Dixie Browning - Social Graces

“Expect the unexpected, I guess,” the postal worker had said, “This time of year we might get seventy-five degrees one day and thirty-five the next. Not much snow, but lawsy, the winds’ll sandblast your windshield before you know it. By the way, did I tell you that you have to come here to collect your mail? None of the villages on the island has home delivery.”

Which reminded her—she needed to get started mailing change-of-address notices now that she had an official address.

But first she had to finish scrubbing the tops of the kitchen cabinets. She’d given up on the oven for now—didn’t know how to use the darned thing, anyway. But sooner or later she was going to defeat that thick black crust if she had to resort to dynamite.

Once she finished the kitchen she would tackle the back bedroom and bath in case she got desperate enough to look for a tenant. Meanwhile she needed to take down that half-hidden sign in the front yard. Or maybe just cover it for the time being. While she hated the idea of compromising her privacy, it might be a way of bringing in an income until she could look for work. Marian’s offer of a job cleaning houses had been a joke…hadn’t it?

Standing on the next-to-the-top step of the rickety stepladder she’d retrieved from a shed in the backyard, Val steadied herself by draping one arm over an open cabinet door while she wiped off the last section of cabinet top, wincing as her shoulder muscles protested. Hard to believe that only a few months ago she’d thought nothing of dancing all night, playing tennis all morning and spending the afternoon hanging a benefit art exhibit.

At least she no longer had trouble sleeping. A fast warm shower, a couple of acetominaphen caplets and she was out like a light. Over the past few months she’d lost count of all the nights she had lain awake, tunneling through endless caverns in search of answers that continued to elude her. Answers to questions such as, who could possibly have embezzled so much money without anyone’s noticing in a small firm that was bristling with accountants? Oh, she’d heard all about the fancy shell games—most of them actually legal—that were played by some of the largest accounting firms. The fact remained, why hadn’t anyone noticed until it was too late? What had happened to the money?

And why on earth hadn’t she gone for an MBA instead of wasting her time on folk music, literature and art history?

Although, not even 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.

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.