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Joanna Brady #9
Avon
July 2002
Featuring: Joanna Brady
432 pages
ISBN: 0380804697
EAN: 9780380804696
Paperback
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Prologue
Connie Haskell had just stepped out of the shower when she
heard the phone ringing. Hoping desperately to hear Ron's
voice on the phone, she grabbed a towel and raced through
the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the worn
carpeting of the bedroom and hallway. For two weeks she
had carried the cordless phone with her wherever she went,
but when she had gone to the bathroom to shower that
morning, she had forgotten somehow and left the phone
sitting beside her empty coffee cup on the kitchen table.
By the time she reached the kitchen, the machine had
already picked up the call. "Hello, Mrs. Haskell. This is
Ken Wilson at First Bank." The disembodied voice of
Connie's private banker echoed eerily across the Saltillo
tile in an otherwise silent kitchen. As soon as she heard
the caller's voice and knew it wasn't her husband's,
Connie didn't bother to pick up the receiver. It was the
same thing she had done with all the other calls that had
come in during this awful time. She had sat, a virtual
prisoner in her own home, waiting for the other shoe to
drop. But this call from her banker probably wasn't it.
"I'm calling about your checking account," Ken Wilson
continued. "As of this morning, it's seriously overdrawn.
I've paid the two outstanding checks that showed up today
as well as one from yesterday, but I need you to come in
as soon as possible and make a deposit. If you're out of
town, please call me so we can make some other arrangement
to cover the overdraft. I believe you have my number, but
in case you don't, here it is."
As Ken Wilson recited his direct phone number, Connie
slipped unhearing onto a nearby kitchen stool. In all the
years she had handled her parents' affairs -- paying bills
and writing checks after her father had been incapacitated
by that first crippling stroke and then for her mother
after Stephen Richardson's death -- in all that time,
Connie had never once bounced a check. She had written the
checks and balanced the checkbooks each month under
Stephen's watchful and highly critical eye. Because of
stroke-induced aphasia, her father had been able to do
nothing but shake his head, roll his eyes, and spit out an
occasional "Stupid." But Connie had persevered. She had
done the task month after month for years. After her
marriage to Ron, when he had volunteered to take over the
bill-paying, she had been only too happy to relinquish
that onerous duty. And why not? Ron was an accountant,
wasn't he? Dealing with numbers was what CPAs did.
Except Ron had been gone for two weeks now -- AWOL. For
two long, agonizing weeks there had been no word to
Connie. No telephone call. No letter. She hadn't reported
him missing because she was ashamed and afraid. Ashamed
because other people had been right about him and she'd
been wrong, and afraid she might learn that there was
another woman involved. The woman was bound to be far
younger and far better-looking than Constance Marie
Richardson Haskell. She was unable to delude herself into
thinking there was a chance of foul play. No, Connie had
made a point of checking Ron's carefully organized side of
the closet. Her missing husband had simply packed one of
his roll-aboard suitcases with a selection of slacks and
custom-made, monogrammed shirts, and left.
The main reason Connie had kept silent about his absence
was that she didn't want to have to face up to all those
people who had told her so. And they had told her so -- in
spades. Any number of friends and relations had tried,
both subtly and not so subtly, to explain that they
thought Connie was making a mistake in marrying so soon
after her mother's death. Connie's older sister, Maggie --
someone who never suffered from a need to keep her
opinions to herself -- had been by far the most outspoken.
"If you ask me, Ron Haskell's nothing but a gold-digging
no-account," Maggie MacFerson had said. "He worked for
Peabody and Peabody for six months before Mother died. He
knew everything about Mother's financial affairs, and now
he knows everything about yours. He also knows how naive
you are, and he's taking you for a ride. For him, you're
nothing but a meal ticket."
"We fell in love," Connie had declared hotly, as if that
one fact alone should resolve all her older sister's
concerns. "Besides, Ron's resigning from the firm, so
there can't be any question of conflict of interest."
In response, Maggie MacFerson had blown an exasperated
plume of smoke in the air. She shook her head and rolled
her eyes. When she did that, she looked so much like
Stephen Richardson that Connie had expected to hear her
father's familiar pronouncement of "Stupid!"
"We all have to make our own mistakes, I suppose," Maggie
said with a resigned sigh. "At least do yourself a favor
and get a prenup agreement."
That was the one and only time the two sisters had
discussed Ron Haskell. Naturally, Connie hadn't followed
Maggie's advice. She hadn't wanted to ask for a prenuptial
agreement because she was afraid if she mentioned it, Ron
might think she didn't trust him, which she did --
absolutely and with all the lovesick fervor of a forty-two-
year-old woman who had never fallen in love before, not
even once.
But now, sitting alone in the house on Southeast Encanto
Drive -- a house that had once belonged to Stephen and
Claudia Richardson but that now belonged to Connie and Ron
Haskell -- she suddenly felt sick to her stomach. What if
Maggie had been right about Ron? What if his disappearance
had nothing to do with another woman and everything to do
with money? What if, in the end, that was all Ron had
wanted from Connie -- her money?
As soon as the thought surfaced, Connie shook her still-
dripping hair and pushed that whole demeaning notion
aside. Surely that couldn't be. And whatever was going on
at the bank was all a simple mistake of some kind. Maybe
there had been a computer glitch, a virus or something.
Those happened, didn't they? Or else maybe Ron had merely
forgotten to transfer money from one of the investment
accounts into the household bill-paying account.
By then, the answering machine had clicked off, leaving
the light blinking to say there was a message, which
Connie had already heard and had no need to hear again.
The solution was perfectly simple. All Connie had to do
was call Ken Wilson back and tell him to make the
necessary transfer. Once she did that, everything would be
fine. Connie could return to her lonely vigil of waiting
for Ron himself to call or for some police officer
somewhere to call and say that Ron was dead and ask her to
come and identify the body.
Taking a deep breath, Connie grabbed the phone. She
punched in *69 and let the phone redial Ken Wilson's
number. He answered on the second ring. "Ken Wilson here."
"Ken, it's Connie," she said, keeping her tone brisk and
businesslike. "Connie Haskell. Sorry I missed your call. I
was in the shower. By the time I found the phone, your
call had already gone to the machine. I can't imagine
what's going on with the checking account. Ron is out of
town at the moment. He must have forgotten to make a
transfer. I'd really appreciate it if you could just
handle that for us -- the transfer, I mean. I'm not sure
what checks are outstanding, so I don't know exactly how
much is needed."
"Which account do you want to use to transfer funds?" Ken
asked.
Connie didn't like the guarded way he said that. It
sounded wary and ominous. "You know," she said. "We always
transfer out of that one investment account. I can't
remember the number exactly. I think it's nine-four-
something."