Fruit of All Evil (27 page)

The complete opposite of yesterday, the bank was full of employees. I saw Alan immediately after I went through the main doors. He was sitting at a desk next to Madeline's glass-walled office, talking on the phone, and his expression was serious. There were three customers in the teller line. I felt safe; I could talk to Alan with a good-sized audience whose members might not know me. If he had any dangerous intentions for me, they'd be thwarted inside the bank walls.

I walked toward him. As he looked up, he did a double take, folded a piece of paper he was looking at, put it in the top drawer of the desk, and then smiled. He waved at me and seemed to tell the person he was talking to on the phone that he'd call them later.

“Becca, hello. Please have a seat.” He stood. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

“No, thanks.” I sat across from him, noting that there was nothing but a phone on his desk. “I didn't know you worked here,” I said.

“Oh, I don't. Not really. I'm just . . . well, I suppose I'm just helping out a bit.”

“Really? How are you helping out a bank? Specifically, the bank that was run by your aunt, who was murdered Friday?”

Alan sighed, then sat back in the chair. He looked both angry and intrigued. I'd caught him—in what, I wasn't sure. Had he killed Madeline? Sitting at an empty desk in the middle of the bank she used to be president of was not evidence of murder. But he was up to something, up to no good, I knew that much.

“Come on.” He stood and waved me to go with him.

“Where?”

“Conference room. We need privacy.” The conference room was next to Madeline's office's glass walls, but it had solid walls and a solid door. We would be hidden, and my sense of security fizzled. It wasn't smart to close myself in such a room with him, I knew. But I was just curious enough to swallow my discomfort.

I stood, then hesitated. I fake-sneezed loudly and made sure that a woman with short, jet-black hair who was working on the other side of the bank noticed me. I smiled, excused myself, and then followed Alan. The woman smiled and mouthed “Bless you” in my direction. At least someone saw me enter the room with Alan. If I didn't make it out of my own accord, at least the woman would know who to talk to first.

“Have a seat,” Alan said after he closed the door.

The conference room was done in shades of gray. Even the long oval table had a gray top. I sat in the chair closest to the door, and Alan sat next to me, so close that I moved my chair slightly.

“Why do we need privacy, Alan?”

“Becca, someone was trying to ruin my Aunt Madeline.”

“Someone killed her. I'd say that's as ruined as someone can get.”

“Of course,” he said, “but there was more to it. Something was going on before she was killed, and I'm trying to figure out who was after her.”

“What was going on?” He had my attention, and I stopped gripping the arms of the chair so tightly. He wasn't acting murderous.

“I suppose it's much more complicated than I'm going to make it sound, but simply, someone got hold of some of the bank's letterhead and was sending out fraudulent letters.”

“Really?” I sounded surprised. “How would that destroy her? It seems she could have explained it as a mistake, as someone else getting hold of the letterhead. She didn't do it, did she?”

“No.” Alan paused and ran his hand through his hair. “She could have explained it, and she was going to do just that. The day she was killed, she told me she was going to have to call the SEC the next day, but nonetheless, Becca, you have to understand that Madeline's reputation was integral to her business. At first, she thought she could handle the situation herself, but it got too big very quickly, and she waited too long to make an official report. Yes, she was going to do that, but since she'd waited so long, she knew she'd probably lose her job.”

For a long moment I thought about what he was saying. If I was jumping to the correct conclusion, it sounded as if Madeline had made a huge mistake. She knew something fraudulent was happening at her bank, and her ego made her slow to report it to the proper authorities. She was such a professional that I questioned whether or not that behavior fit with what I knew about her. It did, in that her ego was involved. She'd ruled the roost for a long time. She would never have wanted to admit failure, and her ego was big enough to talk her out of doing the right thing if it meant she'd look the fool.

“Not to speak ill of the dead, Alan, but her reputation was that she was brutal and mean and horrible. There wasn't much there to ruin.”

“Yes, she knew that, and don't get me wrong—that reputation was well earned, but she never foreclosed on someone who didn't . . . well,
deserve
is a juvenile word for such a thing. If someone didn't pay their mortgage payments, she foreclosed on them, yes. But I'm also speaking about her reputation in the banking industry. She was hugely successful—this little bank in Monson, South Carolina, was . . . is a big moneymaker, and in banking that's what it's all about. The fact that the letterhead was taken was beyond a rookie mistake.”

“Do the police know this?”

“Not from me, no. I've been here since a few days before Madeline was killed. She called me to ask for help. She knew I wasn't currently employed, and she wanted to give me something temporary. I'm a numbers person, Becca. Madeline thought that might help. When the police—Officer Brion—interviewed me, I didn't tell him I was working here because I'm not, not really. I'm not on the payroll. I wanted to help him, but I was still concerned about keeping the bank issues hidden. I didn't want Madeline's reputation to worsen after her death.”

I didn't know if he was telling the truth. I didn't know if he really had arrived here a few days before Madeline's death. I didn't know if she'd really asked for his help. And I had no way of finding out.

“Who else knew what you were doing?” I asked.

Alan's face fell. “That's just it. Nobody. Madeline introduced me as a temporary consultant but didn't tell anyone what I was doing. They”—Alan motioned to the building beyond the conference room door—“still don't know what I'm doing. Until today, no one has really questioned me, but they've got to put someone into Madeline's place quickly. Suddenly, and rightfully so, they're all interested in how I'm spending my time. I doubt they want me around much longer.”

“I still don't understand why you didn't tell this to the police when Madeline was killed.”

Alan's face fell further. “Two reasons. When this comes out, Madeline's hard work will have been for naught. She'll be looked at as not only wicked, but stupid. Even though she's dead, I felt I owed her—maybe I could figure out a way to make her look less . . . well, incompetent.”

“Second reason?”

“Think about how guilty I might look. I started here a few days before Madeline was killed. I'm the mystery man looking into a mystery that Madeline was attempting to keep hidden. I have no alibi, Becca. I was by myself all afternoon on Friday. But I did not kill my aunt. I adored her.”

I had no way to prove otherwise.

“I'll go to the police if I can't get to the bottom of what was going on here,” he continued. “Actually, I think I might be on to something.” Alan's eye twitched. He looked away from my glance, and my gut twirled uneasily again. Was he lying?

“You need to talk to Officer Brion today.”

Alan nodded. “I understand. The new bank management will be in place tomorrow, and I'm sure I'll be asked to leave the premises. I just need a little more time. I promise you this, Becca: if I can figure this out in the next couple of hours, I can probably point the police to Madeline's killer. If I don't try, we might not find that person at all.”

A part of me wanted to offer to help him, but a bigger part wanted to be far away from him.

“I'm going to call Sam—Officer Brion—in two hours and tell him what you've told me, Alan. That's the best I can do.”

“Thank you. I think that'll be good enough.”

“Why were you really at Jeanine Baker's?”

“I wanted to talk to her in person again. She took her money out of the bank and was very angry at Madeline. I thought maybe she had something to do with her death. I was . . . I was investigating on my own, I suppose. When I saw you and the police there, I thought maybe they had something on her, but I never heard that she was arrested. I'm sorry I lied about having met her.”

Who was I to criticize him for conducting his own investigation?

“She was out of town. She had nothing to do with Madeline's murder,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Alan's eye twitched again and he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. It was obvious that he was stressed; I just couldn't be sure about what.

“Why did you ask about the availability of my land? Why did you ask Herb and Don at Bailey's about other land available?”

“I really am looking for some land. I need to invest a chunk of money, and this is a beautiful area. I'm sorry if I was pushy,” Alan said, defeated.

I nodded, but I didn't say anything.

“I'd, uh, I'd like to get back to work now,” Alan said as he stood.

He still gave me the creeps, perpetually. That wasn't fair, because though he was odd, I wasn't sure he deserved the title of creepy. Nonetheless, I was happy to leave the conference room.

Once back in the lobby, I turned to Alan. “Does the name Bud Morris sound familiar?”

“Yes. He came in Saturday morning, early. It was before the bank opened, and I was the only one here. I came here right after I went to your house with the pies. I met with him and told him he didn't need to worry about the letter he'd received.”

“I'd like to get that in writing,” I said.

“Why?”

“You took the only evidence that the original letter existed. You're lucky I'm not asking for that back, too. Before I leave, I want something in writing that I can give to Mr. Morris that clears him from any sort of threat of foreclosure, real or not.”

You could almost hear the standoff Old West whistle in the background as Alan and I stared at each other. I wasn't going to blink, and he was in a hurry to get back to work. I would break my promise and call Sam immediately if he didn't give me what I wanted. I was in a position of power like I'd never been in before, and I was going to get something out of it.

“How do you know Bud Morris?” Alan finally asked.

“Let's just say I think your problem is more widespread than you know. It's a small town.” I didn't mention Clarissa because I wasn't sure of her specific issue, and she would easily be able to take care of herself.

In truth, this sort of synchronicity occurred in Monson all the time. It was bound to in a small town. Plus, lots of people banked at Central Savings and Loan— probably the majority of the local population, and we all talked.

“Give me a minute,” Alan said as he disappeared through another door.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

I sat in the chair in front of Alan's empty desk and looked around. The bank was decorated in bland and boring. The good stuff was locked up—except, apparently, the letterhead.

Either gaining access to the letterhead was easy or stealing it had been an inside job. I stood, tried to look like I wasn't going to snoop, and walked to the other side of Alan's desk. I opened the file drawers and peered into nothing but emptiness. If the letterhead was stored in desk drawers, it was probably only in the desks that were more permanently occupied. This desk must have been available to anyone who just needed to use the phone. Or to store a mystery piece of paper.

I opened the top drawer, the one where, if I had such a desk, I would store pens, pencils, and other small stuff that didn't have another place. The paper that Alan had been looking at was there, folded into thirds. I reached for the open top flap.

“Becca,” Alan said behind me, “what are you doing?”

I slammed the drawer shut, garnering the attention of everyone in the bank.

“I, uh, well, I was seeing if there was letterhead in the desk. I wanted to see how easy it was to steal.”

“I see.” Alan glared. “Well, it isn't easy at all, especially now. We have it locked up, and only certain people have access to it.”

“It looks like you've taken care of that, then.”

“Yes, Becca, we have.”

“Is that my letter?” I pointed to the piece of paper in Alan's hand.

Alan handed me a simple letter of apology that was written on the bank's letterhead.

“Thank you,” I said.

Alan nodded, turned, and walked away.

Once in my truck, I looked at the time on my cell phone. I was going to do as I said, and give Alan two hours before I called Sam. I set the alarm.

Two hours not only gave Alan some time, it gave me some, too.

Why wouldn't Madeline call the police, or the “proper authorities,” whoever they were, when she found out someone was messing with her bank?

Despite what Alan had said, there was no reasonable excuse for her not to have called someone. I might not have known her well, but I knew she was the picture of pure professionalism. Given normal circumstances, she would have contacted the authorities before taking her next breath. Therefore, her excuse must have been unreasonable, the circumstances abnormal.

I had two hours to think about about what motivated Madeline to do what she had done, and not done. If I figured how and why, I knew that would lead me to who—who killed her.