She was not taken aback. Quite the contrary, she was very calm. She leaned forward and conspiratorially lowered her voice. “I thought about that, even more so if he lost his savings. It’s a strong motive.” The wine was making her giddy. “I feel like throttling him myself,” she said.
“Yeah, well, feeling like doing something and actually doing it are two different things. This guy, whoever he is, seems like a real pro to me. He’s covered his tracks too well not to be.”
She beamed and gripped his shoulder. “But he has made mistakes. We can report this to the police and they can look for him. Or perhaps we can find this man, put pressure on him, and then I’m sure he’ll pay us off. That’s all I am interested in now, Mr. Matheson. I want my money back.”
“You lost a lot, huh?”
“Yes, I lost my lover because Moreno used him. Moreno lost my life savings, and I intend on getting them or part of them back. And after what you have told me, I think there’s a possibility of doing so.” She hesitated. “I’ve not been able to discover if Philip Simmons was an investor. His name isn’t on any of the documents I have, but he may have been investing in Moreno’s company through someone else. There’s something else I need to ask you, Mr. Matheson. During your inquiries, did you ever come across a David Lyons?”
“I don’t think so. Was he in on this Internet deal? Did he lose out too?”
“He lost out completely. He committed suicide. He was very dear to me.”
“He couldn’t take the loss, huh?”
“No, he couldn’t, but he was also responsible for encouraging people to invest with Moreno. He lost a lot of other people’s savings as well.”
“I see,” Matheson said.
“He was my sister’s husband.” She had tears in her eyes.
“Oh dear. Tragic all around,” he said.
“It was implied that he might have been involved in some kind of fraud with Moreno, but I know he wasn’t.” She took out a tissue and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.” She picked up her handbag, took out a wad of cash, and paid what she owed him.
“I’ve got one final invoice for you covering some miscellaneous expenses, but I forgot to bring it with me,” he said.
“Send it to me in London.”
“Good luck, Ms. Hewitt. I hope you find him.”
“I will,” she said softly and left the bar.
When she got back to her room, Sylvia was exhausted, but she sat down at the desk and added up how much she had paid Matheson. At least she had made progress. It was looking more and more as if Simmons, whether acting for Moreno or representing one of the investors, was collecting a lot of money, and she felt that at least some of it should be hers. Could it be that Simmons had killed Moreno for the money invested in his properties? Certainly Simmons was not all he seemed. He had asked Donny Baron to check out Moreno’s apartment. Why would a financial adviser use a PI to keep tabs on his own client?
Sylvia sighed and gathered her papers together. She opened her briefcase to put them away and saw a photo of herself and David at a Christmas party. She pulled it out. “It was you who got me into this mess,” she said to David’s smiling face. It was a group shot, but it was the only one she had of her lover now; Helen had destroyed all the others. As she looked at it, something caught her eye. One man in the shot stood head and shoulders above the rest. Edward de Jersey. The estate agent’s and Matheson’s words suddenly flooded back to her. “A big man… sounded more like a Brit…” Now if one man had lost out in the fall of leadingleisurewear, thought Sylvia, it was Edward de Jersey. Could he and Philip Simmons be the same person? The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. She felt like a cat with the cream. She had to think carefully about how to handle Mr. Big Cheese de Jersey. She could either expose him or push him for a payoff, a lot more than she had lost. But first she needed proof.
Early the following morning Sylvia checked out and caught the jitney bus to East Hampton, where she checked in to the elegant Maidstone Arms. This was where Moreno had stayed, and she could see why: it was a charming, elegant hotel with blazing log fires in the stylish public rooms.
After unpacking she went down to the desk and asked to speak to the manager. He was charming too but not very helpful. Moreno had been there numerous times, he said, but he had no idea of his present whereabouts. Sylvia had coffee in a long room overlooking the street and located Moreno’s property on the hotel’s street map. Later she hired a taxi and asked to be driven around Georgica. To her annoyance she’d lost the piece of paper with the address on it that Matheson had given her the night before. All she knew was that it was a large piece of land not far from the ponds and under construction. The taxi driver was chatty, but Sylvia lost interest in what he was saying when they passed a large fenced property with construction in progress. “Could we drive in there?” she asked.
He reversed, and they passed the open drive, still not paved and muddy with tracks from the construction vehicles. They splashed and jolted along until the path widened and she could see the substantial house. It was almost as large as the Maidstone Arms, with a porch, gables, and massive pillars positioned at intervals along what would become a wide south-facing veranda. It was on the crest of a hill, overlooking a pond with willow trees trailing on the banks. There was an Olympic-size swimming pool covered with a dark green tarpaulin to protect it from the debris that littered the site, and a newly constructed pool house with a white stone patio. Then she saw the large Portakabin with the construction company’s name written across it. “I won’t be a moment,” she said and got out.
“Excuse me. Could I see the person in charge?” she called as she approached the open door.
A burly man carrying a hard hat filled the small doorway. “Who do you want?”
“Whoever’s in charge,” she said sweetly.
“Can I ask what it’s about? He’s busy.”
“I’m a friend of the owner, and I just wondered, as I’m here, if I could be shown the house. I’m from England,” she added.
He disappeared, then returned and beckoned her inside.
“I’m the foreman,” said a ruddy-faced man, who was sitting behind a desk.
“I’m Sylvia Hewitt, and I wondered if I could speak to whoever is in charge.”
Sylvia waited in the cramped office as the men cleared up plans and went outside. The foreman said he would see if Mr. Donnelly was around. Ten minutes later Donnelly came in. “You wanted to see me?”
“I would really appreciate it if you could answer some questions for me.”
“What about?”
Sylvia took a deep breath. “I believe a Mr. Moreno owns this property, and I’m eager to speak to him.”
“Well, I can’t help you. We never see him now. Our only dealings with him are through his financial adviser.”
“Oh. I’ll be honest with you,” she said, “Mr. Moreno owes me a substantial amount of money. I was told he might be here. I’ve been trying to make contact with him.”
“Aha,” he said slowly, eyeing her up and down.
“I even hired a private detective. I think he might have spoken to you, a Mr. Matheson.”
“Yeah, but I told him what I’m telling you. I don’t know where Moreno is. He almost left me in a real hole too. He couldn’t make the payments, but it was settled in the end by his financial adviser.”
“Philip Simmons?” she asked.
“That’s right. He’s running the show. I get his orders from his architect and designers. They come down and check everything’s to their specifications.”
“Do you have a contact number for Mr. Simmons?”
The number he passed over was for a law firm in East Hampton. When she asked to be shown around, he said it was not possible.
“Did you ever meet someone called David Lyons?”
“Who?”