to pay the debts out of what you get for the sale of his share of the company.”
Caroline hesitated. “Let me sleep on that.”
“In the meantime, if anyone presses you about anything, refer them to me.”
“Will do.”
He stood when she did. “Take care,” he said. His tone made the words more than just a social nicety.
Caroline’s head buzzed and warning bells rang loudly in her brain. She just wasn’t sure what they tried to tell her. The minute she got home, she called around until she found someone willing to come out that evening to change the locks. The security company promised to be there the next day.
Her first dinner alone in her house wasn’t as traumatic as she feared since she’d often been on her own when George went on the gambling jaunts he called business trips. But he almost always phoned in the evening to talk. Never again. She let herself have another good cry, but refused to indulge the depression it brought.
The locksmith arrived as she finished her meal, and she did feel more secure, though lonely, once he’d handed her the new keys and left.
She knew she wouldn’t sleep, so decided to face the office now and go through George’s desk and files. The room smelled of carpet cleaner but she thought she could still detect a hint of the coppery scent of blood.
The desk’s center drawer was full of paper clips, pens, pencils, a checkbook, and a few envelopes containing current bills. She glanced through them, noting totals and that none of the bills showed back charges or past-due notices. A second drawer held boxes of writing paper, a stack of legal pads, and a few smaller notepads. The third housed his collection of pipes, along with cleaning equipment and a humidor for the tobacco. The aroma brought back memories of their nights together. She shoved it closed.
The final two drawers held stacks of old computer printouts, newspapers, and printed booklets, relating to football, baseball, and basketball games going back several years. Most showed betting odds on various teams and events.
Caroline sighed and crossed to the filing cabinets. The top drawer held folders of paid bills, one each for the electricity, water, phone, cable, car payments, mortgage, and credit cards. None gave any indication of financial problems. Even the credit card balances were paid in full each month.
The buzz of the phone pulled her out of musing on the implications of all those neatly paid bills.
“How are you doing?” her sister-in-law Margaret asked. “This is your first night alone in the house without George. I’m sure it’s lonely. I’ll be glad to come over if you need company. Or help you start packing up his things.”
She’s trying to be helpful, Caroline reminded herself, though Margaret’s idea of help usually meant taking charge of any situation and issuing orders. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’m meeting with the funeral director tomorrow at ten to go over the details. You want to meet me there? We could do lunch afterward.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” Margaret said. “Do you need help with George’s things? I know that must be difficult for you. Dave and I would be glad to come over on Saturday.”
“I’ll let you know.” She took a moment to wonder if she was getting paranoid. Why did all the offers of help make her suspicious rather than grateful?
She ended the call, went back to the file cabinet, and paged through the rest of the bills, finding nothing of particular interest. The next drawer held sales receipts, warranties, and instruction books for everything they’d ever bought, including things they no longer owned. It was so like George to save it all and keep it neatly arranged, she thought, as she flipped through information for two vacuum cleaners that had passed on to small appliance heaven years ago.
Tears threatened again. She’d sometimes wondered if the gambling was a reaction to his compulsive need for order and control in every other aspect of his life. An outlet perhaps. But whatever anyone else thought, the gambling hadn’t been bad enough to damage their lives. He wouldn’t do that to her.
She paid closer attention to the financial records in the drawer below. Folders organized by company and year contained monthly reports from their various investment accounts. Several times over the past year, George had taken money from one or the other account, but in no case had his withdrawals represent a huge percent of the balance. Unless he’d drained all of the accounts since the most recent reports, she would certainly not be penniless.
At the back, she found the reports for the trust his parents had left him and his sister. Jeff had been the lawyer who administered it for him and Margaret. She saw the records of the orderly monthly payments to both beneficiaries.
She’d seen the reports on several occasions, though she never paid close attention.
They were arranged with the most recent closest to the front. She planned just to glance over it, but one number on the top sheet made her stop and study the whole thing more closely. In fact, she read all the text as well as the numbers and graphs, but still didn’t understand why there should be an unexplained withdrawal of almost one hundred thousand dollars taken from the principal. If that was a trustee’s fee, it seemed excessive on a three-million-dollar trust. Had there been some kind of change in the fee structure?
She went through the rest of the reports page by page. Each month showed some dividends reinvested as well as the regular distributions, but in May, fifty thousand had been deposited without explanation. In March, another hundred thousand had been taken out, listed only as “miscellaneous fees.” In January, a trustee’s fee of fifteen thousand was noted.
Caroline flipped the page to the previous year. In November, forty thousand was deposited with no explanation other than “reimbursement.” In August, another one hundred thousand had been removed as “miscellaneous fees.” In May, fifty thousand was deposited and in March, one hundred thousand removed. In January, another fifteen thousand trustee’s fee was noted. Reports from two prior years showed the same pattern, with the regular trustee’s fee in January and other irregular deposits and withdrawals. Always the withdrawals were greater than the deposits.
That didn’t make any sense. Unless someone was taking out loans against the principal of the trust. Who would be doing it though?
She booted up the computer again. George kept his checking account log in a program that tracked all his financial records. Scrolling through the transactions showed nothing to account for the large withdrawals from the trust fund. He had a couple of larger deposits, but she thought the end-of-year ones were bonus distributions from the accounting firm where he was a partner, and the others were likely the occasional gambling win. None of the deposits matched the dates or amounts of the withdrawals from the trust to say that he’d received those funds.
It was possible the money had gone directly to some other account, but she couldn’t find it. George had said he ran everything through his checking account to track it. So, where had those funds gone? There weren’t many possibilities. Margaret or Dave? Either might explain his email to Dave. Margaret had expensive tastes but she also had a decent-paying job and a substantial settlement from the divorce.
Caroline retreated to the couch to consider how she might figure it out. When she realized she was falling asleep instead of thinking, she gave up and went to bed.
First thing in the morning she called Detective Martinez and explained to him what she’d found and what she made of it. She had all her arguments mustered and ready, but he surprised her by not immediately rejecting the idea.
“You think you’ve found a motive for murder?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“The coroner’s just as sure it was suicide.”
“Did you see the note on the whiteboard in the kitchen?”
A moment’s pause followed. “Something about picking up a suit at the dry cleaner,” the detective answered.
“Right. And he wrote that sometime after I left to go shopping and before I got home and found him dead. Does that sound like a man who planned to commit suicide? George wasn’t impulsive. If he’d decided to kill himself, he would’ve made preparations. He’d have left me a long list of instructions on what to do with his things, not a reminder about picking up his dry cleaning. That’s the way George was.”
Martinez paused again. “You have a point. But it’s not enough to weigh against the coroner’s ruling.”
“I know. But I think I know how to get around it.”
When she told him what she wanted to do, his response was loud and uncompromising. “No way. Don’t you dare.” Anger and concern made the words ring loudly through the phone line. “It’s way too damn dangerous.”
“I have to.”
“I don’t want to have to investigate another murder.”
“I don’t want you to, either, but I’m not safe now.”
That quieted the detective for a moment. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there are a couple of ways to ensure it. Revise that letter you left with the attorney and make sure everyone knows I have a copy. Or just hand over the documents.”
“No. I’m not stupid, and that means I’m not safe. Can’t be safe because I’ll always have access to the information no matter what I hand over. But in any case, I want justice for George more than I want safety. I’ll take the risk.”
“I can’t let you take it.”
“You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it. But I’d much rather have your help.”
The silence stretched out for so long she feared he’d hung up, then he said, “I’m going to regret this one way or another. We do this my way. You will do exactly as I tell you. We have to do this right to be sure it’s air-tight.”
She agreed and told him she’d be there after she met with the funeral director and had lunch with Margaret.
The meeting went about as expected. Caroline had made several decisions about the casket and funeral beforehand. Margaret weighed in with her opinions and Caroline let her have her way on some of the less important things.
Afterward they went to an Italian restaurant for lunch.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do with the house?” Margaret asked over plates of linguini.
“No. Not yet. I need to decide what I want to do next before I can worry about that.”
“What about George’s things? Do you want Dave to come help you go through them?”
Warning bells rang in her brain again. Was there more to Margaret’s pushing on George’s things than simple concern? A less simple need to protect herself or her son?
“Not ready to even think about that yet. I’ll let you know after the funeral.” Caroline found it hard to keep her mind on the conversation and was relieved when they finished eating and she could honestly say she had another appointment and had to get going.
It took the detective and his people several hours to set everything up. By the time she made the phone call that would set the plan in motion, it was almost five. Her hands shook and it took all her will power to make her voice steady and casual as she asked for help with George’s papers and said she’d be at home that evening.
Then she had to wait.
“Try to do your normal things,” Martinez advised. “Cook dinner. Watch TV. Read. Whatever you’d normally do this time of day.”
“I don’t dare. What if I forget to concentrate on what I need to say when the time comes?”
“You won’t. When the doorbell rings you’ll snap into catch-a-killer mode.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Caroline cooked dinner and watched television, but her mind could only be coaxed into paying half-attention to those activities. Time crawled.
When the doorbell sounded a little after eight that evening, she did jolt into full alert mode, mentally rehearsing what she needed to say. She checked behind her, saw all looked normal, drew a deep breath, and went to the door.
She struggled for a calm, normal smile as she let him in.
“Jeff. Thank you for coming.” She kept her head down and sniffed, hoping to hide her nerves under the real grief. “I appreciate the help. I just don’t think I can handle the paperwork.”
She followed him into George’s office. “Can I get you some boxes or bags for this?”
“That would be good.” He answered absently as he approached the desk.
By the time she returned with a couple of boxes, he was going through the bottom drawer. “Anything in there you need?” she asked.
“Just what’s in the top drawer.” He shut the bottom drawer and went over to the file cabinets. He ignored the folders of paid bills in the top drawer and the instructions and warranties in the second. When he got to the third, he pulled out the folders of trust account reports and dumped them into the boxes without looking too closely. As he tore through the bottom drawer, though, his expression changed to concern and puzzlement.
Caroline picked up the set of folders she’d tucked away on a corner of a bookshelf and put them on the desk. “Are these what you’re looking for?” she asked.
He straightened up and turned, approached the desk, and his eyes widened at the label. He stared at her. “You’ve looked through them?”
“You’re a gambler, too, aren’t you? All those business trips you and George took together. You encouraged his gambling along with your own. But you couldn’t afford it as easily as he could.”
“Wrong.” He frowned and eyes flashed with anger. “He drew me into the gaming world, even though he knew I couldn’t afford it.” He paused and sighed. “If you’d just let me handle all of George’s finances, you would never have known about this.” He took a step toward her, pulling a gun from under his jacket.
Nausea roiled her stomach but she had to keep going. “George was worried that you couldn’t repay the debt to the trust and that you wanted more. Did he tell you he was going to put a stop to your borrowing against the trust fund?”
“He threatened to. After he’d dragged me into his sordid mess in the first place.”
“You’d be disbarred. Maybe go to jail.”
“It was supposed to be an unfortunate accident. But suicide was even better. And now you’re going to have to end it all, too,” Jeff said. “You couldn’t handle the grief. Too bad. Please don’t try to struggle. I promise it will be quick.”
She didn’t dare look up. Breath clotted in her throat but she managed to choke out, “You found his gun again?”
“I took it out of the drawer in his desk while you got the boxes. You’re going to use it.” He stepped toward her keeping the gun aimed at her head.
“What was George doing when you pulled it out of his desk?”
“He went to the bathroom. I waited until he sat back down and moved right up beside him.”
“How did you know he had a gun?”
“I’ve seen it a couple of times when I met with him here. I’m sorry, Caroline. I hate to do this—”
“We definitely do not hate to do this,” Detective Martinez said as he grabbed Jeff’s gun arm, forcing it upward so that the bullet he fired hit the ceiling. A second police officer yanked the gun away, while a third got an arm around Jeff’s neck and dragged him backward, to the floor, facedown.
Caroline bit her lip as she stared at Jeff. “Didn’t it occur to you to wonder why I put it back in the same exact place after the police took it? You didn’t check to make sure it was loaded, though, did you? It isn’t.”
Jeff glared at her but didn’t say anything.
“Are you all right?” Martinez asked her while the others cuffed Jeff and led him away.
“Shaken and stirred, but okay. Better now that I’ll have justice for George.” She looked around. “I suppose your crime scene unit will have to make a mess in here again?”
“Not as much this time,” he said. “You won’t have to move out.”
“That’s all right, then.” She shook her head. “But I’ll have to get someone to repair the ceiling. Doesn’t matter. So worth it.”