Chapter 42. Holly
Holly
Holly didn’t have an appointment with Allen Spellman, but she had plenty of questions for her lawyer.
The glorious weather contrasted sharply with her sour mood.
Sun bathed the cloudless sky, casting rays that promised a perfect beach day, but she had no intention of spending her afternoon on a beach chair trying to write.
If what the busker had said was true, everything had changed.
Working backward and considering Allen’s age and lengthy career as a lawyer, Holly concluded there was a good chance Spellman had worked for the police department when key evidence went missing from Anna’s investigation.
Did he take it? Was Spellman offered law school tuition in exchange for a favor?
More important, who covered the bill? Follow the money, the busker had said. Holly intended to do just that.
Her determined steps carried her up a flight of stairs to Spellman’s second-floor office.
She’d have liked Serena to accompany her, but Holly now had reservations about her psychic friend.
Why didn’t she tell Jade that she sold necklaces just like the one that had lured her to Beauport?
Holly didn’t want to confront Serena before she had a chance to talk to Jade. But first: Spellman.
She balled her hand into a tight fist, rapping her knuckles against the door, only half caring that she might be interrupting a meeting. This couldn’t wait, and some conversations had to happen face-to-face.
There was no answer, so Holly knocked again, this time much harder, allowing some of her anger to escape. Again, her forceful knocking resulted in silence.
Apprehension coiled at the nape of her neck.
Glancing at her phone, Holly checked the time.
Spellman might be out to lunch, but a faint inner voice told her something was wrong.
Then it struck her—a faint odor she couldn’t quite identify.
It was moderately sharp, biting, and distinct.
It unsettled her enough that she knocked a third time, knowing no one would answer.
She tested the doorknob, almost hoping it would be locked. It turned easily in her hand.
She pushed open the door, entering the waiting room. Everything was as it had been when she’d visited last. The lights were on. The blinds were open, letting in large pools of sunshine.
He must be here, Holly thought. The coffee maker had half a pot brewed with the warming light still on. But the coffee smelled stale, and that scent of other clung to the air—the indistinguishable odor that unsettled her.
“Allen?” Holly’s voice echoed. She called his name again and stepped toward his office, her movements hesitant. If he was in a meeting, it wasn’t private. The door was wide open. Yet everything was eerily silent.
Her chest tightened. She peered through the doorway.
For a moment, she couldn’t process what she was seeing, but then her limbs turned to lead as she stared at Allen, slumped lifelessly over his desk.
A strange sensation overtook her—almost like being pulled out of her body, drifting away for a moment—only to be rudely slammed back into awareness when the pungent stench of blood hit her nostrils.
Blood spatter covered his desk. It dripped onto the carpet, creating an abstract painting in various shades of burgundy.
Near his lifeless hand lay a small, snub-nosed pistol—undoubtedly the weapon fired into Allen’s skull—leaving half his head a bloodstained, shattered mess.
Flecks of white were scattered among the crimson pools.
Holly found her scream. It tore from her throat, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting like a hail of bullets.
Life may pass unnoticed, but judging by the crowds gathered outside Spellman’s office, death was a spectacle.
People stood shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, gawkers drawn by macabre curiosity.
Holly found an empty park bench to rest on while waiting to give her statement to the police.
Crime tape cordoned off the area. The whole scene reminded Holly of the last time she’d seen so many emergency vehicles—only this time it was Allen Spellman, not her sister, who would be wheeled into the awaiting ambulance.
Police and medical personnel swarmed in and out of Spellman’s office with the industriousness of ants, taking photos and gathering evidence.
Holly shivered as Spellman’s shrouded body rolled past her. A haunting vision of Anna took hold. She was back again, as if teleported, rushing alongside her mother through the open gates of Miramar.
Together, they waited anxiously for news.
Deep down, Holly knew. Her mother must have known too because she burst into tears when rescuers announced they’d pulled a body from the rubble.
Her mother’s cries turned into wracking sobs when they saw, poking out from beneath the white sheet, charred and partially melted Nike Air sneakers.
Anna.
Who was the police officer who spoke to her mother that day?
His face felt familiar, but his identity was lost to time.
Same with the firefighter who had held Holly as she cried.
Cried? No—more like wailed—in his arms. Thank God he’d stopped everything to help her.
At that moment, she felt the pain might kill her, that her heart would explode in her chest.
The firefighter’s embrace became her breath, his touch her heartbeat. He held on until her sobs abated, all while whispering how sorry he was. Eventually, a social worker took over, and he vanished into the chaos. Holly never got a chance to thank him. She didn’t even know his name.
Finn, the cop from the evidence room, approached. He handed Holly a plastic bottle of water and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his eyes weighty.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. “If you need, we can take you to the hospital, or we have a counselor here you can talk to. But we do have some questions for you, if you’re up to answering them.”
Holly’s mind drifted elsewhere. “It’s not the same,” she replied in a muffled voice, unable to meet Finn’s compassionate gaze.
“What isn’t?”
“Death. It’s not the same in real life as it is in books. Words don’t do it justice. I could write and write, but I’d never capture the horror of what I saw today.”
Finn patted her arm. “My wife has read your novels, and she’s one tough critic.
You might be selling yourself short. Death is always traumatizing.
And I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Even as a cop, you don’t get used to it.
” He paused. Holly wondered if he was reliving his worst days on the job.
Holly took a sip of water. “What happened in there?” she asked. She knew the what and the how, but not the why. Given the stench of blood that somehow, mercilessly, followed her outside, the when couldn’t have been long before she arrived.
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember and we’ll go from there,” Finn suggested.
Holly deepened her breathing, but that didn’t calm her shaking limbs. “Allen is—was—my lawyer. I came to meet with him. We didn’t have an appointment, but I wanted to ask him some questions, so I stopped by on a whim.”
“Questions about what?” Finn asked.
The cop knew about the missing prescription bottle, but was he around when Allen worked as the evidence custodian? She quickly filled him in.
“You think Spellman took items from the investigation when he was working for the PD?” Finn sounded incredulous.
Before Holly could answer, a booming voice drew their attention. “Looks like a clear-cut case of suicide.”
Of course: Tommy Boy.
The big man pressed his meaty paws against the back of the bench, leaning his oppressive girth over them, casting a tall shadow like an eclipse. “We still need an official report from the medical examiner, but I’d say you’re in the clear, Holly.”
Holly gasped. “Me? What are you talking about?”
“Knock it off, Tom,” said Finn, annoyed.
Tommy Boy walked around the bench to stand in front of Holly, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops. “Just doing her a solid,” he said. “I’d want to know if I was gonna face a murder rap.”
Holly stammered, craning her neck to stare him down. “I came here to talk to my lawyer and found him dead. I’m the one who called you. Why would you—”
Finn cut her short. “Jesus, Tom, you’re a real piece of work, do you know that?”
Tommy Boy shrugged. “Just being a thorough cop, Boss.”
Holly’s anger surged. “Are you trying to intimidate me?” she asked. “You get off on that, don’t you? Another Sinclair girl to push around, just like you did my sister.”
Did Tom Walker flinch? It was possible.
“I know about you, Tommy,” she continued. “You use your authority to take advantage of frightened women. Well, guess what? I’m not scared of you. If you did anything to my sister, I swear I will not rest until I get justice.”
Holly’s speech bounced right off him. “Feisty, aren’t we?
” Walker said. “For the record, I saved your sister from spending a night in jail. I could have arrested her, but I talked Maeve Carmichael out of it. And as a show of goodwill, I’ll let you in on a little secret about your lawyer.
He probably offed himself because the FBI was closing in.
Anybody might crack under that pressure. ”
“Wait, what?” Holly said. “The FBI was going after Allen? Why?”
Finn cleared his throat. “We probably shouldn’t tell you all this, because it’s still under investigation.
” He glared at Tommy Boy before continuing.
“However, it appears Allen Spellman was up to no good. He’s been stealing money from his clients, using it to pay off gambling debts, take vacations, and essentially fund a lifestyle he couldn’t afford.
Basically, he’s been running a Ponzi scheme for a long time, and we’ve been working with the FBI to get to the bottom of it.
Tom is right. He was probably facing arrest in the next couple of days. I guess someone tipped him off.”
Holly’s world tilted. She clutched the park bench for support. “He’s been managing my family’s money for years.”
Tommy Boy whistled, low and long. “Yeah, that’s probably not going to work out in your favor.
Allen would make up stories about properties getting stuck in probate, then he’d hand out loans from his personal account to make it seem like he was a good guy and everything was going to be fixed in no time.
He kept moving money around to avoid getting caught.
Meanwhile, he was draining client accounts faster than my iPhone runs out of battery. ”
Holly went numb. “That’s exactly what happened to me,” she said. She didn’t need Shae’s forensic accounting expertise to tell her that her house fund was probably drained of every nickel.