“I never actually said that, did I?” Elena grumbled teasingly.

“I have a source who claims otherwise.” Maddie, of course, and they both knew it.

“She would.” Elena’s tone turned thoughtful. “Back to what I meant to say. I need you to be thorough and exacting in your investigation, but then I want you to do whatever you have to. Don’t second-guess yourself, Felicity. Don’t worry about what I’ll think. Just work out what has to happen, then do it.”

Now that was excellent advice. A weight lifted off her. “Thanks, Elena. I will.”

“Good. I have to go.” The phone went dead.

Felicity didn’t mind the abrupt departure. Elena was Elena. She put her phone away and stared at the words under the sticker etched into the cat’s feet: MADE IN USA.

CHAPTER 11

Clear as Mud

That evening, over an unsatisfactory bowl of ramen noodles, Felicity discovered Shenzhen Industries did not have a single muddy footing in its entire perfectly sound infrastructure.

She’d received a message from the Beijing bureau chief for the Asian-American Journal, one of Bartell Corp’s elite news mastheads. The email included an English translation of a couple of local news stories from the day of the landslide a little over two months ago, which was apparently as bad as it looked in the photo. The problem was, the pictured factory Charles had shown her was not Shenzhen Industries.

She’d been lied to. The question was: who’d constructed the lie?

Had Charles, and by extension Harvey, been duped by the manufacturing company, which was wringing money out of gullible international creditors? Sending them articles in Chinese inventing a hard-luck story on the back of a real tragedy while sticking their hand out for more orders? She shot a query back to the bureau chief.

Is Shenzhen Industries a reputable company, or is it capable of running a con?

The journalist replied almost immediately. The former. They’re gold star.

Okay, but no company was perfect. All it took was one bad apple in a management team up to no good lining their own pockets.

So were Charles and Harvey being conned?

Charles struck Felicity as having a closed, adamant mind about what he knew to be true. People like that were ripe for scams because, once they committed to something, they just kept doubling down even when alarm bells went off because they couldn’t believe what was happening to them.

As far as gullible personality types went, Harvey seemed to be far worse. After a lifetime of caution, he’d committed to his new venture, boots and all. He’d had a bad outcome with the initial order, then rather than negotiate a settlement and walk, he’d slid every one of his chips across the table and gone all in. What on earth was he thinking? The gamble itself was huge and risky, and it was all predicated on some nebulous dream of starting a collecting craze. Who starts a new project for the first time from the position of assuming they’ll hit a home run?

Felicity set aside theory A, the Chinese con, and moved to theory B, the Harvey and Charles con.

The two men could be working together to fleece money from Living Ruff. All they needed was an inside man in Shenzhen, and it was simple: when ordering, you either over-ordered or overpaid on purpose, and the refund would somehow make its way to a different account and into their own pockets. It was not unlike a basic money-laundering scheme.

She phoned Saul, Elena’s private investigator who found things out for a steep price. She didn’t ask how he did what he did, and he never told.

Saul answered with a grunt. “Didn’t expect to hear from you people again so soon. Thought your boss had her answers on her husband.”

“She does. This is new. Charles Stone, brother of socialite Rosalind Stone. Can you find out for me if he’s had a sudden windfall or any signs of it? Flashy new purchases, investments out of the blue, more money to burn in clubs, that sort of thing?”

“How flashy we talking?”

“One point four million dollars’ worth. While you’re at it, do the same for Rosalind’s husband, Harvey Clifford.”

“How soon do you need to know?”

“Today would be preferred.”

He whistled. “I’ll charge double. I have the contacts in those circles, but it’s already evening.”

“I’ll pay triple if I have that information within two hours. Just be accurate.”

“Always.” He hung up.

Felicity leaned back and wondered if considering the worst of the two men wasn’t a bit far-fetched. For either or both of them to be embezzling, there had to be motive.

She tapped her lip. The obvious gain was wealth. But while Harvey didn’t have money in his own right, Cooper had said he wasn’t motivated by greed. Besides, the man wouldn’t hurt his charity. Everyone said how much Harvey loved it. That didn’t explain how guilty and strange he’d been acting.

That left Charles. Was he masterminding a con on Harvey? Exciting him with all the lovely merchandise he could sell and spark a fad with? He could be working with someone at Shenzhen Industries to fleece him. But then there was motive. Charles didn’t need money. Thomas had found no irregularities beyond the fact that his sporting goods store was the least successful of all Rosalind’s enterprises. But that didn’t mean it was unsuccessful; on the contrary, his store made a good profit every year.

What could Charles gain from a scam? Was he greedy? After power? Hiding a loss? Even if it was all three, why would he risk scamming his brother-in-law, given it would destroy his relationship with his family when it all came out? And it would come out the moment Living Ruff’s external auditor went over their finances in preparation for filing their 990. Finding well over a million dollars had been listed as spent on merchandising with no proof to back it up would raise red flags everywhere, and the truth would be quickly revealed. Getting caught would be inevitable, so why bother?

Nothing fit. What was theory C?

Rosalind Stone? She’d already misdirected Felicity’s investigation with her suggestion that a vet-tech scheme was in play. Except Felicity couldn’t imagine a less likely embezzler. It was clear the woman was dedicated to the charity she’d set up, and she had more wealth than she knew what to do with.

For the hundredth time that evening, Felicity wished Cooper were here. It had been so nice last night, batting around theories, followed by sex, snuggles, more sex…then doing it all again the next morning. It was addictive, and not just because of the tingly way Cooper made her body feel.

Felicity had always thought she didn’t need companionship from her lovers. Or even companionship from her acquaintances, come to think of it. But maybe that was because people usually bored her. They tested her patience with witless prattle on the mundane, like what inanity their child had performed or what they’d bought, driven, or eaten.

Not Cooper. She talked about life. Homelessness. Purpose. What mattered, what didn’t. They might not always agree, but she was never boring or short of a compelling topic.

Felicity was itching to call her, but Cooper had texted an hour ago to say she was exhausted and heading straight for bed.

That was probably for the best, given Felicity’s current neediness. It would be so much harder to walk away later if she kept dragging Cooper into her world every time she missed her.

Besides, if Living Ruff or its director were up to something shady, Felicity should protect Cooper by keeping her out of everything related to this con.

One way or another, a con was certainly on. That also meant, one way or another, Elena’s money was gone. Where, though? That was the question.

Felicity wracked her brain some more but came up only with a few curious tendrils she couldn’t quite make sense of.

* * *

The dishwasher was purring in the background, and Felicity was curled up on the couch watching Animal Planet when her phone rang with an unfamiliar number. She glanced at the time. An hour and fifty-eight minutes had passed.

She answered with a guess. “Saul, I presume? And with two minutes to spare, no less.”

“Ms. Simmons. I like to hit my deadlines, especially with a lot of zeroes on the line.”

“What have you found?”

“First, Harvey Clifford. That guy’s cleaner than a nun’s bedroom. His spending habits are about the same, too. He’s got little wealth of his own, doesn’t spend his wife’s dough, or seem interested in money at all either way.”