Michael could have kicked himself the moment Beth drove away. Why had he badgered her about her appointment? Nate had mentioned that she’d worked for the police department. She wouldn’t have left a regular paycheck with great benefits to work for a new PI firm unless there had been trouble. If this was a personal hot button, he wouldn’t make any friends being nosy. And with Nate out of town, he needed someone to teach him the ropes.
Back in his apartment, Michael settled into what he did best—ferreting out information on the Internet. Almost everyone had something to hide…a risqué photo taken during college, a bankruptcy due to a spendthrift spouse, a reckless driving conviction. But try as he might, he found nothing sketchy about either the reverend or Mrs. Dean. Not from their college days or spring break vacations or anywhere they lived prior to their current residence.
Paul Dean graduated from seminary in the top five percent of his class and had been halfway to his doctorate in divinity when he accepted his first position as pastor. During summers he volunteered at soup kitchens, literacy programs for new immigrants, and built new homes with Habitat for Humanity. He had paid back his student loans and regularly donated more than ten percent to his church.
Alice Dean wasn’t a stellar student in high school, but she had been the homecoming queen. In college her academics weren’t much better, but she had joined a sorority and earned a bachelor’s degree within the normal time frame. Her parents had plenty of money, with a second home in Orange Beach, Alabama, along with a condo in Vail. No surprise there. The Deans’ move to unpretentious Natchez must have been disappointing for a bona fide debutante who had skied during Christmas vacations in her youth. Yet on the plus side, the former Alice Parker had zero scrapes with the law, owed not a dime for her four years at Auburn, and participated in several mission trips to Haiti with her church. Most likely that’s where she’d met and fallen in love with Paul Dean.
Michael couldn’t find any information about her trust fund, but her credit rating was top-notch. Nothing in their backgrounds suggested the Deans were anything but the perfect American couple. Likewise, Calvary Baptist Church wasn’t running a crooked bingo parlor in the basement or selling counterfeit CDs of Christian pop music. Michael padded into the kitchen for a Coke before beginning his background check on Ralph Buckley, whose absence following the funeral placed him high on the suspicion meter. But before he could pop the top, his cell phone rang. Caller “Unknown” killed his hopes of it being his partner.
“Hello, Mr. Preston?” asked a cheery voice. “Natalie Purdy from Calvary Baptist. How are you, dear?”
“I’m well, thank you. How about you on this fine day?” Michael trotted out his seldom-used small talk skills.
“I’m fine. Just a bit wilted from this heat. I remembered that you wanted to look into our church financial records on behalf of Alice.”
Michael nearly choked on his mouthful of soda. “Yes, I do. Did Mr. Buckley return from his trip?”
“No, and I’m peeved he still hasn’t called here. So I checked a few places in his desk, and sure enough, I found his password to the Excel files. Typical man…he left the password in plain sight in a little notebook in his bottom drawer. If you’re not busy, you could swing by and check those accounts.”
“That’s very nice of you,” he said, smiling at the notion that a closed bottom drawer could be considered “plain sight.” “I will be there in ten minutes.”
Michael stopped at a bakery for a key lime pie and arrived in fifteen. He almost purchased pecan but remembered his mother’s complaints about fat grams in nuts. Anything made with limes must be low cal. “I brought you a little something for break time,” he said, stepping into the church office.
“Oh, my word. Key lime—my favorite.” Mrs. Purdy read the label on the string-tied box. “I knew you were a nice man the moment we met. Too bad my daughters are both married, or I would fix you up. Let me put this in the refrigerator.” Carrying his gift into the small kitchen, she called over her shoulder. “I stuck the password on the monitor with a Post-it. Why don’t you get started? If you don’t mind being here alone, I need to make a quick trip to the post office.”
Mind? It was a forensic accountant’s dream to be alone with data with a flash drive in his pocket. “Not at all. Take whatever time you need.” But before she could leave with her armload of letters, Michael’s conscience kicked in. “Do you think Mr. Buckley would mind if I backed up the information onto a memory stick? I promise it will be kept confidential.” “Backed up” sounded much better than “pirated” or “stole.”
Mrs. Purdy took little time to decide. “You go right ahead, young man. If money is missing from one of the accounts, Ralph had no business picking now to take his vacation. Someone needs to track down those funds so poor Paul doesn’t look like a crook. Our pastor wouldn’t steal a pen from the bank, let alone money from the school fund.” She bustled out the door.
At the computer, Michael cracked his knuckles like a concert pianist before a tricky concerto. Yet his scan of the operations account yielded nothing. All maintenance expenses seemed normal, and regardless which Dean actually wrote the check, the reverend had entered the debit into the correct column. At first glance, the mission fund also appeared legitimate, although he wouldn’t know for sure until he verified that those missionaries actually worked in the field. Michael copied the data onto his flash drive and turned his attention to the third account for the new school. It proved to be the mother lode of investment activity.
Since the account’s inception four years ago, money had been accumulating at an amazing rate. Unless this was the largest Episcopal or Catholic parish in New York City, Michael couldn’t imagine donations this generous in a town like Natchez. As he reviewed the month-by-month balance sheet, he realized growth had come not from the collection plate, but from risky investments in junk bonds, short-term commodity futures, and nondiversified sector mutual funds. Such investments were for the rich or those who were savvy in the stock and bond markets.
Considering his education and a life devoted to spiritual pursuits, Paul Dean was neither. And nothing in his wife’s background would have provided the know-how. Michael finished copying the rest of the files just as Mrs. Purdy returned from her errands.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “Ready for a cup of tea and a slice of that pie with me?”
Slipping the stick into his pocket, he closed the open files on the church’s computer. “I would love to, ma’am, but another appointment demands my attention.” He offered a sincere smile. “Perhaps another time?”
“I’ll hold you to that, young man. See you in church on Sunday.”
The appointment demanding Michael’s attention was with his laptop in the comfort of his own apartment. He couldn’t check Buckley’s background without leaving a search trail on the church’s system. He found out that the current finance director of Calvary Baptist had held the position for four years. Before that, Buckley had worked at an insurance agency specializing in high-commission policies for those who were practically uninsurable. Those firms preyed on people desperate for insurance due to serious preexisting conditions. Prior to that, Buckley worked as an investment broker that hawked penny stocks to those seeking quick returns, and as a telemarketer for a get-rich-quick set of DVDs, a company later dissolved by a watchdog agency. Although Buckley had never been charged with any crime, his background certainly prepared him to spin the church’s basket of straw into a pile of gold. Did success also make him greedy?
Michael printed copies for the case file and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. He had done well yesterday and today on his own—a fact even Beth couldn’t refute. But he wasn’t about to repeat past mistakes. Working twelve- and thirteen-hour days might have provided advancement and generous raises at his prior job, but it had allowed little time for extracurricular activities.
And that had made him physically weak, emotionally immature, and socially inept. At least, according to his former fiancée. And how could he not believe the woman he loved?
Changing into sweatpants and a T-shirt, Michael headed for the hotel along the riverfront. Because many business travelers had little time or energy to work out, the upscale property allowed locals to use their well-equipped fitness room. In exchange for a small monthly fee, he hoped to turn his flabby muscles into arms of steel by next spring. Michael was a patient man, and he planned to eventually leave every trace of his boring self behind.