Page 45 of Fallen

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she was into something she shouldn’t have been into?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I rap my palm against the desktop.

He leans back in the chair and contemplates me. “Rachael wasn’t the only one living above her means.”

“Andy Matson?”

“Worth checking. At the very least, rattle her cage a little.”

I smile. “Not bad for a BCI guy.”

“Every now and then I get it right.”

Rolling my eyes, I get to my feet. “I’ll drive.”

In light of her friend’s unsolved murder, Andy Matson had wanted to stay in Painters Mill for a few days rather than make the drive back and forth to Cleveland, if only to “make sure these small-town Barney Fifes do their jobs.” It’s nothing I haven’t heard before; I don’t take offense. With the B and Bs booked—and the Willowdell Motel hitting a little too close to home—she’s staying at Hotel Millersburg, which is half a block from the Holmes County Courthouse. She agrees to meet Tomasetti and me at a nearby coffee shop.

We find her in a booth at the rear, staring at her phone, a frothy latte and half-eaten croissant in front of her. She looks up as we approach.

“Any news?” she asks, giving us only part of her attention.

“We’re following up on a few things,” I say vaguely as Tomasetti and I slide into the booth opposite her.

“Like what?” she asks. “Do you have a suspect?”

I let her fidget and stew, the questions hang, while we order coffee.

When our server hustles away, I turn my attention to her. “What do you know about Rachael’s finances?”

“Finances?” she echoes stupidly.

“You know,” Tomasetti says. “Money. Accounts. Savings. Checking. Investments.”

She blinks, looks from Tomasetti to me, as if suddenly she’s not quite in such a hurry to talk.

I say her name firmly. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll answer the question in the next two seconds and you’ll tell the truth.”

Andy looks down at the cup and plate in front of her as if she’s lost her appetite for both. “Why are you asking me about her finances?” she asks.

“Because we want an answer,” I say evenly.

She sighs. “I guess you’ve realized there was something going on with her.”

I say nothing. Tomasetti follows suit.

She squirms beneath our stares. “Look, the only thing I know for certain about Rachael’s money situation is that she spent it like it was frickin’ going out of style. I mean, she had expensive taste. In clothes. Liked to travel. She loved fancy restaurants. Nice hotels.” Her brows knit. “What’s odd about that is that she didn’t make as much money as she spent. I mean, The Keyhole was doing okay, but there were weeks when we barely broke even. Sure, she had royalties from the book, but they were dwindling because it had been out for a couple years. She wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough.”

“And yet she shopped at Saks,” Tomasetti says dryly. “She bought expensive art. Spent two weeks in Hawaii last year. Stuff like that.”

“Did you ever ask her about it?” I ask.

“Once or twice. You know, just sort of kidding around.” She shrugs. “She’d say it was from a bonus. Or for some catering gig that never seemed to materialize. Mostly, she just changed the subject or laughed it off.”

Beside me, Tomasetti makes a sound of annoyance. “You can cut the bullshit. We have her financial records. We can get yours, too, if you prefer to do things that way.”