Then I grabbed my phone and googled a name. It popped up immediately, in a flurry of news articles that dated a year before Kirsten's book was released... no doubt when she was writing. I searched the community pages for pictures of Kirsten and Cal. The last one appeared a month after the news stories hit. Had they broken up? If so, why?
I had a theory. If Kirsten came to, I could confirm it with her... but barring that, there was one place I might find what I was looking for.
The problem was, I had to get in and out unseen.
I hardly slept at all; I spent the night searching the internet, rereading sections of Kirsten's book, and piecing together what I suspected. Bethany arrived at 8:30 the next morning, right on time, thankfully.
"You look exhausted. What's wrong?"
"Someone attacked Kirsten last night," I said.
"Oh, no!" Bethany's hand leapt to her mouth. "Is she okay?"
"Ted and I have been texting; she's stable, but she hasn't come to. I hope she wakes up soon. I think the solution to Cal Parker's murder is in this book, but I want to talk to her and make sure I'm on the right track." I held up a copy of Fast Money.
"Wait, what? A fictional mystery solving a real-life mystery?"
"Yes," I said. "I can confirm it with her when she wakes up... but I'd like to find out sooner than that, so that no one else gets hurt."
"What's your plan?"
I told her.
"I don't like it," she said.
"I'll take my phone and I'll be in and out," I said. "If I find something, I'll tell the police."
"Why don't you tell the police first?"
"I just need to find one thing first," I told her.
Nine o'clock found me sitting across the street from Dempsey Development, a tumbler of coffee in my hand and adrenaline coursing through me. The doors were closed and locked until Rupert sauntered up at 9:12, coffee cup and keys in hand, and let himself in. He turned on the lights, flipped open his computer, and busied himself at his desk for a few minutes before picking up the phone and launching into a long, apparently very engaging conversation. I hoped he'd finish soon, or have enough coffee that he needed a trip to the facilities. Preferably before Scooter Dempsey turned up.
Finally, at 9:38, Rupert stood up and headed down the hallway. He opened a door in the hallway, turned on the light, and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
I sprinted across the street and eased the door open, then trot-tiptoed down the hall, past the closed door, to Dempsey's office, praying the door wouldn't be closed and locked.
It wasn't. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me most of the way. As I hurried over to the desk, I heard the sound of a toilet flushing; a moment later, the door in the hallway squeaked open, and footsteps headed back to the front, away from Dempsey's office.
I scanned the desk first; there was an untidy pile of open mail on the corner, in an overflowing wooden tray. I flipped through it; there were several past-due bills, as well as a letter from an investor that caught my interest:
Dear Mr. Dempsey:
It has been some time since you proposed the Cottage Street project in Snug Harbor. Although we are interested in investing in the project, the delay in beginning the project is proving to be a major concern. Unless the properties in question required for the development have been acquired and the permit process begun by the end of July of this year, we will have to divert the funding to a different project.
Kind regards,
Phoebe Floyd
Vice President
Coastline Recreational Investments
Well, that was good news for me; if I held out till August, the threat of development would apparently no longer be an issue. I took a quick picture of the letter and moved on.
There were several bills from contractors for projects in Bangor and Kennebunkport; they were all marked ninety days or more past-due. Scattered through the stack were a number of little scraps of paper that looked like receipts. They were receipts of a kind, I realized. Blazoned across the top was SCARBROUGH DOWNS TRACK. Each slip of paper was a bet... some for fifty dollars, some for three hundred, one for as much as two-thousand dollars. There were several bets per day; I found five, totaling $5,000, for the previous weekend. Had any of them won? I wondered.
I looked at the stack of unpaid bills. Was Scooter gambling away all the money he was supposed to use to pay contractors? I snapped a few pictures of the racing stubs and looked back at the letter from the development company. Glancing at the door and wondering how much time I had left, I pulled up Google and typed in the name of the development company.
Although the board of directors included no one I recognized, the owner was yet another company, named Windswept Holdings. And guess who owned Windswept Holdings?
Cal Parker.
I glanced at the letter from Coastline Recreational Development. It was dated five days ago: two days before Cal Parker died.
It was as I suspected.
In Kirsten's book, a developer with a penchant for horse-racing used projects to piggy-back off each other, growing bigger and bigger debts, but paying off each one with proceeds from the newer one. I'd thought that Cal Parker had been involved, too; in the book, the investor and developer were working hand-in-hand to make things go, with the investor getting onto the local board to help
