Her Man Friday(7)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Coming here to Kimball’s estate was a last resort. Leo knew it. The board of directors knew it. If he didn’t find anything here, then he was, as the students at St. Francis in the Fields parochial school used to say, S.O.L.

That was why he was confident that there was something here. And that was why he suspected that not only did Schuyler Kimball know about the missing funds, he was doubtless responsible for them. Naturally, Leo had voiced those very suspicions to the board of directors, but they had all but shouted him down before he’d even finished justifying his feelings.

It was impossible, they had assured him, that Kimball could be the one funneling the money elsewhere. And not just because Schuyler Kimball was a complete tightwad, a man who didn’t spend money on anything other than himself. But because there was no way he would filter money anywhere, unless it was into a personal account. And if the money were going into a personal account, then why would he be so secretive about it? It was his money, after all.

Leo still didn’t have an answer to that. But he intended to find one. As far as he was concerned, there were all kinds of reasons that a man might keep a secret bank account, few of them legitimate or ethical. Nevertheless, he’d been hired to find out what had happened to fifty million dollars last fiscal year. And that was what he would do. After that, whatever happened would be between the board of directors and Schuyler Kimball. Frankly, it was none of Leo’s concern who did what with Kimball’s money, so long as he found it, as he had been hired to do.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of people in the company who were doing what with Kimball’s money, something that had significantly hampered Leo’s search. Every office at every outpost of Kimball Technologies claimed someone who had the authority to okay the transfer or spending of funds. At least there was always a ceiling on how much those people entrusted with money could spend, but even at that, there was way too much room—and opportunity—for error. And for doubt. And for theft.

So far, there was no one other than Kimball whom Leo suspected of dabbling in a little creative bookkeeping. Still, that didn’t rule out the possibility completely that there might be a thief at large. But if it wasn’t Kimball doing the funneling, then there was someone, somewhere, who was. And if it wasn’t Kimball, then whoever was doing it had no right to do it, something that made the perpetrator a sneaky, finkish little crook. And if that was the case, then there was a good chance that the thief was someone right here at the estate, right under Kimball’s nose. So Leo rehearsed in his head again what little he knew about the inhabitants of Ashling.

Anybody who knew their way around a computer could find a way to "update" a file in a manner that was in no way legal. There were scores of daily workers who pretty much roamed freely about Ashling. There were doubtless regular visitors—many of them Kimball’s colleagues and employees—who might use their visiting time for a little recreational stealing. Kimball’s mother and sister also lived here with him. And who knew what kind of family dynamics—i.e., dysfunctions—were indigenous to the Kimballs of Bucks County?

Too, as reluctant as he was to do it, Leo had to keep Kimball’s social secretary, the delicious Miss Rigby, under consideration. Maybe she wasn’t as quick as a brown fox, but she was the mistress of a man who made women a recreational sport. She might feel like a woman scorned and all that. She might even have an accomplice up her sleeve—or under her slip. Who knew what her real story was?

He made a mental note to find out more about the personal lives of the people living and working at Ashling. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back to watch in silence as row upon row of numbers appeared on the computer screen in front of him. Somewhere in Schuyler Kimball’s well-tended, high-tech, state-of-the-art, billionaire world, there was a rat stealing millions of dollars worth of cheese. And even if it took Leo the rest of the year to do it, he was going to find that rat.

And then, cool as a wheel of Edam, he was going to trap it.

Chapter Three

Lily was in the kitchen, stealing a few moments to brew herself a much-needed cup of tea, when she heard the scream. And not one of those run-of-the-mill, oh-great-what-now kind of screams, either. But a truly horrific, straight-from-the-darkest-part-of-the-soul scream.

And she muttered, "Oh, great. What now?" As usual, a second scream quickly followed the first, and she rolled her eyes heavenward, giving her tea bag a few more quick dips before withdrawing it from the cup to squeeze out the excess with her fingers. As she licked those clean, she used her other hand to add two teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dose of milk to the brew. The third scream—right on schedule—came just as she finished stirring, and she sighed wearily, knowing her much needed cup of afternoon tea would be cold by the time she returned. Again.

She took a moment to shrug back into her suit jacket and tuck her feet back into her shoes, then made her way toward the stairs at the back of the kitchen. Predictably, a fourth—and hopefully final—scream serenaded her as she began her ascent toward the back of the house where her own room was. Her room, and Mrs. Puddleduck’s room, too.

Of course, Mrs. Puddleduck’s name wasn’t really Mrs. Puddleduck. It was something else that only sounded like Puddleduck, but Lily could never remember what it was. At any rate, Schuyler had hired the woman a few months ago—against Lily’s recommendation to the contrary—to be Chloe’s nanny. Even though, at fourteen, Chloe was a bit too old to have a nanny. Even though what Chloe really needed was a companion of equal measure. Like a wolverine, for example. Or that masked butcher from the "Halloween" movies. Or Hermann Goering. Someone along those lines.

"Coming, Mrs. Puddleduck," Lily called out mildly as she topped the last stair that led to her and the nanny’s quarters, hoping that would prevent another bout of screaming. Nevertheless, she hastened her stride toward the other woman’s room. Which was good, because she was opening her mouth for yet another bellow just as Lily entered.

The apartment was nearly identical to her own, painted a creamy shade of pale yellow, with ivory lace curtains covering both of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the garden behind the house. A huge, oval-shaped, hooked floral rug spanned the entirety of the room, not quite obscuring the honey-toned hardwood floor beneath. The furnishings were simple but beautiful—a full bed with an embroidered ivory-on-ivory coverlet, a dresser and bedside table, a rocking chair and armoire, all crafted of exquisite bird’s-eye maple. The mid-afternoon sun spilled through the windows to cast a warm, golden light over it all, dappling the room with lacy shadows.