I knew why. Because I didn’t want to know that he could get used to life without me.
I stopped by Books & Crannies in Middleburg and ordered a copy of
I climbed the little staircase back up to Washington Street and thought some more about last night. Hitting that deer must have done some serious damage to the other car—body damage, a cracked or shattered windshield, things that now went clunk under the hood. Had the driver already taken it to a repair shop? Some place around here? How long would it take to find out—and would anyone tell me if I asked?
Mickie Gordon Park was a mile or so down the road. After what Quinn said about finding nothing more than a dead squirrel, I needed to check things out myself. They might have looked in the wrong place. I’d heard brakes so there ought to be skid marks. Surely I’d find blood from the deer, even if the carcass were gone.
I crossed Washington and walked toward my parking place on Jay Street. Through the open door of Macdonald’s Fine Antiques, I saw Mac in a heated conversation with Austin Kendall, the retired owner of Kendall Real Estate a few doors down. Austin divided his time between the golf course and checking in on his daughter Erica, who now ran the business. He wore his usual golfing attire, but he was holding a rolled-up copy of
Mac had a special radar when it came to potential customers, even if they were not in his direct line of vision. His head swiveled in my direction and he gave me a dispirited wave. Austin was too absorbed in what he was saying to notice me. His voice boomed like a carnival barker’s.
“. . . find out if this is true or not. I swear, if it is and Harlan’s known about it all along, I’ll get the tar and you and the boys get the pitchforks.”
Any other time I wouldn’t have walked into Mac’s place holding a cup of coffee since he was death on people eating or drinking around his antiques. But I knew they were talking about the unraveling of the shroud behind which Thomas Asher Investments had conducted its business, and what I’d overheard sounded like Mac wasn’t the only Romeo who had invested with Harlan. Mac looked so distraught I probably could have rolled a wine barrel into the store and he wouldn’t have noticed.
“. . . damn near everything,” Mac was saying. “At least I own the building.”
“That’s more than I can say,” Austin said. “When I sold the business to Erica, I parked everything with Harlan, including my 401(k). God, wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? Asking my own daughter for a job at my age because the old man’s broke.”
Mac touched his finger to his lips, silencing Austin and indicating that they had company.
“Can I help you, Lucie?” he asked. “You looking for another of those bronzes for your library?”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing.
Austin turned around and gave me a how-dare-you look. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, young lady.”
At the same time Mac said, “Why do you want to know? Did you give him money, too?”
“Of course she didn’t.” Austin looked annoyed. “Harlan promised us it was going to be just the …” He broke off. “Did you, Lucie?”
“Every dime I make goes right back into the vineyard,” I said. “You were starting to say something about what Harlan promised?”
Austin had spent his lifetime putting people in the home of their dreams and he was usually pretty smooth and glib. Right now he looked the way he did when the housing bubble burst a few years ago.
“Aw, Austin, what difference does it make if she knows?” Mac said. “The cat’s out of the bag, anyway.”
Austin gave in, but not gracefully. “Fine. You tell her.”
“Harlan manages our money,” Mac said. “He did it for the Romeos. A favor.”
“He set up something just for us,” Austin said. “That’s how we kept it. With a small group he could be more nimble, have more freedom. For years we were doing great, especially after he got involved with Asher.”
“Why are you asking about this?” Mac asked.
“I’ll tell you why,” Austin said. “Because of that woman. The one who worked for Asher and drowned in the Potomac. I heard you knew her. What’d she tell you, Lucie? Now it’s your turn to talk.” He folded his arms across his chest and tapped the rolled-up newspaper.
“She didn’t tell me anything,” I said.
That, at least, was true. What Ian had told me about the Ponzi scheme was another matter and I didn’t want to bring it up with either of them just now—especially without concrete proof. But before this, I’d thought of Tommy Asher’s clients as nameless, faceless individuals who got suckered into something that seemed too good to be true. People who were motivated by the old-as-time irresistible urge to get something for nothing, or nearly nothing. I never thought my neighbors, men who were sophisticated and savvy about money, would get swept up in the tide.
“Look,” Mac said, “I’ve had enough stalling. I’m calling Harlan and getting to the bottom of this. I want my money back today. I don’t want to lose everything.”
There was a moment of ominous silence before every clock in Mac’s store, including a tall grandfather clock by the front door, began chiming the hour in a lovely cacophony. Another uneasy glance passed between Mac and Austin as the clocks finished tolling eleven and the phone rang on Mac’s desk.
“I’m not answering that,” Mac said. “The machine’ll get it.”
His message echoed in the quiet room followed by the voice of Seth Hannah, president of Blue Ridge Federal Bank. Everyone in Atoka banked with Seth, including me.
“If you’re there,” Seth said, “you’d better turn on CNN right now. There’s something you need to be watching.”
Mac picked up the phone and spoke a few terse words before hanging up. Austin found the remote for a small television that sat on a walnut end table. He punched buttons until CNN came on.
I’d almost expected to see Harlan, but it was Tommy Asher, flanked by two sober-faced men in dark suits. He was reading from a piece of paper, half-glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, more Rock of Gibraltar stolid calm.
“. . . is my unfortunate duty to inform the many people who have put their faith and trust in me that I have been the victim—we all have been victims—of a massive fraud perpetuated by an employee of Thomas Asher Investments. In the past twenty-four hours we have uncovered evidence that one of my employees has systematically moved funds into an as-yet-unknown account or accounts. Let me assure each and every one of my clients that your money is as safe today as it has been for the last two decades. What I need now is your cooperation while we take some measures in the process of getting to the bottom of this. I am temporarily freezing withdrawals from all funds until further notice. It is a prudent precaution to ensure the safety of everyone’s assets and I thank you for your continued faith in me, which I promise will be justified, as it has always been.”
Asher looked up and removed his glasses. He was no longer reading. “On Monday I stood before you, devastated by the loss of one of my most brilliant and talented advisers. Just yesterday I learned that this young woman, Rebecca Natale, is the thief. She is the traitor who betrayed us all.”
Chapter 18
Or else he was as wily as a fox, which was more likely. Why not blame everything on her? The damage was still done—investments gone up in smoke—but now he, too, had been duped along with everyone else, or so he said. Rebecca wouldn’t be the first young rogue trader to take down a financial empire—back in the ’90s, Nick Leeson had single-handedly caused the collapse of the personal bank of the queen of England with his unchecked
