For Love of Money (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Wednesday morning

Holly lifted a hand from the steering wheel, tapped the Bluetooth receiver, and said, “Mother.”

The system scrolled through its electronic memory, pulled the contact, and dialed.

“How’s studying for the CPA exam going?” she asked a moment later.

“Eh…” Donna Price mumbled something unintelligible.

“You
are
studying, aren’t you? You only have a few weeks left on your Testing Notice.”

“I know.”

Holly drummed an impatient finger against the steering wheel. The traffic light stayed red. “I can’t stay here forever. You have to get licensed.”

“I will.”

Her cell phone signaled another call. “Hang on a second.”

She squinted at the display.

Alex.

Grimacing, she held the buzzing phone. Did she want to talk to him?

Not really.

She switched back to her mother.

“Who was that?”

“Alex.”

“Oh? What did he want?”

She really didn’t care. She’d ignored his repeated calls last night—sent them to voicemail—unsure what she wanted from him, herself, or anybody else.

“Nothing.”

Before her mother could ask more questions, Holly hurried to the reason for the call. “Are you going to be in the office today? We need to finish Nuclear Imaging’s engagement letter. I want to get it on paper and signed before Doug stops being blinded by your new hire’s cleavage.”

Amusement rippled through her mother’s voice. “How’s she working out?”

The light changed. Holly headed up the hill to Desert Accounting. As much as their new employee irritated her, they needed all the staff they could get. “She’s settling in, trying to figure out where she fits.”

“How about you? Are you settling in?” Donna asked.

Holly ignored that question, too. Some things were obvious.

“You know, you could make this a permanent position, if you wanted to,” her mother said.

Holly’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t have been more stunned if her mother suggested that she run naked down George Washington Way, join one of the area’s New Wave churches, or perform some other
completely
unacceptable action.

“You don’t have to decide today. Just think about it.”

Had she not made it infinitely clear she wasn’t staying in Richland after her mother got licensed? Holly turned into the parking lot at her building. “You know, I agreed to help you sell the practice, but I’m starting to think you don’t want to sell.”

“I am having second thoughts,” Donna admitted.

Holly absorbed this new information. She grabbed her briefcase and slammed the car door. Could her mother run the business by herself? She seemed to be handling her husband’s desertion, but how much of that was a façade intended to reassure the clients?

And her daughter.

“Don’t worry. I won’t deliberately fail the exam.”

“That thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”

Until that moment.

Holly tugged open the outer door of the office building. She walked into the office and stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“Gotta go.” Holly ended the call.

Open-mouthed, she looked first at Tracey and then the metal contraption in the center of Desert Accounting’s lobby.

There was a pig.

In a cage.

In the middle of the lobby.

“We’ve been pigged,” Tracey announced.

The porker shuffled through the litter and emitted a few grunts.

“No kidding.” Giggles built in Holly’s chest. The complete absurdity of the situation hit her. “Please tell me somebody didn’t use him, uhm, her? to pay their bill.”

The receptionist’s laughter rolled across the lobby. “It’s a fundraiser.” She held out a bright green piece of paper.

Only in Richland.

“What’s the deal?” Holly managed around her giggles. She ignored the buzzing phone in her pocket. Her mother would find out about this when she got to the office.

“A guy from FFA dropped her off. Sammy’s sister’s dating the FFA advisor, so they probably got Rick’s name through him. Anyway, Rick has to come up with three hundred bucks to get rid of her. The pig. Not the sister.”

“Is anyone not related in this town?” Holly glanced at the flyer. The pig stayed with the recipient until they raised the “purchase price.” Once the money was delivered and the pig “owned,” the owner chose the next target/recipient. Thanks, Future Farmers of America.

The pig made a wet, sputtering noise.

“Ugh,” Tracey and Holly groaned in unison and clamped hands over their noses.

“Are there any clients in the office?” Holly asked.

The receptionist shook her head.

Holly dropped her hand and yelled, “Rick!”

A moment later, the manager stuck his head around the corner. “You bellowed, boss?”

“You really didn’t want to go to the big city.” She nodded at the pig.

“Figured you needed to see where bacon came from.”

“I hate bacon. Get this thing out of here.”

Rick ambled into the lobby. He stopped a few feet from the crate and inspected its contents before giving her a disingenuous smile. “I hit up the staff, but I need another hundred. Open your pocketbook and pony up.”

“Why is this
my
problem? The crate has
your
name on it.”

“Your lobby. Enjoy the ambience of
eau-de-
pig.” He turned and sauntered toward the staff area.

Dammit.

Rick knew she couldn’t leave the pig in the lobby
and
that she wouldn’t fire his insubordinate butt. She jerked open her purse. “Lucky for you I hit the ATM on the way to work.”

He re-crossed the lobby and reached for the money. “Think of all the happy future farmers.”

Inspiration flashed on the one bright spot in Piggy-Gate. She whipped her hand back. “You get the cash on one condition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

“The pig goes to the police department when it leaves here.”

He tried to hide his smile. “Any particular officer? Or should I say detective?”

She tapped a finger against her cheek, pretending to consider his question. “The Franklin County Sheriff’s Department could use a laugh today.”

“Done.” Rick grabbed the cash. “This job’s been good for you. A couple of months ago, you wouldn’t have bellowed.”

“I didn’t bellow. Bellowing would not be an improvement in my disposition.” Bellowing was a nosedive off the IQ platform.

“Sure it is. You needed to loosen up.”

The pig flopped on its side. Shavings drifted through the wires and littered the carpet.

Holly turned to the amused receptionist. “Think the cleaning service has some industrial-strength deodorant?”

Tracey’s laughter followed Holly down the hall. She’d love to see JC’s reaction when the pig showed up. After all, she could sweetly explain it was for charity.

After dumping her briefcase on her desk, Holly made a quick pass through the office. She glanced in her mother’s office—still vacant—and checked on the staff—busy. She settled at her desk with a cup of coffee, and stared at the piles of paper.

As Tim had noted, life had an annoying habit of moving on. Business withholdings still had to be calculated and filed. The end of the year would come whether she wanted it to or not. The Washington State Department of Revenue and the IRS didn’t care about personal problems—they wanted their money.

Holly gave the papers another disgruntled look. Maybe they’d magically review themselves. “I need to focus.”

She pulled the accident report from her briefcase—she needed to call her insurance agent—and placed it on her desk. JC’s bold signature scrawled across the investigating officer’s line. Her finger followed the flowing ink in an idle caress. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since Sunday morning instead of a mere three days. In less than a week, JC had strolled back into her life and taken up residence.

Damn him.

Was she too close to the situation to be objective? JC thought Alex was responsible for the damage to her car. She didn’t want to believe it. Alex had a hot temper, but he’d never shown signs of violence.

Did he not like her talking to JC because he picked up echoes of the old attraction? Or did he have something to hide? Something she might spill to the detective?

But if Alex didn’t key her car, then the vandalism must be because she’d stirred up trouble. But all she’d done was talk to Yessica.

Holly pressed her hands against her forehead. No. The damage couldn’t be related to Marcy’s death. Some thrill-seeking kid or local gang-banger—probably the same ones who tagged the building—had keyed her car, pure and simple.

With a sigh, she dropped her hands. Her gaze landed on the newspaper. At least today’s article focused on Marcy’s husband.

Lee Alders was the most logical murder candidate. He was violent. He’d hurt Marcy before. He had to be the killer. The police would track him down. For once, the word “closure” didn’t sound like a cliché.

The case wasn’t anywhere near closure. The article contained far more speculation than facts, but if there was one thing Holly knew how to do, it was background research. She turned to her computer, launched the Internet browser, and typed Marcy’s name into a records search program. Within seconds, she was looking at a marriage certificate. Maricella Camelia Ramirez had married James Lee Alders in King County.

Interesting. The ceremony had been in Seattle and not in Marcy’s hometown. From the size of the crowd at the wake, she’d have thought the wedding would’ve been held in Pasco. Maybe Lee Alders insisted on the inconvenient location. Or maybe Holly was reading too much into the information. Marcy and Lee might have had more friends in Seattle.

She opened another tab and googled “Lee Alders Seattle.” Amid the links to a museum in Georgia, genealogy sites, and sports results, she found multiple references to Lee Alders’ sale of his company to Telnex.

The sale made a minor splash in Seattle but the news faded quickly. Subsequent references mentioned a lawsuit filed against Alders in the state’s Superior Court.

“He stole my idea and I can prove it, ” Nyland, the CEO of a competing tech company, claimed in the newspaper article. “His message caching system uses elements I invented.”

A female spy in Nyland’s company allegedly provided Alders with key features that allowed him to quickly bring his system to market. The following paragraphs compared details of the two companies’ designs.

Holly didn’t understand the technical issues, but one thing was clear. Nyland felt he had a good case for patent infringement. And Alders had done the infringing.

She scrolled through the links. No court decision. Weird.

She googled Nyland’s name. Dozens of hits filled the screen. She clicked the first link and rocked back against the desk chair. Nyland had died during an extreme sporting competition.

He was ice climbing with Lee Alders when he fell.

Son of a bitch
.

“It was an accident,” Alders asserted in a statement to the police. “I heard the crack, yelled at him to get clear, but there was nothing I could do. The first screw pulled and he was gone.”

She read the rest of the article. Either Nyland lost his footing and fell off the face, or someone tampered with his equipment.

An accident or murder? Either way, the man who’d challenged Alder’s success was gone.

Holly stared at the computer screen. In addition to abusing his wife, Lee Alders had evidently abused professional relationships. And possibly killed a man as a solution to his business problems.

Had he also found it a convenient way to get rid of an expensive, inconvenient ex-wife?

She returned to the computer. The patent infringement case died with Nyland, but the story didn’t. Speculation about Alders’s role in both the infringement and Nyland’s death abounded—that kind of mud stuck to a man and never washed off.

She clicked through more links, trying to find what Alders was doing now.

No current mention of him.

The guy couldn’t just vanish.

The public databases exhausted, she tried the SEC website and queried public companies without success. If Alders went private—joined or started another company—she didn’t have the resources to find him.

But she had friends who did.

She picked up the phone and made a call.

Chapter Twenty

A squeaky wheel announced the arrival of the file cart. The mailroom kid stopped outside Holly’s office and deposited a handful of envelopes in her in-box. “You won the jackpot today.”

He reached under the hanging files, hefted a package, and dumped it on her desk. “Some woman from Stevens Ventures dropped this off.”

Holly eyed the huge manila envelope. She emptied the contents onto her desk and groaned at the pile of forms and reports. The temp agency had sent someone to Stevens Ventures to fill Marcy’s job. Clearly the new person had no idea how to organize and summarize the information. It looked like she’d packed everything remotely related to the company’s finances.

Holly was half-tempted to send the mess back and tell Tim to organize it himself. “What’s with the shoebox approach?” she grumbled. “They’re a business, for heaven’s sake.”

“Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She crammed the papers back in the envelope. “Take this to Rick.” If the guy had time to hustle a pig, he could clean up Tim’s mess, too.

The file clerk scooped up the package and moved down the hall.

The phone rang, the single beep of an internal call. “What’s up, Tracey? Is the pig gone?”

“On its way to its new home with the sheriff’s department.” Tracey hesitated a beat. “Crystal Blue called. She canceled.”

“Canceled as in needed a different time? Or canceled as in don’t call us, we’ll call you?”

“Crystal didn’t ask to reschedule. She mentioned the Person-of-Interest thing.”

Damn
. Another lost opportunity. She couldn’t afford many of them if she was going to sell Desert Accounting and get out of Richland. “Thanks for letting me know.”

She replaced the receiver and slumped in her chair. Great. Not only was JC messing with
her
, he was messing with her
business
. Pointing him at Lee Alders wasn’t good enough. She was going to have to find more evidence.

Otherwise, at this rate she wouldn’t have an accounting firm to sell.

Her life was not supposed to be this complicated. Things had been simple when she arrived in Richland. Do the job. Make the deal. Sell Desert Accounting. Get back to Seattle.

Her life in Seattle was busy, interesting. The city held life’s good things—theater, restaurants, and real work. The people she worked with there respected her. If it got a little lonely, well, everything had a price.

Still, Richland was getting to her. Threatening to suck her in. People recognized her at the grocery store, the dry cleaners. Clients introduced her to their families when she bumped into them at Costco. Even her house had captured a piece of her.

She straightened her shoulders.

Forget all that
.

Bottom line, she’d put her life on hold for her parents. It was the right thing to do.

But she was
not
getting stuck in Richland.

She returned Crystal’s marketing materials to its file in the drawer and stowed her disappointment. Why did the losses hurt more than the successes lifted? One “ah-shit” certainly wiped out a dozen “atta-girls.”

She opened another drawer and removed Fred Zhang’s folder. She was still studying the Zhangs’ financial statement when one of the staff knocked on her door an hour later. “Do you have time for a couple of questions?” Sammy asked.

“As long as it doesn’t involve a pig.”

He hesitated, flight written all over his posture.

Learn not to scare the staff
.

She’d have to frame that rule and hang it on the wall. “Just kidding. What’s up?”

Sammy edged into the office and eased a folder onto her desk. “Rick told me to handle the Stevens Ventures paperwork. I transferred most of it to bookkeeping, but there are a couple of companies I don’t know what to do with.”

Holly opened the folder. The uppermost paper was a property tax notice. “Walla Walla County? I didn’t know Tim owned land there.”

Sammy pointed at the owner block. “There’s nothing in our system on TNM Ventures, either.”

“I’ve told Tim to let me know when he starts a new company,” she said, irritated. “He’s probably already behind on filing something. I’ll ask him about it.” She made a note of the company name and frowned. “A Wyoming address?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure it’s even one of theirs.”

“They must’ve gotten an incentive to incorporate there.” It happened, especially if it potentially meant jobs for the state. She rifled the remaining papers and pulled one. “Creekside is part of the Yakima retrofit.”

Sammy took it, nodding. “Okay. I saw a folder for Creekside Manor.”

In all, there were four companies she’d never heard of. All four shared the same Yakima post office box mailing address. “Leave these with me. Do what you can with the rest.”

“Will do.” He reached for the folder.

Holly leaned back and crossed her arms. “Is your sister still with the sheriff’s department?”

Sammy nodded.

“What’d she say about the pig?”

For a second, he froze, then gave a lopsided smile. “She cracked up. I know it was a pain—the smell and mess. But they really need money and I figured Rick could raise it.”

Holly waved a hand, dismissing the pig and Sammy’s apology. “I thought it was rather…innovative. Just tell me one thing.”

Sammy’s tightly curled fingers betrayed his tension. “Yes?”

“These farmer friends of yours. Do they raise llamas?”

“Um… I’m sure they don’t send them to people’s offices.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Too bad. I hear they spit.” She was still thinking about that payback.

Looking a little confused and concerned, Sammy vanished in the direction of his cubicle.

She eyed the new stack of folders.

Damn, she needed to get a life.

She’d barely gotten her head back into the Zhang financial statements when the devil himself appeared at her office door. That’s what she got for thinking about JC. She’d gone and summoned him.

Before he could open his mouth, she raised her hand in a palm-out, “stop” sign. “No. No more questions.” She glared at him.

He smiled, a long, lazy invitation.

Her stomach did a slow flip-flop. “I’ve told you everything I know about Marcy. Twice. I’d do anything to help find her killer, but I. Don’t. Know. Anything.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She cocked her head, letting surprise and more than a little suspicion cover her other reactions. “That I don’t know anything? You know I meant about Marcy.”

“That you’d help. Come on.” He waved a hand and gestured her to her feet.

“Why? Where?”

His dimples appeared and her pulse kicked into a higher gear. She really had to get a handle on those dimples.

“Translating.”

Damn, hanged with her own words. She
had
opened her mouth and offered to help.

She reluctantly reached for her jacket. “Surely you have someone on the force who speaks Spanish.”

“You won’t need your coat.”

Huh? She followed him out the door. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, so she couldn’t help but notice his nice tight butt. “How’s the investigation coming? Find out anything about Lee Alders?”

“Does your lobby usually smell like a pine forest?”

“Is that your normal negotiating style? Ignore anything that doesn’t fit your script?”

His head turned and his dimples reappeared. “Did you say something?”

She rolled her eyes and trailed him into the lobby. The pig cage was gone, the shavings vacuumed. The place smelled overwhelmingly piney, but it beat swine stench any day of the week.

Tracey gave them an approving smile. “Enjoy your lunch.”

It wasn’t worth trying to explain.

JC opened the outer door and gave every indication he was enjoying himself.

“You know, this is exactly what irritates me about you,” she said. “Does it even cross your mind I have my own work to do?”

He just smiled and stepped across the atrium to Stevens Ventures’s door.

The kind of interpreting JC needed suddenly occurred to her.

She halted abruptly. “No. I can’t.”