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Before she left Harlan’s store, Beverly had him write down the names of other members of the Northeastern Antiquities League who’d closed their businesses. She’d made her own list, but wanted to see if Harlan had additional names, and he did. After a few phone calls, she’d learned one was now deceased, but she managed to find three people still alive and willing to talk to her.
Happily, all three lived within a half-hour of Beverly’s old stomping grounds in Hanover. So, not only did she know her way around, she managed to see all of them in two hours. They shared their stories with her, stories that were as bad or worse than her grandmother’s. They all suspected Reggie Forsythe, but none had proof. Everything had the picture of being aboveboard and legal, but they knew he was behind the efforts to have them shut down.
Hearing about more victims of Forsythe’s reign of terror strengthened Beverly’s resolve, but the elusive proof was as tenuous as ever. Adam Dutton’s lovely mocha eyes aside, he wasn’t looking into Forsythe’s dealings. The police were fixated on the “mystery woman” and that damned bowl. And though she’d seen Forsythe leaving his home at the time of his father’s murder, that wasn’t concrete proof he killed him. All she had was maybes, rumors, hearsay, and Mr. X’s testimony. Nothing that would stand up in court.
What she needed was evidence. Cold, hard evidence. And something one of the bankrupt former antique store owners told her led her to believe she might know where to find it.
Beverly scrunched her eyes closed as she recalled her interview with that owner, a woman just a few years younger than her grandmother. The woman broke down into sobs as she recounted the day the moving van from the bank handling the bankruptcy pulled up to her store.
Beverly opened her eyes to yank a piece of paper from her pile of notes, glaring at it. One line of legal mumbo-jumbo in the state licensing requirements governing antique stores caused all of this. The state guidelines ten years ago didn’t have it. But five years later, it was there.
The woman Beverly spoke with earlier mentioned the name of the state representative who’d championed the change. A freshman rep, who, as far as she could tell, got elected, didn’t do much else other than ram through this one licensing code, and then didn’t seek re-election two years later.
Beverly looked up ex-Representative Arlen Strudwick and realized he lived only a few miles away from Forsythe’s home. That was interesting. The bankrupt store owner had tried contacting Strudwick once, even found a phone number, but he wouldn’t return her calls. When Beverly checked the phone listings to see if he had a new number—zilch. Unlisted, most likely. But she had one phone number he used to have, and it was better than nothing.
Using her prepaid burner cellphone, she punched in the number and waited nervously. After five rings, a man’s voice answered, and Beverly asked, “May I please speak with Arlen Strudwick?”
“This is he,” the man replied, adding, “But if you’re a telephone solicitor—”
“I’m not,” Beverly hurried to say. “I’d like to discuss an important matter.”
“And what might that be, Miss—”
“Kornelson. I want to know if Reggie Forsythe was behind your efforts to amend the state code overseeing antiques stores.”
She expected him to hang up, but he didn’t, though he did pause a moment before replying. “That’s an old story now, Miss Kornelson. Why would you be interested in such an obscure issue?”
“Because I know several people whose businesses and their very lives were destroyed by that ‘issue.’ All I want is closure and justice for them. You were a representative, sir. Doesn’t that mean you pledged to represent the best interests of those who elected you?”
She heard he was still on the line from his rasped breathing, but it was a good minute later before he spoke again. “I’d rather not discuss this matter over the phone.”
“I’ll meet you.” Beverly imagined Mr. X’s frowning expression, urging her not to do anything foolish.
“Are you familiar with the Acworth Archives? It’s just over the Vermont border, south of Hanover.”
“I’m familiar with it.”
“Can you be there in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“There is a room in the basement for meetings. I’ll see you there in one hour. And I don’t tolerate tardiness, Miss Kornelson.” The phone call ended with a click as he hung up.
Beverly’s game plan in her anti-Forsythe crusade kept changing fast, and she hoped she wasn’t making foolish mistakes in the process. As she pulled up to the Acworth Archives an hour later, she knew this could be one of them. A look in the visor mirror told her that her brown, curly wig and headband were in place. No time for prosthetics, so she slipped on the dark glasses.
She was five minutes early but headed through the lobby to the basement. The room Strudwick had mentioned was empty. She wandered around the stacks but didn’t see anyone. No Forsythe, something she feared was a possibility.
Strudwick could have called him immediately after talking to her, and this was all a setup. But years of being on the run—from her past, from her fears, from her attempts at a little vigilante justice—had taught her all the “tells.” A hitch in Strudwick’s voice made her believe her he wasn’t a threat.
She went ahead and sat at the table, clutching her notes. On the dot of three, a man in his late 50s plodded into sight. He wore a gray plaid golfer-style beret, cream-colored Burberry overcoat and a maroon scarf with white polka dots, and carried a satchel. And he was alone.
He entered the room and sat in a chair but didn’t remove his jacket, hat, or scarf. She asked, “Representative Strudwick?”
“Miss Kornelson, I presume.” He peered at her. “I’m in rather a hurry. I hope this won’t take too long.”
“Then I’ll get right to the point. I have eyewitness testimony,” she gave a silent apology to Mr. X for twisting his words to fit the situation, “that Reggie Forsythe, and perhaps his father, hand-picked you, funded you, and managed your election campaign. All for the purpose of getting you into the position where you could do their bidding. Namely, the code change I mentioned.” She was flying blind and taking a wild leap in the process.
“That sort of thing happens every day, Miss Kornelson. It’s hardly a crime.”
“Not a legal one. But a moral and ethical one. By changing that teensy piece of regulation, you made it possible for the Forsythes to work behind the scenes, via the Northeastern Antiquities League, to shut down competitor businesses. And by so doing, plunder their antiques at rock-bottom prices. I firmly believe it led to the premature deaths of at least one store owner. If not two.”
Strudwick gazed through the glass window toward the stacks. “Both Forsythes are formidable. I met the elder Forsythe while golfing. He found out I was an attorney with a struggling practice, thanks to some unfortunate gambling debts. I was a man with a wife and six kids, one with special needs and three in college. Before long, I got a call from Forsythe’s son. He laid out the whole plan, including enough money to get me out of debt with plenty to spare.”
“So, you said yes.”
“You don’t say no to Reginald Forsythe. Either of them.”
Strudwick reached to the floor and lifted the satchel to the table, pulling out a manila envelope marked NAL. He stood up in his chair, leaving the envelope on the table, and grabbed the satchel. “For the record, Miss Kornelson, I never intended to hurt anyone.”
As he turned to leave, she asked, “Why didn’t you seek re-election? Surely they were eager to pressure you to help with more of their unethical agenda?”
“I pleaded personal reasons. Helping take care of my daughter, who has Down’s Syndrome. Maybe my conscience did get the better of me a little. Fortunately for the Forsythes, there were plenty of other patsies for them to run in my place.”
He waved at her and plodded back through the basement toward the stairs. Beverly opened the envelope and pulled out transcripts of phone conversations and a tape. A quick read revealed that Strudwick recorded conversations between himself and Reggie Forsythe. If the tape had their original communications, then this was damning stuff. Things were starting to look up.
