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I could not sleep well that night. I kept tossing and turning, thinking about poor Emma Peterson. I spoke to Carter two hours after my initial call and he took me through everything once again. I looked at the facts one last time. They were compelling: a woman in her early seventies suffering deep depression; history of heart problems; medications increased; it worried the doctor that her condition was worsening; she was not taking the medication as directed; the EMT believed she suffered a heart attack; no sign of forced entry; no sign of foul play; nothing was missing. Everything—all of it, points to death by natural causes. That’s what Carter believed. My head told me he was right.
My heart didn’t believe it, though—not for one minute.
I couldn’t get past the timing. For over thirty years Emma lived on nickels and dimes, wallowing in a deep state of depression. She comes into some money and starts to enjoy life a little and—wham! She falls over dead? It was ironic or there was foul play. My instincts told me it was the latter, not the former.
If there was a trigger for a foul play argument, it could only be one thing. I knew what I needed to do. I flashed back to what my CIA boss and mentor always told me—when in doubt...
... follow the money.
I knew who I needed to speak to next. The next morning, I ran an extra mile. Adrenaline was surging through my veins. I ate a piece of dry toast and waited for nine o’clock to come around. Unable to wait any longer, I hopped in the car at eight-thirty and headed to the offices of Mark Baker, CPA.
It was I who ended up delivering Steve Teller’s generous gift to Emma; a cashier’s check for $500,000. At first, Emma didn’t want to accept it, even when she understood the gesture was a heartfelt one. I told her I understood how she felt.
Yet, as I explained to Emma, Steve Teller was guilt-ridden over his unintended role in Glory’s murder. It was Teller who received the original letter of inquiry from Glory. It was Teller who set up the meeting to introduce her to the people who would later murder the young girl. So, even though he had no inkling what would happen, it was, in fact, Mr. Teller who started a chain of events that led to Glory’s murder.
Mr. Teller was wealthy but older and in ill health, himself. His only family was a son who was a well-to-do businessman in his own right. I told Emma the gift would not only ease a little of the pain he felt, but would help her move on with her life, and after thirty years of pain, guilt, depression and emptiness, it was now time for her to do so.
Emma relented, but it was only after I reintroduced her to Mark Baker, CPA, and discussed a facelift for the high school drama department. Between the theater renovation and a revitalized interest in gardening, Emma Peterson began a new course for a fuller life.
Mark Baker was Glory’s best friend in school and carried some measure of guilt himself for not doing enough to recognize she was meeting a strange older man with Hollywood connections, and all that implied. He was a professional accountant and money manager, was all too happy to help Emma with the tax implications of the gift and to set up a safe financial plan for her.
He also set up the foundation to fund the high school project. Emma was beaming when the school honored the donation by announcing they would rename the stage to, The Glory Peterson Theater.
I was sitting on the steps leading to his office when Mark arrived. He approached me, smiling. The smile told me he had not yet heard Emma had passed.
When I didn’t return the smile, he asked me what was wrong. I told him I had news. Tears welled in his eyes as I explained what had happened.
“It’s so bazaar. I spoke to her a couple of weeks ago,” Mark said, fighting back more tears. “She came to my office, if you can imagine. When Barbie told me Emma Peterson was in my lobby, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She almost never left the house. I always had to go to her. We had a great chat. She seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . happy.”
“You know how heart attacks can be. They can happen without warning,” I replied in a consoling tone, not believing a word I was saying. “You said you saw her two weeks ago?”
“I did,” he said. “She came in with another woman, another client of mine.”
“Was it Maxine Reed?” I asked.
“Yes, do you know her?”
“No. I’ve heard her name. Why was Emma visiting you?”
He looked at me with raised eyebrows, “Oh, you mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“I’m sorry, I know you and she were close and you brought her to me. You helped her with the high school donation, so I assumed you knew . . .”
I was confused, “Knew what?”
“Sorry, Fortune,” he said. “It’s a personal financial matter of Emma’s and I’m not allowed to discuss it without her consent.”
“Mark, Emma is dead,” I spouted. “She had no one looking after her. From the way you are reacting, something odd might have been going on with her finances.”
“Again, sorry,” he repeated. “Can’t say more.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out, “Mark, listen. I’ve been rolling it over and over in my mind and I can’t get past the timing of her dying so soon after coming into money.”
Mark gave me a solemn, understanding look. He nodded but remained silent.
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” I asked.
”Yes and no—maybe a little. She was older and her health wasn’t the best but . . . Do the police suspect foul play?”
“No,” I admitted. “All initial findings point to death by natural causes—a heart attack.”
“I see,” he said, falling silent. “I know it’s tough to accept. I share your observation that she was as healthy looking and happy as I’ve seen her since Glory died.”
“Mark, if you know something—anything . . .”
“I’m sorry, Fortune, believe me,” he said. “My license could be suspended for discussing her financial information. If not that . . . this is a small town. If word got out that I discussed . . .”
“I understand,” I assured. “Just tell me this and I’ll leave. Do you agree I should continue to look into this matter?”
He brushed his fingers over his mouth and scratched his chin as he thought. Ten seconds went by; then fifteen. I sat there waiting. He interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on the desk.
He said nothing.
I took that as a yes.