The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(55)
The detective nodded.
“Well, under those circumstances –” Elliott sighed, his eyes registering like cherries on a slot machine. “Although I’d prefer to see this criminal get her just desserts, I owe it to my dear aunt to make certain her money stays in the Lannigan family.”
Lannigan Family? He meant his own greedy hands! If I was still flesh and blood, I’d have lambasted that man for all he was worth – why, the Lannigan’s wouldn’t wipe their feet on the likes of you, that’s what I’d have told him. Destiny, who’d been forewarned not to let herself be goaded into an argument, was probably of the same opinion, because she sat there picking the polish from her fingernails and ripping her cuticles to pieces.
Detective Nichols sided with Charles McCallum. “You might want to consider that course of action,” he said, glancing sideways at Elliott. “In criminal cases we’ve got to prove she’s guilty beyond any doubt. Our exploitation case is weak to begin with, and if she’s got witnesses who will swear that she was authorized to sign those checks, fraud is out the window.”
“Civil court only requires the prosecution to show there’s a likely probability of the crime,” Charles added. “The burden of proof is much lower.”
“Of course, Mister Emerson will have to drop the exploitation complaint,” Tom Nichols said, “the rest of the charges can be transferred to civil court.”
“But she has to tell where all the money is?” Elliott asked again.
The other two men nodded, and within fifteen minutes they reached an agreement to dismiss the criminal charges against Destiny Fairchild.
End of an Era
Richmond, Virginia 1933
Abigail and Gloria both worked at Club Lucky until nineteen-thirty-three, when the government decided to give folks the legal right to drink whisky and repealed the eighteenth amendment. It happened in December, on a day that was so cold people bundled up in wooly coats and covered their noses with scarves. Although it was rumored that there would be dancing in the streets, Abigail knew better because the moment she opened her eyes she saw that the sky was gray as a stone. Days like this, you could step outside your door and get run over by a car or trampled by a horse, if that didn’t happen you were sure to catch your death of cold. Itchy had told the girls to get decked out in their best bib and tucker because Club Lucky was having a party – “a celebration to end all celebrations,” he’d called it. Still, Abigail couldn’t get rid of the nagging apprehension that was scratching at her brain.
After breakfast, she pulled on a pair of boots and ventured out to do some Christmas shopping. Abigail walked the full seventeen blocks to Market Street, all the while thinking how she’d buy some wonderful presents this year, now that she had the feel of money in her pocket. Other years she’d had to scrimp, looking hard at the price tag before considering a gift, settling for a scarf when she’d hoped to buy something much finer. For three hours she meandered in and out of stores, finally selecting a mohair sweater, ignoring the cost and thinking only of how handsome it would look on her brother. At five o’clock she started home, carting an armload of presents and a bright red poinsettia plant. For the first time in five years, she’d bought her father a present – a meerschaum pipe with a massive figurehead bowl. She planned to enclose a letter along with the gift, a letter asking for his forgiveness – although she knew that forgiveness did not come easy to William Lannigan – he was a man who just might refuse to read what she’d written and set the gift aside unopened. Still, she reasoned, it had been five years, long enough perhaps for even his anger to fade.
She tried to focus her thoughts on the upcoming holiday – pictured eggnog with a floating sprinkle of nutmeg, an angel atop a pine tree, presents tied with ribbon the color of cherries – but the sky was still there, ominous as a tombstone. She arranged the poinsettia in the center of the kitchen table then sat and ate a bowl of chicken soup – which Ida Jean Meredith had once said was the cure for anything – but it burned going down and ultimately gave her indigestion. It’s going to snow, she thought, maybe even sleet.
At eight o’clock, when Abigail arrived at Club Lucky, the party was already in full swing. A block away from the building she’d heard the band blasting out Happy Days are Here Again and no sooner had she walked through the door when Gloria scooted across the room and grabbed hold of her arm. “You’re late,” Gloria slid a glass of champagne into her friend’s hand, “the party started hours ago!”
“It feels like we’re gonna get snow tonight,” Abigail said, the look of worry tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Who cares!” Gloria answered. “It’ll melt by time this party is over.”
Abigail furrowed her brows until they matched the slope of her mouth. “You know,” she said, “up until midnight we could still get raided.”
“Raided?” Gloria laughed, “We ain’t getting raided. We ain’t even selling whiskey. Tonight everything’s free, Itchy said so.”
“Free?” Abigail hated the thought of things running amuck of her expectations, especially on a day when the sky was so worrisome. “What about tips?” she asked, remembering the extravagant presents she’d bought that afternoon. “If everything’s free, we’re not going to get tips.”