The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 58

Since I first learned how much she knew about his activities, I'd always wondered why James Seaver hadn't killed Sheryl Jansen. He had a reputation for being quick to eliminate anyone he saw posing any danger to him. Or why he hadn't worked around the reliable Ainsworth's travel schedule to have the professional kill and bury Theresa. Or, for that matter, why Seaver let Ricky Mason live after the man had screwed up and killed Brian Pierce, doing so in front of a witness.

He needed bystanders under his control who could pass a polygraph attesting to Theresa's "death" and burial. But they had to be too undependable in the eyes of a competent DA to withstand defense cross-examination in a criminal court.

I had to admit - at least to myself - that it impressed me they'd pulled this off. But if there was more to this story, I couldn't wait to hear it.

"Doc's an arrogant prick," Margorie said, "and he doesn't see anyone he thinks inferior as being a threat."

"That comes across loud and clear," I said, remembering the conversation in the hall outside my apartment.

"He wanted a deal from me in exchange for his help to get me out of the mess he created," Margorie said with a derisive smile on her face. "Doc expected me to give him any signatures he'd need on legal documents and access to enough money to close out all the scams he was working. He made two mistakes. Doc should have gotten my signatures first. And he should never have just trusted me for the money."

"What made him think you'd give him the money?" I asked.

"I 'accidentally' left my online banking app open on my laptop screen, showing money I had in one of my accounts," Margorie replied. "I gave him the account and routing numbers but told him he couldn't have the online password until I was 'dead.' The idiot bought it."

"He thought he had you wrapped around his little finger...," I said.

"His screwup," Margorie acknowledged. "I don't know why he thought he'd still have his hooks in me once I was in the wind. But on the morning of the staged homicide, I cleaned out all the accounts he knew about and sent the money offshore. But it gets better."

"How so?" I asked.

"He told me the police couldn't arrest him," Margorie said. "Their witnesses would be too weak. They had no body, they couldn't find physical evidence of a murder that never actually happened, and he had good lawyers. He thought as long as I stayed elsewhere, he could put all the blame for his other problems on his now-dead wife... me."

"Sloughing the nasty parts off onto other people—the approach he takes to everything," I mused.

"Then, if there was too much heat and it looked like he was going down for my murder," Margorie continued, "I was supposed to just pop up and say, 'Hey, here I am, guys!' The cops would look like fools. Doc could play the victim of harassment. We'd expose the unreliable witnesses for what they were, and I'd play the ditzy woman having a field day on my dead daddy's money."

"He could fix everything else by throwing around more of your money," I observed.

"Of course," Margorie said. "So, when your guy with the letters...."

"Brian Pierce," I interjected.

"Yes, the one in the house the night we moved the body," Margorie confirmed. "When he turned up as a third witness to dumping the body, and then that shit-for-brains Ricky Mason killed him, Doc freaked out. He demanded I come back home. Demanded. Oh, and he would be so gracious as to forgive me for writing the multi-million dollar bounced check - like he was doing me this huge favor. What an ass."

"The arrogant prick thing," I said.

"Exactly," Margorie said. "I do wish I had told him on a Zoom call where I could have seen his expression, but I was worried it would be too easy to record or trace. Still, I can imagine his jaw dropping to the floor when I told him I was staying right where I was. And not only that, but I had recorded evidence of him killing the two prostitutes out by the Navy base and kept it in a safe deposit box. I told him I'd had the second hooker's body moved, and he'd never find it. Without it, he had nothing to show the authorities if he wanted to change the story about me being dead.

"If he so much as breathed a word about me being alive to anyone, he might get out of killing me, but he'd go down for two more homicides."

Margorie pressed the button to lower the privacy partition and then tapped on the partition's frame to get the driver's attention.

"Edward, take us back to the Hotel Del so we can drop Debra Ann off."

Raising the privacy partition again, Margorie made it clear our conversation was over.

"Don't try to find me," she said. "I won't have the same name or be in the same place when you go looking. The gum will give you DNA to prove who I am, but there's no chain of custody, so the authorities can't use it as evidence. The same goes for your audio recording."

Margorie pointed at the manila envelope I was hugging.

"I've given you the locations of the two hookers' bodies and the proof of their murder."

"Proof in what form?" I asked, curious how solid it might be.

"You'll see. Look, those girls didn't deserve what happened to them," she continued, "and if I could take it all back, I would. As I promised on the phone, you'll get your choice whether you want to set things right for them and how you'll go about it. But I think you know there's a cost."

With that, the limo stopped, and Edward opened the door to let me out. I looked back at Margorie, who was again wearing her sunglasses and floppy hat. I wasn't sure what to say.

And so, I said nothing, walking to the curb silently as Edward closed the door and they soon drove off.