Uncharted Waters

By Rosemary McCracken

It’s Pat Tierney’s chance to run her own business, the way she wants to run a business. Without anyone breathing down her neck. She’s done her homework, and she’s found a small financial planning practice that looks like a good fit. Its purchase means taking out a large loan to finance the deal, and she has no idea whether the clients she will acquire will stay with her. It’s risky, but she’s willing to proceed.

The one thing she hasn’t factored in is a murder. Dean Monaghan, the business’s vendor, is found stabbed to death in his office shortly after the sale document is signed. Attempting to maintain her business’s good reputation, Pat searches for Dean’s killer—and the reason why he was killed.

When Dean’s son, Lukas, tries to put her out of business, Pat finds herself living her worst nightmare. She’s ventured into uncharted waters that are teeming with sharks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosemary McCracken
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781772421187

Rosemary McCracken

Rosemary McCracken has worked on newspapers across Canada as a reporter, arts reviewer, editorial writer and editor. She is now a Toronto-based freelance journalist who specializes in personal finance and the financial services industry. Rosemary's first Pat Tierney mystery novel, Safe Harbor, was shortlisted for Britain's Crime Writers' Association Debut Dagger in 2010. It was published by Imajin Books in 2012. Its sequel, Black Water, was released in 2013, followed by Raven Lake in 2016. Jack Batten, the Toronto Star's crime fiction reviewer, calls Pat "a hugely attractive sleuth figure." Rosemary has had short stories published in Room of One's Own, Mother Margaret and the Rhinoceros Cafe, The Whole She-Bang I, World Enough and Crime, Thirteen, 13 O'Clock; Destination: Mystery!, 13 Claws, Passport to Murder: Bouchercon Anthology 2017, and Mystery Weekly. Her short story "The Sweetheart Scamster" in Thirteen was a finalist for a Derringer Award in 2014. Rosemary lives in Toronto and teaches novel-writing at George Brown College.

Book preview

"Another delightful outing for Rosemary McCracken’s sleuth, Pat Tierney. Ever astute, Pat believably negotiates murder and mayhem that threatens to wreck her life.  As well as a good story, Uncharted Waters has additional benefits such as the depiction of the inner world of financial investment. And a hilarious portrait of contemporary baby showers. More Pat Tierney, please!"—Maureen Jennings, author of the Detective Murdoch mystery series, the DCI Tom Tyler series, and the Charlotte Frayne P.I. series.

"As a single mother in her late 40s, Pat Tierney knows her decision to embark on uncharted waters by opening her own financial planning practice is a professional and a personal risk. But when the uncharted waters prove to be a shark pool, bloody with betrayal and murder, Pat must fight not just for her livelihood but for her life. Uncharted Waters is McCracken’s best Pat Tierney mystery yet!"—Gail Bowen, author of the Joanne Kilbourn Shreve mystery series.

For Ed Piwowarczyk, as always

I perched on the couch, terrified by what I might see…and learn.

Detective Hardy held the door open for me. They’re ready. Take as much time as you need.

A bearded young man in jeans and a tropical shirt waited beside a monitor with a blank screen. He smiled, and motioned for me to sit in the chair facing the screen.

Okay? Hardy asked when I was seated.

I took a deep breath and nodded.

Here goes, the clerk said.

A black-and-white image appeared on the screen in front of me. Eyes closed, dark hair combed back. The face looked as if it had been carved in marble. I shivered.

Can you identify the deceased, Ms. Tierney?

Chapter One

Fifteen days earlier…

The party was in full swing when I arrived. Men in tuxedos, women in party dresses and waiters bearing trays of champagne flutes milled about the hotel ballroom, their lively chatter almost drowning out the string quartet on the balcony. The gala that kicked off the annual Financial Planning Symposium was a five-star event that I seldom missed. It was a fabulous evening, and a chance to network with the who’s who of Canada’s investment industry. That evening, however, I was on a mission. I was shopping for a business.

A hand touched my shoulder. My former business partner, Stéphane Pratt, handsome in a slim-fitting tuxedo, kissed me on both cheeks. "Ma chère, you look divine, he said. Only good-looking blondes can wear black to advantage."

He deftly took two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and, with a flourish, handed one to me.

We clinked glasses. The bubbly was crisp and chilled, just as I liked it.

It’s been a while, I said.

I had not seen Stéphane since I’d left the financial planning branch we operated together. In March, I had been assigned to oversee the start-up of Norris Cassidy Investments’ first venture in cottage country. When I returned to Toronto in August, I had left the company to set up my own practice. Now it was the beginning of September, and I was still spinning my wheels.

I would have loved to run a business with Stéphane. He was one of the most ethical financial advisors I knew, and he was a good friend. But when I’d called him about it, he told me he couldn’t afford to strike out on his own just yet. He was a decade younger than me, and he had a big mortgage on his home.

But I saw no harm in trying again. Haven’t changed your mind?

Can’t do it right now, but who knows? Maybe I’ll win the lottery. He grinned and raised his glass. I’ve always admired you, Pat. You’re walking the talk. Here’s to you.

We clinked glasses again. Going out on a limb may be more like it, I said ruefully.

Going out on your own is one thing, he said. Going out on your own as a fee-only planner takes real guts. You’re a brave woman.

Most financial advisors make their livings from the commissions they earn on the sale of investment products, which I believe is a huge conflict of interest. I have an obligation to place my clients’ financial interests above my own. I had come to feel strongly about this, which was why I’d left Norris Cassidy, the investment firm I’d been with for 20 years. I planned to give my clients objective advice for an hourly fee, and have them hire brokers for the actual investment transactions.

I knew the risks. I’d earn less money as a fee-only advisor, without those big commissions. And most investors don’t realize the advantages of unbiased advice, so they’re not exactly clamoring to get it. That’s one reason there are fewer fee-only advisors around.

So I’d come up with Plan B.

I’m looking to buy an existing business, I said. I need to hit the ground running.

I don’t know anyone with a fee-only business for sale, Stéphane said, but let me introduce you to a guy who definitely will know.

He took my arm and steered me through the ballroom’s double doors. It was a warm evening, and a bar, surrounded by tables, had been set up on the terrace.

He led me over to the bar, where a distinguished-looking man in a navy suit was talking to a man in a gray sports jacket. Stéphane Pratt! the man in navy said. We’re fated to meet every year at this shindig. He and Stéphane shook hands.

Dean, I’ll be at your talk on Saturday, the man in gray said, and left with a wave of a hand.

Stéphane turned to me. Pat, this is Dean Monaghan of Monaghan Financial. Pat Tierney is my former boss. She ran the Norris Cassidy branch I’ve taken over.

Let’s grab a seat. Dean pointed to a table partially screened by a large potted palm. There.

Dean Monaghan was a legend in our industry, and a hero of mine. A former director of wealth management at a prominent brokerage house, he had struck out on his own 15 years earlier, well before fee-only financial planning came into vogue. I’d heard him speak passionately about it at many a conference.

Seated across from him at the small table, I put him in his early 60s. His salt-and-pepper hair was so perfect—thick, glossy, not a strand out of place—that I realized it must be a hairpiece.

I was sorry to hear you were ill, Stéphane said to him. I trust you’re better now?

Fully recovered. To me, Dean added, I had a heart attack last winter.

I’m so sorry. My husband, Michael, had died of a massive heart attack five years before.

With his tanned face and trim build—and that head of hair—Dean looked the picture of health. But Michael had also been a fit guy. I knew appearances could be deceiving.

Have you cut back at work? I asked.

He smiled. Not really. My business is a small one. I worked from home for a few weeks, and my wife went into the office.

His eyes were asking why I was so interested.

My husband had a heart attack, I told him.

Stéphane placed a hand lightly on mine.

I could see Dean connecting the dots. Of course, Michael Tierney. It’s a shame what happened to him.

I nodded, wanting to change the subject. Then Stéphane came to my rescue.

Pat hired me at Norris Cassidy, he said.

But you’ve left them, Dean said. Where are you now?

I’m starting my own business. Fee-only.

You’ve seen the light! He was beaming.

Pat’s thinking of buying a business, Stéphane said.

Dean looked at me more closely. Then a ringtone sounded, and he took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. My wife, he said, looking at the screen. She’s ordering me home.

He handed me a business card. Give me a call, Pat. Please.

What do you make of that? I asked Stéphane after Dean had left the table.

Do what the man said. Give him a call.

Chapter Two

Early the next morning, I made several phone calls. Everyone I spoke to praised Dean for his initiative in leaving a senior position at an established firm and striking out on his own in what was then uncharted territory. Some mentioned the good causes he had spearheaded in the community.

At 11 a.m, I called the number on his business card.

An hour later, I was seated across from him in his office.

What are you smiling about? he asked from behind his large oak desk.

I smiled. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be trying to buy a business.

And I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be selling mine.

I sat up straight in the chair. You’re selling? So that was why he’d given me his card.

I run a fee-only business, he said.

And that’s what I’d like to buy.

I kept my business small so I could manage it well into my 70s, maybe longer. But it hasn’t worked out that way. My doctor wants me to avoid stress. My wife tells me it’s time to retire.

Your children don’t want to take over?

Dean closed his eyes, as if trying to escape a painful thought. My only child is a financial planner at Optimum Capital. The investment firm he’d named was Norris Cassidy’s chief rival. But Lukas wouldn’t be a good fit for my business.

He likes working on commission.

He gave a mirthless chuckle. You bet he does.

I still didn’t know much about the business Dean ran. How many clients do you have?

Sixty-eight.

A small practice, so maybe one I could afford. My mind raced ahead. I could bring in more clients, probably double its size in five years.

Then I told myself not to get my hopes up. I might not be able to afford Dean’s asking price.

He picked up his phone. Sam, can you come into my office?

Sam was Samantha Reiss, the woman who had greeted me at the reception desk. She was in her mid-to-late 20s, and wore her bottle-red hair hipster-style: close-cropped on one side, longer and wavy on the other.

Print out our client list for Ms. Tierney, Dean told her. You can give it to her when she leaves.

Sam flashed him a smile, and nodded.

Sam is my only employee, he said after the door closed behind her. Secretary, receptionist, general factotum. She’s been with me for three years, and I’d be lost without her.

I planned to run a tight ship, but I would need an assistant. Sam seemed pleasant and efficient. Would she want to stay on?

Dean opened a folder on his desk. If you buy, you can take over my lease should you want to. This is a well-run building, close to parking and public transit. The subway station’s just down the street.

The office suite was a second-floor walk-up over a print shop in Toronto’s Annex neighborhood, a part of the city I’ve always liked. The suite was fairly basic, but the rooms were large, with windows looking over Bloor Street West. It would suit me just fine.

Dean showed me the lease he had signed, which told me how much rent he paid each month. I liked the office suite even more.

He leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising look. Are you interested in my business?

I lowered my eyes, trying not to show how interested I was. That depends on your asking price. And I’d have to take a close look at your clients.

The list Sam is printing out will give my clients’ ages, professions, income, how long they’ve been with me, and their investment assets. No names, of course.

He looked right into my eyes. Look over the client list carefully. If there’s anyone on that list you’d like to know more about, I’ll ask if he or she is willing to talk to you.

I nodded, and he went on.

I’ll make my financial statements available to your appraiser. Do your due diligence. Then, if you’re interested, make me an offer.

That caught me off-guard. I had never bought a business before, but I assumed negotiations started with the vendor’s selling price. Still, I liked the idea of coming up with my own valuation, even if he turned it down.

Would you stay on with me for six months? I wanted the transition to go as smoothly as possible for the clients. If they worked with both of us for a while, they would get used to me, and I would learn what they liked and didn’t like about how Dean ran his practice.

He shook his head. I’ll stay on for a few weeks to introduce you to the clients, but no longer. It was a huge decision to sell my business. Now I need to sever ties and move on.

He closed the folder on his desk.

I stood up and shook his hand.

I’ll answer any questions your appraiser has, he said.

I was at the office door, when he said, One more thing.

I turned to face him.

Sam comes with the business, he said. Whoever buys it will have to keep her on for 12 months.

I’ll need to have a chat with her.

Happy to arrange it.

In the reception area, Sam smiled and handed me a manila envelope. I was about to say something about meeting with her, but I thought better of it. No sense involving her until I had a closer look at Dean’s business.

Thank you, I said, holding up the envelope.

She knew why I’d met with Dean. She was probably wondering whether she wanted to work with me.

Chapter Three

Back at home, I went over Monaghan Financial’s client list. I was impressed. Most of the men and women in Dean’s fold were over the age of 40; some were well past it. Several had amassed considerable wealth as a result of their hard work and his financial advice. And they were all fairly conservatively invested through independent brokers. I’m a conservative investor myself, so Dean and I were compatible on that front.

The only downside I could see was that Dean hadn’t taken on any new clients in the past five years. I was concerned that these long-standing clients would view his departure as an opportunity to shop around for a new advisor.

I couldn’t afford to lose these clients. Norris Cassidy maintained that it owned its clients for a year after an advisor left its fold, so none of my former clients would be following me for a while. And, in a year’s time, they might be perfectly happy with their new advisor and wouldn’t bother looking me up.

But apart from that concern, Monaghan Financial looked like a good fit for me.

I needed to go over its financial statements and tax returns. Then I would bring in a professional appraiser, who might find nuances I wasn’t aware of.

I fired off an e-mail to Dean asking to see his financial statements and the business’s tax returns for the past five years.

***

Laura and I had our usual discussion after dinner that evening, so usual it had become almost an evening ritual. My 18-year-old daughter had been accepted into the first-year arts program at the University of Toronto, but she had put her schooling on hold until the following year. She was six months pregnant, due to give birth in late December. A few weeks earlier, she’d taken a part-time job at a fashion boutique owned by a friend’s mother.

I understood that Laura was bored sitting around the house, but I was worried about the baby. We’d had a bad scare that summer, when she’d had a subchorionic hemorrhage. The tiny tear in the placenta had healed with a week’s bed rest, but I had warned Laura that being on her feet for hours might not be good for the baby. She’d argued that there was plenty of downtime at Clothes Encounters. Its merchandise was pricey, so its clientele was small.

Instead of selling clothes, why don’t you take a course? I had asked her several times. I’d suggested she sign up for a first-year credit course at the university. The workload wouldn’t be onerous, and the reading and papers would keep her busy. And the course would count toward her degree.

I brought it up again this evening.

I’m having a baby in December, Mom. Remember? she said. As if that wasn’t at the top of my mind. Who’ll look after a month-old infant when the course starts up again in January? You’ll be back to work soon.

I handed her a mug of tea, and sat down across from her at the kitchen table. Maxie, our golden retriever, settled at my feet.

I had been furious when Laura had announced her pregnancy. Furious at how irresponsible she and her boyfriend, Kyle, had been. Furious at her assumption that everything would work out fine, and that I would help make it happen. My daughter didn’t seem to understand that motherhood would change her life. And that it would change my life, too.

But when she had hemorrhaged in the summer, and it looked like she might lose the baby, I was beside myself. I realized how important this child had become to me. Then an ultrasound showed that she was expecting a boy. This was no longer just a baby; it was my grandson! I decided that Laura and her son would live with me until she finished school. I knew I’d be playing a major role in raising this child, but I was okay with that. I was looking forward to being a grandmother.

Which reminded me: I had to start earning an income. I had a home to run, and children to support. Tommy, my eight-year-old adopted son, had family money that would pay for his education, but he needed a home after his mother’s death earlier that year.

I decided right then and there to take the next step toward buying Dean’s business. Tomorrow I would have lunch with his assistant.

I took a deep breath. I’m thinking of buying a business.

You won’t be working with Stéphane?

No, I’ll be working on my own. I’ll be an independent financial planner. Stéphane is staying at Norris Cassidy.

Oh. Laura appeared to think about that for a few moments. You’ll be completely on your own? You won’t have a secretary—

Assistant. They’re called administrative assistants these days.

You won’t have an assistant?

I’ll need an assistant. But that’s the only help I’ll have.

She leaned forward. Mom, I can be your assistant.

I placed a hand over hers. It’s sweet of you to offer, but you’ll need to spend your time with the baby before you return to school next year. And I can’t have a baby in the office.

I’ll work from home. That way I can spend time with the baby and work for you. I’ll learn a lot. Maybe I’ll become a financial planner like you.

I wanted Laura to go to university and check out all her career options. Not tie herself to a career she knew nothing about. Or tie me to an assistant with a demanding baby.

My assistant will also be my receptionist, I said. She’ll greet clients when they come to the office, take calls from them.

Isn’t that all automated now?

The personal touch still goes a long way. I paused. And the business I’m looking at comes with an assistant.

Comes with an assistant? Like comes with fries or comes with salad?

It means the owner will only sell to someone who promises to keep his assistant on for the next 12 months.

What’s so special about this assistant?

Sam’s been with this business for three years, so she knows how a financial-planning practice works.

I could learn that.

I thought you enjoyed working in Marilyn’s boutique, I said.

Marilyn Winters, her friend’s mother, liked having Laura in her shop because she looked stunning in the line of maternity wear she’d recently brought in. My daughter, a tall, slim blonde, was one of those fortunate women who look great even when they’re several months pregnant. Laura had been spared the puffy face and ankles that I’d suffered during my pregnancies.

It’s okay for now. But I like what you’ve told me about your work. You enjoy it, and you’re helping other people.

A year or two from now, I may be able to hire you for the summer or even part-time during the school year. Right now, though, I need an assistant with me in the office. Sam knows the clients, so she’ll be a big help in the transition.

Laura took her mug over to the sink. I’m looking forward to meeting Wonder Woman Sam, she said, and headed upstairs to her bedroom.

Chapter Four

Dean Monaghan’s financial statements and tax returns were in my in-box when I booted up my computer the next day. I downloaded them onto a flash drive and sent him an e-mail saying I’d received them. And I asked if I could meet Sam for lunch.

A return message landed 10 minutes later. Dean had made a 12:30 reservation for two at Il Padrino. Sam, he said, would pick up the tab.

Toronto’s Annex neighborhood is a lively enclave just north of the University of Toronto. Its tree-lined residential streets are filled with large, Victorian brick-and-sandstone homes, many of them subdivided into apartments. Bloor Street West, the main thoroughfare, is lined with pubs and inexpensive restaurants. That year, Il Padrino was the classiest eatery on the strip.

The maître d’ escorted me to a small table against a side wall, where Sam was waiting. I had met her only briefly in Dean’s office, so I took a moment to study her as I slid into the chair across from her. Her face was striking rather than pretty, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped green eyes. She wore lip gloss and a touch of blush on her cheeks, and she’d outlined her eyes with kohl. She’d brightened up her inexpensive brown trouser suit with a string of turquoise beads.

This is a treat, she said. I don’t get out for lunch often.

You don’t get out for lunch? I asked as we looked over our menus. Sounds like your boss is a slave driver.

She laughed. Dean is the best boss in the world. I owe him a lot. Like, he hired me at a really bad time in my life.

She put down the menu, and met my eyes. I don’t take a lunch break because I work six hours a day, 8:30 till 2:30. I work those hours so I can tutor kids after school.

I was impressed. You tutor kids?

I help inner-city kids with math. It’s a subject I’ve always been good at.

As a volunteer?

I don’t get paid, if that’s what you mean.

We placed our orders, and I moved into interview mode.

I’m sure you know that I’m looking at buying Dean’s business, I said.

Sam smiled. I certainly do. And Dean told me to answer all your questions.

Do you like working in a financial-planning practice?

Before we go any farther, she said, there’s something you need to know.

Her face told me I wasn’t going to like what she had to say. I nodded for her to go on.

Four years ago, I worked as a clerk in the patient records office at Oak Ridges Health Center in Lomanville. She named a town just east of Toronto. I was able to access the records of pregnant women and women who’d recently delivered. I sold their names and contact info to a financial advisor at Jensen & Fyfe. He pitched education savings plans to them.

My mind was racing as the waitress served us our plates of pasta. We both picked at our food for a minute. Then Sam took a sip of water and continued talking.

I pleaded guilty to selling securities without a license, although I didn’t know a thing about selling securities. I just passed on names. Her green eyes were enormous, and the freckles stood out on her pale face.

The case had been big news at the time. Jensen & Fyfe had fired its advisor, who got a 90-day prison sentence and a $100,000 fine. Nothing close to the penalty he deserved. The hospital worker—Sam, I now knew—had been caught when her supervisor found data stored in the memory of a photocopier and printed a hard copy. The printout contained the names of maternity patients, their personal information, and their babies’ dates of birth. It also had Sam’s log-in information, and the dates and times she accessed the database, which she had no work-related reason for doing.

What you did is called unregistered trading of securities, I said.