Dog Helps Those (Golden Retriever Mysteries) (24 page)

Something about the name MDC rang a bell, but I had to push that aside. I could see that Babson and Mike were having trouble following all the financial jargon. I was barely hanging on myself, and only because I’d spoken to Phil before.

As a PR guy, I was accustomed to framing my message. I thought I might be able to throw Phil a lifeline—shifting the situation so that the blame appeared to fall on those Wall Street wolves rather than on Phil or Rita, at least for the moment. “Basically, Eastern invested part of the college endowment with Rita’s company, and now that she’s dead, some bad rumors are circulating on Wall Street about StanVest, and she’s not around to defend herself,” I said. “So the share price of the StanVest funds are going down. Is that a fair statement, Phil?”

He looked relieved. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

“Could StanVest recover from this?” I asked.

“No one knows the extent of the situation,” Phil said, as the server returned with our crocks of onion soup. “If the companies that the fund invested in are sound, and based on the financials I’ve seen they are, then I think the overall exposure will be minimal. But there are certainly going to be some short-term losses.”

We shifted the conversation to talk about the capital campaign, the $500 million fund-raising operation Mike headed. Money was coming in, though not at the pace he hoped for. “I’ve been having a lot of problems with the alumni database,” he said. “Half the time when I log into it and try to enter information, it tells me I don’t have the right privileges. I have to turn my computer off then reboot, sometimes two or three times. And I can’t get in from my home computer no matter what I do.”

“I’ve had the same problem with my investment ticker,” Phil said, and I remembered he had complained to me about a similar problem he was having. “I called the help desk to complain and they told me that it’s not supported. I’ve tried explaining that I need it to do my job, but I get nowhere.”

“Talk to Verri,” Babson said. “She’ll get you sorted out.”

“I’ve tried. She keeps telling me her job is to support academics, not play around with wish lists from staff.”

I suppressed a smile. If Phil married Verri, she’d be Verri Berry. I doubted that would happen, though.

“I think she’s got her hands full right now,” I said. I described the problems Dot Sneiss had been having. “I spent all yesterday afternoon helping her out with graduation audits because the online system has been down for days.”

“No one told me,” Babson said. “I’ll have to have a word with Verri.”

“Talk to Dot first, sir,” I said. “So you can be clear on the problem.”

We all cleaned our plates at lunch, so I had no leftovers to bring back to Rochester. Fortunately, I kept a bag of his kibble on a high shelf in my office closet, and when I got back to the office I poured a bowl for him. He gobbled it up as if he was in a speed-eating contest, then passed gas.

“Rochester!” I waved my hand in the air and then took him outside, where he dilly-dallied around finding just the right place to leave his poop. I picked it up, then deposited it in an outdoor trash barrel on my way back to the office.

I called Rick and left another message for him, telling him that Lili and I were going into the city to find out more about the failure of Rita’s business. “If I get a chance I’ll call you. But we may not get back to Stewart’s Crossing til late.”

A few minutes before four, I hooked Rochester to his leash and led him across campus to Lili’s office in Harrow Hall. “I’m so glad you invited me to dinner,” she said. “I’ve been jonesing for a dose of urban culture, even if it is just for a couple of hours.”

“You mean our trip to North Jersey on Sunday didn’t do it for you?”

“When I say urban culture I mean a place with pedestrians, cabs, and gridlock,” she said. “Not a suburban diner along the highway.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint,” I said.

“Let me send one more email.” She began typing, and halfway through the message her computer made a grinding noise, and the blue screen of death popped up. “This is the third time this week,” she said, backing away from her computer. The power was still on, so it wasn’t a surge. “Forget it. I’ll send it from my phone while we’re on the train.”

As we walked out of Harrow Hall, we heard cursing coming from the secretarial station. “Guess yours wasn’t the only computer to go down,” I said.

“We’re going to have to stop at my house. I can’t meet your friends for dinner in jeans.”

“I think you look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

“Smooth comment. But I still need to change.”

We drove over to the apartment Lili rented, in a converted Victorian a few blocks from campus. The owners had restored it to its former glory, cleaning the small stained-glass windows, refinishing the pine floors, and painting the crown moldings. Art-quality photographs shared space with pen-and-ink drawings by undiscovered geniuses but I didn’t see any of her own work.  She had decorated with an artist’s eye, and the apartment was simple and uncluttered, with classic Craftsman-style furniture and hand-knotted wool rugs from Mexico.

I took Rochester for a walk around the block while Lili changed. The hundred-year-old maples, broad front porches and ample space between the houses was quite different from the zero-lot-line townhouses and youthful pines of River Bend, but to Rochester I guess it was all the same. He sniffed and peed as much there as he did back home.

By the time we got back to Lili’s house she was wearing a form-fitting black dress with a scoop neck and her new ballet flats. She had pinned her luscious hair up with some vintage Japanese combs decorated with crayfish. “You’re going to show up every woman at the restaurant,” I said.

“Your friend’s wife is a New York City woman. I’m sure she’ll be dressed to the nines.”

We zipped downriver, dropped Rochester at my house with a bowl of kibble and one of cool water, and made it to the station in Trenton with a few minutes to spare. “Tell me about these people,” Lili said, when we were settled on the train.

“Tor was my roommate when I was in graduate school. He’s a big Swede with a good heart and a brain for business. Usually we get together ourselves, so I haven’t seen Sherry in a few years.”

“What’s she like?”

I shrugged. “She’s a real estate broker. Very sharp. They have two kids.”

“Did they know Mary?”

“Yeah, we double-dated before we were married. I don’t think either of them liked Mary.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Don’t know. They just never jelled, you know?”

She looked at me like she expected more to the story, but honestly, I didn’t think there was. The four of us had been young together in New York, and we hung out with a lot of people we didn’t love, just because we knew them.

Lili’s phone rang as we were pulling into the Newark station. “Van! I’m glad you called. Steve and I are on our way into the city.”

She listened. “I know. Can we meet up with you? A drink, maybe?”

He had time to return her call, but not mine. Jerk.

“I see. Well, call me later. Maybe we can do a nightcap.”

She hung up. “He’s on deadline. But if he finishes early enough he’ll call me.”

I was torn. I did want to talk to Van Dryver, to see if he had any inside information on the failure of StanVest, and anything that might shed light on her murder. But at the same time I didn’t want to see him with Lili. I knew their fling had been years before, and that it shouldn’t bug me, but it did.

When we arrived in New York, we had some extra time before our reservation, so Lili and I walked from Penn Station down Eighth Avenue. It was twilight, and the city seemed magical—headlights and streetlights and people on their way home or to dinner.

“You ever want to move back to the city?” Lili asked.

“I don’t think so. I love coming in for dinner or theater or shopping or whatever, but I don’t think I could take the frantic pace full-time. I like having a car, heating in the winter and air conditioning in the summer. How about you?”

“I’m torn. On the one hand I love all the artistic ferment—the little galleries, the museums, the artists struggling in Brooklyn now that SoHo and Tribeca are too expensive. But it’s almost harder to work when there’s so much going on.”

I knew that Lili still took a lot of photographs, though I rarely saw any of them. “You think you’ll have a show soon?”

“Not for a while. I got so accustomed to having my subjects thrown at me that I’ve been lost. It’s hard to go from photographing rebel soldiers in Darfur to taking nature photos in Bucks County – to figure out where the middle ground is—something I care about photographing, where I can make a difference, while still staying grounded in one place.”

She turned to me as we waited for a light to change. “Does that make any sense?”

“Of course. I’m not an artist, but I had to remake my life when I got out of prison, and I had to look for balance myself. Feeling like I belonged, like my life had a purpose.”

“And you found that in Stewart’s Crossing?”

“It’s still a work in progress. Rochester helps. I mean, I have to feed him and walk him and play with him. That gives me some structure. And getting a full-time job at Eastern helped, too. Last year I was so worried about paying my bills and figuring out what kind of career I could have.”

As we arrived at the restaurant, a Lincoln Town Car pulled up and Tor stepped out, then extended his hand to Sherry behind him.

Every time we met I couldn’t help considering the different directions our lives had taken. He was a couple of inches taller than I was, and his hair was many shades lighter, a blond that was almost white. We dressed the same way back then—jeans and T-shirts and running shoes. I had graduated to khakis and polo shirts and penny loafers, but Tor looked like a real grown-up.

He had grown a bristly blond mustache, his hair was thinner, and he looked like a prosperous investment banker. He wore a dark suit that probably cost more than my old car, a purple and white striped shirt, heavy on the starch, and a matching purple tie embellished with tiny gold crowns. His shoes were made specially for him in London. But he was as warm and friendly as he’d always been.

“Steve!” he said, enveloping me in a big bear hug. Then he turned to Lili. “You must be Lili. A pleasure to meet you!” He hugged her, too, as I kissed Sherry’s cheek.

She was almost as tall as I was, a shade under six feet, still as slim and immaculate as when she was a working model. She and Lili air
-
kissed, and we all walked into the restaurant
, where the hostess recognized Lili and led us to an excellent table.

Donatello Nobatti himself
, a rotund, gray eminence,
came out to see us when we were seated, kissing Lili’s hand and promising to send us out a special antipasto platter. “It’s like this everywhere we go,” I said. “Lili has men falling at her feet.”

“I know what you are saying,” Tor said. “We both have selected well, eh? The two most beautiful women in the restaurant right here at our table!”

Sherry gave him an aggrieved look but Lili just smiled.

Our waitress, an elegant young woman who moved with the cat-like grace of a dancer, delivered our cocktails and
a platter of
cheese and
flash-fried vegetables
and
calamari
. We discovered that
Sherry had sold an apartment to a photographer Lili knew, and they bonded over a shared obsession with the
delicacies
of bald chocolate-maker Max Brenner.

Tor turned to me. “But you have a reason to come to New York,” he said. “You want to know about StanVest?”

I nodded. “Rita Gaines was a member of our Board of Trustees, and
the guy who manages Eastern’s endowment portfolio invested in some of her funds. He heard
there might be problems with her company.”

“
He is
hearing correctly,” Tor said. “I met Rita many times at investment conferences. She
was a smart woman who took big risks
.
Sometimes they paid off, and sometimes they didn’t. But she was usually clever enough to hedge her bets. I am surprised at a scandal now. Maybe because she is not here to move the chess pieces around the board.
”

It was funny to hear Tor’s speech patterns once again, after having lived with them for so long. For the most part he spoke clear, unaccented English, but occasionally he reminded me of the Swedish Chef on
The Muppet Show
. The mustache only helped solidify the resemblance.

“Is that why her business is in trouble?”

Tor nodded. “I made a few calls for you this afternoon, and because I was curious myself.
There is a fund called StanVest Hi-Tech Seven. You have heard of it?”

I shook my head.

“This was started by Rita two years ago. It is a seed fund for second-tier angel investing in high-tech companies.”

“I have a basic idea what that is.”

“The rest of us don’t, my love,” Sherry said. “But can you explain in words of one syllable, in less than five minutes?”