Crystal blue murder, p.22
Crystal Blue Murder, page 22
In the meantime, Claire was not without other resources. She still had money with Scott’s financial advisor, and that included a hefty sum from life insurance and Scott’s IRA accounts. On top of that, there was family money she had never touched, conservatively invested in Philadelphia banks. Nobody, especially Brock Thornton, knew about any of these. They were nobody’s business.
Claire decided today would be a good day to inventory her holdings, but to do that, she needed to make a trip to the safety deposit box at the First Bank of Brandywine. As soon as Aiko cleared her lunch dishes, Claire began searching for the key to the safety deposit box. Normally, she kept everything in file folders in her desk drawer, but this key she had hidden in a less obvious place. The problem was, she couldn’t remember where.
Her jewelry boxes, her lingerie drawer, under the mattress—none of these yielded the key. Claire examined every shelf and drawer in her closet and in the closet that had been Scott’s, and she still found nothing.
When was the last time I used the key? She was pretty sure it was pre-pandemic, when she had taken some of her mother’s jewelry out to wear to a party and put it back the following day.
Claire rifled through the drawers of her bathroom vanity, finding nothing, and then her cell phone rang. “Tammie, my dear. I’m so happy you’ve called.”
“Why? Is there something you need?” Tammie’s voice sounded less melodious than usual, as if she’d been crying. And that was understandable.
“I’ve been looking all over for my safety deposit key. Do you remember where I’ve hidden it?”
“Did you look in the bar? I believe it’s taped to the bottom of the bottle of Hennessy’s. You figured no one but you would ever think to look there.”
“Ha. Even I wouldn’t ever think to look there. Thank you. You saved me from tearing the rest of the house apart this afternoon.” Claire was relieved, but still concerned about Tammie. She sounded so forlorn. “Now tell me why you called.”
Tammie sniffed. “I’ve spent the whole morning going through stuff at my place, too. I can’t believe Tripp is gone. I’ve been sorting through the clothes and personal items he left in my apartment.” Somewhere in the background, a dog howled. “I’ve been going over what Tripp said—that he was coming back on a new project, something that would keep him here a long time.”
“Was it a construction project?” Claire asked.
“I didn’t think so. If it had been, he probably would have been more specific. He just said project. And I never saw him after that. I keep thinking of questions—who did Tripp come to see? Why? Who would have had a motive to kill him?”
“You shouldn’t torture yourself with these questions, Tammie. Let the police handle those things. They can be more objective.”
Tammie sighed. “The police didn’t know Tripp the way I did. For all they know, I killed Tripp.”
Claire didn’t know where this conversation was going, but she sensed Tammie’s angst. “How can I help you, dear?”
“I was thinking of the party you hosted when Tripp and the construction guys started the bank barn project. Do you still have the pictures the photographer took there?”
Claire wondered where she had put those pictures. They were more than four years old now. “I’m sure I do, though I’m not sure where.”
“If you still have them, I know where they are—in the right cabinet under the bookshelves in the living room. I think there’s a picture there of a group of guys, with Tripp in the middle. I remember Tripp that evening, saying, ‘These are my people.’ I want to know who is in that photograph.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow, when you’re here, or would you like me to go look now?”
Tammie blew her nose and said, “I’d like to know now. Tripp didn’t have any ‘people’ here in Brandywine, but me. I want to know who he was calling his people.”
Claire agreed to find the photograph and call Tammie back. She went downstairs, first stopping at the bar to retrieve the safety deposit box key, then locating the photo album Tammie referred to. She flipped through the pictures, many of them showing food, drink, and décor. Others were candid photos of people talking, even dancing. There was a quite flattering one of Tammie and Claire, chatting with the architect, Richard Buchanan. Finally, she came to two photos of Tripp with a group of guys. The first photo caused Claire to gasp. The four men had their arms around each other’s shoulders and were leaning forward, as if singing an old school song. Youthful and good-looking, they could have been cousins, co-workers, teammates, or fraternity brothers, having a good time. In order, from left to right, they were Tripp Anderson, Ray Plummer, Wyatt Wukitsch, and Brock Thornton.
Chapter Forty-nine
Parrott marched into the police station, after his discoveries in South Philly, like a victorious gladiator, brandishing the flash drive that held both stores’ security videos. His plan was to log the flash drive into the case file and place it in the evidence room for safekeeping. Then he’d call M. Robert Pennington and try to set up a meeting.
Before he could get that far, he bumped into Chief Schrik in the hallway outside of Parrott’s office. “You just missed a visit from our friend, Dave Simmons.”
“The Democratic Zone Leader? What did he want?” Parrott didn’t care to get into the politician’s complaints or interference in the case. He had better things to do.
“Status report, he called it. Wanted to know where we are with the bank barn case.”
“I hope you told him to buzz off.” Parrott tried to tamp down the impatience rising in his throat. “Just because the guy has a title doesn’t mean he can jerk the police department around.”
“Relax, Parrott. I sent him away empty-handed, but no sense getting into a spat with Democrats, Republicans, or anybody in-between. That’s the beauty of Brandywine Valley. We’re supposed to be above all that.”
Parrott motioned his boss into his office. “I’m trying, but sometimes it’s hard, Meanwhile, I had a productive day.”
The two men sat opposite each other, and Parrott filled Schrik in on the meeting with Brock Thornton. “He’s slick—comes off like a mover and shaker, but I’m not feelin’ the hype, and he’s too eager. More about that later, but here’s the big news.”
Parrott brought Schrik up to speed on his visit with Wyatt Wukitsch and the search of security videos. He held up the flash drives like objects for “show and tell.” Schrik’s eyebrows nearly popped off his face. “And you’ve got this flyer guy on video? Sweet.”
“Thought you’d be pleased. Even if we don’t know the who, we know the how. Somebody paid Wyatt Wukitsch to get his father out of the way of the bank barn.”
Schrik slapped the arms of his chair and ambled to the door. “Good work, Parrott. Now I’m going to get out of your way, ’cause I don’t want to impede your progress.”
Parrott wasted no time. His watch said a quarter to five. He found the unlisted telephone number of M. Robert Pennington and called, using his private cell phone. After going toe-to-toe with a male servant, Parrott dropped the name, Brock Thornton, and a magic door slid open.
When Pennington came to the phone, Parrott introduced himself as a potential client of Brock Thornton’s. “Mr. Thornton gave me your name as a reference, and I’d like to come by to talk with you this evening.”
“Uh, well, I—” Pennington said, “I don’t see a need. I can tell you over the phone I’m very satisfied with Mr. Thornton’s handling of my money. My holdings have outperformed those of any of my friends or colleagues. You’d be lucky indeed to be part of BMT’s network.” The ModCom magnate ended his last sentence with a finality that hinted at dismissal.
Talking fast, Parrott took the crapshoot. “I appreciate your recommendation, Mr. Pennington, but in an effort at full disclosure, I have a double reason to meet with you in person. I’m a detective with the West Brandywine Police Department. I’m sure you’re aware of the meth explosion in your neighbor’s barn. I’d planned to interview you even before Mr. Thornton gave me your name. I’d like to come over this evening and talk to you about both matters.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Pennington said. Parrott was sure Pennington couldn’t reconcile the salary of a police detective with the kind of money needed to invest with BMT.
“I’m sure it’s confusing. I assure you it’s legitimate, however. My wife and I came into a substantial sum of money last year, and we’re interested in growing it. May I come to your home this evening to talk about this?”
“I—I suppose so, but let’s make it early. I’m not in the habit of staying up late anymore. Shall we say six-thirty?”
The early time was great for Parrott. Driving out there in the dark with no streetlights and plenty of deer wasn’t his favorite summertime sport. “That’ll be perfect.”
Parrott hated mixing his personal finances with police investigations, but now the money he’d received from Elle came in handy. He justified it by thinking Elle would approve of its being used to find and apprehend a murderer.
The Pennington estate, ModCom Way, reminded him of Jay Gatsby’s house in the Leonardo di Caprio movie. A butler ushered him into a living room the size of the Wells Fargo Center. Soft classical music filled the room with an elegance far different from the occasion.
Pennington kept him waiting only a few minutes. He sauntered into the room, wearing a maroon silk jacket, black pants, and leather slippers, and carrying a brandy snifter filled with amber liquid. Parrott thought he’d stepped into an old Hitchcock movie.
“May I offer you a drink?” Sitting, Pennington looked from Parrott to the butler and back.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of black coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble.” Parrott sat where his host pointed. Facing the television mogul, Parrott couldn’t help being impressed. For a man of eighty-seven, the silver-haired gentleman still had remarkable posture, piercing blue eyes, and a photogenic face.
Nodding at his butler, Pennington said, “Really? Coffee at this time of day? Oh, to be young again.” He swirled his glass and took a whiff. “Now, how can I help you?”
Parrott sat back and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, aiming for a casual pose. He was gratified when Pennington did the same. “Why don’t we start off with BMT Financials. How long have you been investing with Brock Thornton?”
“Oh, three, four, five years. Since Thornton first came to Brandywine and started the business. I might have been his first client.”
“How did the two of you meet? Did you know each other before?”
Pennington’s mouth curved into a broad crescent, showing perfect teeth. “You know that song that goes, ‘I met him at the candy store,’—that’s literally how I met Brock and Mavis. They were shopping at Govatos Chocolates in Wilmington. The rest is history.”
“How do you feel he has done with your invested money? Is it true you get a huge return on your investment?”
“Oh, yes. Exceeding expectations. He’s practically a magician when it comes to money.”
The butler walked in with Parrott’s steaming coffee, served on a tray with condiments, despite his having asked for it black. Parrott paused to accept the cup and saucer, express thanks, and take a swig. “How do you suppose he does that magic?”
Pennington grinned and winked. “Can’t give away trade secrets, you know. Brock would never tell anyone, but all you have to do is listen to his clients. Nobody has a bad thing to say about how his portfolio is performing. That’s a real accomplishment, I’d say.” Pennington swirled his brandy again. “By the way, that’s impressive that you’ve come into substantial money. Unusual for a police officer. I’m surprised you’ve stayed in the job.”
Happy for the segue, he said, “A lot of satisfaction in serving the community. The job’s never boring, and I have the chance to meet a lot of important people, present company included.”
“Don’t you worry about the dangers? You must deal with some rough characters.”
Parrott glanced sideways at Pennington. Many times, that kind of statement was code for something racial. “There are rough characters in every walk of life, Mr. Pennington. Some of the roughest I’ve met were right here in Brandywine Valley.”
“If you say so,” Pennington said, raising an eyebrow. “You said you wanted to talk about a case?”
Parrott nodded. “Your neighbor, Claire Whitman. I’m sure you’re aware her bank barn burned in a meth explosion last week. A man’s body was found in the rubble.”
Pennington’s expression remained the same. He was neither shocked nor fascinated. “I heard about the fire, of course. I assume the body was that of the meth cooker.”
Watching for tells, Parrott said, “Actually, that is not the case. We’ve identified the body as Tucker Anderson, III, the construction supervisor when the barn was renovated a few years ago.”
Pennington stared at Parrott, sipping his brandy and remaining quiet. If he wanted to play the strong, silent type, Parrott could try a different tack.
“Mr. Pennington, it’s come to our attention that you are the biological father of Tammie Caballero, the personal assistant to Mrs. Whitman. Can you verify that, sir?”
Pennington’s eyebrow rose again, and he gave Parrott a hard stare. “Why, yes, that’s true. What does that have to do with the meth explosion, however?”
“Maybe nothing, but Tripp Anderson was Ms. Caballero’s significant other. Were you aware of that?”
Now he nearly choked on a sip of brandy, and his eyes took on a hard squint. “Aargh. I’m sorry to hear that. I’m fond of Ms. Caballero, and I don’t wish her any heartache, particularly the grief of losing an important person in her life. I’m not, however, involved in Ms. Caballero’s life. Aside from sending child support payments to her mother for many years.”
“You wouldn’t say that you and Ms. Caballero have a close relationship, then?”
“Not at all. If our paths cross, we are certainly cordial to one another, but aside from making a biological contribution to Ms. Caballero’s existence, I have not been a part of her life. Nor has she been a part of mine.”
“Are you at all familiar with Tucker Anderson?”
“Why would I be?”
“Well, he worked at Sweetgrass for two years. He lived with your daughter. I believe they had a serious relationship.”
“Again, I’m not involved with Tammie Caballero or her romances. I wish her no ill, but I can’t comment on the death of this young man.”
Not willing to let his host off the hook, Parrott persisted. “How friendly are you with Claire Whitman?”
Pennington’s crystal blue eyes glazed over, and he stared into his brandy. “I’ve known Ms. Whitman since we were children, but it’s rare that we communicate. You know how it is out here—you can live on the farm next door and still never see or hear what goes on. My wife and I keep pretty much to ourselves.”
Parrott set his coffee cup down. “Speaking of your wife, where is Mrs. Pennington now?”
“As I said,” Pennington said, clenching his jaw, “we are private people, detective.”
Something told Parrott that the ModCom magnate might be many things to many people. One of those things was a liar.
Chapter Fifty
All day Thursday, Claire had trouble concentrating. This evening she would see Robert, and she wanted to be prepared. After brunch, Claire had sat at her computer with a legal pad and pen, taking notes from websites about how to set up a nature preserve. She was amazed at how much information was out there, both scientific and financial. Apparently, she had stumbled upon a cause young millennials had embraced, and here she was, headed into her mid-eighties.
She studied about nest boxes for birds, bees, and bats. Some conservationists had even installed close-circuit television around the nesting areas, so they could monitor how the animals fared in the habitats.
A habitat in the English countryside had over six thousand visitors per year. That place hosted popular events such as wildflower exploring, moth-watching, and pond-dipping. The thought of turning Sweetgrass into a delightful venue where people could enjoy the gifts of nature caused a pleasurable warmth to surge through her veins. She would be the visionary, and her money would be the agency to make the dream come true.
Another site explained the differences between a profit or non-profit nature reserve and how to set up each. Claire couldn’t remember being this excited about anything since she’d started her Entertaining with Elegance show. This project had the potential to leave a much bigger impact on the world.
Annoyed that she hadn’t heard back from Brock Thornton, she re-dialed his number. When his voicemail kicked in, she left the briefest message she could think of. “Claire Whitman, waiting to hear from you. Call me now.”
While waiting for the return phone call that might not come, Claire made a list of to-do items related to the project.
Claire was aware that someone of her age might not be taken seriously, but she was determined to take this project to completion. Her parents had taught her to pursue her dreams, and she’d had to overcome obstacles in the past to accomplish her goals. She wasn’t about to stop now.
By the time she’d committed her thoughts to paper, it was time to get ready for her date with Robert. As usual, she wouldn’t meet with him until after Tammie had come on duty. Tammie was the only person Claire trusted with the secret of these trysts. Neither of Claire’s daughters would approve. Claire had met with Robert almost every Thursday evening since Scott had died, and Tammie had not only facilitated the meetings, but helped to keep them under wraps. Though Claire and Tammie had never spoken in detail about the arrangement, Claire had the sense Tammie enjoyed knowing about the clandestine relationship between her father and her employer.
