The interviewer’s next question—“Would you share some of your picks for future gains?”—had the greedy part of Dixie’s mind picturing thousand-dollar bills flooding her account. But before she could get to the good part, the receptionist appeared beside her, footsteps muffled by the thick pile carpet.
“Mr. Jackson’s free now, Ms. Flannigan. I placed your tea in his office.”
Dragging her gaze reluctantly from the magazine article, Dixie followed the woman. Down a silent hallway, they entered an office as crowded as an auctioneer’s warehouse.
Tastefully
crowded—with exquisite furniture of various periods and countries.
The carved ebony desk appeared to be antique and probably cost more than Dixie’s yearly earnings. A pair of guest
chairs faced it, but the receptionist motioned Dixie to a conversation area in one corner, where the “silver-haired wizard” closed a notebook he’d been writing in and stood to greet her.
Adorning the wall behind him was an African mask, four feet tall with scowling mouth and raffia beard. Brutal and primitive, the mask framed the man so dramatically, Dixie wondered if Jackson posed there for all his first-time visitors. In comparison, he appeared even more elegant than in the magazine photo.
“Hope you don’t mind getting comfortable,” he said. “It’s cozier over here.”
“Fine.” Dixie shook hands, certain she only imagined the hint of electricity when they touched. She sank into the chair he offered—the kind she hated, all fluff and air.
His own, firmer chair placed him a few inches higher than her, and it struck Dixie that he wasn’t a tall man, possibly five-ten or -eleven. He composed himself to appear tall. And the chair differences allowed him to lean back, cross his legs comfortably, and still retain the advantage of height.
“Mrs. Pine’s … death must be terribly traumatic for her family,” Jackson said. “I keep thinking it had to be some horrible mistake … that lovely woman … all those eager police officers.” He picked up his gold-rimmed porcelain teacup.
Dixie’s identical cup sat gleaming on the table separating them. When she reached for it, her gaze met his, and her breath caught.
You’re the most exceptional creature in the world
, his look said.
I’ve waited all my life for this moment with you.
She stared down at her tea.
How did he do that?
All thought of what she’d come for had escaped her. She concentrated on the amber liquid swirling in her cup.
Oh, yes.
“Your receptionist told me you were between appointments,” she said. “So I won’t waste your time. How long were you associated with Edna Pine?”
He stirred his tea, rhythmically, tiny back and forth
clicks
with his gold-plated spoon. When she looked up again, his gaze rested on her face.
Charisma is in the eyes
, a religious philosopher had once told her.
Everything else, the mannerisms, the clothes, even the
voice, can be cultivated. But when a pair of eyes can nail you to your seat, watch out.
Jackson had the sort of charisma that didn’t go on each morning with his thousand-dollar suit and diamond pinky ring. It dripped from his baritone voice and drifted like exotic oil from his exquisitely tanned skin. And it did beckon from his eyes—wide, direct, espresso-brown, and filled with the promise of excitement. Adventure. Passion.
Get a grip, woman.
Dixie focused on the primitive African mask.
“I can have Sherry get the file,” Jackson was saying, “and give you the exact date. Are you representing the Pine estate, Ms. Flannigan?”
Dixie had hoped the word “attorney” on her card would take them past this part. Maybe she should’ve accepted that dollar retainer from Belle.
“I represent Edna’s son, Marty Pine. We’re trying to piece together his mother’s life during the months before she died. You handled Edna’s investments?”
“Some of them. After her husband’s death, we assessed his investment decisions. We were gradually converting the low-performance assets.”
“Like …?”
“Again, I’d have to look at the file. Am I to assume that Mr. Pine inherited his mother’s entire portfolio?”
Here they were in the sticky part again. Marty’s inheritance surely included
some
investments. To Dixie, finances remained a mystery.
“He’s her only living relative,” she hedged.
“I see. Well, as I said, her husband handled the portfolio until his death. Like many widows, Mrs. Pine didn’t have a clue what to do with it before she came to me. Money languishing in a bank is a waste, wouldn’t you agree?”
“A waste?”
“In the right place, money attracts money. In the wrong place, it’s like a freeloading cousin. Have you ever found money stuck away in a drawer or a pocket, money you’d forgotten for years?”
“I suppose—”
“It feels like found treasure, doesn’t it? But the truth is, the money lost value while it sat in the drawer. Invested wisely, it might have doubled or tripled. Tucking money in a savings account is only slightly smarter than hiding it in a drawer.” He let the sentence hang there a moment, his eyes never leaving Dixie’s. Then, “Does an intelligent woman like you have money languishing, Ms. Flannigan?”
Dixie had a compelling urge to dash home, scoop up all her financial records, and dump them at Jackson’s feet, the same way she’d pressed her birthday money into Barney’s hands all those years ago.
You figure it out
, she wanted to say.
Take care of it for me.
“I’d rather stick to the subject of Edna’s money,” she replied.
Jackson leaned over to a phone on a side table and touched an intercom button.
“Sherry, locate the Edna Pine file, please.” He smiled at Dixie as if everything were perfectly settled now. “Once I have verification of the transfer of ownership to your client, Ms. Flannigan, my secretary will deliver the file. And if Mr. Pine has questions about future investments, I’ll be happy to discuss them.” He set his teacup on the coffee table and started to rise. “Unless there’s something else …?”
With an effort, Dixie remained seated, ignoring the part of her that wanted to jump up and bow out of the room, now that she’d been dismissed by the king.
“Where did you and Edna Pine meet?” she asked.
His eyebrow rose a fraction as he settled back in his chair. “That’s an unusual question.”
“Mr. Jackson, I don’t have time for subtlety. You undoubtedly know the circumstances of Edna’s death.”
“Of course. The police asked similar questions. I couldn’t tell them much, either.”
They’d probably found Jackson’s name the same way Dixie had and wanted to know if Edna came into any sudden cash following the other bank robberies.
“Your name appears in Edna’s records for the first time last
May,” Dixie said. “Surely there’s nothing confidential about how she came to choose you.”
“We were introduced by a mutual friend.”
“The friend’s name?” Dixie sipped her tea to avoid meeting Jackson’s eyes. She couldn’t be mesmerized and insistent at the same time. “I’m sure Mr. Pine will appreciate your cooperation when he decides whether you’ll continue to handle the Pine portfolio.”
Another second or two passed before Jackson replied.
“I met Mrs. Pine when she and I both attended a Fortyniners event, the Houston Grand Opera’s opening of
Rigoletto
at Wortham Theater.”
“Fortyniners?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“A church-sponsored club for singles old enough to enjoy being single. I notice you’re not wearing a ring.”
Jackson made his observation sound almost intimate. Dixie resisted rubbing her ring finger. “Which church?”
“Uptown Interdenominational. Do you know it?”
She shook her head. “I thought singles clubs went out with the eighties. Replaced by find-a-mate columns.”
“Not at all. Some of us appreciate the finer points of
not
mating. We enjoy one another’s company without necessarily expecting to take a friend home for … closer communication.” Jackson gazed at her steadily. “I can see you’re on the young side of forty, Ms. Flannigan, but we’re flexible. Would you like to drop by our happy-hour fiesta tomorrow night, meet some of Mrs. Pine’s friends? I’m sure they can tell you much more than I can.”
Friends
, the magic word. Exactly the sort of information Dixie needed.
“Yes, I’d like that. Do you suppose I’ll meet the person who introduced you to Edna?”
“Vernice Urich,” Jackson said, somewhat grudgingly. “Yes, I’m sure she’ll be there.”
Another name from Edna’s calendar.
In the phone book, a string of letters followed it, including “Ph.D.”
Accepting the card Jackson offered, Dixie felt the brush of his hand and that same subtle tingle. She noticed his nails, as
smooth and well groomed as Marty’s. Wanting to shove her own hands into her pockets—and realizing belatedly the black suit had no pockets—she slid the card into the black handbag she carried. She hated handbags.
“One more question. Was Lucy Aaron Ames also your client?”
“Ames … I know that name … Oh.” He shook his head, managing to look offended without losing composure. “Do you suppose I make a career of dealing with bank robbers?”
“Did you
know
Lucy Ames?”
His phone buzzed. “No, I didn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Dixie couldn’t decide if he was lying. “What if I can’t make it tomorrow night? Can I drop in another time, without a special invitation?”
“Anytime,” he said absently. He glanced at the blinking telephone button, yet made no move toward it. “Fortyniners has a different event nearly every night, but only one happy hour a week. Edna never missed it.”
Edna?
So they’d been on a first-name basis, after all.
The door opened and the receptionist stepped in.
“Your client has arrived, Mr. Jackson.”
“Thanks, Sherry.” He reached for the phone. “Please make sure Ms. Flannigan takes a brochure on her way out.”
Then his eyes caught Dixie’s again, and although his gaze never dipped below her mouth, a sudden warmth registered at the V of her blouse. If he controlled money as well as he controlled the room temperature, Dixie decided, maybe she’d have a look at that brochure. She couldn’t help wondering how Terrence Jackson’s dazzling demeanor would’ve affected her had she been sixty-six and groping for a scrap of self-esteem.
She saw no one waiting in the reception area. Of course, Sherry might’ve shown the caller to another room. Was Jackson that secretive about his clients meeting one another? According to the
Financial Times
article, some of them were moderately famous. Or notorious.
Once she crossed to the elevator, there’d be no opportunity to snoop into other rooms.
“Sherry, where is the ladies’ room?” she asked as she accepted the promotional folder.
“Left at the end of the hall, then it’s the first door.”
Dixie tried the knob on the only door besides Jackson’s that opened into the hall. It held a conference table, an audiovisual wall, and no secrets. Beyond the rest rooms, two more doors were locked. To the right of the hall, a single door opened into a small room with a sofa and chairs, as richly appointed as the main reception area, but more intimate. No one was there.
As Dixie left the offices of the “Millennium Midas” thirty-eight floors behind her, the heady scent of ylang-ylang slowly dissipated. The power of Jackson’s presence took a while longer.
“I told Marty he could stay with us as long as he wants,” Amy informed Dixie, spreading a layer of pecan halves on a baking sheet. “Flying back and forth to Dallas, he can’t be staying in hotels. He needs family around.”
Amy’s kitchen smelled of cinnamon and chocolate. A pecan fudge pie cooled on a rack. While Dixie was in Mike’s exercise class, two messages had come, one from her sister, one from Marty. She’d stopped by to bring Marty up to date and found him on the phone, arguing with someone at his gallery. A few words floated into the kitchen now, all of them concerning money.
Spying a pie-filling pot about to sink into sudsy water, Dixie rescued it. Her sister’s pecan fudge was good to the last scrape.
“I suppose we’re as close to family as Marty has now,” she admitted, plucking a tablespoon from the drawer.
“And we’re nearer Hobby airport than Edna’s house. Anyway, he doesn’t need to be around all those dusty old memories.”
Obviously, Amy hadn’t seen Edna’s newly spotless home.
“Did he go back to Dallas last night?”
Her sister nodded. “Flew right back again this morning.” She poured cake batter over the pecan halves.
“Amy, how much weight has Carl gained in the past three days?”
“He’s at golf now, working it off. I’m the one fat sticks to. Twenty minutes a day on that rowing machine or I’d be a tubby.”
No point in telling her to stop baking. Without that, Amy’s nerves would never hold up to having Marty around, keeping the whole robbery-shooting episode fresh on everyone’s mind.
“Don’t you have any low-fat recipes?”
“They’re no fun. Dixie, we need to plan Edna’s funeral, and Marty refuses to hold it until you clear her name.”
“I don’t know that we’ll ever ‘clear her name.’ Regardless of why she robbed the bank, or who ended up with the money, she shot a police officer.”
“That was an accident. She wasn’t shooting
at
the officer. She shot in the air and just got, I don’t know, startled, and one of the bullets hit something and hit something else—what’s that called?”
“Ricocheted.”
“The Channel 13 newspeople were talking about it, only the cops won’t say, but a newswoman interviewed some of the people watching from their homes and they swore Edna wasn’t shooting
at
those officers.”
Dixie’d heard that hypothesis, too. It certainly lent more credence to the suicide theory. Perhaps some crackpot worked out the robbery details, then located desperate people who wanted to save their families from the guilt associated with suicides, or wanted to beat the suicide clause in their insurance policies, or were just too chicken to kill themselves.