Fruit of All Evil Page 19

  “I talked to Barry a few minutes ago. I apologized to him. He would have wanted to come with . . . Becca, what do you really want?”

  I sighed. “Can I come in?”

  She thought about it a few seconds. Her suspiciousness made me feel guilty.

  “Sure, come on in,” she finally said.

  She led the way and directed me to the couch. I sat, nursing a silent hope that Sam would never tell her about our excursion. We had done it out of concern for her safety, but she would never forgive such an intrusion, that much I knew.

  She sat down in the rocking chair but didn’t start rocking.

  “What’s up, Becca?”

  “Jeanine, have you heard about Madeline Forsyth?” I began, because I didn’t know where else to begin.

  “Yes, I have. I’m not surprised. She was an awful lady. Someone was bound to kill her,” she said bluntly. I looked for some sign of paranoia in her statement, but nothing showed. On the way from the porch to the rocking chair, her demeanor had changed. She suddenly seemed calm and comfortable. I wondered if the only place she felt totally safe and unobserved was in her house. I suddenly realized how much pain her paranoia caused her, and I was sorry that I hadn’t been more sensitive.

  “Why did you dislike her so much? How well did you know her?” I asked.

  “I knew her better than I ever wanted to, I can tell you that much.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, well, I knew of her, at first. And I bank—used to bank—at Central Savings and Loan until a few days ago. I’d see her there, through the glass wall, talking on the phone, or with someone who looked scared of her. I wasn’t scared of her, and that’s probably why she did what she did.”

  I was sure that Jeanine was petrified of Madeline Forsyth, but I didn’t say as much.

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “She sent me a letter of foreclosure on my farm. Well, it wasn’t an official notice or anything. It was just a letter—a threat.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Jeanine.” I tried to act surprised, not relieved. Finally, I could “know” about the damn letter.

  “Like I said, it wasn’t real,” she said. She leaned toward me. “It was ‘a mistake,’ according to the man I met with at the bank. Said there was some sort of glitch in their system, and that he’d make sure it was taken care of. I didn’t believe him, though. I think it was something personal.”

  I had to remember that Jeanine would think that way. She would always lean toward a conspiracy theory.

  “Hmm, that’s both bizarre and interesting,” I said.

  “I know. And I did something about it, let me tell you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “That’s why I left town. I went to Charleston, found a new bank to put my money in, and I reported Central Savings and Loan.”

  “You reported them? To who?”

  “My new bank man.” She stood and walked to her desk. She lifted a business card off the top of one of the stacks I’d previously looked through. “His name is Frederick Austin. He said he’d take care of reporting Central Savings and Loan to the proper authorities.”

  “I see.” I didn’t know what would happen because of Jeanine’s report, but it wouldn’t be good for Central Savings and Loan. “What day did you do all this?”

  “I got my money Friday afternoon and then drove to Charleston. I had to wait until yesterday, Monday, to open my new accounts.”

  I could picture Jeanine hiding in a hotel with her money. Though it was most likely in bank check form, she probably spent the time afraid that someone would steal it from her. She didn’t answer her cell phone because she didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing, including Barry. If they knew, they might take her money from her.

  Most people would have taken their foreclosure letter to the bank and asked for an explanation. Some might have moved their money in a fit of anger, but very few would have been so secretive about it.

  “You have to watch everyone all the time, Becca. Really, it makes me tired, but whenever I let down my guard, I find someone is out to take something away from me.”

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with something like that,” I said. I was. I was also sorry for Bud Morris and Clarissa O’Bannon. Something was terribly wrong at Central Savings and Loan.

  The black cat I’d become too acquainted with sauntered into the room from the kitchen. It looked at me, and I was certain a flash of fear widened its green eyes.

  I stared at the cat, hoping it sensed my animosity toward it.

  “Hey, Buster, come here, boy,” Jeanine coaxed.

  The cat lifted its nose in my direction and pranced to Jeanine. He jumped up on her lap and stared at me with the confidence of a creature who knew Jeanine would protect him from evildoers such as the likes of me.

  “How do you manage to have both a cat and so many chickens?” I asked.

  “I have to have a cat. Keeps the rodents away from the chickens. And Buster here is scared enough of the chickens that he never bothers them. In fact, they’ve put him at the bottom of their pecking order. He’s mostly inside with me unless he’s after a mouse or something.”

  Or just wants to cause a state of panic among two police officers and a jam and preserve maker.

  “Well, Buster sure looks like a fine cat,” I said. Jeanine didn’t catch the sarcasm, but I thought Buster did, which made me happy.

  “He’s my buddy. Well, he and the chickens are my buddies,” Jeanine said as she scratched behind his ear.

  I sighed silently. “I’m glad you’re home safe and sound, Jeanine.”

  “Thanks, Becca. Really, I’m sorry I worried everyone. It wasn’t my intention.”

  “Everyone understands,” I said. “Hey, can I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure.” Jeanine stood, holding on to Buster.

  “Did Madeline call you on the day she was killed?”

  “Yes, actually she did,” she replied cautiously. “It was soon after she was at Bailey’s. She was finally returning my messages. She wanted me to come to the bank, and she’d get everything straightened out. I went, but she wasn’t there—that was the final straw. That’s when I decided to take my money to Charleston.”

  “Was Madeline kind to you during the call?”

  “She was fine. Not kind, but not rude, I would have to say.”

  “I’m sorry I keep asking questions, but do you remember the name of the man at Central who helped you?” I was hoping to get Bud Morris in to see him.

  “Let me think. Yes, his name was Alan something. Alan Cummings.”

  I was so stunned at the news that I went silent and my jaw dropped. Alan worked at Central Savings and Loan? I didn’t think anyone knew this. Sam hadn’t said anything, and Drew hadn’t mentioned it when we talked about what Alan did for a living.

  “Becca, you okay?” Jeanine finally asked.

  “Uh, yes. Fine. Thanks for your time,” I said. I stood and made my way out of the house.

  I would never remember the drive back downtown, but I would always remember the thoughts that jumbled through my mind. Alan, who was supposedly “between things” at the moment; Alan, who was creepy when he stared at Linda, when he showed up at my house and then at Jeanine’s house; Alan, who just plain rubbed me the wrong way—Alan worked at Madeline’s bank? What was he up to, and why didn’t he admit to working there?

  Suddenly, amid my turning and questioning thoughts, I was pulling into the Central Savings and Loan parking lot.

  I’d call Sam soon enough, but not before I got a few more answers.

  Twenty-three

  I sat in the parking lot for a moment and stared at Central Savings and Loan. The building was round and brown and unattractive, but easy to get in and out of because of entrances and exits on the intersecting streets. There were a few other cars in the small lot, but I didn’t recognize any of them, nor did I recognize anyone entering or exiting the bank. It was rare to have a moment of anonymity in a town as
small as Monson, but I hoped to get into the bank, talk to Alan, and then leave without anyone I knew seeing me. My bright orange truck wouldn’t help in that mission, but I still hoped. I didn’t want to have to explain myself to Sam, Ian, Allison, or anyone else. I hadn’t called anyone. I would, but I wanted some answers of my own before I handed this new discovery over to the police. Alan had bugged me more than he’d bugged anyone else. I was determined to find some good reasons before I tried to again convince someone that something was off with him.

  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.