7

With Claire, Justin, and Val for moral support, Alison faced the stern-faced family attorney, Pete Marrin, across the table. She’d been nervous about this meeting ever since Pete called to arrange a meeting with “Frank’s heirs” in conjunction with the family accountant, Gary Jenkins, also across the table from her.

“I didn’t realize Frank had a will.” Alison fidgeted, unable to stand the tension any longer. “He took care of our legal and business matters.”

She’d gathered all the financial documents she could find per Detective Barefoot’s request at the beginning of the investigation. She’d managed to find the bank statements for their joint checking and personal savings account, the last seven years of IRS tax records, and the various Roth IRA and 401(k) documents. Frank, thank God—here she was talking to God again—had kept everything meticulously filed and organized in their extra bedroom/office.

It was the first time she’d ever examined those documents. Frank had liked to be in absolute control of everything. She’d made copies and given them to the detective. She had a lot to learn, like an undergrad cramming before the final exam. Except in this case, the exam was about survival.

Alison knew enough to understand the cash reserves she’d expected to find weren’t on any document she’d discovered so far. What had happened to their life savings?

She waited with a great deal of trepidation as to what both Pete and Gary had to say. She had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be good.

Pete cleared his throat, getting down to business. “Frank didn’t have a will until a few months ago when he called me. From San Francisco, I believe. Long distance, he told me to draw up certain documents, and when he returned to town a couple of days later, he swung by the office at closing, signed what he needed to sign, and asked me to enclose three sealed envelopes in his estate portfolio.” Pete drew from the briefcase at his feet three rectangular envelopes. He fanned them out in front of him on the table like a poker player displaying a winning hand.

She made out Frank’s precise no-nonsense handwriting. One addressed to her and the other two were for Claire and Justin.

“Up front, at the time Frank came by the office, he paid to retain my legal consulting services and Gary’s.” Pete thumbed his finger over to his colleague. “To advise you financially in the event of his unexpected demise.”

“What?” Claire grabbed the edge of the table. “Did he suspect he was in danger?”

Alison laid a restraining hand upon her daughter.

Pete ignored Claire, looking straight into Alison’s eyes. “Frank told me he’d made a lot of bad decisions over the last few years. Financially and personally speaking. Something had changed in Frank by the time I saw him that afternoon. I noticed it immediately. He told me he had wrongs to right, and he only hoped it wasn’t already too late.”

Alison frowned. “Too late for what or whom?”

Pete bit his lip. “I asked him that and he wouldn’t answer. But North Carolina law is explicit. When one spouse dies, the estate, whatever it is, passes to the other spouse automatically, will or no will.” He paused. “In this case, there isn’t much to pass.”

Alison angled toward Gary. “What does he mean? Nothing? Our IRAs and the 401(k)? What about the children’s college funds?”

Gary mopped his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. “I’m afraid, Alison, it’s all gone.”

“All gone?” A note of hysteria crept into her voice. She twisted a tissue with her hands. “We promised each other we’d never, no matter how bad it got, ever touch that. That was for them and their future.”

Pete refused to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, Alison.”

“But how? Why? Where did it go, Gary?”

“Frank withdrew it or signed it over to a third party over the last few years in various amounts.”

She pursed her lips. “What third party?”

Gary consulted his records, a manila folder on the table before him.

“Stocks for startup companies. Investment opportunities. I have copies of this for you, Alison.” He pushed the folder across to her.

Her eyes refused to focus. She rested her elbow on the tabletop, her head in her hand. Would this nightmare never end? The mess Frank had left them grew larger every day.

Justin leaned over to examine the documents. “Bluestone Real Estate Development.” He turned the page over. “CompuVision, the country club’s initiation fee—”

“Wait a minute.” Claire jerked upright. “CompuVision? Isn’t that the name of Mr. Lawrence’s software company?”

Startled, Alison grabbed the paper for a closer look. Claire was correct. The multimillion dollar computer company belonged to Bill Lawrence. Anxious to earn “points” with one of Raleigh’s key financial players, Frank had insisted they join the Lawrences and their two teenage daughters, Zoe and Heather, on a Caribbean cruise last summer. Now she wondered exactly how he’d acquired those millions.

An investment gone bad and investors like Frank waiting to be compensated? Or had Frank been swindled? Motive for murder? How many murders were motivated by money and greed?

Pete spoke up. “We are here to help you sort through settling Frank’s estate.”

Her mouth had gone dry. “You mean the creditors that must be paid?”

Pete looked down. Both men were silent.

Later Friday night, with her exhausted children in bed, Alison sat with her bare feet propped on the ottoman after hours of poring through financial records with Pete and Gary. She found herself slumped in Frank’s chair in the darkened family room. Her mind reeled with disbelief. Frank, or somebody else, had wiped them out. There was nothing left but bills to pay.

It broke her heart for the children’s sake, but the house with its exorbitant mortgage would have to be sold. Which meant they’d also have to change schools.

And her garden? She choked back a sob. She couldn’t think about that now. That was the least of her worries.

She and the children would pay for Frank’s extravagance. the Piper Cub, she thought as she released a short bitter laugh, would be sold. His car, when eventually released by the police department, sold as well. And considering its history, sold out of state. Thank God, her car was paid for or she’d have no transportation.

Alison felt as if a ton of bricks had landed on top of her chest. Anger and despair engulfing her, she fought queasiness. Had her life been a lie? Even from the beginning? She wasn’t sure if Frank had ever meant a word he said to her.

She leaned her head on the soft chenille cushion and closed her eyes. Val and Stephen would never let them starve, of that she was certain. But this test, or trial as Val would call it, was up to her to overcome. If she didn’t find the courage to meet this crisis head-on, she’d be as useless and stupid as Frank had always believed her to be. It might be her last chance to prove something first and foremost to herself.

The taxes they owed, the uncertain future ahead . . . Wave after wave of fear threatened to drown her. She shuddered. Every time Barefoot showed up on her doorstep she expected him to hand over a warrant for her arrest.

She remembered the envelopes from Frank. Hers lay un-opened in the pocket of her black skirt. The children opened theirs after Gary and Pete left.

Justin’s note simply read,

“I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. If I could have a do-over, there are so many things I would change. Think fondly, if you can, of your old man in the many years to come I pray God grants you. All my love forever, Dad.

P.S. Justin, I want you to have my golf clubs. Bud, I see a lot of potential there. Also, I want you to have my camera. God has given you a special gift for all things technical. Use your gifts for Him.”

After opening Frank’s note, Justin discovered his father’s golf bag was not in the garage. Detective Barefoot had given them an itemized inventory of the personal objects the police found in the car at the crime scene that—Barefoot assured her—would be returned to the family in due course. The golf clubs were not among the items found, nor was Frank’s briefcase. A subsequent search of the house failed to reveal their location.

They’d cleaned out Frank’s airport locker last week in a fruitless search for his briefcase. After Gary and Pete left, Justin had the sudden inspiration his dad might have left the golf equipment in his hitherto forgotten club locker and called Stephen, asking him to drive him over on Saturday. Of Frank’s briefcase and the all-important smartphone, there was no sign.

Protective of his phone, which held his business and personal contact information as well as his daily schedule, Frank had never been without it. He left home that final morning with both phone and briefcase in hand. The airport video surveillance revealed Frank leaving the terminal, headed toward the parking garage, with his briefcase in tow.

She could only draw her own grim conclusions, as Detective Barefoot continued to be as closemouthed with case details as the granite rocks of his mountain homeland. Yes, leave it to Val to ask, grilling the taciturn detective every chance she got.

Alison speculated the murderer, after surprising and killing Frank, made off with the briefcase and phone. Those items probably contained incriminating evidence of wrongdoing on the part of the perpetrator that made him or her willing to commit murder to keep them hidden. Now they might never know what Frank had uncovered over the last few weeks in his efforts, as he put it, “to right wrongs.” Whatever it was, it had cost him his life.

Claire was next to read her note, though it took her a moment to compose herself after seeing her name written in Frank’s familiar handwriting. Her note said,

“Dearest Claire, If you are reading this note, then I failed to fix things, and I want you to know how sorry I am for the hurt I will cause you. I want you to have Grandma Irene’s prayer book and Grandpa Joe’s little New Testament.

Don’t make the same mistakes of pride as your dad. Without God, the flip side of pride is weakness. Remember me kindly, Claire. All my love forever, Dad.”

How and when had Frank gotten religion? Irene, a homemaker, and Joe, the dedicated firefighter, had been devout in their faith. Surely, Frank’s turnaround, if indeed genuine—she wasn’t fully prepared to embrace the new and improved Frank yet—had been the answer to many long years of prayer on their part. Had she been that wrapped up in her hurt and disillusionment she failed to detect this change in Frank in the last few days of his life?

She’d always believed herself to be Frank’s victim. Was she, upon the honest retrospection possible only in the dark hours of night, as guiltless as she claimed?

To the day she died, she’d be ashamed her first instant reaction upon learning of Frank’s death had been one of relief, like a prisoner who has just received an unexpected pardon. Was she so self-absorbed in her own pain and bitterness to feel nothing beyond a sense of escape upon hearing of the death of the man she’d once sworn—before the God she’d chosen not to acknowledge—to love forever, the father of her children?

Was she any better than her mother, Dot? Or better than Frank, in the myriad ways he’d failed to live up to her expectations? She’d always been quick to compare Frank with her gentle giant of a dad over the years of their difficult marriage. Had that been remotely fair, upon hindsight, to Frank? Perhaps a darker question was how had she lived up to his expectations?

Pain stabbed her temples. Hadn’t she, in her own way, been as faithless to Frank as he had been to her? Whose betrayal, her breath caught, had come first?

She’d always, as a matter of personal conscience, tried to be a good person. Where Frank was concerned, she knew tonight how miserably she’d failed. The chance to do better there was gone.

Or was it? Could she pay him one last gesture of respect and love by helping to apprehend his killer? Did there remain enough love for Frank to even try?

It might be all she could do for him now. It might be the least she could do for him.

How to be a better person? Despite her best efforts toward Frank or her children, she let them and herself down continually. Was there another answer? How did Val . . . ?

It was Christ in her, Val would say, that made all the difference.

She was so tired. Soul-weary. Maybe it was time to surrender the control, the reins of her life to Someone who could do an infinitely better job. She wasn’t doing so well on her own and it was time she admitted it.

Was that the first step? She winced, thinking of Dot. Like an alcoholic who first has to admit he has a problem? Where did she go from here?

She didn’t know Val’s God. Was He truly, as Val claimed, the faithful and true God, who was always there, who never changed, who considered her a person of worth despite her failures? A God who would never leave and forsake her?

Was there Someone out there like that? Someone who didn’t disappoint or betray or abandon? Someone who loved her, Alison McLawhorn Monaghan?

If there was ever a time she needed Someone, it was now.

Dropping to her knees beside the ottoman, overcome with shame of her own unworthiness before Someone like that, she whispered, “I don’t know You, but Val tells me You’ve always known me. That when Dad died and Dot . . .”

She faltered, unable after all these years to put into words the hurt of that day, her mother walking away, declaring good riddance to bad rubbish.

“Val says You were with me even on that day. And that You’ve been there caring and waiting this past week, but I’ve been too stubborn to take Your hand. I don’t know how to be what everyone needs me to be. I’ve been sinned against, but I admit now I’ve also sinned. I’ve disappointed and betrayed and abandoned those I vowed to always support. I need Your forgiveness.”

Were those the right words? Was there some sort of special formula to this prayer thing?

An image of herself in handcuffs flooded her mind. She lifted her face toward the ceiling. “And God,” she whispered, “Help me expose the one who dared to end Frank’s life.”

A peace penetrated the dark room, filling long-empty places in her heart.

The envelope in her skirt pocket rustled, reminding her of the unread last missive from Frank. Taking a deep breath, she withdrew it from her pocket and, leaning heavily against the ottoman, she pulled herself to her feet.

She walked over to the French doors where the moon gave a gleam of light. Opening it, a small, translucent object fluttered into her hand. Without stopping to examine it, she took out the small ivory paper and read,

“I have sinned against you most of all. You have been the wife I never deserved.

I stared into the Abyss, and I saw myself falling forever. I was forced to examine my life, saw myself for what I was and all I had done, and I fell instead into the outstretched arms of my Savior. If you are reading this now, then I know, despite divine forgiveness, there are always earthly reckonings.

I ask for your forgiveness, realizing I have absolutely no right to expect it.

I wish you joy in the years ahead, and if you do from time to time think on these years we had together, I pray the bad will fade away by God’s grace from your memory and that you will remember me as we were in Hawaii. I love you, Frank.”

Love? A sob caught in her throat, and she opened her hand, holding the object closer to the glow of the moonlight.

A dried plumeria blossom. Its faint scent rose in her nostrils, bringing sweet memories long buried.

After renting bicycles to explore the island, they’d stopped for lunch. Unhooking the picnic baskets the resort had provided, she and Frank ambled off the beaten path into a grove of trees, next to one of the many waterfalls for which Kauai was famous. As she’d set out the spread, Frank returned from a quick foray into the bush with the most beautiful purple blossom she’d ever seen.

For love, he’d said, tucking it into her hair. After changing for dinner that night, she’d lost track of the flower, never thinking of it until this night seventeen years later.

But obviously, Frank had not forgotten it and had kept it somewhere, tucked in a book perhaps, preserving what for him must have been a treasured memory.

She remembered again the wedding picture from the funeral yesterday. Had there been genuine love at some point in the beginning? Or, was it all a sham? The blossom in her hand testified it was not a sham.

And for the first time in a week, clutching the faded flower petal in the moonlight, she released the tears that had been building not just for the last few days, but also for the years in between. Falling to her knees, her cheek against the cool panes of the glass, she grieved for Frank, for all that once had been, for all there never was, and for all that could never be.

As she crushed the petal to her, its aroma perfumed the air. And crying out in anguish to heaven above for comfort in her saddest hour, she found that, at last, she was no longer alone.

Mike leaned against the headrest of his vehicle, allowing the soft, cool breeze of the October night to fan his face. The hour late, the lights shining from all of the houses on Alison’s block had long since winked into darkness. Except for hers. The light on her front porch blazed brightly—a clear indication based on his surveillance over the last week—she was still awake and about. He’d watched the children click out their lights earlier.

From his vantage point down the street, through her unshuttered windows, he’d observed her move from room to room turning out lamps as she went. From a distance, her face shone pale—and scared—in the moonlight.

Scared of being arrested for the murder of her husband? Or, just scared? Scared of being a single parent? Scared of the future? He’d had a long conversation with the attorney and accountant today.

He shifted in his seat, his foot rustling the burger wrapper on the floor. Financially speaking, Alison and her kiddos were in deep doo-doo. Another legacy of the illustrious and dead Frank Monaghan. That guy just kept getting better and better all the time. Val Prescott had been right—it was a wonder no one had killed the jerk before now.

Still, life was sacred. He believed in God. No atheists in the foxhole with his line of work.

But that surrender thing to an all-powerful God? Not there yet. But late at night, when he was alone and staring at the ceiling above his bed, shadows chased him.

Maybe Alison dreaded the dark, lonely nights. Mike, too—when he was honest enough to admit it.

He banged his head, none too gently, against the steering wheel. What was the matter with him? When did he start calling her or any suspect by their first name even in his mind? But something tugged at him at the thought of Alison Monaghan and her fatherless children. Yes, even that prickly pear she called a daughter.

He’d had the oddest sensation as he watched Alison—Mrs. Monaghan, he corrected—turn out the lights. An urge, a wistful longing to belong. A yearning he hadn’t felt since his grandparents died.

A wish for home.

Death wish was more like it. “You’re an idiot, Mike Barefoot.” What kind of fool felt an attraction for a murder suspect?

His hand jerked and came to rest on the slim, black leather Bible with which his granny had sent him off to college. His lips tightened. Whatever had possessed him to dig that out of his army footlocker and bring that along on a stakeout?

“Crazy.” He swatted at a passing fly, zooming around his face, and missed.

That pastor must have gotten to him. But his hand returned to the book on the seat beside him. He’d never read the thing for himself. People did hateful things to other human beings out of a zeal for religion. His experience in the Gulf, his study of history, and 9/11 proved that. He’d never attempted to understand that kind of misguided passion before. What made people like that tick?

He flicked on the cab’s interior light, dispelling the shadows, and thumbed through a few pages of the book he knew so well from long, enforced vigils on hard wooden pews on his boyish backside: the New Testament.

What prompted people to kill and be killed in the name of some god?

Maybe it was time to find out.