Could staring at the same four walls for ten years drive you to suicide?
Brooke was saying, “Didn’t you ever go to Haunted Hollow with your friends?”
“Sure. High school grad night.”
“I didn’t know they were around back then!”
There were only six years between them, but sometimes it did feel like he was of a different generation. Zach sighed. “What it is to have a straight man.”
“Sidekick,” Brooke corrected.
Zach ignored that, continuing to read over Zora’s details. She was about a decade older than her husband. And a lot wealthier.
At one time, the Kaschak amusement park empire had been worth nearly a billion dollars, but the family fortunes had fallen—all things being relative—to a mere three hundred million-ish. Was that somehow a factor in Alton’s decision to, er, uncouple? Zora was still worth a lot more money than her husband.
He said slowly, “Honestly, on paper at least, it looks like if anyone’s life is really in danger, Zora’s the more likely victim.”
Brooke’s brows drew together. “You mean, Alton might be setting up—”
She broke off as the door flew open and Pepper Martini breezed in.
“Ready to go?”
“Am I ever!”
Pepper was a short, curvy blonde: the Jeff to Brooke’s Mutt. The pair of them had been BFFs since second grade, meaning she viewed Zach—when she noticed him at all—as a necessary evil. “Hey, Zee.”
“Hey.” Zach nodded hello.
Brooke, postage-stamp-bag in hand, was already out from behind the desk and heading for the door.
“Have a nice—”
The glass door voomped shut on the rest of his comment, Brooke and Pepper talking animatedly and laughing as they passed the front windows and crossed the parking lot, where Pepper’s red Kia Stinger was parked.
Zach sighed, watching them. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and carried the Beacher dossier into his office.
His stomach was growling as he settled at his desk, and he regretted letting Flint chase him off before he’d grabbed something to eat from the deli counter. Ben had his faults, but he had packed a mean brown bag lunch. However, just as man could not live on love alone, neither could he live on lunch alone. Or even three-square meals alone.
Anyway.
Zach flipped open the file and resumed reading.
There was a lot of information to absorb.
And a lot of information missing. For example, no financials on the Beacher Toy Company or the Beacher family. No information on insurance policies or prenuptial agreements. No employment records for those working on the Beacher estate or at Beacher’s company. No family background on Alton and very little on Zora. Did they have children? Siblings? Parents? Did they have friends? Did they know anyone outside this skinny file folder? It sure didn’t look like it.
Was that because Alton was convinced he’d already identified the culprit?
Probably. You couldn’t—shouldn’t—make assumptions based on first impressions, but Alton did not seem like someone prone to second-guessing himself. He’d painted a portrait of a mentally and emotionally unstable woman capable of just about anything. If that was an accurate picture of the situation, he was right to be concerned. There was clearly animosity on both sides—and maybe it was justified on both sides. According to Pop, who probably knew better than most, the most difficult relationship to understand from the outside was marriage.
However, either in an attempt to appear objective or because Alton was a stickler for details, he had supplied one alternate suspect: Ronald (Rusty) Jordan. Jordan was listed as a friend, but he was also clearly a competitor. He owned Old Timey Fun Ltd.
Zach’s gaze zeroed automatically on the jack-in-the-box sitting on the edge of his desk.
He considered the tiny black bead eyes and the miniature felt hands glued to the card printed with the words YOU ARE DEAD. Not subtle, for sure. But would Jordan really send death threats via his own merchandise?
Pretty unlikely, unless the whole point was for Alton to know the threats were from his rival. Even then, wouldn’t there be a less incriminating way for Jordan to get his point across?
It seemed most likely that using toys produced by Old Timey Fun Ltd. was more about throwing dust. Or maybe it was just about expediency.
Unless Jordan was using his own merchandise to create the illusion that someone else was trying to make him look guilty?
Sure. But were Jordan and Alton really competitors? Beacher’s Toy Company crafted beautiful handmade retro-style toys. Whereas Old Timey Fun Ltd. specialized in drowning the market with cheap, mass-produced junk not intended to give more than a few minutes’ amusement. These captains of industry had to be targeting two completely separate market shares.
There was a third suspect, though Alton had not included his younger brother, Ransford, in his dossier. Ransford was only mentioned in passing as Alton built his somewhat halfhearted case against Rusty Jordan. According to Alton, Ransford had accused Jordan of dissolving his company, Pacific Playhouse, after a bankruptcy acquisition.
From Alton’s perspective, this accusation strengthened the case against Jordan. From Zach’s perspective, Ransford was financially pressed, inclined to blame others for his problems, and, very possibly, in Alton’s will.
So, three potential suspects to start with—and a whole lot of legwork ahead. Zach smiled contentedly, glancing at the signed contract still lying on his desk. His first real case. And already profitable before he’d even put in his first day’s work.
There was just one little cloud on the sunny horizon, and that was the fake-boyfriend charade. His face burned again at the recollection of Flint’s derisive you come cheap.
Not that he really gave a damn what Flint thought. Well, he already knew what Flint thought: that it was amateur hour over at Davies Detective Agency. That Zach needed to wake up and sell whatever was left of the business’s assets while there were assets left to sell.
It wasn’t as if Carey Confidential was in such great financial shape either. But at least Flint knew what he was doing.
Okay. Stop.
Zach had been working alongside Pop in various capacities for nearly a decade. He had experience, knew how the business worked. He had his PI license. He wasn’t a complete novice, regardless of what Flint believed.
Regardless of what Flint, Pop, his mother, Ben…
Frankly, everyone but Brooke believed he was out of his mind. And the fact that Brooke was behind him one hundred percent should probably be the most discouraging reflection.
Whatever. When he thought of that beautiful eleven thousand nine hundred dollars sitting in Davies Detective Agency’s business checking account, he felt calm and confident in a way he hadn’t since…since that terrible Sunday afternoon when Pop, who’d never taken a sick day in his life (not including getting shot in the line of duty) had dropped dead mowing the front yard.
Something he really, truly did not want to think about.
Besides, that money was just the advance on the weekend at Pebble Beach. Let’s say the case took a week—which was pretty optimistic, but still. Seven days at five hundred bucks an hour?
Granted, first he had to get through that weekend, and that was where his stomach knotted up and his doubts set in.
Thank God he didn’t have to try and explain any of this to Ben.