Secrets of Harmony Grove (47 page)

This wasn’t just about my losing control with Heath. It was about the past week, the past month, maybe even the past year or two. What had God become to me? An obligation? A random thought? A candy machine dispenser?

Somewhere long ago in my past, God had been as real to me as if I were standing in his presence. He was holy and magnificent and revered, the Creator of the universe. These days, however, God seemed more like an
idea than a Supreme Being, more like a lifestyle than the Alpha and Omega, the Maker of heaven and earth. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. Perhaps, as Liesl liked to say, I had gotten myself on a “slippery slope,” one of just enough affluence and compromise that I hadn’t even realized it was happening.

The only thing I knew for sure in this moment was that I was tired of living in a strange netherworld, in this in-between place of foggy faith. Maybe it was time for me to examine my commitment to God, and get on with the rest of my life, either fully in or fully out. All I knew was that sitting on this particular fence was turning me into someone I didn’t like very much, a hypocrite and an empty theology spouter.

Liz breezed into the room just in the nick of time, interrupting my melancholy thoughts. She looked stunning, as usual, her black hair pulled into a French twist, her elegant yet professional outfit straight off of a mannequin at Nordstrom’s. After receiving a brief hug and a quick, instructional pep talk, I hit the buzzer, ready to roll. Somehow, just having her here beside me, the united front of Beauty and Cutie together again, was incredibly comforting.

As it turned out, our big meeting with the FBI was nothing to have worried about. I had been expecting an interrogation of sorts, probably by the same two men who had eyed me so strangely yesterday at Burl’s place. Though I saw one of them in the hallway as we were being led to our meeting room, the person who ended up talking to us was an older man, a silver-haired fellow who treated me not as a suspect of some sort but rather as a source of helpful information. At first he was so nice I was afraid it was a trick. When he paused to go get Mike and bring him in on the discussion, I was doubly worried. But the mood remained cordial throughout, and it was clear from Mike’s demeanor that he harbored no suspicions toward me of his own.

Liz was wonderfully impressive, listening intently to every word, speaking when necessary, advising and clarifying as needed. All in all, by the time we were finished, I felt like doing a couple of cartwheels. When the man told me that the U.S. attorney general’s office was no longer considering me a person of interest in their particular investigation, I felt sure my sigh of relief could be heard all the way to Jon and Ric’s office in Philadelphia.
Of course, this did nothing to solve the problem of Cap and his ilk showing up in search of the treasure. If that happened, I didn’t know what we would do. At the very least, I knew we had to find those diamonds before anyone else did.

Then another person joined us, a thick-waisted woman in a frumpy brown suit and sensible shoes. She introduced herself as the liaison between the various organizations involved in the investigation, and after speaking with her for a few minutes, I understood why. She was obviously quite intelligent and fully informed. Best of all, she actually seemed to listen and hear what was said to her.

After gathering the information she wanted to get from us, she shared a little in return, though not nearly as much as I would have liked. She gave us a brief history of the case, saying that several different federal and state organizations had been looking into a certain group that was based in Atlantic City and had ties to organized crime. Gambling was legal in Atlantic City, of course, but there were certain kinds of gambling that were
not
legal—there or anywhere else in the United States. Without elaborating on exactly what she meant, she said that as this gambling ring grew larger and the stakes rose even higher, the various government agencies watching them had joined forces and mounted a full-scale investigation. It was through their monitoring of Troy Griffin that they had first become aware of Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast.

“We probably wouldn’t have given the inn a second thought if someone hadn’t run the name of its manager through his database,” she said, adding that not only had Floyd come up as having a prior conviction, but that he also had known ties to the group in question.

“The U.S. attorney’s office came down hard on your place after that,” the silver-haired man added, unapologetically. “When they ran a profile of you, they found enough to give them concern there as well.”

“Like what?” I asked incredulously.

The woman looked down at the file she had brought in with her and flipped through several pages before answering.

“Like a forty-thousand-dollar bank deposit on August thirteenth, for starters, followed by the purchase of a brand-new condominium on the river.
This by a woman who had almost no tangible assets and a median checking account balance in the past year of less than a thousand dollars.”

My mouth flew open as she even rattled off the condo’s exact price tag.

“How do you know this stuff? Did you people monitor my bank account? My mortgage application?”

Mike put a hand on my arm and told me to relax. He explained that in an investigation with stakes this high, the feds were given a lot of leeway. Still reeling with that surprise, I was hit with another. The woman explained how they had then traced the source of that large deposit to an advertising agency in Philadelphia, one that just happened to be owned by two descendents of one of the most notorious crime bosses who ever lived.

Even Liz seemed flummoxed by that revelation.

“Are you telling us that Buzz has ties to organized crime?” she asked.

Both the man and the woman shook their heads.

“They do not, no,” the man said. “But we had to make sure. Yesterday, both your name and theirs was removed from our suspect lists.”

I wanted more information than that, but even after much cajoling from me and a veiled threat from Liz, they weren’t willing to elaborate much. However, the woman finally told us that Ric and Jon’s mother’s maiden name was Capone.

At this news Mike burst out laughing, and even Liz cracked a smile. Personally, I didn’t see what was so funny. Noticing the peevish look on my face, my lawyer broke form for a moment, poked me with her elbow, and told me to lighten up, that surely I of all people could see the irony here.

“I mean, no wonder they suspended you. If I had a name like Capone in my family tree, I’d be pretty skittish about this stuff too.”

“They were probably scared,” Mike added, still laughing, “especially if they ever spotted those guns of yours. Probably thought you took the job there just to do a hit on them or something.”

Still laughing, Liz said to Mike, “Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall the day they found out their new star player had possible ties to organized crime? What do you want to bet they were on the phone with their lawyer within seconds, trying to find out how fast they could terminate Sienna’s employment?”

“No, the
second
call would have been to their lawyer,” Mike replied. “The first was to their mother: ‘Are you
sure
about this family tree business, Mom? Are you positive your cousin’s cousin isn’t holding some kind of grudge?”

At that point, all four of the people in the room were having a good laugh. Not wanting to be a wet blanket, I joined in with a smile, but I still didn’t think it was very funny.

In the end, what I most wanted to know was how Troy’s death fit in with all of this. I asked them, straight out, if he had turned state’s evidence, as Floyd had, but they said he had not. From the sound of things, he had been a key player with the group in question, a real wheeler and dealer who would have been slapped with a whole host of charges had he still been alive when the arrests went down.

“And when will that be?” Liz asked.

“Soon. Very soon.”

“I would love to tell you how and why Troy Griffin died,” the woman said, “but I don’t know. At least Weissbaum here is the detective assigned to the case. If anyone can figure it out, Mike can.”

Mike thanked her for the compliment, and as I listened to the two of them talking, I realized this wasn’t the first time he’d overseen a case that had him rubbing elbows with the feds.

The meeting ended soon after that, with Mike giving us a wave and disappearing down the hall, the woman promising us that the overriding investigation would be coming to a close very soon, and the man repeating a stern warning about the confidentiality of all we had learned today.

As Liz and I walked down the hallway, my thoughts were distracted by that strange ripple effect that we used to call “the parting of the Red Sea.” Back in college, everyone said that it was the combination of the two of us together that was so compelling, the light and dark, Beauty and Cutie. Though secretly I used to enjoy such moments, after the attack they only served to make me feel uncomfortable.

We had almost reached the door to the waiting room when we passed someone who knew Liz. Judging by their friendly greeting and ensuing conversation, they had at some point worked together, probably at a law firm
or during an internship. Liz introduced me, of course, but as they continued to chat I found myself growing bored and wondered if Mike was still around. I really wanted to ask him about Nina. Telling Liz that I would be back in a few minutes, I caught the eye of our silver-haired interviewer and asked if he knew where I might find Detective Weissbaum. He directed me to the last door on the left, where he said Mike was sitting in on a training session.

“Oh, then I won’t disturb him.”

“It’s not like that. You can go in there, no problem.”

Taking the man at his word, I went down to the door and cracked it open to peek inside. The room looked like a small gymnasium. In the center of the shiny wooden floor was a large blue mat upon which stood two men, both in athletic wear, facing off in what looked like some sort of karate-type stance. Other people, both men and women, were hovering around the fringes of the mat, watching the two of them and cheering them on. At the very back of the room, not far from the door, I spotted Mike, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Slipping inside, I tried to move toward him without attracting attention. I was looking right at him when he first noticed me, and I was startled by the expression of pleasure that filled his eyes for just an instant. He was genuinely happy to see me. But then that steel door slammed shut again, and I knew it didn’t really matter.

Why
should
it matter? I had a boyfriend.

I was asking him my question about Nina when suddenly the whole group was looking our way and calling his name. From what I could tell, he was being summoned to the mat for his turn.

“Sorry, this is why they wanted me here,” he said to me. “I’ll call you later after I’m done.”

“Can you tell me anything at all?” I asked, stepping back as he removed his jacket and shoes in preparation for his turn.

“Sure,” he replied, placing his shoes against the wall. “I talked to Nina this morning. She’s blaming you for everything, including Troy’s death.”

Watching in stunned silence as Mike crossed the room to take his place on the mat, I decided that the man had a cruel streak. No decent person would tell someone a person was blaming her for another person’s death when he wasn’t in a position to follow up those words immediately. Did he enjoy tossing out bombshells and watching them explode? Or was this just some small way he could make a dig at me in retaliation for the rejection he felt I had given him?