Eating lunch at a French restaurant with Brock was an entirely different experience than eating at the diner in Edina had been. He was warm and interesting, so knowledgeable about food and cooking. We took in the ambiance as well as the décor, which Brock explained to me are two different things. One refers is the actual decorations on the wall and the other to the way a room makes you feel while you’re inside it.
Brock thought his bouillabaisse was underseasoned; I thought my salade Niçoise was exceptional. We taste tested each other’s entrée and rated them as if we were food critics writing a review.
Afterward, while we waited for the check, I took out my phone and searched for the location of a Mercantile Bank closest to Stacey’s home. I figured she’d use the most convenient branch and hopefully one of the tellers or a manager knew her personally. There were four around town, one about a mile from her place. I dialed and asked for a manager to inform them that I’d be coming in on official business, investigating the murder of Stacey Jordan. The woman I spoke to, Ms. Price, told me how shocked she’d been hearing the news and would cooperate with me completely. I told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes.
“Good news?” Brock asked, seeing my smile.
“No, good luck. What are the odds of me finding someone who knew Stacey on my first try?”
“Ahhh, I don’t know; I ain’t so good with numbers.”
“That’s okay.”
When he reached for the check, I grabbed his hand. “This is business.” Then I handed the waiter my Visa card.
***
The nameplate on her desk said she was Cynthia Price, Account Manager. She was an older woman, somewhere in her fifties. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, with gray streaks running through it. Her eyebrows had been penciled in and made her look surprised. Her lipstick was a deep red; her clothes were business drab.
“Mrs. Sullivan, please have a seat.”
“Thanks for seeing me.”
“Anything I can do to help find the dreadful person who killed Stacey—just ask.” She gritted her teeth and I could see how difficult this was for her.
I outlined the case, mentioning that I’d found Stacey’s bank statements among her personal belongings. If I’d told her how Polly had hacked into their system, I was sure she would have been less . . . cordial.
“I was hoping,” I started gently, “that maybe you could tell me something about Stacey on a more personal level. I only met her once and we talked for a very brief time. It’s probably a long shot but I don’t know any of her friends. Maybe you can tell me something . . . anything?”
Mrs. Price thought for a moment. “Well . . . let me see. I was the one who set up her checking and savings accounts. That was on,” she leaned forward and looked at her computer screen, “October sixteenth, two thousand ten. At the time, she was working at the Miller Art Center over on Hennepin. Are you familiar with it?”
I nodded. “Oh yes, I’ve spent many hours there.”
“It is a beautiful place.” Then I lost her a moment while she reflected on a memory. “There was something about Stacey. She reminded me of my daughter.” Mrs. Price glanced over at the photo of a beautiful young woman hanging on the wall behind her. “Nina’s always been so enthusiastic about everything. That’s the way Stacey was, too. It was lovely to see how much they each enjoyed their jobs . . . just life in general, you know? Nina and I used to love to tour the museums together. We had so many wonderful times. But when she moved to LA, I stopped going.”
“What a shame. I traipse all over the place by myself. The first few times were uncomfortable but then it all became an adventure.”
“Oh no, I could never do that.”
“Did you ever go with Stacey?” I asked.
“No, I’m afraid we didn’t have that kind of friendship. We never saw each other outside of the bank.”
“Would you happen to know where her mother lives?”
“Mrs. Davidson? She’s at the Palmer House Apartments, downtown on Fifth.”
“Oh, I know exactly where that is.”
“I can’t imagine losing a daughter.” She wiped away a tear and seemed embarrassed by her display of emotion.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“The Thursday before she . . . passed.”
“What was her mood like?” I asked.
“She wasn’t her usual peppy self. She said she was just very tired.”
“The L’Etoile du Nord company. Seems that Stacey received some large checks from them.”
“Let’s have a look.” Ms. Price started working the keyboard in front of her computer. While she typed, she said, “I do remember Stacey telling me it was a charitable foundation she worked with on occasion. She said they had set up a school and several orphanages. Here it is. Their account’s out of a New York bank. The last deposit was a month ago, on the tenth.” She looked up at me. “I can’t give you any more information than that. I mean, you’re not the police . . .”
I wrote down the date. “I understand. But can you by any chance tell me the exact number of checks she received from them?”
“Sure.” A few clicks. “Only three, all within the last year. But that’s all I can say.”
This woman was beyond helpful. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Just catch the monster. And I’m hoping there’ll be a service or memorial for her? If you find out anything, could you please let me know?” She handed me her card. “Some of the other girls would like to attend as well.”
“I’ll definitely do that.”