Agatha Page 2

  I was surprised to see Drake in the room. The man dislikes me, but I don’t know why. He had his trademark scowl on his face. I looked to Trent for some sort of reassurance but got none. In fact, he looked really nervous. He seemed to be more interested in the button on his jacket than on my promotion. When I looked at Miriam, she had no expression on her face whatsoever. I’ve always gotten along with Miriam. No, we didn’t socialize or anything, but whenever I had a performance review, she was always pleasant. Even the times she had to tell me I was passed up for a promotion, she was nice. So, there I stood, waiting.

  I looked at Dad. “Miriam asked me to sit down. So, I did.” I lean forward on the sofa. “When I looked up, they all had angry expressions on their faces. Really angry. Especially Drake. He spoke first saying, ‘Tell us why you did it.’ I looked back at Drake, then at the others. I had no idea what he was talking about.”

  “Did you ask him what he meant?” asks Dad, moving to the edge of his seat, literally.

  “I did, but he just laughed, or scoffed, I guess, is a better word. Miriam spoke next. She said, ‘We know you took the money.’ I must have looked horrified or something because Miriam sat back suddenly. ‘What money?’ I asked. Then Trent piped up, ‘You know what money.’ I turned to him next and said, ‘No, Trent, I don’t.’”

  I feel a tear slide down my cheek and quickly wipe it away. I don’t like thinking about this and especially about Trent and the look of disgust on his face. I thought Trent and I… well, I thought he and I were going to be something. But not anymore.

  “Keep going, Aggie. We didn’t get to hear any of this either. You only told us the abridged version at Murphy’s,” says Lainie.

  I’d met my sisters at Murphy’s the day I was fired and told them some of this, but not all of it. I couldn’t do it then. Hell, it’s hard now––two weeks later.

  “Well, there were some other things said. I’m not sure I remember the words exactly but, essentially, they said I’d embezzled over one hundred thousand dollars over a four-year period.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” chokes my father.

  “Yeah. That’s what they claimed.”

  “Did they tell you how you did it?” Keeton has moved closer to the conversation. I’m sure he knew the basic story from Lainie.

  “No. They just said that I took the money, that they knew I took the money, and that they wanted me to sign a non-disclosure agreement and leave the premises immediately. If I did, they wouldn’t press charges.”

  “Now, that’s the part that gets me,” says Sadie. “That’s a shit-ton of money. Why wouldn’t they have you arrested?”

  “Gee, thanks, Sadie,” I reply glumly.

  “No, I just mean…”

  “If it’s a publicly-traded company, they’d want to keep it on the down-low,” replies Keeton. “Stocks would be impacted at that news.”

  “It is public. The other reason would be to keep it out of the press,” says Violet. “Bad for business.”

  “Did you try to defend yourself?” asks Keely. “Did you fight?”

  “I told them I was innocent.”

  “What happened then?” Sadie asks, sitting on the back of my sofa. My entire family is all around me now.

  I blush, thinking about what happened next. “I, uh, signed the NDA and I stood to leave…”

  They all stare at me. The room is silent for a beat when Violet speaks. “Keep going, Aggs. Tell us the rest.”

  It just hit me, I’m not even supposed to talk about it with my family thanks to the NDA. “You guys can’t tell anyone any of this.”

  “Honey, of course we won’t,” says my dad as he pats my knee. “Keep going.”

  “Okay. Well, Drake told the security guys to escort me to my desk, and to make sure I only took my personal belongings, and to show me the door.”

  And they did that. I felt like I was a dead man walking through the office. Everyone stared at the three of us. I’m sure no one knew what was happening but by the tears running down my cheeks, they had to know something was amiss.

  “Security guys? What security guys?” Lainie asks, surprised.

  “Oh, there were two security guys there. I hadn’t noticed them when I walked in and I’d never seen them before.”

  “Security or cops?” snaps Keely. She’s got a thing about cops. The thing? She doesn’t like them.

  “Security? I think. I’m not sure.”

  “Keep going, honey. You’re almost done,” Dad says squeezing my hand, “It’s good for you to let this all out.”

  “They walked me to my desk. One of the guys was kind of gruff so the other one sent him off to do something else saying, ‘I got this.’ The older one helped me pack up a box with my things and then he walked me to the elevator and down to the ground floor and out to the street. That was it.”

  I can’t tell my family that I sobbed the entire eleven floors down. It’s embarrassing. In my defense, I did it quietly. The security guy was nice enough to carry my box for me until we got outside. He set it down on the sidewalk in front of me. Just as I was about to leave, I looked at him, for the first time, really. He was handsome, ruggedly handsome, but those thoughts were for another time, another place. Anyway, I looked into his clear, blue eyes and said with a shaky voice, “I—” I paused, trying to put the words together. “I did not take that money.”

  Without a word from him, I picked up my box, turned, and walked down the street. Away from a career I loved, well liked a lot. I guess I should have been happy. I had my freedom.

  Chapter 2

  Agatha

  After everyone leaves, I put on a clean nighty and crawl into bed. Fresh sheets feel good against my bare legs. Having a clean house feels good too. Being intervention-ized by my family wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Honestly, talking it out did help as my dad predicted. Another interesting thing that happened through the process was the realization that I, in fact, was innocent. Sure, I already knew that. What I hadn’t considered was if I was innocent, then someone else took that money. The question is, who?

  Chapter 3

  Agatha

  Damn it. I can’t sleep. No matter what I do, sleep evades me. I’ve tried counting sheep, putting on socks, taking off socks, getting down on the floor to do push-ups, well, a push-up, but none of those tricks worked. Looking at my clock for the millionth time, I groan when I see that it’s almost three in the morning. “I give up.” Rolling out of bed, I walk out to my living room, dragging my tired feet. Plopping my bottom onto one of my wooden dining chairs, I stare out into the darkness. “I could read.” That usually puts me to sleep. “Or,” I say standing back up, “I could work on a puzzle.” I love puzzles of all kinds: jigsaw, word search, crossword, and I especially love solving detective mysteries. So, the puzzle I decide to work on is the one at H&S.

  Flipping on one of my two lamps, I scan the room in search of my phone. I haven’t checked it for two weeks. I didn’t have it in me to read or listen to my messages, fearing what would be there. But the time has come. I look in the usual spots, ending with my purse. Digging down into my large bag, I find it on the bottom. I tap the screen, realize it’s dead, and set it onto my rapid charging station on the kitchen counter. When my phone chirps to life, I see I’ve got forty-seven text messages and some voicemails. Clicking on the text icon, the majority of the messages are from my dad and sisters. A few are from Camille. I quickly scan her texts.

  The first was from the day of… the incident.

  Camille: What’s going on? Why’d you leave?

  Camille: Seriously, what’s going on? Someone said you were escorted out of here? Call me!

  Moving to the next day, I click three more messages from her.

  Camille: You need to call me, Aggie. None of this makes any sense.

  Camille: Where are you? I’m hearing some really fucked up stuff. Call me.

  Camille: Well, shit. I’m going to call you. I need to know if you did it. Did you steal
over a million dollars?

  A million dollars? What the hell? They told me it was just over one hundred thousand.

  I click on the voicemail app on my phone and tap on her first message. “I have no idea where you are now, but you need to know the stuff they’re saying around here, and I need to know it’s not true. I can’t believe it’s true. Call me.”

  Camille’s second message was sent the third day after I was fired. Her voice is hushed, a whisper. “I can’t talk long. I’m hiding in the bathroom here at work. You must be laying low. I would be doing the same thing, but you need to call me. I know you. You wouldn’t do this. They’re saying you made up some phony companies, submitted invoices to yourself from those phony companies, and then paid them. All the money went into outside bank accounts and that, apparently, you’ve been doing it for nearly four years. That can’t be true. Right?”

  So, that’s how they did it. They made up phony companies, sent invoices, and then paid themselves. I think I heard her say bank accounts, plural. It’s crazy. I know I didn’t do that. Hell, I wouldn’t know the first thing about setting up a scheme like that. Sure, I pay, or I should say paid, vendors as part of my job, for materials and supplies for the manufacturing side of the company. I paid for things like leather, textiles, synthetics, rubber, cardboard boxes, and foam. And since Heart & Sole Shoes is a Fortune 1000 company, we used a lot of those materials. We’re an international company that supplies shoes to large department store chains, boutiques, huge online retailers, and more. I was responsible, and authorized, to pay out large bills in the tens of thousands of dollars. I guess I could see how a lot of money could be funneled through my office, but it didn’t happen at my desk.

  Stepping away from my charging phone, I lay down on the couch and put my head on the matching sofa pillow. Closing my eyes, I practice my yoga breathing. At least what I remember about yoga breathing. It’s been a long time since I did yoga, or any real exercise, for that matter. Anyway, I do my best to relax and breathe. It will help me think. According to Camille, they say I paid myself using dummy invoices. Well, whoever did that had to have logged into the system with my username and password, which leads me to believe that my suspect has a background in computers. Well, at least they know more about them than I do. Now all I need is someone with a computer background to do whatever they do to find out who else logged into my account. I know there are ways to track people down just by the computer they used. The problem is, I don’t know anyone like that. Violet is pretty good with a computer, but not that good.

  Rubbing my temples with my fingers, I force myself to think. Fact: I know I didn’t pay those phony invoices. Fact: I know I didn’t create any bank accounts. It’s ridiculous for any of my co-workers to think I’d do that. But, for some reason, they do think I did that. “I’m so screwed.” I adjust the pillow beneath my head and mutter, “Think, Aggie. You’re good at this stuff. Prove why it couldn’t be you.” Yeah, I’m talking to myself. I’ve officially lost my mind. “Okay. I know it couldn’t be me because…” I think back to my process at work. “I only work from my desk. I never work from home. It’s a rule. If I had to work late to get things done, I stayed in my office to do it.” On the downside, I tend to use passwords any hacker could figure out. “That was probably a mistake.”

  Sitting up quickly. “I’ve got it!” I saved all of the invoices I paid. All of them. I was religious about saving a copy of every invoice I paid to a folder on my desktop. “Not only that,” I say jumping up from the couch, “At the end of each week, I dragged those saved invoices onto an external device.” In my case, it was onto thumb drives. Just in case.

  I race to my front door where the box of stuff I brought home from my office still sits. Kneeling on the floor, I open the flaps of the box and see the few personal items I had on my desk. There’s a picture of my mom and me. I was seven or eight, so about a year before she died. Setting that aside, I pull out another photo of me with all four of my sisters and my dad at my college graduation. I stare at all of us, our smiles so big. They were all really proud of me.

  “Crap.” My nose starts to burn like I’m about to cry as the overwhelming sense of sadness hits me. They were proud of me. Now they must be so disappointed. Shaking my head, I choose to ignore my depressing thoughts. I’ve had two solid weeks of wallowing. Enough is enough. Reaching into the box, I find the little knick-knacks I had on my desk at work, gifts from people at the office. There’s a perpetual daily desk calendar that tells me all the national days of the year. For example, there’s Super Hero Day, Fresh Breath Day, and National Popcorn Day. Camille gave it to me last Christmas and I love it. It makes me laugh almost every day. Heck, Camille and I wore little capes on Superhero Day. It brought a smile to our co-workers’ faces. Good times.

  Next, I grasp something cool to the touch. It’s a mod-looking name plate I’ve had on my desk for years. I stare down at it. The sides and back are wooden and attached to the front is a silver plate with my name engraved on the front: Aggie Palmer. I set the nameplate on my dining room table with the name facing me, just like on my desk at H&S. It was a Christmas gift, or I assumed it was. One Monday before Christmas a few years ago, it appeared on my desk with a small red bow on top. I asked everyone in my department if they knew who gave it to me, but no one had a clue because no one else received one. I even asked my sisters if they’d sent it to me since no one at H&S ever referred to me as Aggie at work, No, at work I’ve always been Agatha.

  I dump out the few other items in the box and see one of my blue thumb drives. I hold it up. I ordered a whole box of them in this color. It’s much cheaper to order in bulk. Blue was my mom’s favorite color and now it’s mine. I turn it over in my hand and see writing. I always write dates on each thumb drive with an ultra-fine point black Sharpie. This one is written in something thicker and it’s not my handwriting. “It’s definitely one of mine though.” I roll it around in my palm, thinking. I’m tempted to plug it into my computer to see what’s on it but I’m hesitant. What if it’s got some kind of virus on it or something? I’m not the techiest person in the world, let me tell you. I can use spreadsheet applications like Excel but knowing how the inner workings of a computer function? Not in a million years.

  Stepping over to my small round dining table, I place the thumb drive next to the nameplate. “Time to get organized.” I walk down my short hallway to my office slash closet to gather up a few things. I pull out materials like my laptop, a yellow legal pad, a pencil, a blue highlighter, and a pen from my desk drawer. I find a brand-new set of index cards in there as well. Post-its and Scotch tape, for what, I’m not sure, but better to be prepared than not. I also dig out the employee phone list I’d printed off last year. Granted, there have been new people hired and a few have left since that time, but if this thing had been going on for as long as they said, the person responsible would be on that list. Placing everything I’ve collected on the dining room table, I sit down. “So, the first question is…” I say aloud as I begin to write, “Who stole a million dollars from Heart & Sole Shoes? And secondly, how and why did they frame me?”

  I tap my pen on the pad like a drummer beats his snare. I’m not sure it’s helping. I close my eyes to clear out the fuzz from my brain and sigh. It just doesn’t make any sense. Who would do that to me? I don’t have any enemies there. At least none that I know of. I was always nice to people. I kept to myself most of the time and those who I did interact with on a daily or weekly basis were my seven other colleagues in the accounting department. While we did work together, we all worked on different things at H&S. For example, I am, or was, one of three staff accountants responsible for paying customer invoices. My work was on the manufacturing side. Camille Bartlett, my best friend at work, is a financial reporting accountant. She takes care of other things like external financial reporting and the tax side for the sales department.

  Laying my head back on my chair, I peer up at the ceiling, I see a cobweb that we missed when we clea
ned up the place. Spiders in Northern Arizona are those of nightmares. We get everything from tarantulas to black widows and brown recluse. Heck, even common house spiders here look like a brown recluse. A shiver runs down my back as I do my best to concentrate on my blank page.

  “Where do I start?” If this were one of my favorite mystery books, the crime would start the entire ball rolling just as my story has begun. The next step is for the femme fatale to hire the private detective. I guess I’m playing both of those parts. While I don’t consider myself the traditional femme fatale, a seductress in trouble, I do accept the fact that I am, indeed, a woman in a pickle.

  Sighing, I stare at the phone list. I know there are people I can rule out right away. I look at Camille’s name, then Trent’s. They’re my only friends, or at least they used to be my only friends there. I assume Trent is no longer on that short list. But, Camille? I haven’t talked to her since that day.

  Picking up my pen, I make a note to ask Violet about the thumb drive. She’s the tech nerd sister of the bunch. After that, I sit, staring at what I’ve got in front of me. “A whole lot of nothin’,” I mutter. The only good thing about this? I’m sleepy now. I stand up, turn off the light in my dining area and make my way back to bed. With my head on the pillow and my legs covered by just a sheet, I close my eyes and slowly, slowly, drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Agatha

  By eleven the next morning, I’m back at my small round dining table staring. The only difference between now and last night? I’ve got a cup of coffee in my hand. “How am I supposed to pull off this investigation? If I were Hercule Poirot, I’d use my little ‘grey cells’, but I am no Hercule Poirot. While my namesake was a great mystery writer, I am not. I open my laptop and check my email. On a whim, I attempt to log into my work email and am shocked to see I still have access. Scrolling through the emails since my firing, I see I’m still in the loop on departmental and company-wide emails. I click on the one from the CFO, Drake Garlock, with the subject: Agatha Palmer.