Chapter 6 - Behind the Library Wall
Hawthorne House looked wounded.
The red X painted across the front door had dried overnight.
Someone had also broken one of the porch lights.
The lake behind the house was gray beneath the Sunday morning clouds.
Grandma Ruth had loved bad weather.
She said sunshine made people lazy.
Storms revealed whether a house had been built correctly.
Maybe families worked the same way.
Thomas had arranged for a locksmith and two private security guards to meet us.
Detective Martinez came too.
Technically, possible financial crimes were outside the immediate scope of Sophie’s assault investigation.
But the threat sent to my phone connected everything.
We entered through the side door.
The smell hit me first.
Cedar.
Old books.
Grandma’s lavender furniture polish.
For one second I was seventeen again.
Safe.
Grandma was the only person in my family who never asked me to become smaller so Preston could feel bigger.
When I earned a scholarship to Northwestern, Dad warned me not to brag because Preston hadn’t gotten into his first-choice college.
Grandma sent roses.
When I got promoted, Mom told me Preston was struggling and maybe I shouldn’t mention it at Thanksgiving.
Grandma opened champagne.
She had understood the family long before I did.
The library occupied the east side of the house.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Dark wood.
A stone fireplace.
Thomas looked around.
“Did Ruth ever show you a hidden compartment?”
“No.”
“She showed me one once.”
“You knew?”
“I knew she enjoyed hiding documents.”
“That seems like useful information.”
He almost smiled.
“Ruth enjoyed making people earn useful information.”
That sounded exactly like her.
We searched for forty minutes.
Behind books.
Under shelves.
Inside drawers.
Nothing.
Then Sophie called me.
Claire was with her at my apartment.
“Hi, baby.”
“Are you at Great-Grandma’s?”
“Yes.”
“Did somebody hurt the door?”
My chest tightened.
“A little.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
A pause.
Then:
“Check behind the ugly bird.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“In the library.”
“What ugly bird?”
“The metal bird.”
Memory returned.
A brass raven sculpture sat on the shelf near Grandma’s desk.
Sophie hated it.
She once told Grandma it looked like it wanted to steal her eyeballs.
I crossed the room.
The raven was still there.
I lifted it.
Underneath was a small indentation.
I pressed it.
Click.
A section of wood paneling released beside the fireplace.
Thomas laughed.
“Ruth.”
Behind the wall was a narrow steel compartment.
Inside:
A red leather ledger.
A stack of photocopied checks.
Three cassette tapes.
And a USB drive.
Thomas put on gloves.
I stared at the ledger.
“Twenty years?”
“Possibly.”
“What was she documenting?”
“Your grandmother suspected Richard had been misusing family investment accounts.”
I looked at him sharply.
“You knew?”
“I suspected she suspected.”
“That’s an attorney answer.”
“Yes.”
“Give me the normal-person answer.”
Thomas sighed.
“Ruth believed your father covered business losses using money belonging to relatives and later replaced it when he could.”
“That’s stealing.”
“Yes.”
“So this goes back before Sophie was born.”
“Long before.”
Detective Martinez looked through the copies without touching them.
“These names mean anything?”
I leaned closer.
Several companies.
Mercer Holdings.
RMD Consulting.
Pioneer Trust Management.
Then one caught my eye.
Northline Residential.
The company buying Hawthorne House.
“They’ve worked together before.”
Thomas frowned.
“Apparently.”
One photocopied check was dated fourteen years ago.
Northline to Mercer Holdings.
$875,000.
“What was that for?”
Thomas shook his head.
Then we heard glass break downstairs.
Detective Martinez immediately raised one hand.
“Stay here.”
One security guard shouted.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Someone ran.
Martinez disappeared into the hallway.
Thomas pulled me away from the doorway.
We heard a crash.
Then:
“Stop!”
I stood frozen.
Thirty seconds later, Martinez called upstairs.
“Clear.”
We went down.
One window beside the kitchen was shattered.
Mud tracked across the floor.
One security guard had caught a man near the rear entrance.
Mid-thirties.
Black jacket.
No identification.
I didn’t recognize him.
Martinez searched him.
In his pocket was a photograph.
Me.
Sophie.
Leaving the hospital.
On the back, handwritten:
BOX 418. HOUSE. LEDGER.
My stomach turned.
Someone knew about the safe-deposit box.
Someone knew we were here.
Martinez looked at the man.
“Who hired you?”
He stared at the floor.
“Lawyer.”
“What lawyer?”
Silence.
She handcuffed him.
Thomas whispered, “Richard?”
I wanted to say yes.
But something didn’t fit.
Dad knew Grandma distrusted him.
Would he know about a ledger he had supposedly never found?
Maybe.
Or maybe somebody else had been watching our family.
Claire had mentioned another number on Preston’s secret phone.
Someone discussing attorneys.
Someone who knew trustee law.
I opened my phone.
“Thomas, what do you know about Northline?”
“Large development company.”
“Who owns it?”
“Founder is Jonathan Vale.”
The name was familiar.
Then I remembered.
Jonathan Vale.
Claire’s father.
My brother had married the daughter of the man buying Sophie’s house.
I looked at Thomas.
“Claire’s father owns Northline.”
His face changed.
That connection had somehow escaped both of us amid everything else.
“Did Claire know?”
“I don’t know.”
I called her.
She answered quickly.
“Everything okay?”
“Who owns Northline Residential?”
Silence.
Too long.
“Claire.”
“My father.”
I closed my eyes.
“You knew.”
“I knew Northline wanted the property.”
“You told me Preston said it was his.”
“He did.”
“Did your father know Sophie owned it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I really don’t.”
Her voice broke.
“My father and Preston handled the deal.”
“Was your marriage part of it?”
“What?”
“Did your father invest in Preston’s restaurants?”
Silence.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three million.”
My knees weakened.
Three million.
The exact approximate amount missing from the trust.
Coincidence was becoming mathematically impossible.
“Why?”
“He said Preston had expansion potential.”
“When?”
“After we got engaged.”
“Did your father know the restaurants were failing?”
Another silence.
“I think so.”
My mind raced.
This wasn’t simply Preston stealing to pay for a wedding.
Money had been moving between families.
Trust accounts.
Restaurants.
Northline.
Property.
“What happens if Hawthorne sells for six point two million?” I asked.
Claire exhaled.
“Northline expects to make around twenty million after development.”
There it was.
The real prize.
Not six million.
Twenty.
Maybe more.
“Does your father know you’re helping me?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Evelyn—”
“I’ll call you later.”
I hung up.
Thomas was already thinking the same thing.
“Northline may be more involved than we realized.”
Detective Martinez returned.
“The man downstairs isn’t talking.”
“Check whether he works for Northline.”
“We will.”
I looked toward the broken window.
Then at Grandma’s ledger.
Twenty years of secrets.
Millions of dollars.
My father.
My brother.
My new sister-in-law’s father.
Sophie had stumbled into something much bigger than one fraudulent property sale.
“What’s on the tapes?” I asked.
Thomas stared at them.
“Only one way to find out.”
Grandma still owned a cassette player.
Of course she did.
We found it in her office.
The first tape hissed.
Then Grandma Ruth’s voice filled the room.
“This is Ruth Mercer. March seventeenth, 2011.”
My skin prickled.
“If you are listening to this, Richard has likely denied everything.”
Thomas leaned closer.
Grandma continued.
“I met with Jonathan Vale this afternoon.”
Claire’s father.
“He offered to purchase my interest in Mercer Holdings.”
I held my breath.
“I refused.”
Static crackled.
“He then informed me that Richard owes him nine hundred thousand dollars.”
Thomas and I looked at each other.
Grandma’s voice hardened.
“Richard says it is a private loan.”
Another pause.
“I believe it is blackmail.”
The recording continued.
“He told me something happened in 1998 that could destroy Richard’s career.”
My mother’s words came back.
I have been afraid of your father since 1998.
I felt cold.
Grandma continued.
“Richard refuses to tell me what happened.”
The tape clicked.
Then one final sentence.
“If Jonathan Vale is still in this family’s life when you hear this, assume whatever happened in 1998 never truly ended.”
The cassette stopped.
No one spoke.
Claire’s father had been connected to mine for nearly thirty years.
He had funded Preston.
He was buying Sophie’s property.
And according to Grandma Ruth, he had held something over my father since 1998.
I looked at the man handcuffed downstairs.
May you like
Maybe my father wasn’t the only person trying to find the ledger.
Maybe he wasn’t even the most dangerous.
