Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

A sickly look passed over Garvey’s pleasant features. “Two thousand to Rickman’s Sanitary Service, seven hundred and fifty for office supplies.”

“Every month. Freddie also ran a computer search to see how many vendors of like services or supplies had the same zip code. No matchups. We have the cancelled checks.” He zipped open the standard bank deposit bag used by businesses. “All are signed by your treasurer, and all are endorsed by a rubber stamp that says ‘for deposit only.’” Gray pulled out a few checks for Garvey’s inspection.

“My God.” Garvey slumped in his chair. “Iffy.”

“She goes to Richmond the third Thursday of each month. She picks up the checks and she deposits them in her own account. Obviously, we can’t seize her personal records until you charge her.”

His face flushed. “She deserves the right to explain herself. She’s been with me for years.”

“What she deserves is arrest. All these fake invoices are dated on the same day of the month, and they are all deposited on the same day of the month, the third Thursday. Garvey, it’s an old scheme, and it’s tried and true as long as the person doing it knows when to get out. It’s called disbursements fraud. It’s always an inside job, usually committed by a chief financial officer. If you don’t have her arrested the minute she walks back in this door, I can tell you exactly what will happen.”

“What?” Garvey whispered.

“She will say she needs to talk to an attorney. She’ll leave, and my guess is she can access the money very quickly. She’ll leave the country.”

“I can’t believe it.” Garvey dropped his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“How much did she steal from me?”

“Freddie and I want to go over the cashed checks again. We also want to see if there aren’t other things we may have missed simply through exhaustion.”

Garvey lifted his head, raised his eyes, “Gray, how much?”

“Two million.”

“Oh, my God.” Garvey picked up the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Sheriff Ben Sidell?”

CHAPTER 18

You take it too seriously.” Jason shrugged off Walter’s anger at his whipping-in, if it could be called that, to Crawford Howard.

“Yes, I do. Seriously enough to drive over here after the hunt on my day off. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason’s dark eyebrows lifted. “I rode with an undisciplined pack of hounds, Crawford got his lip split open by Sister, and Margaret threatened my life. So what?” He laughed, albeit hollowly.

“You rode with an outlaw pack. You can’t ride with the Jefferson Hunt again or with any other hunt associated with the Master of Foxhounds Association of America.”

“Bullshit.”

“The MFHA was founded in 1907 to avoid exactly what happened. And you’d better believe they’ll enforce it. If, for example, you try to ride with Keswick, and if word got back to the MFHA that the masters allowed you to do so, they would risk losing their recognition, which is like losing your medical license. I’m telling you, Jason, you don’t know what you’ve done.”

Jason pushed his back against the chair. “Well who is going to report me? Sister? You?”

“She’ll wait for you to come to your senses today. If you do, she will explain to the president of the MFHA that you were unaware of the rule and you will never ride with Crawford again. If you don’t call today she will report you, or I will. We have no choice.”

Jason slammed down his coffee cup. “It was supposed to be fun. I’ve all but bought Paradise.”

Fortunately, the cup was heavy.

“You don’t own it yet.” Walter stated the obvious.

He’d driven to Jason’s spacious brick house downtown. Jason had bought it as an investment, declaring he’d sell it as soon as he found the country property he wanted.

The fireplace in the kitchen had Delft tiles around it. Jason had paid a decorator who mixed antiques with modern pieces, to lovely effect.

“I don’t need Sister’s help or your help. I’ll call the MFHA myself.”

“That will make matters worse,” Walter grimly predicted. “Apologize to Sister, then let us handle it.”

“I suppose she’s mad at me?”

“We’re all mad at you. And let me tell you why you’ll need her help. It’s a small world, and most foxhunters recognize why we can’t countenance outlaw packs. You’re going to be on everybody’s shit list, not just Jefferson Hunt’s.”

“Countenance? You sound like a preacher.”

“A Virginian, at least,” Walter half smiled. “We grow up on the King James version.” He leaned across the rectangular table. “Look, I’m upset that you rode out with Crawford, who means us no good. But I’m your colleague, you know. The hospital is a small world—like foxhunting. I’d like things on an even keel.”

Jason listened, holding his cup with both hands. “Tell that to Margaret.”

“She has every right to be angry with you. You need to apologize to her, to Binky and Millie and Alfred.”

His dark eyebrows raised, then lowered. “I will. I’ll smooth the waters. But you know, if they don’t sign that contract next week, I’ll buy another property. They’ll never ever get a deal like mine. Seven million dollars. No financing.”

Walter, though the sum was impressive, wasn’t impressed. “The DuCharmes have owned Paradise for just about two hundred years. You aren’t from here, Jason. It’s hard for you to realize the pull of blood and time. It truly outweighs money.”

Jason’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Two old men without a pot to piss in. They live off Margaret and cutting timber every five years. They have to agree to my terms, which are very generous.” When Walter didn’t respond out of good manners, Jason, exasperated, announced, “I offered them seven million dollars for a bunch of Corinthian columns.”

Walter glanced down at his cup, then up at Jason. “And five thousand acres, much of it in good Davis loam. The timber program is good. You sell Alfred short. He’s managed the farm wisely, and Binky has had the sense to stay out of his way and run his little gas station. They may be pathetic, battling old men to you, but they aren’t stupid. And Margaret is smarter than both of them put together.”

Jason flared up. “I saved Alfred.”

“You have a remarkable record as a doctor. I respect that. Your patients, cured or in remission, are walking advertisements. But this is different. If you don’t apologize to Sister Jane, you’re cooked. If you don’t back off from Crawford, you’re cooked. Am I clear?”

Silence followed. The stainless steel wall clock ticked loudly.

“If I back off from Crawford, I’m cooked.” At last, a genuine emotion, worry, played on Jason’s face.

“You’re in the tank?” Walter used the old political expression, meaning you’ve been bought off in one respect or another.

“Yes.”

“How deep?”

“He’s my silent partner in purchasing Paradise.”

“I can’t imagine Crawford wants to see you restore Paradise to its former glory. So you are going to develop Paradise?” Walter clamped his mouth shut. “You lied.”

As Jason had bandied about some of his plans for Paradise, Walter knew he’d made a big to-do about respecting the past, allowing no development, and other such pious statements.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, is this like Clinton saying a blow job isn’t really sex?”

Jason’s face darkened. “We’d wait a year. We’d develop one thousand acres as an equestrian paradise. It would be impeccably done.”

“And you’d both make double-digit millions—and you get to live in Paradise as well.”

“Oh,” Jason corrected him, missing Walter’s sly comment. “We’d generate jobs and revenue for the county.”