To Catch the Moon (20 page)

“Good morning, Henry.” She pushed past him
into the foyer, a dark, cheerless space that did justice to the
owner’s personality. He directed her toward a library that was all
wood paneling, mahogany furniture, and crimson leather. Oil
paintings depicted mallards paddling across murky ponds or horses
waiting patiently to be saddled for the hunt. An antique uniformed
housekeeper crept in with a bone-china coffee service.

“How are you, Joan?” Henry settled himself
behind his desk.

“I’m managing, Henry. Thank you for
asking.”

They sipped their coffee and exchanged
pleasantries, both maintaining the fiction that this little
get-together wasn’t occurring under duress. Joan ached to delve
into the spreadsheets she’d already spied atop Gossett’s desk.
Finally she felt able to move the attorney past the preliminaries
into the business at hand.

“I imagine that in the last several days
you’ve been able to generate a more trustworthy estimate of the
current value of my father’s living trust,” she began.

Gossett cleared his throat. His eyes, behind
their wire spectacles as dull a gray as the mallards’ wet feathers,
dropped to the spreadsheets. “It appears,” he said, “that my prior
estimate was fairly accurate.”

Joan stilled. “Excuse me?”

“Yes. I believe I estimated the value at
thirty million dollars—”

“It is thirty million dollars?” she cut
in.

Gossett moved his index finger across the
spreadsheet’s lined, pale green surface. “Twenty-eight point four
million.” He raised his eyes to hers. “And change.”

Sunshine poured in through the diamond-shaped
panes of the casement windows behind Gossett’s head. A car sped
past, the engine producing the sort of guttural roar only German
automaking could achieve. And somewhere outside she heard men,
presumably gardeners, speaking Spanish in loud voices. Laughing
occasionally. It seemed inappropriate, somehow.

It took her a minute or so to be able to talk
again. Then, “Henry, correct me if I’m wrong, but my recollection
is that at the time of his death, my father’s trust was valued at
something like a hundred million dollars.”

“Your recollection is correct.”

She took a deep breath. “If that is correct,
then how in the world could the value now be less than thirty
million?”

Gossett said nothing. For a few seconds his
gray gaze didn’t waver, then it dropped again to the
spreadsheets.

“Are you telling me that the trust lost
seventy million dollars under Daniel’s stewardship?” She heard her
voice rise. “He was trustee for only a year and a half but he lost
seventy million dollars? Is that what you’re telling me,
Henry?”

“It’s not accurate to say that it
lost
seventy million dollars.”

“What is it accurate to say, then?”

“Forty million dollars went into
Headwaters.”

She did a quick calculation. “But that still
leaves us thirty million shy. Where did that go?”

Gossett’s brow furrowed. “Your husband made
some investments which, I would say, didn’t quite pan out.”

“What kind of investments?”

“In the technology area.”

No
. She dreaded asking the question.
“When you say ‘the technology area,’ do you mean Internet
investments?”

Gossett nodded. “Primarily, yes.”

She had a terrible sinking feeling then, like
the one that came from the steepest daredevil plunge in a
roller-coaster ride. Daniel had fancied himself Internet savvy. He
had fancied himself one of the great minds of Silicon Valley,
though he had never lived or worked there. The closest Daniel ever
got was tee times with venture capitalists or Web business CEOs,
after which he’d come home spouting off about IPOs and valuations
and lockup periods. She hadn’t been convinced he knew what he was
talking about but hadn’t imagined it really mattered.

Suddenly she feared that it had.

She tried to form a coherent line of
questioning, though her mind whirled with terrible ideas that
repeatedly spun around and crashed into each other, like bumper
cars driven by drunken teenagers. “Henry, isn’t it true that my
father made considerable money in Internet investments?”

“Your father did, yes.” Gossett paused. “In
fact, those investments contributed nicely to the value of the
trust. But, Joan, remember that your father was making those
investments in the early and mid-nineties.”

“So?”

“So he was able to cash out of many of them
by the late nineties. When Daniel took over as trustee, he poured a
good fraction of those proceeds back into Internet companies.”

“But then those companies began failing.” She
shook her head, remembering the shocking stories she heard people
gossip about, or read about in the newspaper. High-flying Web
companies, once valued at millions of dollars, suddenly worth zero.
The people who invested in them going overnight from paper
millionaires to paupers. “A lot of those companies went bankrupt,
Henry—they shut down.”

“Yes.” The attorney nodded somberly. “Yes,
Joan, they did.”

She erupted suddenly from her chair. “But
that was an incredibly stupid thing for Daniel to do!”

“It was a mistake many people made,
Joan.”

“But not with my money!” She glared at
Gossett, whose expression hadn’t changed one iota. She thought that
if he told her the trust was worth a billion dollars or a thousand,
his expression would stay the same. “Why didn’t you stop him,
Henry?”

Gossett said nothing for some time. Then,
“Your husband had a mind of his own.”

“But you were the attorney! You could have
stopped him!” Yet even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. She
hadn’t been able to stop Daniel from doing anything and she was his
wife. Daniel would do what Daniel would do. That was another thing
she had learned about her husband. After she married him.

Something in her fizzled then. She felt as
though she lost her will somehow, as though it drained out of her
onto the navy-and-crimson Oriental carpet. Perhaps her mother had
been right after all. Perhaps she would have been better off not
knowing any of this. Perhaps now she’d be better off just doing
what her mother had suggested. Traveling. Shopping.

Maybe even—oh, God, she couldn’t abide the
thought—doing charity work. She collapsed back into her chair.
Gossett poured her more coffee.

“This is a blow, Joan,” he said, “but it is
not as dire as you might think. Your mother and I have some ideas
about conservative yet rewarding investments that over time will
produce substantial returns for the trust.”

“Over time?” She shook her head. “I don’t
have time.”

She saw Gossett hide a smile and she wanted
to smack him. Old people always thought young people had all the
time in the world. Well, they didn’t. She had things she wanted to
do now, and they cost money.

“I would make one recommendation,” he said
then, in an especially careful tone that immediately arrested her
attention. “It is based on the fact that the trust’s remaining
assets are not highly liquid. Much of the value is tied up in your
mother’s estate on 17 Mile Drive and in your property on Scenic. So
therefore—”

“Are you telling me I’m house rich and cash
poor? Do I have a cash-flow problem?”

“Perhaps it’s more accurate to call it a
cash-flow
concern
.” That reassured her, but only
momentarily. “I would recommend that you embrace, shall we say, a
prudent lifestyle in the short to medium term.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean,
prudent?”

“Simply”—he spread his hands—“a lifestyle
which, while very comfortable, is more thoughtful about major
expenditures.”

“Henry, I have no intention of buying another
house or a jet or a yacht or anything! What are you talking
about?”

“Well, for example, perhaps you might
consider moving back into your home from the Lodge. Or, if that is
uncomfortable for you,” he added, as she was about to launch again
from her chair, “as well it might be under the circumstances,
perhaps you would consider moving into your mother’s home for a
time?”

Are you insane?
she was thinking.
What a hellacious idea!
And impossible for a variety of
reasons, not the least of which was the reappearance of Milo Pappas
on the horizon. Who, she suddenly realized, hadn’t called yet. She
glanced at her watch: 11:08.

Abruptly she stood up. She had had quite
enough. “Henry, I find it impossible to believe that a few thousand
dollars a night will make any difference whatsoever. I will remain
at the Lodge for the foreseeable future, and that is the end of
that discussion.” She made it to the library door before she forced
herself to turn around. “I’m sorry, Henry. I apologize for being
abrupt. As you might imagine, you did not bring me the happiest
news today. But thank you again for all your efforts, and I will be
in touch. No”—she raised a hand to stop him from rising from his
chair—“I will show myself out.”

Once she was back in the Jag, her cell rang.
It had to be Milo, she thought—finally. But she mustn’t let on she
wasn’t in a fabulous mood; glumness was not something men found
attractive, even in new widows. She prepared to be cheery as she
pushed the talk button. “Hello!”

“I am so glad I finally caught you.”

Damn
. Courtney Holt, who had left
numerous messages over the past few days. “I’m so sorry I didn’t
call you back, Courtney, I’ve just been so—”

“It doesn’t matter—don’t worry about it. But
you must hear who came by my house Christmas Eve.”

*

“I kind of remember now who signed the
letter,” Treebeard offered.

They were back at it, round two of
Treebeard’s interview. Alicia’s behind was numb from hours sitting
on the unforgiving metal folding chair, her breath sour from
overheated, Cremora-ed coffee. Jerome apparently wasn’t feeling all
that spry, either, as he’d downed a few aspirin during the break.
As for Treebeard, he seemed one degree less suspicious, which made
him that much easier to deal with, but his grasp of detail had not
improved.

“What do you mean, you kind of remember?”
Alicia asked.

“It was a woman. Mary something. Something
like Mary Baker. Mary Bakewell, maybe.”

Mary Bakewell? Alicia didn’t remember anyone
of that name from Gaines’ campaign staff, not that she’d cared
before now. She jotted it down.
Mary Bakewell
.

“You know,” Treebeard went on, “I had the
letter with me when I went to the house.”

“When did you realize you’d lost it?”

That question seemed to deflate him. “Not
till a lot later.” He shook his head. “I was already way up
north.”

So much for the letter. “Let’s move on. You
arrived at Gaines’ house. What time was it?”

“I don’t know. Close to nine.”

“You’re not sure?”

He raised his right arm in the air. “I don’t
wear a watch.”

Of course not. “What happened when you
arrived?”

“I walked up to the front door. This was
weird. The door was open.”

Alicia frowned. “It was open?”

“Yeah, a little open. So I pushed it and
leaned my head in and called hello. A few times. Heard
nothing.”

Treebeard paused to take a deep breath.
Alicia eyed him. He seemed jittery, as if he were reliving those
moments. If he wasn’t telling the truth, he was a good liar. “So
what did you do?”

“I walked inside. Man, it was quiet, like a
tomb.” He shivered. “I called out again. Still nothing.”

“Were the lights on?”

He nodded. “There were lights on. Not many
but it wasn’t pitch-dark.”

“Which room were you in at this point?”

“The living room.” All of a sudden Treebeard
heaved himself to his feet. “Man, I should’ve left! I knew
something was shit-ass wrong—I should’ve left right then.”

“How did you know something was wrong?”
Jerome asked.

“Because it didn’t feel right! Because it was
so goddamn quiet! Because the front door to this ... mansion was
frigging wide open!” Treebeard was panting and shaking his head.
“Man, I was so stupid! I walked right into it!”

“Did you think about leaving?” Alicia
asked.

“Sure, I thought about it! But I was curious,
you know what I mean?” He looked at her. Yes, she knew what he
meant. For a moment the two eyed each other, until Treebeard looked
away. “So like an idiot I kept going into his house, still calling
out Gaines’ name. Then ...”

Alicia remained silent. In her own mind’s eye
she could picture Daniel Gaines’ corpse, in all its skewered
grotesquerie. But she’d seen it hours later, when it was no longer
fresh, but had been sanitized by police procedure. When its horror
had been diluted by time and process.

“I saw him. Lying on the floor. There was all
this blood. And he was wearing, like, a white robe, but he had—”
Treebeard motioned at his own chest, then began pacing. Back and
forth. Back and forth. “I couldn’t believe my eyes—I couldn’t
believe what was in him. I ran over to him and knelt down. I got
blood all over me, my knees, my hands. I looked down at him and his
eyes were open. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was sort of looking
beyond me. Man ...” Treebeard halted and put his hands over his
face.

“Did you think he was dead?” Alicia
asked.

Treebeard shook his head, mute for some time.
Then, “I knew he was dead. And I think that’s why I kinda freaked.
Would you believe I tried to get the arrow out of him? I actually
tried to pull it out.” Treebeard’s face pinched, as if the memory
itself pained him. “The guy was dead and one of my frigging arrows
was in him.”

“Was it one of your arrows?”

“Oh, for sure it was one of mine.”

“And you touched it?”

“Of course I touched it! I was pulling on it.
I was trying to get it out.”