Chapter 11

With fear for Juliana crawling around my gut, I uploaded the champagne buffet image Graham had sent me. I pulled up the police file photos of Rebecca and Melissa and displayed them on a different monitor. The file photos were probably high school senior pictures. They both looked very young, confident, and pretty, but those were headshots.

The screen saver was mostly about beautiful bodies—lots of them. What had Graham’s sharp eyes spotted? First off, knowing his background, he probably recognized the less-beautiful fat cats feeding their faces around the table. Even I recognized a few of Top Hat’s nasties, although their head nasty, Senator Paul Rose, wasn’t present.

I moved on from the tuxes and low-cut evening gowns to study other details. I couldn’t determine when or where the photo had been taken, but judging by the designer cake bearing colorful leaves, I’d have to say it was autumn. Graham no doubt had the details.

I finally turned my attention to the smiling female models vying for the attention of rich old men and spotted what Graham wanted me to see. Rebecca the Carpenter’s big teeth beamed like a toothpaste ad while she flirted with some hot young exec holding a champagne glass. Her hair had been professionally tinted and styled in a sophisticated up-do, rendering her nearly unrecognizable from her long-haired high school photo. The carpenter from the Midwest had apparently decided to take a different road in some swanky company.

Now that I knew what I was looking for, I spotted Melissa not too far from Rebecca. Melissa’s high school photo had shown a pretty girl with brown curls and glasses. Her parents had said she was a good church-going Sunday school teacher. The woman in the photo wore diamond pins holding back luxurious platinum waves and a gown that left very little to the imagination. But the protuberant eyes and lush lips were recognizable.

I checked back to the police files for the name of the prominent citizen who had been keeping the Sunday school teacher in style—one Edward Parker the Third. Old money Harvard alum, graduated 1980, which made him roughly in his fifties. He sat on several corporate boards, including JACAD’s, but didn’t give evidence of any real job. His name appeared as a major donor for Rose’s PACs—unsurprisingly.

The image I was working with could very well be of one of those political dinners where candidates returned favors to their donors with schmoozing—and back door deals. All perfectly legal and American politics at work—we’re too sophisticated to use actual bribes.

I dug a recent photo of Eddie the Third from one of the corporate year-end glossies, enlarged it, and compared it to the champagne buffet shot. Receding hair, dyed blond, athletically tall—he was easy to spot on the far end of the table from the girls, conversing with two men in tuxes I didn’t recognize.

On a hunch and because these corporate cases always led back to the money, I looked up the police file photo of the gun manufacturer’s embezzling accountant. Comparing the police file to the buffet photo—voila, there we were. Whenever this buffet had happened, Eddie the Third was having an earnest conversation with George Paycock the missing embezzler. Paycock had his arm around another unidentified pretty young thing—JACAD’s board hard at work.

Out of total disrespect for our government and Paycock’s former employer, General Defense Industries, I did a quick image search. I started by searching for gun lobbyists supporting laws protecting American rights to look like third-world assholes and carry AK47s. Gee, whadayaknow, there were Eddie the Third and Paycock again, poster boys for the gun lobbyists.

I noted our civilized, sophisticated, wealthy duo were not outstanding in fields with hunting rifles like their camouflage-wearing companions in the other photos. No sirreebob, Eddie and Georgie were shaking hands with Senator Paul Rose in front of the Capitol. The rifle-toters paid their dues to protect their weapons, and the money went straight into the pockets of the politicians. One had to admire the superiority of this form of bribery where cash needn’t to be hidden and no heads got broken over it.

Uncertain what I hoped to reveal, I ran a comparative search on the gun lobby’s contributors against a list of CAD’s employees and directors—JACAD had very definitely become a cad in my mind. Every single CAD employee—including their office manager and general contractor—was a gun lobby supporter.

“And so you want to build schools in Africa?” Reverend Arden asked, stirring fake sugar into his coffee while they sat at a rickety table in the canteen behind the trailer camp market. “I thought most of the southern part of Africa was fairly educated.”

“The system is very uneven,” Julie insisted. “The school JACAD built in Zimbabwe while I was there is already making a difference. The educational system is bankrupt and cannot reach poor rural villages. These are people who cannot walk the miles to attend government schools. They are needed too much at home. But if there is a school in their village, attending a few hours a day can make all the difference.”

“I admire your enthusiasm but don’t recommend commandeering Mrs. Overcamp’s computer again,” he said dryly. “She is entitled to her privacy.”

Julie wanted to tell him how Mrs. Overcamp had confiscated her phone, then returned it with a bug inside so crude that even she spotted it because it was sucking up her battery juice. But the good reverend had a habit of wandering the grounds after dark when reprehensible things appeared to happen, so she bit her tongue.

“I will apologize to her,” she said, crossing her fingers under the table. “I do not know a lot about computers and hoped I could figure out how to return my internet connection.” That wasn’t a total lie. The internet had dropped out while she was rummaging through Mrs. Overcamp’s files.

She would pray and ask God what one was supposed to do if her lies might protect innocents.

Arden checked his phone and sighed. “The battery is dead again. I can’t tell if the Wi-Fi is back. You should probably get some sleep anyway. While I admire your dedication, young people really should have a better balanced life.”

“And does that not go for good preachers as well?” she asked boldly, standing up with him.

Late night coffee-drinkers watched them with interest, making Julie uncomfortable. She worked hard at not being noticed, but her height and color were on the conspicuous end of the spectrum in any setting.

“Preachers with dreams deserve what they get. I’ll sleep when this park is built and probably not before.” He gestured at one of the student workers behind the counter. “Lucas, see that Miss Kruger returns home safely.”

She wanted to argue but decided to err on the side of silence. Tall White Boy took off his apron and gestured at a co-worker that he was leaving before falling into step with her.

“So, you and the reverend, what’s up with that?” he asked rudely as they stepped into the cold night.

“He either wants me to stay out of the computers or thinks I work too much,” she said idly, just because. She waited with interest for his response.

“Their systems are so antiquated, my little brother could hack them. I haven’t seen you around. What department are you in?”

Well, so much for worrying over disapproval at her bad habits. She hated not trusting anyone, and she couldn’t remember lies if she told them too often. She opted for honesty, or at least bluntness, since that seemed to be what he was doing. “I’m both working and taking classes in marketing. I’ll be taking finance classes in town after Christmas. I’m not looking forward to it. How about you?”

“I’m in finance now, but with the feds all over the office, the teacher keeps getting called away. It was pretty lame anyway. Anyone knows that money in non-profits gets spent before it can be invested. Raising funds makes more sense. Does marketing teach that?”

They were almost back to her trailer. A vapor of unease passed over her. Instincts were all she had to rely on, and hers said to keep out strangers, which went against her gregarious nature. “Not really,” she admitted. “Not so far. What are the feds and why are they all over the office?”

“Feds, federal government cops. The Rev trusts the wrong people apparently,” he said with a shrug. “Word is that all the park’s money is gone, so we’ll probably be out on our asses next year.”

The park wouldn’t be built? Because the police had taken over? Julie didn’t know whether to panic or be relieved.

“This your place?” Lucas nodded at the fading piece of metal where Julie hoped Maryam was sleeping.

“It is. Thanks for walking me home. I hope you’re wrong about the money.”

He shrugged. “My parents want me to join the Army anyway. See you ’round.”

If the park closed. . . The graves it concealed might never be found. She was beginning to suspect neither would Esther. If Maryam hadn’t run the other night, would she have disappeared like the others? Or was she just being silly?

Julie shivered and glanced around before entering the trailer and locking the door. She would have propped a chair beneath the rickety handle, but Maryam wasn’t home yet.

It was only later, as she was climbing into bed, that she heard the gunfire and screams.

Around midnight, I called it quits on my research and carried the gifts I’d hidden to the Christmas tree in the front parlor, although I held back on some of EG’s. She’d be smuggling them in for x-rays if she got too excited.

Mallard met me in the foyer and took half the top-heavy stack. “Your mother likes red,” he intoned solemnly.

“If you would wear it, I’d buy you a red vest,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, as we spread the packages around. “Then she could like you and hang around.”

I knew what he was saying. None of the packages under the tree had “Mom” written on them.

“I like a good cabernet,” he said stiffly. “That qualifies as red.”

I picked up the hint. I’m clever like that. “But Magda won’t hang around to share it. As soon as she accomplishes whatever she’s after, she’ll be gone, even if that’s midnight on Christmas Eve.” I spoke from harsh experience, not cynicism. I had very good reason for providing the holiday my siblings had never really experienced.

He didn’t argue, but if he wanted us to put Magda gifts under the tree, I knew he was hoping to tempt the little girl he’d once known to stay home for a change—or for her own good. Even ex-IRA butlers can be sentimental.

I noticed Nick had hung the picture frame ornament containing Magda and our grandparents on the tree. The crystal frame caught and reflected the blinking lights. I unplugged the display so I couldn’t see it. I’d rather not consider the unusual schmaltziness behind my bringing up the ornament and Nick hanging it.

Upstairs, I crawled under the covers of the futon I called my bed. When we’d first moved into the mansion, I had figured our stay would be temporary. So I’d taken my grandfather’s old office, where I felt closest to his spirit, and turned it into my bedroom—one of the reasons I’d set up my office in the basement. If we meant to stay, I’d have to consider buying a real bed and maybe a dresser, instead of the filing cabinet, for my undies.

Or maybe. . . I considered the forbidding master chamber next door to this room, the one that had been Max’s room before he got sick—and shut out that thought.

Despite the silence, I was aware of Graham working overhead. I had a deep longing to go up and discuss this case with him, but we had too many unresolved issues. Besides, I never knew when or where my mother would put in an appearance. This had been her childhood home. She knew every secret staircase and bolt hole and was as likely to enter Graham’s office as she would the kitchen.

I twitched nervously at having Magda under our roof and forcibly tugged my pre-sleep thoughts to Julie and whether or not we should haul her out of that park.

By morning, my lizard brain had presented the whole brilliant plan of how I could find out what was happening at the park without endangering Juliana at all. Having money was amazingly beneficial—which ought to give me qualms but didn’t.