More Than Great Riches

She opened the kitchen door and skidded to a dead stop. She was staring directly into
the muzzle of a gun.

Paralyzed, Tracy could barely draw a breath. The gun was the size of a cannon. She was
ready to meet God, but she would prefer to wait until another time. Her eyesight grew
blurry as her legs turned to rubber.

And then the rumble of a deep voice penetrated the fog. Hold it right there.

She dragged her gaze away from the gun and looked up. She made out the menacing figure of
a man in a dark windbreaker and jeans. The room began to spin in dizzying circles. She was
going to faint. She clutched at the doorjamb to keep the world from tipping over.

Through the haze, she saw him jam the pistol into its holster. Her knees crumbled, but he
caught her before she hit the floor. As though she were a child, he swept her up in his
arms. Barely conscious, she tried not to cling to his neck as he carried her back to the
living room. Crushed against his broad chest, she was much too aware of the power in those
wide shoulders. The muscular arms that gently eased her down onto the sofa could break her
into little pieces.

She kept her eyes tightly closed, but sensed him looming over her. Was he trying to decide
if he should put her out of her misery? And then she heard heavy footsteps as he strode
out of the room.

Too weak and shaky to move, she clenched her fists as the footsteps returned. Suddenly she
felt the coolness of a damp cloth across her forehead. The wave of dizziness began to
recede.

Clutching at the shredded remnants of her courage, she opened her eyes a crack. He was
holding a small leather folder under her nose - a badge attached to an I.D. card. She made
out the words Leif Ericson, Chief of Police.

More than Great Riches

by

Jan Washburn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely
coincidental.

More than Great Riches

COPYRIGHT
Ó
2008 by Jan Washburn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First White Rose Edition, 2009

Print ISBN: 1-60154-567-3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

In memory of my dear Jack

With love to Linda and Heather and

their beautiful families

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Judge Bob Prince for his legal advice and for his extensive knowledge of
Plymouth County; to John Palsgrove, an authority on cars and blown rods; to Betty Lou
Fogt, the handbell guru, for her red and blue circles; to Ed Martin for saving my disc and
my sanity; and to Renata and Roxie Kammerer for their tips on parking in the Big Apple.
Any errors are my own.

A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver
or gold.

Proverbs-22:1

The walls of the interrogation room were dingy beige. The glare of fluorescent bulbs
highlighted the crude graffiti etched into the laminated table top. The room smelled of
stale pizza, sweat, and fear. Tracy’s heart pounded against her ribs like a convict
beating on the bars of his cell.

Now, Miss Dixon, let’s go over it again—from the beginning. The swarthy detective tilted
his chair back and eyed her with a penetrating stare. His NYPD badge identified him as C.
Diaz. The grizzled hair marked him as a hardened veteran who had heard and seen it all. He
would show no mercy. How long have you known Rick Timmons? That gravelly voice scraped
against Tracy’s raw nerves.

Her palms were damp, and her mouth was dry. Her fingers still showed the smudges of
fingerprint ink. She didn’t know whether to be angry or frightened. The detective was
convinced that she had been involved in the theft of the jewelry. Was he going to arrest
her as Rick’s accomplice?

I barely know him, she whispered. I ran into him in the lobby of my apartment house about
a month ago. He was looking for a rental, but there was nothing open.

And you never dated?

No. Never. Some of us eat out together occasionally at the corner diner. If Rick came in
while we were there, he would join us at the table. It wasn’t anything like a date.

So, Rick Timmons isn’t your boyfriend?

Tracy paused to moisten her lips. Would she incriminate herself if she admitted that Rick
singled her out, and she had been flattered by his attention? They had a lot in common.
While he auditioned for a part in an off-Broadway production, she was getting up the nerve
to answer a cattle call for a place in the chorus of Aida. Over a glass of cranberry juice
they discovered they were both from Massachusetts—cranberry country—Rick from Cape Cod and
Tracy from Allerton in Plymouth County. At the moment, men were not her favorite species
of humanity, but any woman who had a pulse would be drawn to Rick’s movie star looks and
charm.

The detective was growing impatient. Miss Dixon, I asked if Rick Timmons was your
boyfriend.

No, Tracy managed. Just an acquaintance.

But he invited you to Ronda Starr’s reception.

No, Tracy put in quickly. It wasn’t like that. One day at the diner my roommate mentioned
that I had an invitation to Miss Starr’s reception. Rick said that he was invited too. He
suggested that we share the cost of a cab, instead of taking the subway.

Then you know where Timmons lives?

No, I don’t. We agreed it would be simpler if we took the cab together from my place. I’m
sure he lives nearby.

And just how did two unknown, unemployed actors manage to wangle an invitation to the home
of the biggest name on Broadway?

I’m not unemployed, Tracy protested. I’m an assistant at Alan Rifkin’s talent agency. I’ve
worked there for almost three years.

The detective gave her a humorless smile. So, how did an agent’s insignificant assistant
wangle an invitation to Ronda Starr’s reception?

Tracy smothered a groan. On Sunday morning she should be in church, not in the grim
confines of a police station. She could almost hear her mother’s fretful voice, What will
people say? And she had been in this grimy little room for hours. She had given Detective
Diaz a complete description of Rick. She had volunteered to be fingerprinted to prove she
had not touched Ronda Starr’s safe. They had been over all these questions several times.
She felt as though she were reciting lines in a long-running play.

She suspected Diaz made her repeat her story to catch her in a contradiction. He hoped she
would accidentally reveal some new information, but there was nothing more to tell him.

She gritted her teeth and plodded on. One evening I found a little Yorkshire terrier
whimpering in front of our building. She was wearing an expensive-looking collar. When I
picked her up, I found the owner’s phone number on the tag, so I called.

Tracy had been flabbergasted to find that the dog’s owner was Ronda Starr. Miss Starr told
me Bitsy jumped out of her car when they stopped at a traffic light. She wanted to give me
a reward, but I told her I couldn’t accept money just for making a simple phone call. She
insisted that she would find some way to show her appreciation. When she sent her
chauffeur to pick up the dog, he handed me an invitation to her reception.

And how did your friend, Mr. Timmons, rate an invite?

Tracy had asked herself the same question. I don’t know. He talked as though they were old
friends. Maybe he acted in one of her shows. Rick had never explained his connection to
Ronda Starr.

How could I have been so naïve? I should have
trusted my instincts about Rick. There was something phony about all that charm.

Did Timmons show an invitation to the butler?

Tracy closed her eyes, trying to recall the sequence of events. She had been so
starry-eyed and excited when they climbed the steps to Miss Starr’s fashionable
brownstone. The whole evening played out like a dream sequence in a Broadway show.

She remembered that Rick took her arm as the butler opened the door. She thrust her
precious invitation into the butler’s hands, and they strolled into the elegant foyer,
trying to look sophisticated and blasé. Did Rick present his own invitation or did the
butler assume they were a couple?

She opened her eyes. I don’t remember, she admitted wearily. She drew a long breath and
shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable position. The stiff plastic chair was
harder than the old wooden pews in the Allerton Community Church.

Tell me about the party. The detective sounded bored, but those cynical eyes never
relented.

It was very nice. Tracy paused.
Very nice? What a totally inadequate statement. It was beyond fabulous.
A five-piece combo belted out a medley of show tunes while she gaped at the luxurious
furnishings, the exotic guests, and the incredible buffet table.

Miss Starr took me around and introduced me to everyone as the girl who found her Bitsy.
Remembering, Tracy almost smiled. Ronda Starr was exactly like her stage persona—hearty
and exuberant, with a voice that rattled the crystal chandeliers. And there, at her side,
stood Tracy Dixon, Little Miss Nobody, shaking hands with every headliner in the city. She
hoped that her jaw wasn’t hanging open and that her little black dress didn’t scream
small-town.

And where was Mr. Timmons while you were meeting the elite?

Once again Tracy closed her eyes, trying to recreate the scene. She had no recollection of
seeing Rick again from the moment Ronda Starr came up to greet them. He could have been
anywhere.

I - I guess he was mixing with the crowd.

Did Miss Starr seem to know him?

Tracy shook her head in bewilderment. I’m not sure. She hugged him, but she hugs
everybody. She may have thought I invited him. I guess it was right after that, he just
disappeared.

So you didn’t see him again that night?

No. Tracy was so star-struck, she wouldn’t have noticed if Rick had jetted out of the room
on a magic carpet.

He didn’t tell you when he decided to leave?

No. When the guests began to drift away, I looked for him everywhere. Nobody remembered
seeing him.

So you went home alone?

Tracy heaved a sigh. I went home alone.

At long last Diaz stood up, stretching his arms as though he had done a hard day’s work.
All right, Miss Dixon. You’re free to go. But don’t leave town. We’ll be talking to you
again. That missing jewelry is worth at least a half million dollars. And if the butler
doesn’t make it, we’re not talking assault and battery with a deadly weapon, we’re talking
murder.

****

Tracy crumpled the morning newspaper into a ball and let it drop to the floor. Pushing her
stuffed panda out of harm’s way, she fell back across her bed. By now, everyone in New
York City had seen the banner headline, Broadway’s Ronda Starr Victim of Jewel Theft.
Under the headline was a blown-up picture of Miss Starr with a dazzled Tracy clinging to
her arm. The caption under the picture explained that the police questioned aspiring
actress Tracy Dixon as an alleged accomplice to the crime.

Tracy groaned. She was not enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. Saturday night at Miss
Starr’s was the high point of her life. Sunday at the police station should have been the
low point. But today, Monday, fell below rock bottom.

When she reported to work, the office manager had thrust a letter into her hand and
ordered her to leave the premises. Tracy groped to find the envelope on her nightstand, a
letter from Mr. Rifkin, handwritten in his odd black scratches.

Dear Miss Dixon,

Although your work with the Rifkin Agency has been most satisfactory, I regret that I must
terminate your employment. Enclosed is my check for two weeks severance pay. While I find
it hard to believe that you were involved in the theft of Miss Starr’s jewelry and the
injuries to her butler, I cannot afford to offend my clients. I must consider the good
name of the agency.

I would advise you not to appear at the audition for ‘Aida’ next week. Your presence would
only cause embarrassment and ill feeling for all concerned.

Yours truly, Alan Rifkin

The good name of the agency
, she thought dully.
Does anyone care about the good name of Tracy Dixon?

She felt like the little man in the comic strips who lived under a thundercloud that
constantly rained lightning bolts on his head. Three years ago her name was blackened in
her hometown. She moved to New York, hoping to make a fresh start. But history was
repeating itself.

She lifted her head. She would not give up. In a big city like New York there should be
plenty of jobs. Of course she was blackballed in the theater district. No one who knew the
name Ronda Starr would let her apply to mop the floors.

And how many offices boasted a piano? She loved playing for auditioning singers, and on
the evenings she didn’t have classes at the university, she stayed late at the office,
holding her own private hymn-sing-along on the old upright. She was determined to earn her
degree and make a career in music, if not as a performer, then as a teacher. She dashed
away the tear that slid down her cheek. Crying wouldn’t solve her problems.

She groped through the if’s, searching for a light at the end of the tunnel. If the police
caught Rick, her name would be cleared. If she could talk to Mr. Rifkin, he might let her
come back to her job. If wishes were horses...

The shrill ring of the phone brought her bolt upright. She stared at the instrument as
though it were about to explode.
Please, don’t let it be the police again.

She let it ring four times before she picked up the receiver. She straightened her
shoulders and put on her best office persona. This is Tracy Dixon.

Tracy? Thank goodness I reached you. It’s Maggie.

Maggie! What a surprise. Maggie O’Connor Scalia had been her closest friend in her
hometown, ever since they were lab partners in ninth grade science class at Allerton High
School. E-mail kept them in touch. Theirs was a forever friendship. But Tracy detected
anguish in Maggie’s voice, as though she were on the verge of tears. Is something wrong?

 I hate to tell you this—there’s been a bad accident. Maggie paused.

Tracy’s heart stopped. Not Jeff, she whispered.

Your brother is alive, but he’s in critical condition. The paramedics took him to Jordan
Hospital in Plymouth, but I think they are moving him to a burn center in Boston. His
doctors are trying to contact the family, but I couldn’t find an address or phone number
for your mother. Can you come home?

Trying to catch her breath, Tracy clung to the receiver. She had made a solemn vow—under
no circumstances would she return to Allerton again. But Jeff—Jeff was her only brother.
She would give her life for him. The words were out of her mouth before she thought twice.
I’ll be there as soon as I can.

She hung up the phone and stood dazed while a riot of thoughts trampled through her head.
She had to leave a note for Heather, her roommate, but what should she say? She might be
gone for days—or weeks—or months.

And Detective Diaz’s warning echoed in her head. Don’t leave town. She had to let him know
she was leaving. Surely the police didn’t have the authority to keep her here in the city.
They hadn’t charged her with anything…yet. No matter. She had to go. Diaz would just have
to wait and arrest her later.

****

Tracy’s ancient Ford Galaxie gasped and wheezed as she pulled into her driveway. The two
hundred mile trip from New York to Allerton was a major achievement for an old clunker
that was about to celebrate its thirty-fifth birthday.

 Everything was pitch black as she climbed out of her car. Swallowed up in the branches of
a huge oak tree, the lone streetlight gave just enough illumination to reveal the
weathered shingles on the old Cape Cod cottage. Two miles from town, with an apple orchard
on one side and a cornfield on the other, the house wasn’t within shouting distance of the
nearest neighbor.

Although she had spent her entire childhood in this house, it seemed almost scary in the
darkness. She prayed that Jeff had continued to pay the electric bill. When he returned
from the war in Iraq, he began to drink heavily. Utility bills lost their meaning in the
shadow of his depression.

Shivering in the biting cold air, she groped under the mat by the front door. As long as
she could remember, the family kept an extra key there. Of course, a burglar would look
there first. She never understood why the family bothered to lock the door at all. Her
fingers closed around the key and noiselessly she let herself into the house. Throwing the
switch by the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as light flooded the room.

It wasn’t much warmer in the house than it was outside. She raised the switch on the
thermostat, heartened by the sound of the heater roaring to life.