Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“Well, Bruce is pretty much in charge here. So far, it’s worked out good. The owner shows up once or twice a year, so Bruce feels like he’s king of the castle, such as it is. But let me tell ya something.” She leaned toward me and I unconsciously followed suit, like we were a couple of high school pals exchanging confidences. “He’s really gone off the deep end since Tom died. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be able to handle things. I get the feeling it’s going to be up to me after a while. Mind you, I have no interest in taking his place, but I may have to, at least until they get a new manager.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” Rhonda called. Skip poked his head inside.

“Hey, Rhon, can I grab you a sec?”

“Sure.” She took a few moments to close out the computer program she’d been working in, then said, “’Scuse me a moment.”

“No problem.”

Rhonda left, shutting the door. I looked after her, then at the paperwork on her desk. I wondered how long she was going to be. I waited a few seconds, just in case she came back for something, then got up.

Tiptoeing with exaggerated care to the desk, the theme to the Pink Panther running through my mind, I shuffled through the papers. Something caught my attention right off the bat—they were statements for two or three different accounts, issued by First Bank of Laurel.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of local businesses banked there. One of the accounts had started the reporting cycle with a five-figure sum, then dropped to almost nothing. Another account picked up a large sum, roughly the same amount the first account had lost. I checked the dates. The statements were recent, same month.

Could the accounts be linked to the identity thefts? Or could Schaeffer have been involved in some other shenanigans?

And what did Rhonda really think of all this? She had to think something was rotten at Aces High when she looked at this stuff, particularly since Schaeffer was so secretive. Maybe she was afraid to speak up about it. Or maybe she chose to ignore it. See no evil, hear no evil.

The accounts had Connie Ash’s name on them. Did that mean he opened the accounts? Maybe he was more involved with the business than he let on.

I thought I heard a noise outside the door and paused, watching the knob. Feeling pressed for time, I shuffled quickly through other papers on the desk, being careful not to move things.

A phone and a wooden inbox sat to one side. The inbox contained a small stack of papers. The one on top had a yellow sticky note, with Bruce, What the hell are these? Rhonda scribbled on it. I took a closer look. It was a printed list of social security numbers with amounts next to them. As I scanned the list, something caught my eye. I thought I saw my social security number.

I heard the rattle of the doorknob.

Chapter EIGHTEEN

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I dropped the paper as if it were contaminated and scurried rabbit-like back to the chair. The door opened. Skip was saying something about a delivery.

“That should be here soon,” Rhonda said. “They usually come early.” She dropped back into her chair and crossed her legs at the knee.

“How about the glassware?” Skip asked.

“Later tonight, probably after we close.”

“Great.” He looked relieved. “Thanks for taking care of that.” He closed the door.

She looked at me and smiled. “Sorry again. Where were we?”

I tore my thoughts from what I thought I’d seen. “Bruce’s personal problems since Tom’s death. You said he might lose his job?”

“Right, that was it. I think the shock of finding Tom dead in his place did a number on him, ’cause he hasn’t been the same since. Always snappin’ at people.”

“Like at the gym that night with me?”

“Yeah,” Rhonda said. “It’s been getting worse, too. Last time I saw him, I think he was drunk. We were supposed to have our usual meeting to catch up on things, and he was late. When we did meet, he didn’t seem to give a damn about anything. He seems to be less and less involved these days.” She sighed. “Someone’s gotta run this place.”

Both Garvey and Schaeffer seemed to have drinking problems. Was Schaeffer upset because Garvey was dead? Did he kill Garvey? Or was there something else that upset them both?

“I was wondering,” I said. “You said the books were screwed up. Would it be possible for me to, you know, take a peek at them?”

She looked guarded. “I don’t know ... why would you need to see that?”