Simply Lies

Chapter 48

The home was sixty years old and on its last legs, and the yard undernourished and hence withered. The woman who lived here seemed to be all of these things rolled into one.

“Ms. Betty Gross?” Clarisse said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Sylvia Devereaux.” She held up her laminated card. “With the Virginia Employment Commission.”

“I don’t understand.”

Clarisse produced an iPad from her bag and said, “May I come in?”

“Am I in some sort of trouble?” asked Gross, clinging to the tattered screen door.

“Not at all. I’m here to help you, at least I hope. I understand that you were recently employed by a Mr. Daniel Pottinger at his home, Stormfield?”

“That’s right. I was his housekeeper, but he let me go. He let everybody go.”

“I know, that’s why I’m here. To see if I can help. May I come in?” she asked again.

Gross stepped back. “I hope you can help me, too. I haven’t found another housekeeper job yet. And the money is running low.”

“I quite understand.”

She was led into a small room off the kitchen. The place was decorated with what seemed to be spare parts from lots of different homes and decades. Clarisse assumed the woman had accumulated all this over the years and kept using it, since new items never came in to replace what was clearly worn out.

“Now exactly when did Mr. Pottinger let you go?”

“It was three weeks ago yesterday.”

“And the reason given?”

“He didn’t give no reason. Just told me and the others to get out.”

“My goodness. How rude.”

“That’s what I thought. And he owed me wages, a week’s worth. Never seen a dime and that big house he lived in, I know he had the money. Now he’s dead. Doubt I’ll be getting anything.” She paused. “I filed for unemployment. Is that why you’re here, Miss?”

“It’s one of the reasons, yes,” said Clarisse, keying some items in on her iPad. “How many staff did he have?”

“Four inside, three outside. All locals, hardworking. And he left them high and dry, too. Seems like the more money someone has, the less they care.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it. So he owed you a week’s worth of wages. How much was that?”

“I got ten dollars an hour times forty-five hours for the week.”

“So four hundred and fifty dollars then?”

“Yeah. Backbreaking work, it was. That place was huge. And he wanted the floors scrubbed and the marble to gleam.”

“A difficult employer, then?”

“You could say that. You could say a lot more than that. The thing was the man was almost never there. He’d talk to me on the computer. Made me walk around with it, show him the state of the place. He’d read me the riot act if the least thing was out of place or something wasn’t done to his liking, or if he didn’t think we were working hard enough. It was a real bitch.”

“And you mean to say he was almost never at Stormfield?”

“I could count the times he was there on one hand with fingers left over.”

“Very interesting.”

“And the few times he did show up he never gave me any notice. He was just there. Almost like the man was afraid to be in his own house.”

Clarisse thought about Nathan Trask and knew the woman had unknowingly hit the nail right on the head with that one. “And how long did you work for him?”

“Nearly four years.”

“Your annual income from that job would have been, around twenty-three thousand?”

“About that.”

“Any paid vacation or health care?”

Gross smiled bitterly. “I asked for it, he never gave it. Said if I wanted a vacation why should he pay for it. And then he told me it was my fault if I got sick. Not his problem.”

Clarisse looked around at the small space. “Could you live off that income?”

“Got one adult child and two grandbabies living with me, so the short answer is no. I work another job at night. Cleaning some buildings over in Smithfield. On the weekends I waitress at the local diner.”

“You must be run off your feet.”

“I’d rather be working, actually. The night job and the waitressing don’t pay enough. I was hoping someone might buy that Stormfield place and hire me back, but I guess that will take a while.”

“Yes, I think it will. Now, it seems that Mr. Pottinger failed to pay into the unemployment insurance fund.”

Gross’s face fell. “Does... does that mean I won’t get no money? Like I said, I filed, but I ain’t got nothing yet.”

“Well, that’s one reason I’m here, to help with that. Now, before he fired everyone, did Mr. Pottinger have any visitors?”

“Why does that matter?” Gross said, her expression suddenly wary.

Clarisse leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Just between you and me, it seems possible that Mr. Pottinger was engaged in something that might be criminal.”

“Criminal!”

“Nothing has been proved yet, of course, but the state is looking into it. If you could assist us in our investigation, well, it certainly would help your chances of being compensated.”

Gross smoothed down her wrinkled shirt and said, “I’ll help you if I can, Miss, I swear. It’s not like I owe Mr. Pottinger nothing. Man made my life miserable.”

“I can understand that. So, any visitors?”

“He only had the one, Miss. We used to joke that the only friend he had was the devil.”

“When was this visit?”

“About a week before he let us go. I remember it because he showed up out of the blue again. I walked in one morning and there he was, standing right in the foyer staring at me. I don’t know how my heart didn’t stop.”

“Do you think he showed up because he knew he was going to have a visitor?”

“I thought that might be it, but he never said nothing until right before the person got there.”

“And what can you tell me about the visitor?”

“It was a man. About your age.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Tall man. Thin.”

“Hair and eye color?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Well, we will want to find this man, of course.”

“Oh, sure, yeah. Blond hair, thinning, and green eyes, least I think.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Jeans and a sweater. He was very polite, but there was something about him, I don’t know, gave me the creeps.”

“Did you find out his name?”

“It was Mr. Marshal.”

Clarisse sat back. Marshal? Touché. “Did you happen to hear what they discussed?”

“Oh, no. I took him to Mr. Pottinger’s study and left them there. I went off and continued my work.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“Stormfield has its own phone system, you know, so you can call room to room. Mr. Pottinger phoned me and told me to let Mr. Marshal out.”

“Did either of them say anything as he was leaving?”

“Mr. Pottinger didn’t. But when I opened the front door for Mr. Marshal he looked at me funny and what he said was even funnier. Not laugh funny, but strange funny.”

“What was that?”

“He said, ‘I hope you’ll be able to find other work.’ ”

“Really? And what did you take that to mean?”

“Well, I thought Mr. Pottinger might be selling the place to this man and he’d bring in another staff. Never thought about him getting killed instead.”

“Did you see the car he’d driven up in?”

“Oh, yes. It was parked out front. She was in the driver’s seat.”

Clarisse sat forward again, tensed. “ ‘She’?”

“Yes, it was a woman. Couldn’t get a good look at her, but I noticed the long hair. And she had on a necklace. It was all shiny in the sunlight. He got in and they drove off.”

“And a week later you were given your notice?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Pottinger ever mention the visit to you?”

“No, never.”

“Did you know about the secret room where he was found?”

“No, ma’am. When I read about that in the paper it nearly knocked me over. Me there all that time and never once noticed it.”

“Was the place fully furnished? Books in the library, that sort of thing?”

She knew the answer to that, but she wanted to hear it from Gross. And things might have been taken.

“Well, it wasn’t furnished like it ought to have been. Most rooms had nothing in ’em. Don’t know why he bought that place. He was never there and when he was he only ever went into a few rooms, but he demanded that we clean everything. There were never any books in the library. I remember I asked him about that once when he showed up.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he didn’t like anything that was written down. That’s pretty durn strange.”

“Anything else you can think of?”

“No, I think that’s all.”

“Have the police been by to see you?”

Gross started and said, “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

“A Detective Sullivan?”

“I think that was his name, yes.”

“Did he have a woman about my age with him? Around five seven, short, light brown hair, big blue eyes, by the name of Mickey Gibson?”

“No, he was alone.”

“What did you tell him? What you told me?”

“Not everything, no, I mean, he didn’t ask the same questions.”

“Did you tell him about the visitor?”

“Yes, I did mention that.”

“All right. I understand.”

“So about my money? Can you put in a good word for me?”

“I can do better than that.” Clarisse reached into her pocket and took out a certified check in the amount of five thousand dollars made out to Gross. It was drawn on an account that would be closed as soon as the check was cashed.

When Gross saw the amount she exclaimed, “My God, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a new program at the VEC. Sort of like a whistleblower thing. But I do need you to sign this NDA,” she added, drawing out a piece of paper from her bag. “It basically says you must not tell anyone about what we discussed, or even the fact of my visit. If you do, you have to pay the money back. That includes talking to the police if they come by again. But that doesn’t matter, because I will inform them. But you can say nothing. Do you understand?”

With her eyes on the check Gross said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll mention it to no one. Cross my heart.”

Gross signed the document and Clarisse took her leave. As she was getting into her car she thought, After all this time they were right there at Stormfield. Both of them. What an exhilarating and terrifying thing to contemplate.