Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1) Page 7

  “I’d like to keep up the tradition for a while. Even though I sat in on the meetings after I moved back, I never paid much attention. I have a lot to learn. Mom and Dad were passionate about the foundation, and now that they’re both gone . . .” The word wavered, and she took a sip of her soda. “I’d like to carry on as Mom did until I feel up to speed.”

  “Of course. And we do have one order of business to attend to. By state law, the foundation needs to have three trustees. As you know, your mother asked Reverend Howard to take your father’s place after the accident. You’ll need to appoint a new trustee to join you and him.”

  “I haven’t given a thought to filling Mom’s spot.” The very notion turned her stomach.

  “That’s understandable.” He folded his hands on the table. “If you’d like me to step in on an interim basis, I’d be happy to do that. It would satisfy the legal requirement and give you some breathing space until you’re ready to name a permanent trustee. Since Reverend Howard has never played an active role in the foundation and you aren’t familiar with all its ins and outs, it would be helpful to have someone in an official capacity who’s thoroughly briefed on the structure and operation, as well as on your mother’s wishes.”

  Trish played with the edge of her napkin. Matt’s suggestion was practical, logical, and efficient—yet somehow it didn’t feel right.

  Telling him that, however, would be awkward.

  “I appreciate the offer. Let me think about it for a few days, okay?”

  “That’s fine.” His reply was smooth, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Is there someone else you’re considering?”

  “No. I’d just rather skip the interim step and appoint someone on a permanent basis. But I’m not familiar enough with the workings of the foundation to have a clear sense of who I should bring on board.”

  “The workings are straightforward. The amount your parents set aside for the foundation six years ago is invested in dividend-paying securities. Each year, they donated a certain percentage to various charities. The legal annual minimum is 5 percent of the fair market value of the foundation’s assets, but they often gave more.”

  “So the value has decreased?”

  “A bit. They never intended the foundation to go on forever.”

  She knew that much, at least.

  “I know I have the discretion to either donate all the funds and terminate the foundation or maintain it through my lifetime, with the balance going to specified charities after I die.”

  “Correct. So unless you’re planning to follow the first course, you need to think about another trustee.”

  “To be honest, terminating it is appealing . . . but I don’t think that’s what Mom would have wanted me to do. Not this soon, at any rate.”

  “I agree.”

  Trish rubbed her forehead. Trying to deal with her parents’ charitable endeavor on top of everything else was overwhelming.

  “Hey.” Matt touched her hand—a comforting rather than romantic gesture, thank goodness. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone. I may not be able to alleviate all your stress, but I can keep this ball in the air for as long as you need me to. Other than appointing a new trustee, there’s nothing you need to do in the immediate future. I’ll continue to see to the day-to-day details, as I did for your mom.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. All I need from you today is your signature on checks for donations to a few charities your mother designated at our last meeting.” He slid several in front of her. “They’re all fairly modest amounts.”

  Trish scanned the names on the checks. Most she recognized. A few she didn’t.

  “What is WingHaven?”

  “An organization that provides assistance to women from abusive backgrounds who are trying to build a new life.”

  That sounded like Mom.

  “And Providence House Ministries?”

  “They fund a variety of organizations that provide foster children with enriching experiences they wouldn’t otherwise have access to.”

  Definitely Mom.

  She signed the checks.

  “Those are both new ones, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Your mom called me about them after our last meeting.”

  That made sense. Mom had always handled foundation business—even while recovering from the accident—and she’d been quite competent at it. There’d been little need for input from the other trustees.

  But this was on her shoulders now.

  “I feel like I’m way behind the curve on this.” She combed her fingers through her hair.

  “It’s not rocket science. I can answer any questions you have.”

  “I don’t want to waste your time. Why don’t you email me the last three annual returns? I know they’re in Mom’s computer somewhere, but I’d rather not have to dig for them.”

  A glint of surprise sparked in his irises. “Are you certain you want to bother with that boring stuff? The 990 forms are mind-numbing. Think your IRS tax return—but worse.” He gathered up the checks and slid them into his portfolio.

  “Yes. I may not like numbers, but I understand them. That’s why my math teacher in high school tried to convince me to major in finance in college.”

  He stopped zipping up his case midway. “Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh. I mentioned that when you first took on the foundation work.”

  “Sorry.” He touched the scar on his forehead, twin creases denting his brow. “This has messed with my memory.”

  “No worries. It was just a passing comment. Back in high school, the thought of working with numbers all day made my head ache. It still does. No offense intended.”

  “None taken.” He finished zipping up the portfolio and stood as her phone began to ring. “Go ahead and answer. I can see myself out.”

  She crossed to the charger on the counter and plucked out the phone once she saw the name on the screen. “Yeah, I should take this. It’s the father of one of my students. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for days, but we keep missing each other. Would you send me a list of all the charities that have received grants from the foundation too?”

  After a millisecond hesitation, he nodded. “Watch for everything in your email.”

  “I will. Thanks.” She pushed the talk button, put the phone to her ear, and greeted the caller as she waved good-bye to Matt.

  Ten minutes later, after a productive conversation with a father who was engaged and involved in his son’s education—a rarity in the school where she taught—Trish returned the cell to the charger. The man’s appreciation for all she’d done to encourage his son and help him apply for a scholarship for a summer art course was why she taught where she did. Making a difference mattered.

  The very reason her parents had created the foundation.

  And now it was her baby . . . ready or not.

  She kneaded her forehead. The foundation might not be her top priority, but she’d do her best to carry on in her parents’ footsteps . . . beginning with the financial info Matt was going to send. Boring or not, she’d plow through it and . . .

  At the ring of the doorbell, she frowned. Who would be stopping by on a Wednesday evening at dinnertime?

  She hurried to the foyer, peered through the peephole—and found Matt standing on the other side.

  After unlocking the deadbolt, she opened the door. “I thought you left.”

  “That was the plan. But I stopped to check messages, and while I was on a call I found this in the grass at the edge of the driveway.” He held up her keychain.

  “That’s weird.” She took it.

  “Did you lock your door while you went down the driveway to get the mail?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it fell out of your pocket.”

  “I don’t keep my keys in my pocket. I keep them in my purse.” She waved a hand toward the shoulder tote she’d dropped in the foyer. “Although I was juggling some grocery sacks while I unloc
ked the door from the garage. It’s possible I slipped them in the pocket of my jacket. I’ve done that on occasion if my hands are full . . . but I didn’t think I had today.”

  Another lapse. Like the coffee . . . and the frying pan on the stove . . . and forgetting what time Matt was going to pick her up for their movie date.

  And Mom’s medicine.

  A wave of nausea swept over her.

  The past two stressful years must have taken a bigger toll than she’d realized.

  “Hey . . . it’s no big deal. I’m just glad I spotted them. Now I really am leaving. The reports will be in your inbox later tonight or tomorrow.”

  “No rush. Whenever you get a chance.”

  After watching him follow the curving walk to the driveway, she shut the door, keys clenched in her fingers.

  How could she have made so many mistakes over the past few weeks—one of them fatal?

  Was it possible she could be losing it?

  A shiver rippled through her.

  What a scary thought.

  Very deliberately, she tucked the keys into her purse . . . where they belonged. Then she double-checked that the front door and the door from the kitchen to the garage were locked. Verified she hadn’t left any perishable items from the grocery store lying on the counter. Riffled again through the ads that had come in the mail to confirm no important letters or bills were tucked among them.

  Other than the keys, everything appeared to be in order—but if this kept up, she’d be second-guessing everything she did from now on.

  And living in fear she’d make another mistake that could have dangerous repercussions.

  So Trish was good with numbers—and she wanted to step into her mother’s shoes with the foundation.

  That news was about as appetizing as the three-day-old pizza staring back at him from the shelf of Matt’s refrigerator.

  Spewing out a curse, Craig slammed the door shut. None of his surveillance or background research had revealed Trish’s financial aptitude. Apparently she’d mentioned it to Matt at some point in the past, but the head injury had given him a convenient excuse to forget that important tidbit.

  Craig paced from one side of the living room to the other. He needed to stay calm. Examine the facts. Yes, she’d asked for the 990s—but so what? They were in perfect order—all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. Matt was meticulous about that. Every number, every decimal point was accurate and legit. Reviewing old returns wasn’t a concern.

  And it shouldn’t be an issue in the future, either. All charitable donations would be recorded. The contributions would be made. Trish would sign the checks. Everything should flow smoothly—unless she continued asking questions like the ones today about the two new charities . . . or got too involved in the day-to-day operation of the foundation instead of letting her accountant run it, as her mother had . . . or gave the list of grant recipients more than a perfunctory scan.

  He blew out a breath. The way things were progressing, it could take longer than he’d expected to get his own funds flowing. If Matt couldn’t woo her into letting him take the leadership role in the foundation, he’d have to dazzle her with his managerial skills until she was confident enough to not only appoint him as the third trustee but give him check-signing and oversight authority. Once he had that, once she was content to step back and give his simplified monthly financial reports no more than a cursory review, the money could begin rolling in.

  But getting to that stage would take time—and test his patience.

  On the other hand, if she dragged her feet for too long, perhaps Matt could convince her to terminate the foundation after a few months. That might not be a bad alternative. He’d get the money in one fell swoop and could disappear before anyone was the wiser to live the good life under another new identity in some warm tropical locale.

  In the meantime, he was stuck in this dull Midwestern city—and going stir-crazy.

  Jingling his keys in his pocket, he wandered into the bedroom and pulled his second set of IDs from the dresser drawer where he’d stashed them. Weighed them in his hand. Surely he could find an off-the-beaten-path bar and enjoy a few drinks in anonymity, maybe round up some female companionship for a few hours.

  Laying low was getting old—and lonely.

  With sudden decision, he changed out his IDs. Why not give it a shot? The odds of pulling this off without a hitch were in his favor by very substantial margins. After weeks of clandestine surveillance, he was well-versed in simple appearance-altering tricks. Fake glasses, a baseball cap, jeans, and work boots, some gel to alter his hairstyle, tinted contacts—it was amazing how a few simple alterations could transform a person’s looks.

  A spurt of adrenaline pumped through his veins, elevating his heart rate as he pulled out the various props he’d need to create a new persona.

  This was going to be fun. And given the low risk, he could enjoy himself without worrying about jeopardizing the plan he’d implemented with such methodical care.

  Operation Double Cross was rolling . . . and nothing was going to stop it.

  “Here. Have some real coffee to start the day.”

  As a Starbucks cup slid into view, Colin looked up at Mac. “I owe you.” He shoved the half-empty Styrofoam cup of department brew to the far side of his desk and picked up Mac’s offering, lifting it in a toast.

  “I got the feeling you were going to be here late last night when I left. Long days make for sluggish mornings.” He sat at his own desk and took a sip of coffee. “What time did you leave?”

  “About eight.”

  “You finish the report on the Coulter death?”

  “Yes. Done and submitted. Based on our interviews with the references the daughter provided, I’m not expecting any charges to be filed.”

  “I agree. I didn’t hear one negative. Just the opposite. Everyone sang her praises.”

  “Same here.”

  “She sounds like quite a woman.” Mac leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed, eyes assessing. “So what happens next?”

  “We wait for the prosecuting attorney to rule.”

  “I was talking about after that.”

  “The lady goes on with her life.”

  “You planning to be part of it?”

  Man, Mac could be as persistent as a mosquito on a summer night in St. Louis.

  Nosy too.

  “I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”

  “Right.”

  Colin sipped his java, eyeing the other man’s grin over the rim. “Why do you care, anyway?”

  “Because finding the right woman is life-changing. Lisa taught me that. So sparks are worth exploring.”

  “Who said there are sparks?”

  Mac snorted. “With all the electricity zipping around in her kitchen the day we interviewed her, I was worried about getting electrocuted.”

  “Let’s not get carried away . . .” His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Trish’s name flashed on the screen.

  He swiveled away from Mac and put the cell to his ear. “Flynn.”

  “Detective Flynn, it’s Trish Bailey. I was teaching a class when you called earlier and didn’t check messages until now.”

  “I wanted to let you know we’ve finished our interviews of the references you provided and have submitted our report to the prosecuting attorney. Based on their input, I’m optimistic we’re nearing the end of this process.”

  “None too soon for me. It will be a relief to have any legal issues resolved. As for the guilt . . .” Her sigh came over the line. “I’ll have to try to find a way to live with it.”

  “People do make mistakes.”

  “Not often with fatal consequences.” Her voice hitched, and she cleared her throat. “I, uh, need to run to the ladies room before my next class. Thank you for the update.”

  Based on the shakiness of her words, what she needed to do was lock herself in a stall for a few minutes and try to regain her composure.


  Colin sized up Mac. He appeared to be focused on his computer screen, but the man had super-sharp hearing. No matter how low he spoke, Mac would hear every word.

  Meaning he’d have to ignore the potent impulse to offer the woman on the other end of the line some words of comfort and keep this impersonal instead.

  “As soon as I get the all clear from the prosecuting attorney, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you. I know how busy you must be, and I appreciate your personal follow-up. It means a lot.”

  After her tear-laced, heartfelt expression of gratitude, he couldn’t hang up without saying something encouraging.

  Cupping his hand around the cell, he dropped his volume almost to a whisper. “Hang in, Trish. Things will get better.”

  “I hope so.”

  “If you have any questions before I get back in touch, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I will. And thanks for being so . . . for your kindness.” A bell sounded in the background. “I need to run. Talk to you soon.”

  The line went dead.

  After a few seconds, Colin slid his phone back onto his belt and rotated toward his computer.

  “I bet Trish was happy to get a positive report.” Mac didn’t take his gaze off the screen in front of him, but his inflection spoke volumes.

  “Wouldn’t you be, in her shoes?”

  “Yep. But I expect she’s still going to need some hand holding—and based on the evidence we’ve already discussed, I have a feeling she wouldn’t object if the hand belonged to you.”

  “Maybe I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  “You should be. You’re not getting any younger—and Trish Bailey is worth further investigation.”

  He ignored that.

  “Ah. The silent treatment. Telling.”

  “Look . . . if it makes you happy, I’ll admit I find her attractive. And I might call her after this is over, test the waters. But in light of everything that’s been going on, she may not have any interest in getting involved in a new relationship.”

  “Can’t hurt to find out, though.”

  Colin narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure I like you in matchmaking mode.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “It’s a new role for me.”