Social Graces. Dixie Browning

a Harvard MBA had kept her father from being taken in. But then, Frank Bonnard’s strength had been pulling ideas out of the blue, working out an overall plan and counting on a select team to carry out the details. The team in this case had consisted of Sam Hutchinson, who’d been gone practically the whole year, and therefore couldn’t have been involved, and the administrative assistant whom she’d never met before the woman had been asked to leave. Val had a feeling Miss Mitty might have engineered that, as evidently the newcomer had encroached on territory the older woman considered hers alone.

      And of course, there was Will Jordan, the new junior partner who’d been indicted along with her father. He was probably guilty. The prosecutors must have thought so, as he was still out on bond.

      To be fair she had to include Miss Mitty, longtime family friend and her father’s efficient and insightful, if unofficial assistant. Not that she was in any way a suspect, but Mitty Stoddard had been there from the beginning. If she hadn’t retired back in August she’d have known precisely where to start digging. While she might not have a college degree, much less a title, the woman was smarter than any of the younger members of the team gave her credit for being, Val was convinced of it.

      Val made a mental note to try again to reach her. She’d dialed the number she’d been given countless times over the past several weeks, always with the same results. Not a single one of the messages she’d left had produced results. At first she’d been too distracted to wonder about it, but now she was beginning to be seriously concerned. If Miss Mitty was ill, it might explain why she had suddenly announced her retirement and moved to Georgia to be close to a newly widowed niece. She hadn’t wanted anyone to worry about her.

      Come to think of it, Miss Mitty had never really trusted Will Jordan. As a rule, people whom she didn’t trust rarely remained at BFC very long. Jordan was an exception. If Mitty Stoddard didn’t trust a person there was usually a sound reason, even if it wasn’t apparent at the time. Val was sure she had voiced her reservations where it would do the most good, but for once in their long association, Frank Bonnard must have disagreed with her.

      Val sighed. She desperately needed someone to bounce her ideas off, and Miss Mitty would be perfect. Under all that lavender hair lurked a surprisingly keen mind. Darn it, it wasn’t like her not to return a call. The last thing she’d said before boarding the plane to Atlanta when Val had driven her to the airport was, “You call me now, you hear? You know how I feel about your young man.” Val had been engaged at the time. “But then, you won’t listen to an old woman. I guess I can’t blame you.” She’d laughed, wattles swaying above the navy suit and lacy white blouse with the tiny gold bar pin fastening the high collar. “Once you set the date, you let me know and I’ll make plans to come back. Belinda and Charlie are getting along in years—the last thing they need is a big, fancy wedding.”

      Belinda was two years younger than Mitty Stoddard, and no one knew Charlie’s exact age. As it turned out, Miss Mitty had been absolutely right about Tripp Ailes, but that wasn’t the reason Val was so desperate to get in touch with her now. Was she even aware of all that had happened since she’d moved to Georgia? The collapse of BFC had been big news in the northeast for a few weeks—the Wall Street Journal had covered it, with updates for the first week or so. But it had probably been worth only a few lines in the business section of the Atlanta Constitution, or whatever newspaper Miss Mitty read now.

      She would keep on trying, but in the meantime she had work to do before she could settle down with those blasted files. If there was a method in her father’s filing system, she had yet to discover it. Brilliant, Frank Bonnard had undoubtedly been; organized, he was not.

      Absently, she scratched her chin, leaving another smear of dirt. After waiting this long, the files could wait another day or two. She was making inroads on years of dirt and neglect—the pungent aroma of pine cleanser now replaced other less-pleasant smells, but it was still a far cry from the fragrance of gingerbread and Cape jasmine she remembered from so long ago.

      “Up and at ’em, lady.”

      She didn’t budge from the chair. She could think of several things she’d rather be doing than scrubbing down another wall. Shagging golf balls barefoot in a bed of snake-infested poison ivy, for instance.

      Okay, so she was procrastinating. Scowling at the heap of filthy paper towels on the floor, she admitted that sooner or later the house would be as clean as she could get it and then—then—she would focus all her attention on going through her father’s files with a fine-tooth comb.

      Not even to herself would Val admit the smallest possibility of finding evidence of her father’s guilt.

      Three

      A few hours later, with both the furniture and the downstairs windows sparkling—on the inside, at least—Val collapsed onto one of the freshly scrubbed kitchen chairs. She kicked off her Cole Haans and sipped on a glass of chilled vegetable juice, hoping that that and peanut butter constituted a balanced diet.

      The ugly green refrigerator probably dated from the sixties. It was noisy and showing signs of rust, but at least it was now clean, inside and out. And if it wasn’t exactly energy efficient, neither was she at the moment.

      Marian had relayed the promise that her phone would be hooked up sometime today, which was a big relief. New number equaled no crank calls. She’d had to go outside and stand near the road to get even an erratic signal on her cell phone. After today, though, she could hook up her laptop, deal with her e-mail and check out the Greenwich newspapers to see if there’d been any new developments since she’d left town.

      That done, she’d better start composing a résumé. Unfortunately, the only kind of work in which she had any experience was the kind that paid off more in satisfaction than in wages.

      “Ha. How the mighty have fallen,” she said, dolefully amused.

      How much would a private investigator charge to dig into her father’s records? The same records that had been turned inside out by swarms of experts?

      Too much, probably. Anything was too much, given her present circumstances. Besides, even if she could have afforded to hire an investigator, she wasn’t sure she could trust him with her father’s personal files. Was there some code of ethics that said a private investigator had to turn over any incriminating evidence he might find?

      “Dad, I’m out of my element here, you’re going to have to give me a hint,” she whispered now. Will Jordan might be still under investigation, but Val had a feeling he was going to find some way to pin the whole thing on Frank Bonnard. Why not? Her poor father was in no position to defend himself.

      Val was feeling more inadequate with every day that passed. If she got lucky and found evidence that would vindicate her father, then she could be charged with concealing that same evidence. Couldn’t win for losing. Classic case, she thought ruefully.