Nate didn’t mind stopping at the office on a Saturday. After all, he and Isabelle had done most of their packing the day before after the funeral. Today they would stop at a discount store for new swimsuits, sandals, and inflatable rafts and then stock up on powdered tea, snacks, and fresh fruit at the grocery store to avoid high prices at the beach. They canceled the newspaper, asked the post office to hold their mail, and arranged for a neighbor to feed Isabelle’s cat. Today Isabelle planned to water the plants, clean out the fridge, and place their home on Neighborhood Watch for the next three weeks. Not that they owned much that would interest thieves, but nobody wanted to return to a ransacked mess. Following his appointment with the widow, Nate would have the Escape’s oil changed and tires rotated, and then they would be ready to leave early the next morning.
He was a little curious about the appointment. He’d watched the aloof Mrs. Dean at the service, the graveside burial, and the poorly attended luncheon. Judging from the number of sandwiches, apparently twice as many people had been anticipated. Alice Dean had barely said six words to any particular mourner. Grief was one thing, but the woman looked angry instead of sad, distrustful rather than despondent. So when Michael and Elizabeth told him about the meeting, Nate’s interest piqued.
His two employees had very different perspectives on the case. Michael felt the new widow was hiding something and wished Price Investigations to help her finish whatever her husband started. Beth thought the woman was delusional due to grief, or the victim of a common misconception that good people deserved a happily-ever-after ending to their lives. So Nate wasn’t surprised to find all three waiting in his outer office at ten minutes to nine.
“Hey, Nate,” chimed Beth and Michael simultaneously.
“Good morning, Mr. Price. I’m Alice Dean.” The expensively dressed woman extended a hand. “I don’t believe I thanked you yesterday for coming to the funeral.”
“How do you do, ma’am. My deepest sympathies on your loss.” They shook hands, their fingers barely touching. “Michael, Beth, please wait out here for a few minutes. I would like to speak with Mrs. Dean privately.” Michael looked crestfallen, while Beth seemed miffed, but Nate saw no need to air the widow’s laundry before others if he decided not to take the case.
Once seated, Mrs. Dean launched into several reasons why her husband of fifteen years wouldn’t have killed himself—not one of which refuted the stark reality that Paul Dean had been found in their garage, hanging from a rafter with a noose around his neck. A note begging her forgiveness had been left on the workbench.
After a respectful pause, Nate provided her with a logical progression of questions: Was the note in Paul’s handwriting? Had there been anything troubling your husband lately? Was anyone seen near your home around the time of death? Were the rope, stool, paper, and pen items your family owned? Did the police promptly respond to the 9-1-1 call and thoroughly inspect the garage area?
Not one of her answers pointed to anything other than suicide. For several moments Nate stared at a small rip in the drapes before delivering his inevitable conclusion. “If the police found no evidence to suggest otherwise—in other words, no signs of foul play—then I’m not sure what you want us to do. You have no case, ma’am, but you do have this office’s sincerest sympathy.”
“I don’t want your pity, Mr. Price. I need someone to believe me.” Mrs. Dean tightened the grip on her purse. “The police didn’t look very hard. Rumors had been swirling for days that Paul had stolen money from the church. Some of those investigating cops go to Calvary Baptist.”
“Isabelle and I spoke to several church members during the luncheon. Everyone spoke highly of Reverend Dean.”
The widow’s upper lip twitched imperceptibly. “Your wife left the congregation years ago. Since moving back, you have attended the evangelical church on Main Street. No one really knows you and Isabelle, and people don’t gossip with strangers.”
Nate hesitated, contemplating her response. “You believe someone murdered your husband and staged his death?”
“Correct, and I wish to hire your firm to find out the truth. Paul wasn’t a thief, and he didn’t take his own life.” Her composure started to crack as a tear slipped down her cheek. “Find out who else had access to church funds and who had a grudge against my husband.” She drew a blank check from her purse and scribbled quickly. “I understand from Beth that you’re leaving tomorrow. Here is an advance to get your team started in your absence. I’ll pay whatever is the going rate, plus expenses.”
Temporarily befuddled, Nate stared at a one followed by four zeros. Ten thousand dollars? “I need to consult my associates before agreeing. Michael Preston was a forensic accountant at his previous job, so he has the necessary background there. However, he’s not a fully trained PI yet. It’s true that Beth has investigative experience, but she’s still finishing a case in Vicksburg.”
Mrs. Dean’s intense gaze practically bored a hole through Nate’s forehead. “If money is the issue, I’ll add another ten thousand to the retainer. I have my own resources from a trust fund from my father in case you’re afraid our jointly held accounts might be called into question down the road.”
“No, ma’am. That’s not why I’m hesitant.” Nate took only thirty seconds to ponder the matter. The firm needed a new case, one that paid well. None of his missing persons, or philandering spouses, or caregiver pilferers had generated enough to pay three salaries, plus their assistant. Fortunately, his New Orleans partner received free office space courtesy of her rich husband. “Very well. We’ll accept the case. You can expect a full report in one week’s time. At that point, I’ll decide whether to return the remaining advance or continue our investigation. I will not continue to take a client’s money without just cause.”
Mrs. Dean rose to an impressive height, courtesy of four-inch heels. “You’re a rare man if you possess the integrity you imply. I can be reached at these numbers.” She laid a card on his desk. “Now, if you would ask your protégés to stop by my home in a few hours, say twelve o’clock, I won’t detain you longer.” Halfway to the door, she halted. “Please forgive my bad manners. Lately I haven’t been able to think about anyone but myself. I wish both you and your bride a relaxing and restorative honeymoon.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be in touch.”
When she opened the door, Nate’s protégés practically fell into his office. Mrs. Dean nodded at them stiffly and then left as quickly as possible.
“Were you two eavesdropping?” Nate demanded the moment she was gone. “If I’d wanted you to hear the conversation, I would have invited you inside.”
Beth strode toward the more comfortable of his two upholstered chairs. “How else can we help you decide if the case has merit?”
Michael slunk past him rather sheepishly and headed for the windows. “I thought eavesdropping was a valuable surveillance tool. I was merely honing my skills.”
Nate gritted his teeth. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for a spy cam, Mike. And because you’re a local, Beth, I didn’t want to publically air Mrs. Dean’s dirty laundry.”
Beth’s blue eyes flashed. “I understand the concept of professional confidentiality. I wouldn’t talk about Alice Dean’s suspicions whether or not you took the case.” Her focus landed on the check in the center of his desk blotter. “And I see that you are. Ten grand is hard to pass up.”
Michael’s opinion was also immediately apparent. “That’s great news! I can’t wait to dig into the family’s financial records.”
“Hold your horses, cyber sleuth,” said Beth. “We need signed contracts and Alice’s permission to snoop into her personal affairs, or the agency could be sued for invasion of privacy.”
Nate clenched down on his molars while counting to five. “You both need to settle down and remember which one of us is the boss.”
“That would be you,” Michael answered without hesitation.
“I apologize if I overstepped.” Beth’s tone contained more indignation than remorse. “I was trying to sort this out in my head and don’t see much of a case here. My old preacher got caught with his hand in the cookie jar and couldn’t live with the shame. End of story. Stealing is a biggie in the Christian rule book.”
“ ‘You must not steal’ is the eighth commandment,” added Michael helpfully.
Nate mustered his most imperious demeanor. “It’s far from the end of the story. So while I head for fun in the sun, you two will decide if Reverend Dean took his own life. Plenty of murders have been disguised as suicides before. Look at their personal and joint accounts along with church finances. Find out what their marriage was like, and see who had something to gain by his death. Michael, I know you’re already good at following a money trail, and you should be able to learn plenty from a seasoned veteran like Beth. Any questions?” Nate looked from one to the other.
“Nope,” said Michael, with an expression of someone about to board the world’s tallest roller coaster.
Beth, however, remained silent with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Is something wrong, Miss Kirby?”
“No, sir. I’m here to do exactly what I’m told.”
“Good,” Nate said, more forcefully than necessary. “As you and Michael overheard, you will visit Mrs. Dean at her home this afternoon. Gather all the information you can. Record the conversation if she gives you permission. Otherwise, take notes.”
Beth’s lips drew into a thin line.
“Michael, I would like a few minutes alone with Beth. Why don’t you go to the funeral home and ask for a copy of Pastor Dean’s guest book? That might come in handy down the line. Then you could meet Beth at 782 Bennett Avenue at noon. If you set your GPS, you should have no trouble.”
“I’m on it!” Michael pushed away from the windowsill and crossed the room in three strides. He pumped Nate’s hand like a handle. “You won’t be sorry you left us in charge. We’ll make you proud.”
After Michael left the office with more enthusiasm than ten average men, Nate locked gazes with Beth, his spunky and talented former police officer. “Care to tell me what’s really on your mind?”