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A wet-faced Isabelle opened her front door, and Sandra stepped inside. Isabelle slammed the door in Bob’s face, but he appeared inside anyway, and his mouth instantly fell open.
Sandra followed his gaze to Isabelle’s large living room and sure enough, it was a gawk-worthy sight. “Are you sure they were looking for something? Maybe they were just trying to trash the place.”
Isabelle walked over to a set of drawers that had been pulled out and tipped over. She pushed one of them with her toe. “I’m pretty sure they were looking for something.”
Sandra gingerly walked into the room, taking care where she stepped. There wasn’t much open floor. They’d pulled the cushions off the furniture and cut into every one of them. Stuffing spilled out in all directions, hiding broken glass from tossed picture frames. Books had been opened, rifled through, and dropped with the spines facing up. Whoever had done this—they were animals. “Your husband must have been quite the reader.” As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted them. She’d assumed, based on the fact that Isabelle was beautiful and wore nice shoes that she couldn’t be the reader in the house.
But Isabelle didn’t seem to notice the slight. “He was a teacher. He loved books.”
Sandra stooped to pick one of the many books up, closed it, and looked at the cover. A Framework for Understanding Poverty. She looked around the room. “I’m guessing Frank didn’t know much about poverty himself?”
Sandra felt Bob wince, even though he was six feet away. This time, Isabelle was offended. “Frank worked hard all his life. Don’t assume he was a rich snob. He loved his students, gave his whole life for them.”
Sandra gave the room another glance. She knew what she wanted to ask. But did she dare? “Isabelle? This looks like a really nice place for a teacher’s salary.” She was going to also ask, “Where did Frank get his cash?” but Isabelle anticipated the question and answered it.
“Frank comes from money.” She held out both hands. “He inherited it. He didn’t have to be a teacher to pay the bills. He chose to be a teacher because he loved kids and wanted to make the world a better place.”
In an instant, Sandra’s heart softened toward this woman. Sandra was married to a younger version of the same man—only without the wealth. “I’m so sorry he’s gone, Isabelle. He sounds like an awesome person.” And he doesn’t sound like a criminal.
Isabelle’s tears started falling again, and she swiped at them with the back of a hand. “He sure was.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and then added with a creaky voice, “And before you ask, I’ll tell you that he left everything to his own children. He left me enough to get by, but I won’t be rich or anything.”
At first, Sandra had no idea why Isabelle had just shared this detail. Then it dawned on her. “Oh, no, Isabelle, I wasn’t going to accuse you of anything. You’re obviously grieving over your loss of him. I would never assume you had anything to do with it.” Unless you’re the world’s best actress. She was pretty enough to be an actress.
Sandra looked around the room, wondering what to look for. What would Monk notice? Or Father Brown? Or that cutie pie from Psych? She wished she’d paid more attention to those shows. If Frank Fenton was already rich, then he didn’t need a secret life of crime, right? Or maybe he was involved in a secret life of crime just for the thrills? Or maybe he wasn’t as rich as Isabelle thought he was? “Do you have access to Frank’s bank statements?” she asked before thinking about the question. She thought she heard Bob gasp, but he was over on the other side of the room, inspecting some ripped up paintings.
“I guess. Why?” Her voice had tightened.
Sandra had trouble holding her words back long enough to consider them. She wanted to see those bank statements so badly that her chest was burning. “I just want to see if Frank really had the money you think he did.”
She scowled. “Of course he did. But if you need to see them, I guess ...” She turned to go into the kitchen, and Sandra followed. The kitchen was in even more of a mess than the living room. Drawers dumped and flipped over, chairs overturned, stove and fridge torn apart. What could they possibly have been looking for? Isabelle went straight through the kitchen and into another room, which turned out to be an office with an even bigger collection of books on the floor. This must have taken them forever. Isabelle stooped to rifle through some papers and came up with a single page of an open bank statement.
The single page was enough. It showed a running balance, and the balance was huge. Sandra quickly handed it back to her. “You’re right. That’s a lot of zeros. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“It’s okay.”
Her ready agreement raised a question in Sandra’s mind. Why did Isabelle want her here? Why did she seem to want her help? “Isabelle? If Frank wasn’t doing anything illegal, then why can’t you call the police?”
Isabelle looked at her as if she were stupid. “I thought you knew about Mike.”
“I do,” Sandra tried to recover, “but Frank was innocent, right?”
Isabelle nodded, but she didn’t look so sure. “I think so.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean ...” She averted Sandra’s gaze. Bob appeared beside Sandra then, looking eager as ever. “I mean that I don’t exactly know what Mike and those guys are up to. I just know that it’s something shady. Suddenly, they wouldn’t talk to Frank anymore, and their wives wouldn’t talk to me. We were all friends, and then just, boom. Something changed, only a few days ago. I asked Frank about it, but he just told me not to worry. And he didn’t seem worried, so I didn’t worry. But now it sure seems there was something to worry about, doesn’t there?” The more she talked, the faster the words spilled out. She fell into the office chair, which was, Sandra was grateful, upright, and put her face in her hands. “And I guess I’m just scared of them!”
Sandra stepped closer to her and put her hand on her shoulder. “But, Isabelle, if you’re in danger, the police can protect you better than an ordinary mom in a minivan can.”
Isabelle sniffed and looked up at Sandra with wet eyes. “But what if Frank was involved? They were all such good pals. What if Frank was involved with whatever it was and then something went wrong? I just don’t know!”
This doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you think Frank might have been involved?”
“Because they were all such good friends,” she spat out, making sure the word friends spun with a healthy dose of irony. “If they were doing something wrong, surely Frank knew about it, and if he knew about it, why didn’t he tell anyone? Trust me. I’ve been trying to figure this out. My husband was murdered. I’ve thought about nothing else. But no matter how much I think, I can’t figure it out. But one thing’s for sure, if he was mixed up in something shady, I’m not going to be the one to expose him. I’d rather go on not knowing what happened to him or why it happened than to ruin his reputation. He doesn’t deserve that, no matter what.”