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Chapter Three

E mily Ainsley shifted in the chair lounge. She shouldn’t have let the aide help her out of the wheelchair and into the chair without finding out how long she’d have to sit there before she could return to bed. The single hospital bed, with its crisp white sheets and lightweight blanket, stood not ten feet from her chair but there might as well be the Atlantic Ocean between them. Emily couldn’t traverse even such a short distance without assistance, not with her leg still encased in a cast from hip to toes.

A sharp knock, then the door opened and an older woman wearing the plum-colored scrubs of an aide entered. Emily bit back a caustic request to wait for a reply to the knock before barging in, but she’d been in the rehab facility long enough to know it would make no difference.

“Oh, good. You’re sitting in the chair. You’ll get better faster if you move around more.” The aide regarded her with one of those cheery smiles the healthy gave the sick.

Emily swallowed another sarcastic reply that hovered like a bee above a blossom on her lips. Instead, she viewed her left outstretched leg on the recliner’s footstool. She still had at least another week to wear the blasted thing.

The aide refilled the plastic mug with water. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes, I’d like to return to the bed. Please.” Emily waited for the reprimand about doing it on her own.

The aide huffed, displeasure written on her expressive face, but she complied and soon Emily was ensconced in the bed. She thanked the aide, then took a sip of water before logging onto her tablet to check her email.

Still no reply from Topher Robotics about her emails, the most recent sent a week ago. She tapped the side of the case as she considered calling. She should have done this years ago, but raising her fifth child as a single mom while grieving the loss of her husband hadn’t left much bandwidth for Quixotic quests. Having enforced immobility since her accident six weeks ago had meant more time to think, which translated into more time to remember the injustice done to her husband.

She considered what she knew about Topher Robotics. Founded and run by the Topher family, the company had expanded beyond robots to artificial intelligence and other cutting-edge technologies. Jay had worked his way up to chief financial officer from the accounting department, spending most of his career at the company. Emily hadn’t particularly liked the Tophers, but then again, she had only encountered them at office parties and a few charity events.

Before sending her email, she’d refreshed her memory about who still worked at the company. Peter Topher, who’d founded the company in 1970, had retired from the day-to-day operations twenty years ago. Emily recalled Jay saying Peter frequently came to the office to check in on how his adult children were handling things.

The current CEO, Ryan, was Peter’s oldest child and had taken over the reins from his father. Gene Topher, Peter’s middle child, now held Jay’s former position as CFO, while Yasmine, the youngest and only daughter, was chief operating officer. Other Tophers, which Emily assumed were the progeny of the Ryan, Gene, and Yasmine, populated the middle management positions. Very few outsiders held leadership positions—Topher Robotics was the quintessential family-owned and -run business—which made their circling the wagons against her husband not surprising.

The stricken expression on her husband’s face when he’d informed her of the embezzlement accusations the day before his death flashed into her mind.

“All of them were there—Peter, Ryan, Emil, Yasmine—when Ryan told me I was fired for embezzling millions from the company over a five-year period.” Jay had slumped on the couch, his voice a mere whisper, as if saying the words softly would negate their terrible meaning.

Emily hadn’t understood what her husband was saying, not right away. She’d stammered something about it being a mistake Jay could explain, but he’d only shaken his head. “I tried to tell them I was innocent, but they had spreadsheets and bank account statements supposedly showing how I had siphoned off the money. I’d never seen those papers or accounts before in my life, but that didn’t matter.” He put his head into his hands.

She rushed to his side, kneeling on the floor beside him. “We’ll fight this together. I don’t care what papers they have—they must be fake! You’re the most honest man I’ve ever known.”

When he raised his head, the grief and hurt in his eyes sent her stomach to the bottom of the ocean. Without a word, she enveloped him into her arms and held him tight. The next morning, while they sipped coffee after a restless night for them both, officers from the Falls Church Police Department arrived to enact an arrest warrant from Fairfax County for Jay. She closed her eyes as memories of that awful sequence of events replayed in her mind in slow motion.

Jay standing, his face ashen. One of the officers extending his hand with handcuffs dangling from his fingers. Her husband meeting her gaze, his own filled with sorrow and pain. The click of metal as the policeman secured Jay’s hands in front of him. Then Jay moving his cuffed hands toward his chest, his eyes widening as his knees buckled. The officer holding his elbow attempted to help him into a chair, but Jay somehow ended up on the floor.

Her scream echoed off the walls as the officers tried to resuscitate her husband, but Emily had known the moment his body hit the floor, Jay was gone. For days after his death from a heart attack, the papers had been filled with a constant stream of articles, each one with another sordid detail of the fraud and embezzlement Jay had supposedly committed. Without him around to defend himself, he was easily convicted in the court of public opinion.

Emily closed her eyes, trying to recover her equilibrium after her dip into the past. Her husband had mourned the loss of his good name as much as he had the fact someone was getting away with the money. That the men and women he’d worked with as employees or clients thought he’d taken money that wasn’t his had cut him to the quick.

Drawing in a breath, she pulled up the number to Topher Robotics and dialed it on her cell. Punching through to speak to the receptionist, she requested Ryan Topher. A series of clicks, then someone answered.

“Ryan Topher’s office, Mae Stanhope speaking.”

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Topher please.” Emily interjected a smile into her tone.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Topher isn’t available. May I take a message?”

Emily had expected this. “Yes, this is Emily Ainsley.”

A soft gasp from Mae told Emily the other woman recognized her name. Good, that would make things easier. “I’m calling to get an answer to my emails.”

“Your emails?” Mae had recovered her professionalism, her voice crisp and calm once more.

“Over the last couple of weeks, I sent Mr. Topher several emails regarding the embezzlement charges levied against my late husband by the company fifteen years ago.”

“And the message?”

“That I’m through waiting for a reply. I’ve given him ample time to respond to my request to officially clear Jay of any wrongdoing. Now I will take the necessary steps to do so myself.”

“Would you please hold, Mrs. Ainsley?” Mae didn’t sound quite so confident.

Emily listened to the classical hold music, wondering if Mae was the same Mae who used to work in accounting under her husband. Maybe she would ask when the woman came back on the line, but the call disconnected abruptly. She debated calling back but decided she would wait before poking the bear again. As she considered her next move, an idea blossomed, one that might accomplish two things at the same time. She would suggest Jetta help her clear Jay’s name with the assistance of Seth Whitman, that nice young man who lived next door and worked for The Herald . Reporters knew all about ferreting out secrets, didn’t they?

But she would have to tread carefully and make it seem like Jetta’s idea. Her youngest had an independent streak a mile wide and didn’t like to be told what to do. Emily had a feeling that attribute would come in handy in the search for the truth about who’d gotten away with millions—and falsely blamed her husband for the crime.

* * *

Jetta took the final sip of her cookies-and-cream milkshake. While she’d been hungry earlier, hearing about the dead raccoon had zapped her appetite, and she’d thought she wouldn’t be able to choke down any food. But during their meal, Seth entertained her with hilarious tales of photographing events for The Northern Virginia Herald , and before she realized it, she’d eaten all of her nuggets and waffle fries.

“So there’s the Falls Church mayor chasing his ball cap down the sidewalk as the wind keeps tossing it hither and yon.” Seth held out his phone to show her the picture he’d snapped.

She chuckled at the usually dignified mayor running after the cartwheeling Nationals ball cap. “Did the paper run the photo?”

He shook his head. “No, my editor went with the more formal one, but the one I showed you is my favorite of that series.” He gathered their wrappers and put it in the kitchen trashcan.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” He washed his hands in the sink.

“For taking my mind off of what happened to Bingley and that poor raccoon.”

“My pleasure.”

The simple words rang with such sincerity, she believed him.

“I should be going. Before I head to work in the morning, I can check your yard for what Bingley and the raccoon ate.”

His offer didn’t surprise her, but she reminded herself that the more she relied on him, the more he might think she cared for him beyond friendship. “I don’t want to put you out. You’ve already done so much for me with Bingley and taking care of the raccoon.”

“I don’t mind.”

That was the trouble—he liked helping her, and while she knew he didn’t expect anything in return, the lopsidedness of their relationship had begun to grate on her nerves. But that could be her advanced state of pregnancy talking. Everything had started to irritate her. Even her mother had commented on Jetta’s snappiness of late.

She rubbed the small of her back as the baby stretched in her belly, then capitulated as gracefully as she could manage. “Then I accept.”

“Consider it done.” But the lines across his forehead deepened instead of receding with her acquiescence.

Usually he seemed pleased when she accepted his help. “What’s the matter?”

“I was thinking how weird it is your dog and the raccoon both ate ibuprofen. I mean, it’s not like people dump bottles of the stuff around a neighborhood.” He paused, as if debating with himself on whether he should continue. Staring down at the granite countertop, he spoke to the slab. “I looked more closely at the raccoon’s, er, vomit when cleaning it up, and it appeared the pills had been mixed with chunks of meat.”

“What are you implying?” But her mind had already gone there, and she placed her hand on her chest to still her suddenly racing heart.

“I think someone might have deliberately tried to poison your dog.”

“But why would anyone do that?” Jetta couldn’t believe anyone would want to harm Bingley. She might not have had him very long, but he was a wonderful pet.

“You haven’t had any run-ins in the neighborhood about Bingley?”

“No, everyone seems so nice. He’s a friendly dog. I grew up in this neighborhood. It’s a safe place.” But it didn’t feel so safe now, if he was right about it being a deliberate act.

“You don’t have any enemies?”

“No.” But even as she denied it, a face contorted with rage flashed in her mind’s eye. Kyle was in Chicago and wasn’t stupid—surely, he wouldn’t do anything to revoke his plea agreement. She interpreted Seth’s raised eyebrows as indicating his skepticism of her denial. She would probably not believe herself either.

When she stayed silent, he broke eye contact but not before she glimpsed sadness in his chocolate-brown eyes. “I’ll let you know where I find any contaminated meat or pills.”

“Thanks again.” She closed the front door behind him. Then his last sentence snagged her attention. Seth hadn’t said if he’d find something but where , as if he fully expected to locate the source of Bingley’s sickness and the raccoon’s death. Her denials notwithstanding, Seth believed someone had indeed deliberately targeted her dog—and by extension, Jetta herself.