Fatal Impulse: A Widow's Web Novel Read online

  “How long will that take?” Andi massaged her temple with her fingers.

  “Hard to say. I asked her worst case scenario. She said it sometimes takes a couple of years.”

  Andi sat up and stared at the basket of bills on the kitchen counter. More came in the mail every day. How could she possibly keep up?

  Dana said, “I’m sorry. I’ve asked her to do everything she can to expedite the claim.”

  “I know. I appreciate it. I really do.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her blood pressure was probably through the roof. “I’ve got something on the stove. Got to run.”

  She gripped the receiver in white knuckled hands. Though she’d told herself not to count on that money, she had been. Every scenario she imagined included using that money to pay off her debts. What would she do now? What could she do?

  She shook her head. No sense wallowing in self pity. She grabbed the Morning Sentinel and went to the den to peruse the classified ads and apply for jobs. Most jobs that offered benefits and decent pay required a degree and, even more often, experience, which Andi sorely lacked. One job promised “interesting work with new challenges every day for the person with good interpersonal communication and research skills, possibility of working out of home.” It sounded great, but was for a private investigator by the name of Jimmy Webster out of Bangor. It sounded good, but she didn’t think she could work for a grown man who still went by the name Jimmy. He was either awfully young or a mobster.

  She kept reading, and another ad caught her attention. The local tourism office needed someone to hand out brochures and direct people who needed assistance. The pay wasn’t great, but they weren’t picky about qualifications, either. It would mean an income, though piddly, but more importantly, experience.

  Andi sat down at the computer and created a resume. It needed massaging, since she didn’t have any work experience. At least she could include things like serving on the Friends of the Library Board, and other charitable functions she’d helped with since she’d been in Buccaneer Bay. The printer beeped to alert her to add paper, so Andi opened the top drawer of Chad’s desk to retrieve his linen stationery. When she pulled out a few sheets, a sheaf of papers of a different color caught her eye. She pulled them out of the drawer.

  They were photocopies, and poor ones at that. Whoever copied them had done a sloppy job, resulting in crooked pages. The top of the first page was cut off, but the words “Woodson Enterprises, Inc.” were printed right below whatever was missing. It looked like some sort of accounting document, with columns and numbers – lots of very big numbers. She flipped to the back page and saw that it had indeed come from a CPA’s office, and had been copied to Benson Harrington III - the same attorney who prepared Chad’s new will.

  She scanned the document again, but paid more attention to the last paragraph, which was entitled “Summary of Valuation.” It said there were 50,000 authorized shares of common capital stock in Woodson Enterprises, Inc., with each share valued at $10,000. She raised her eyebrows and whistled. No small potatoes. A table with names in the first column – August Woodson, Caren Woodson, Portia Woodson, and other names were too blurry to read - included a list of certificate numbers in the second column, and a final column that said ‘total number of shares’. A thick, bold circle highlighted the words Initial Public Offering at the bottom of the page. It was all Greek to her, but she’d seen enough movies and read enough books to recognize that whoever owned those certificates owned the company – and the company was worth a hell of a lot of money.

  Like most people down east, she’d heard of Woodson Enterprises. Who in this part of Maine hadn’t? But she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what Chad would be doing with something like that, even if by some strange quirk of fate he actually had been having an affair with a Woodson. The quick photocopy job made Andi wonder if he was supposed to have it. Right behind the valuation packet was a legal pad with notes written in Chad’s small, neat print. There was a notation about current value of tourmaline, something about a geological survey and mineral rights, and then a bunch of numbers - 44°25′34.2″N 68°14′47.9″W - next to the words “pegmatite dike.”

  None of it made sense, but the stuff about the pegmatite dike reminded Andi of the sticky note she’d found that marked a page in the Maine gem book. She hurried out to the living room and opened the book. It fell open to a picture of a large crystal that looked similar to the rocks in the valet with Chad’s diamond cufflinks. According to the author, pegmatite dikes were elongated veins of gems that could be anywhere from half a foot to several feet thick, and the veins could run for hundreds of feet.

  If Chad found what she thought he had, it could be worth more money than she could imagine. But what did that have to do with Woodson Enterprises?

  The telephone rang and she picked up the receiver from the end table. The recorded voice, a woman, likely chosen for her kind but firm demeanor, calmly told her that her phone service would be disconnected in five days unless payment in full was received.

  She sighed, then squared her shoulders and returned to the den, where she tucked it all back in the drawer and made a mental note to check it out thoroughly after she dealt with the more immediate issue – the necessary business of finding a job. She filled the printer, printed her resume, and headed for the Chamber of Commerce.

  The woman at the Chamber was very nice, and seemed sympathetic to Andi’s situation. Mildred Stevens was closer to 60 than 50, with close-cropped silver hair. “I’m afraid we don’t have much in the budget for salaries.”

  Anything was better than nothing. “I understand.”

  “I’m afraid there aren’t many benefits, either. We do offer six days off a year, for whatever reason you need, sick or personal or vacation.” She peered at Andi over her reading glasses. “But we don’t get holidays off.”

  Andi’d already gotten a call about the phone. The internet and cable had been disconnected. How long would it be before the electric was shut off? “I understand.”

  The older woman smiled apologetically and tilted her head, “And the hours aren’t regular. Are you sure you are interested?”

  “Absolutely,” Andi bobbed her head, then stopped, not wanting to appear too needy. “When do you expect to interview for the position?”

  The woman reminded Andi of the local librarian who taught her a love of books when she was a child. She glanced around the cramped office overflowing with files and loose papers, all in neatly organized stacks. The older woman motioned for Andi to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair, while she took a seat behind the desk.

  “I’m Mildred Stevens, the office manager.” She peered over her glasses just as the librarian had when Andi was twelve and had asked her where to find the book about the dog by Stephen King. She pulled the glasses off and let them dangle on a beaded strand. “What do you know about local tourism?”

  “I moved here with my husband six years ago, and have had a wonderful time exploring the area. This island has so much to offer. As an outsider, I know what appeals to the tourists, and what questions they don’t know enough to ask.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and chewed on the tip of the earpiece of her glasses. “That’s an interesting take.”

  “I’m eager to work, and willing to do whatever needs to be done.” Andi pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to seem too eager.

  The woman crossed her legs and knocked over a stack of books. The toppled stack reached nearly to the edge of her desk. Andi immediately slid from the chair and began to restack the paperbacks. She held up one of the novels. “Lea Waite - I love her Antique Print series.”

  Ms. Stevens nodded her approval. “I’m a fan, also.” She bent to help restack the books.

  Andi said, “You know, there are a lot of writers from Maine. Have you ever thought about having writers come to the Harbor Fest?”

  “Of co
urse. You know, Bangor attracts a lot of readers as tourists, but that has slowed down a bit since Stephen King moved to Florida.”

  “Well, there’s Lea. Paul Doiron. I bet they’d help us get in touch with other Maine writers.”

  “Interesting idea.” The woman straightened in her chair, then picked up an elegant burgundy fountain pen and began to tap it on her desk. “Perhaps Portia Woodson would be willing to help. She’s become a bit of a patron of the arts.”

  “Is she part of the famous Woodson family? From up by Bangor, right?”

  “Yes, she’s August Woodson’s granddaughter. So sad. Her parents were killed in a horrible automobile accident a few years ago, and her father was the only son of August Woodson. That girl and her sister will inherit a fortune when he passes away.”

  “That’s so sad,” Andi murmured. Chad would have been set for life if he had survived. Once he divorced her, of course.

  “Yes, it is. And it sounds like Auggie Woodson isn’t doing well. The poor girl and her sister will have a lot of their shoulders when the old man passes away.”

  She shook her head slowly, then slipped her glasses back on and studied the application centered on the desk in front of her. After a moment, she peered at Andi over the rims and said, “Aren’t you the woman whose husband just died?”

  “That’s right.” Andi squared the stack of books and slipped back into her seat.

  The woman pursed her red lips. “You sure you’re ready to start a new job?”

  Andi nodded.

  Mildred raised her thin eyebrows and lowered her chin even more, “It’s been quite a while since you’ve held down a job, Mrs. Adams.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I assure you, I’m motivated. I need a job. Frankly, I need the money.”

  The older woman snorted and frowned, “Well, this isn’t a charity. And this isn’t a counseling service for new widows. You work for me, you work. Understand?”

  Andi suppressed a smile and nodded. “If you take a chance with me, you won’t regret it. I’m a hard worker.”

  “You’ll have to be. Tourist season is upon us.” Ms. Stevens pulled a paper from one of the folders on her desk and slid it across to Andi, “Fill this out, then I’ll give you a set of keys. Report to work Saturday morning at 9 o’clock sharp. Any questions?”

  Andi neatly filled out the W-9, then handed it to Ms. Stevens, who gave her a quick rundown of what to wear and what exactly the job would entail. The urge to sing the Mary Tyler Moore theme was overwhelming as she left the building, and headed home, proud of herself for getting a job. The very first job she applied for. It took her the rest of the week to decide what to wear on her first day of work.

  The job itself wasn’t much of a challenge, but it gave her a regular schedule. She had a purpose, someplace to go, a reason to get dressed in the morning. Her new “office” had a storefront that looked like a little white cottage. Various potted plants and two Adirondack chairs filled the front porch. Inside, there was a display counter showing artifacts that had been found in the area, a few examples of rough gemstones for the rockhounders, and a display on lobstering. Pictures of happy people fishing, sailing and otherwise enjoying the water hung around the perimeter of the room. The tourists who came in were nice for the most part, though sometimes tired and cranky.

  In her free time, Andi read the brochures and discovered that there were a lot of attractions in the state that she didn’t know about. Her mother always said that about Missouri, too – lots of great things to do and see within driving distance, but everyone thinks they’ve got to leave the state when they go on vacation.

  Andi collected brochures and studied the maps, making plans to explore the area on her days off. One of the proudest days of her life was the following Friday, when she arrived at the little office and discovered an envelope in the drawer with her name on it. She slipped her thumb under the flap and tore it open to find her very first paycheck. Sure, she’d had part-time jobs when she was in high school and college, and worked as a waitress during college. But she’d never had a real job before, nothing full time. Once Chad entered her life, there was never another thought of a career.

  It had been a whirlwind romance, and he was offered a thriving dental practice in Buccaneer Bay before he even graduated, thanks to his family’s connections. Her mother had been heartbroken when Andi dropped out of college to get married. He insisted that there was no need for her to finish school, since her job would be to take care of him. At first, she’d been happy to go along with him.

  But now she was making it on her own, delighted to discover it was a good feeling. She photocopied the check before depositing it, framed the copy and hung it in the den.

  Shortly after she got the job, she was running errands in town when she spotted the colorful window display at Bunch o’ Blooms. Instantly, she remembered the second, smaller funeral spray. The older woman behind the counter had slightly gnarled fingers and sharp blue eyes.

  Andi explained, “My husband, Chad Adams, died in May, and you prepared the floral arrangements for his funeral.”

  “Ayuh.” The woman stared at Andi through narrowed eyes.

  “There was a smaller arrangement that was so thoughtful. I’m working on thank yous, and want to make sure I send a note to the person who sent it, but the card got separated from the arrangement.” Andi stopped when she realized the words were tumbling out too quickly.

  “You’re not from ‘round these parts.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Andi shook her head. It wasn’t the first time she felt like an outsider. Locals tended to think you were a stranger if you weren’t a third generation Mainer. Andi’s shoulders dropped and she turned to leave.

  “Most young folks don’t get the importance of hand writing thank you notes anymore.” The woman looked skeptical, but pulled a stack of order slips from beneath the counter and flipped through them.

  Andi froze.

  Finally, the woman said, “Ah, here it is. Ordered by someone at Woodson Enterprises. Home office in Bangor is the billing address. No name.”

  Andi nodded, thanked her for her time, and wondered how her husband had ever gotten involved with an heiress. Detective Johnson seemed to know more about Chad than Andi did, but it wasn’t as though she could ask him about it over coffee.

  As each day passed, she began to worry less about her dead husband, and began to think that she might truly survive by herself. The burden of being a widow, of being alone in the world became a little easier to bear as time went by, even on a shoestring budget. At least her water and electric hadn’t been shut off. Detective Johnson hadn’t made an encore appearance, the sun shone brightly, and bright dandelions dotted the yard. Andi’s tennis shoes crunched in the gravel as she walked down the curved driveway to the mailbox. The mailman returned her wave as he continued along his route.

  She pulled the various envelopes and catalogs out of the box and flipped through them as she walked back towards the house. Her feet stopped moving of their own accord when she saw a plain brown envelope. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and her stomach did a little back flip. She slipped her thumb in and tore the envelope open, then pulled a single sheet of paper out.

  “I know what you did, and you have something I want. I will be in touch.”

  Ever since she’d woken up in bed after the accident, there had been the nagging fear that the police would come and take her away to live out her days in a small concrete cell, and now this. The weight of the world crushed her like a bug.

  Now it wasn’t just the police she had to worry about. She looked up and down the quiet residential street. Someone was out there, watching her.

  Was that person following her?

  She jogged up the driveway, heart and mind racing.

  13

  Twenty minutes later, she stood in line at Harbor Regional Bank,
the check from the attorney and a completed deposit slip gripped in her hand, the paper crinkled and moist from her sweat. When her turn came, she slid the crumpled check and deposit slip across to the teller, a well-endowed young woman who looked like she was trying too hard to be attractive. The blonde peered at Andi, then at the deposit slip, then examined the check carefully. When she looked down, her fake eyelashes lit on her cheeks like butterflies.

  The lashes fluttered up and she pursed her lips. “It’ll be just a moment, Mrs. Adams.”

  She stepped around the counter, hurried across the lobby and whispered to a man in a glass-enclosed office. The two peered out at Andi, then bent close and whispered some more. The woman pointed at the check, then hooked her thumb towards the lobby. Panic began to build. Andi glanced at the door, and debated for a moment on running. Her eyes slid back to the suited man. He nodded, then he and the teller came out and approached Andi. She swallowed hard, hoping that the others in line couldn’t hear her heart thudding in her chest.

  “Mrs. Adams, could I see you a moment?” The man said as he motioned for her to follow him to his office.

  As she strode across the lobby, she felt the eyes of everyone in the bank on her back. She held her head high and walked with all the confidence she could muster. He sat behind his desk and she took a seat in a poorly cushioned blue chair that was surely uncomfortable on purpose.

  Her voice cracked when she asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, heavens, no! I simply wanted to suggest some options for you.” He pulled some brightly colored brochures from a stand on his desk and spread them out like a deck of cards.

  It took every ounce of self-control to keep from letting her breath out in a whoosh. He started by saying that he didn’t intend to pry, and then did just that because he assumed the check drawn on the attorney’s trust account was an inheritance. After a brief explanation on Andi’s part, he proceeded to tell her about the various investments available, and explained that an interest bearing account would be to her benefit. He jotted a few figures down for her, and it dawned on her that she knew nothing about money, how to invest it or spend it wisely. Her head swam with figures and decisions.