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Mid-interview at the restaurant, she’d happened to glance up and discovered him sipping coffee in a nearby booth.
Like a co-conspirator, he’d winked at her, his mouth lifting in a crooked smile. She’d returned her concentration to the restaurant manager, a pleasant-faced woman who appeared impressed that Stormy had once owned her own food shop. The interview had not died when she’d mentioned she was on parole. It fell flat when she admitted she was convicted of bank robbery.
The manager frowned. “Theft? Ms. Maxwell, I can’t hire you. Every server would be worried you’re stealing their tips, even if I just hired you to bus tables. I’m sorry.”
Fortunately, Tyler Mangus had not been able to overhear the interview, and when she noticed him slip into the men’s room, she used the moment to make a hasty departure. All the way back to the historic district and her appointment with the trust attorney, she had reveled in her ability to give Tyler the slip.
Chagrined at the thought that staying a step ahead of him was becoming a game to her, she veered away from thinking any more about him.
Benjamin Flaherty appearedand motioned her into his inner office.
She couldn’t remember a time when the pink-faced, rotund, avuncular estate manager had not been involved with the Maxwells. A quiet, self-effacing bachelor, he had often taken his holiday meals with them.
He had studied law, but economics and international money brokering had always fascinated him. While still in college, he’d begun buying up pounds, Deutschmarks, and rands when the dollar exchange rate was low, selling when high. He had an uncanny knack with currency.
Once his fraternity brothers realized his ability, they began depositing their allowances and part-time salaries with Ben. So successful had he been that many of his fraternity brothers continued business with him long after graduation. Those frat brothers became the nucleus of his client roster, Stormy’s own father among them.
Ben and her father had also shared an obsessive interest in philately. When Dave Maxwell had died, he’d left his stamp collection to Ben, and a plea for Ben to act as trustee and manager of the property left to his daughters.
Ben was now long past retirement age. He accepted no new clients or new money.
“Stormy, it’s good to have you home,” he said in his melodious voice.
“It’s wonderful to be home, Ben.”
He waved her into an overstuffed club chair beside his desk, then opened a file. “You said on the phone that you wanted to withdraw the power of attorney you’d given Nina.”
“Yes, and I thought I’d pick up my trust allowance for this month. If you don’t mind.”
The old gentleman looked at her, flustered. Apprehension zipped down Stormy’s spine.
“There isn’t a problem with the trust, is there, Ben?” All sorts of scenarios flashed through her mind. The principal lost through bad investments or swallowed up in a savings-and-loan collapse. Maybe Ben had lost his touch with exchange rates.
“The principal is intact,” he assured her. “But, my dear, you gave Nina access while you—in your absence.”
Stormy detected disapproval in his voice. “I thought it was the right thing to do, Ben. Nina has two children of her own, and she couldn’t absorb all the expense of taking care of Liane, too. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask that of her.”
“In the future,” he reprimanded, “do check with me before you hand over your trust income to anyone— family members included.”
Stormy paled. Lest she had misunderstood his drift, she wanted to hear his innuendo spelled out. “What exactly are you saying?”
His face went a deeper shade of pink. “Nina came in soon after you left and drew an advance on the income. You know I’ve always accommodated you girls as long as the principal didn’t dip below the levels your father insisted be available at the trust’s maturity.”
Stormy’s mouth went dry. “How much of an advance?”
“A year’s worth.”
“A year’s worth?” Her stomach seized. “But—”
“Nina told me you left behind some legal bills you wanted cleared up, that you wanted your car put in storage, and that you required cash in your commissary account at Lowell.”
“It’s okay to say where I was, Ben. Prison. Jail. Whatever suits your fancy. Just stop tiptoeing around it.” Dejected, she slumped back in the chair. “I didn’t leave any unfinished business behind. I sold my sandwich shop and my house to pay for everything. My car was not put in storage. Nina used it.”
The old family retainer and friend looked grim. “You’re telling me that Nina abused the power of attorney?”
“Yes! She was to take what she needed to feed and clothe Liane. To have money in case Liane broke an arm or got sick.”
Ben shook his head. “Rest assured, I’ll have a talk with Nina. I’m compelled to tell you that you have a legal right to pursue recovery, you know.”
