Death Rides Bareback

By J. A. Lordi

Jessica Lennoxs life is a shambles. Her comfortable marriage is over; her children are estranged; and her partnership in her CPA firm is hanging by a thread. Although shes only forty-six, she looks and feels oldold and finished. Jessie, a prominent accountant in a small Maryland town, needs to find a way to make lemonade from the lemon trees she seems to have grown in her lifes orchard.
Someone has financially gutted the CPA firm and framed Jessie for the crime. Worse, her home has been robbed and vandalized, and now one of her ex-partners is dead. In the midst of her troubles, Jessie reconnects with an old friend named Elise Bentley, a riding instructor and artist in northern Virginia. They enlist a handsome trust lawyer, Alden Marshall, to help track down the embezzled funds, trying to clear her name. Then, someone tries to kill her.
Jessie retreats to Montana to assist an elegant heiress, Josie Hitchcock, who owns a ranch there; but she is still pursued by a possible killer. Now, only time will tell whether Jessie can make it safe for her children to come home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458211736

J. A. Lordi

J. A. Lordi was born and raised on a horse-crazy tropical island. Twice married and divorced, she has four children and five grandchildren. Mrs. Lordi has been a chicken farmer, a bookkeeper, a thoroughbred market breeder, and a realtor. She enjoys flying kites with a rod and reel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 J. A. Lordi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Abbott Press

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.abbottpress.com

Phone: [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1175-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1174-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1173-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917176

Abbott Press rev. date: 10/10/2013

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Chapter One       The Lemon Orchard

Chapter Two       Journey’s Three Step—Two Forward, One Back

Chapter Three       Between the Dark and the Daylight

Chapter Four       Perceiving Chaos Without a Theory

Chapter Five       He Who Fights and

Runs Away… . Lives to fight another day… .

Chapter Six       By The Light of Slender Candles

Chapter Seven       Enter the Knight Errant

Chapter Eight       Mountain High

Chapter Nine       Janus, the Two-Faced God

Chapter Ten       Tempting Fate

Chapter Eleven       The Forest for the Trees

About the Author

Dedication

This is dedicated to the ladies of the IBTC: Dee Wilson, Peg Harris, Jean Merwin, Carol Smith, Bettye Benton, and Sally Lawaetz. They taught me what riding horses is all about: good friends, superb exercise, and renewed hope.

Acknowledgement

I wish to thank my sister, Barbara, and my neighbor, Kay, who continued to read, re-read, and proof this small opus, until it was done.

Chapter One

The Lemon Orchard

It Looked Extremely Rocky for The Mudville Nine That Day, The Score Was 2 to 4 With But One Inning Left to Play . . . . A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, with but what hope that springs eternal, within the human breast . . . . Excerpt from Casey at the Bat-by Ernst Thayer (This is not the original version of this poem . . .)

Each of us has places in our lives that harbor ‘shambles’, a time when we got over the rough ground too quickly and left a muddle on our back trail. We all have a relationship, (or two!), gone wrong, or small, haunting mistakes we failed to correct or mitigate. We have future problems we might see coming, but don’t know how to prepare for, nor to avoid. We stumble along with these small shambles dangling from tiny chains on our rearview mirror, or cluttering our emotional closets.

A shambles was historically, a place of destruction, like a battlefield or a slaughterhouse, a broken devastation. But to me, it meant an unpleasant stain, an area of mute reproach, something broken, which, unrepaired, promised baleful repercussions. I needed to find solutions, or a way to make lemonade from the lemon trees I had grown in my life’s orchard!

Sometimes, one can bundle the shambles into a closet or a file drawer, or a grown child’s empty room, and shut it away… but usually, it sits on the floor like a reproachful dog, who doesn’t like his dinner, but cannot tell you what to feed him. You know you can ignore him and eventually he will eat. But neither of you is going to be very happy.

On this balmy, mid-April morning, I seemed to have reached a point where my life orchard was producing too many lemon trees. Where I had hoped to harvest apples and oranges, sweet and nourishing fruit from my family and my work, what I found was bitter and pithy. I had broken too many promises—to myself and to others. Now at 46, not only did I have cupboards full of a messy divorce and irate children, but also file drawers full of over-extended deadlines, annoyed boss and partners, and unhappy clients. And now, my mirror showed me another tasteless fruit,—a partial view of my aging and unfit body.

I, Jessica Charles Lennox, the woman who had been set to conquer the worlds of accountancy, wifely domesticity, and motherhood, stood in my misty bathroom on a spring morning observing this living, breathing shambles with startling clarity. How could I have let myself go like this?

After Max and Sassy were born, I had stopped riding competitively, and eventually, completely. The strong, lean rider’s body had now turned to flab, which seemed to be bulging and drooping with self-satisfied abandon. My once glossy auburn hair was graying and lusterless, appearing as dispirited as the rest of me. Where had it all gone? My partnership in the accounting firm was hanging by a thread, the comfortable marriage was ended, and the frenzied, exciting strategies of raising a pair of super teenagers had been dashed by their flight to uncle and grandmother.

It was too easy to blame the flailing economy,—or the pernicious Caroline, a petite redhead, who had insinuated herself into Eric’s midlife crisis, offering the promise of a second youth. Too easy to blame my preoccupation with lawyers, loud arguments with Eric, and the rigors of tax season for the abrupt departures of Max to his uncle’s farm on the Eastern Shore and Sassy to her paternal grandmother in New York. Both of whom were now refusing to return home from their visits at Christmas vacation.

Yesterday, Eric had called to tell me that he and Caroline had returned from their honeymoon and he would be available if needed. I hadn’t even known he had married the sneaky little bitch!

I could just see him sitting there, lounging back in his favorite, beat-up old office chair, his long, skinny legs stretched out to prop his LL Bean boots on the desk. The yard, full of tractors and other heavy equipment, would be visible through the window over his shoulder, while he was telling me things I didn’t want to hear. I was sure that errant hank of hair was falling across his forehead, and that goofy, happy-go-lucky smile crinkled his slightly weather-beaten face,—which I felt like punching!

Have you told the children yet? I had asked him. Or am I going to have to break it to them that they have a stepmother?

Well, they DID know that I intended to marry her. he had muttered into the phone.

Oh, great! I had retorted, not really surprised at his oversight, But did they know you were going to do so right this minute? I’m not sure the ink on the divorce decree is dry yet!

Okay, okay! Calm down, he had remonstrated. I’ll call them both today and tell them.

It would have been so much better if you had given them some warning! I had replied tartly. It’s going to be a heck of a shock to them this way!—And please try to convince them that Caroline’s permanent presence in your life is not going to detract from your love for them! Or your interest in them. I had finished, lamely. No wonder our children didn’t want to be here! How could I convince Max and Sassy that this house was no longer a battlefield, when I was still seething with barely contained anger, which alternated with a miasma of hopeless rejection and despair? With the briefest of goodbyes, I had stuck the receiver into the cradle and returned to my worksheets.

Now, brushing my hair rather vehemently before my still foggy bathroom mirror, I regretted that I had not at least wished him well, or congratulated him, or something more elegant and sophisticated… . (Mom, you’re just not kewl, Max would have said!)

And now today, Harry Bower, our senior partner, was calling a meeting to discuss the firm’s future, he said. I was almost positive it was to discuss my removal as a partner, if not to fire me from the firm. My performance through most of tax season had been hurried and inefficient. If the other three partners decided to get rid of me, I could hardly blame them. These shambles were all my fault, for not being able to cope, to resolve peacefully, to get ’er done! Somehow, I must grasp my shortcomings and deal with them!

I paused before the mirror, with my hair-brush mid-stroke, and wondered just how I would deal with the disorder, and where I should start… . The mirror wasn’t talking, but the phone rang.

I let the answering machine on the downstairs hall table take it. I could hear my mother’s voice, muted but cheerful, asking if she could stop by the office to get a copy of her tax returns for the last three years. No hurry, she said, she wouldn’t be coming downtown till tomorrow.

She must be going to take out another mortgage, I thought, but what in the world for? Had my stepfather’s medical problems resurfaced? My mind shied away from the idea like a nervous horse.

If I stood here much longer, I would be late for the office. I forced some order to the mess of my graying locks and fled into the bedroom to finish donning my armor for the day. All else could wait until I heard the reason for Harry’s meeting, which he had announced just before closing yesterday. Today promised to be confrontational and unpleasant.

It was, but not exactly in the way I had expected.

At the end of the day, behind the beautiful freeform slab of mahogany I treasured as my desk, I sat in dejected silence, too worn down to face the rush hour. I’ll just stay here, I decided, for a couple of hours, and sort those clients I would keep (if I could), and those I must abandon. Harry Bower, Rosemary Stanton, Frank Sutton and I had been in disbelieving and recriminating conference most of the day. I was exhausted and I knew it.

Pam, one of the two shared secretaries, had returned my mother’s call to assure her the copies would be waiting for her. I still didn’t know what possible catastrophe might have occurred in my mother’s life. No doubt she would enlighten me in time. But the size of today’s disclosures left little room for my parent’s concerns.

I was fully preoccupied with Harry’s insistence that someone had been playing fast and loose with the firm’s finances. Apparently, whoever it was had covered their tracks well, and our year’s profits had vanished. Harry announced that he thought it best to dissolve the firm and save what we could, instead of attempting to track down the culprit, or the money. He had stared right at me, as he said it.

Harry Bower, stocky and adamant, our firm’s central core, had been awaiting us in the client conference room, ensconced in the chairman’s seat, facing the door down the length of the table. He stood up as we had seated ourselves around the long oval. I built this firm, he said, by way of preamble, With my expertise and hard work. And, as it grew, I brought you three in as partners… . to share the workload and the benefits. he waved his hand at us, and continued his preface. Now one—or all of you, he shrugged as if not caring which it was, has chosen treachery, and probably outright theft, as my reward.

Jessie, he said, looking, not at me, but down at the notes he had brought with him, you have been making errors and oversights in your work, and probably omissions in your billing the last four months, he pronounced accusingly. Over a third of your clients are in extensions. I put it down to the distractions caused by your divorce, he grimaced as he spoke, his own acrimonious divorce not many years in the past, But I cannot see where your errors can be responsible for the large sums which have vanished.

His gaze swept the faces staring at him around the conference table, then continued, When I looked more closely, there have been discrepancies from all of you… . but as yet I cannot find where the money has gone! He sat down abruptly. His jowls shook as he leaned forward, pressing his pudgy body against the table almost threateningly.

Money that should have been in the escrow account he looked directly at me again, as I had the responsibility of reviewing that, and in the working account, here he shifted his glare to Rosemary, as that was her area to oversee, —are just not there! Though I cannot really believe that any of you would intentionally torpedo us, the damage is done. We have commitments for those monies, and payroll to meet. Frankly, I don’t see how we can. The firm is going down, and I, for one, want out!

Frank had reared back in his chair in protest, his lean body, still tanned from his New Year’s trip with his mousey wife, Peggy, to the sunny beaches of St. Croix, radiating rejection. My books are in perfect order! he insisted stridently, You cannot say I have discrepancies! But he looked assailed by doubt confronted by the curbed anger and certainty in Harry’s face and posture.

Rosemary’s look of protest and affront at the accusations was accompanied by Ridiculous! but she, too, was visibly searching her memory for possible action on her part which might have precipitated the firm’s problems. She heaved her over-blown curvaceous bulk out of the chair and strode the length of the table, her thoughts clicking away behind a frown. From time to time, as she paced, she peered out from under her fluffy blonde coif at each of us, suspiciously.

Are you sure it is malicious and not just that we have been billing insufficiently? She queried Harry. How much is missing, anyway?

It’s not really that large a sum, he admitted. I found only about $175,000. worth of shortfall over the last year. $125 thousand from the escrow account (here he fixed me with the angry glare again) and about $50k in recorded receipts, which don’t seem to be in the working account (again it was Rosemary’s turn to receive that fixed stare!) But it’s enough to break us, and broke we are! Harry asserted.

B&A was a fat calf which has been neatly gutted in just the last four or five months! Though I have found evidence going back into previous years—You three can continue together if you want, but I cannot stomach this insidious betrayal, nor take on the effort to uncover this embezzlement and rectify it. I want out! He reiterated firmly.

Rosemary stopped her pacing back and forth and subsided into the closest chair. Pole-axed would have been a good description of our mutual expressions. Almost two hundred thousand? Was it possible that I hadn’t properly checked the statements and transactions in the trial balances of the escrow account that Pam had brought me for review? How could I have missed $125, 000.00 in discrepancies? We kept a fair amount in CDs, but surely those lists were checked regularly? How had Harry picked it up when I hadn’t? The firm’s tax return had gone in more than 4 weeks ago… Had Harry been stewing over this since then, or had he just become aware of the problem?

I have been unable to pinpoint who is responsible, he continued, nor to prove how it was really done. Certain errors and omissions point to each of you in turn, and even to ME! Duplications have been made, errors in partners’ draws, seemingly corrected. One, or all, of you is being extremely canny and adept! But I will give you a hint—there were monies paid into, and paid out again, from the escrow funds for clients we don’t have, or haven’t had for years. His hot eyes focused on me again. Who and how, no longer matters to me. I find that I am too old and too tired… . He turned to stare bitterly at the crisp spring sunshine and budding trees outside the wide windows, as though blaming the burgeoning season for his defeat.

I can no longer continue to work with unscrupulous people! Whether the firm can recover from this loss will be up to the three of you… . I will disassociate myself and my clients from you all as rapidly as possible—and do NOT come to me for funds to help make up these losses, whether or not you can ascertain the culprit! He turned from the window to glare forbiddingly at the three of us, still seated around the table.

I have already transferred those funds pertaining to MY clients, out of the firm’s escrow fund and into an escrow account for my new practice. Here is a list of those clients, and a spreadsheet on their escrow monies, as well as billed time due me,—which money I have removed from the working fund! The capital account and the securities accounts have always been mine and my clients… . the CDs are mostly NOT THERE. He thrust carefully stapled pages at each of us. Harry had well and truly burnt our bridges and the three of us were liable to go up in the conflagration.

You can use what’s left of the working account and the unpaid receivables, he nodded to Frank, to keep going while you salvage what remains of this firm and its clients, either as a continuing partnership or splitting into your own practices.

I flicked quickly through my set and found copies of Harry’s worksheets at the back, showing the discrepancies he had found. He watched me as I studied them blankly.

Those are certainly not all you’ll find in the next few weeks, but they were enough for me, he muttered dolefully, his anger and accusations sliding away into muted frustration and disappointment at the loss of status he had built with his own hard work and competence. One,—or all—of you has trashed this firm we have built in the last 15 years, and since I can’t prove who, I’m just walking away… I looked up quickly to see a ghost of satisfaction cross his face as he saw our acknowledgement of the grim situation. He had extricated himself, and we would have no recourse to his help or experience in solving the firm’s woes.

Harry slumped back in his chair, now looking only at the small pile of papers on the desk in front of him. He roused briefly, from the brown study into which he had sunk, while we were still avidly scanning the papers he had given us. It was not Irene, or one of the girls, either, he added, forestalling those questions, And I am VERY doubtful that it could be Lance or Tiffany or Rodd, as none can sign on the accounts, nor has the expertise—well, maybe Lance,—to perpetrate this. He paused, considering, It had to be one of you three, who were able to sign the checks for the firm, and had oversight of the bank accounts. Had it been one of them, the money might have been juggled around and pilfered away with petty checks, but it had to be one of us to embezzle to the magnitude with which it has been done in just a few months!—There it was again, that ugly word, spat out onto the polished table between us.

Frank cleared his throat, attracting our attention. Pushing away Harry’s worksheets, he smoothed back his already-smooth hair, left long to create a cosmopolitan suavity, in his characteristic gesture, Shall we get on with it then? he suggested.

I’m with Harry, he continued. —more interested in salvaging what I can, than in finding whodunit and their prosecution. I, too, would like to move forward with dissolving the partnership. He glanced reluctantly and regretfully at Rosemary, but avoided looking in my direction at all. I believe the remaining funds belonging to receivables will see us through this. Most of our recent billings have not been sent out yet… He looked enquiringly at Harry, who nodded in grudging acknowledgment.

Frank had not been my favorite co-worker. He had been grousing and unhappy with his share of the firm’s clients in the last couple of years, and with our flagging income, caused by the tight economy, before that. In the early years, there had been some bad scenes in the office, and at the office parties, with Frank’s jealous and demanding wife, which had produced a coolness toward Frank on my part, and had kept the office camaraderie between us strictly perfunctory. Frank and Peggy had only one child, a newly married daughter. Perhaps the firm’s funds had paid for her lavish wedding and her parents’ exotic vacations? I wondered. Or perhaps for the expensive cars he and his whining wife now drove so smugly, as well as the handsome home they had bought a few years before?

Rosemary, ten years older than I, and losing the fight to keep her Junoesque figure to manageable proportions, was now unaccustomedly quiet. Shock no doubt, I thought. A worried frown marred her cosmetically-enhanced, once-pretty features. But I thought you said… . she started to query Harry, but left the phrase hanging, simply staring with uncharacteristically puppy-like bewilderment and apprehension at his closed expression,. She had gotten that expression a lot around Harry in the last two years. I had always attributed it to the fallout from the cosmetic surgery she had undergone, two years ago. But I had also suspected she had sailed in to capture Harry after his messy divorce—and he had fired a cannon at her waterline! Harry now shook his head at her and pushed her copy of his papers closer to her. Could Rose have been the one? Could she be using money from the pilfered accounts to help pay for facelifts and spas and the education of her favorite nephew, Jason?

I stared again at the few items described in Harry’s papers, but they merely showed part of what had happened, not who had done it, nor why. How had I missed what had been happening? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, sternly telling myself now was not the time for one of my hot flashes! I could feel the censure from the others—they were sure I knew all about the missing funds… how could I NOT have known???

I swiveled my office chair to gaze out at the now deepening twilight, tilting it back to look into the budding trees. The answer lay perhaps in the trauma of dealing with Eric’s affair and our subsequent separation and divorce. At times, I thought, a Mack truck could have driven through the office and I might not have noticed. Indeed, in the last six months, I had often felt one had driven over me! Stumbling through each day since the fateful discovery of Eric’s infidelity, I had closed my ears and my mind to everything but the necessary changes and the immediate accounting work. My clients had taken the place of my family, to offer me working solace in my distress. Even so, I had been distracted and late with my write-ups and hurried trial balances.

That numbness, that sublimated