I nodded. “Thanks.”
Charlotte lifted the flap and pulled out several sheets of paper. She glanced at them quickly, then looked at me and nodded.
“I didn’t kill Jeff,” Chloe said. “Or help anyone else do it. I had no reason to.”
Charlotte put the papers back in the envelope and handed it to Chloe. “I believe you,” she said. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
“I should have done it from the beginning.”
Charlotte put both hands on Chloe’s shoulders and smiled. “You did it now. That’s enough.”
I could tell from the smile that spread across the young woman’s face that Charlotte’s opinion meant a lot to her.
Charlotte walked Chloe out. I leaned against the workbench and thought about Jeff Cameron telling Chloe that his whole life was soon going to be a vacation. Had that been what got him killed?
The rest of the day was busy at the shop. I found the tripod and set it on the workbench with Deb’s name on it. I made sure that both Mac and Charlotte knew why it was there in case I was busy when Bayley and her mother came in.
Late that afternoon I was in the workroom checking out the half dozen chairs Avery had brought in from the garage when Mac poked his head in from the store. “Sarah, Channing Caulfield is on the phone for you,” he said.
He looked as baffled as I felt. “For me? Did he say what he wanted?” I asked.
Mac shook his head. “I could take a message.”
I held up a hand. “No, it’s okay. I’ll talk to him. I’ll take it up in my office.”
As I headed upstairs I wondered why the former manager of the North Harbor Trust Company was calling me. Channing Caulfield had gone to school with Charlotte and had advised Liz on Emmerson Foundation business. He also had a soft spot for Liz. I’d met the man in the spring after the Angels had gotten involved in the murder of a man named Ronan Quinn.
I remembered Avery saying Liz had been having dinner with Channing on Friday night. Did that have anything to do with today’s phone call?
I dropped into my desk chair and reached for the phone. “Hello, Mr. Caulfield,” I said.
“Hello, Sarah,” he replied. “You don’t need to be so formal. Please call me Channing.”
I pictured the man. He was in his early seventies, about average height, but with the presence and confidence of a much larger man. He had silver hair combed back from his face, a ready smile and deep blue eyes.
“I called because Liz said to call you if I wasn’t able to reach her.”
“All right,” I said. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“She was right about the money,” he continued. “It just took me a while to find the name the account was under.”
“Liz usually is right,” I said. It was the only thing I could think of.
“I thought it wasn’t likely he’d use Jeff Cameron, but that was the first name I looked for. I checked California and Massachusetts, but I didn’t come up with anything.”
Okay, now things were starting to make sense, including why Liz had gone to dinner on Friday with the former bank manager.
“I didn’t have any better luck with Jeff Hennessy, either, but I hit pay dirt with Cameron Hennessy.” I caught an edge of pride in his voice. “It turns out the money never left New Hampshire. The account is with an adviser in Manchester.”
“You’re sure it’s the right person?” I asked.
“I’m certain,” Channing said. “I e-mailed the photo Liz gave me to the adviser. It’s the same man.”
“Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about?” I reached for a pen and a pad of paper.
“I only have a ballpark figure, you understand,” he said. “But I can safely say more than a million.”
“Dollars?” I rasped. Jeff Cameron had a million dollars?
“Yes.”
I tipped my head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t understand. How did he get that kind of money?”
“That’s actually quite an interesting story.”
“I’d love to hear it,” I said.
Channing Caulfield cleared his throat before he began. “In the late eighteen hundreds New Hampshire became a major manufacturer of textiles, and for many years the economy was booming in the state, but by the early 1930s the bottom had fallen out; mills were being built in the south, closer to the cotton fields.”
“I remember some of that from school.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Sarah,” he said. “It’s an important part of New Hampshire’s history. Warfield Mills opened in 1871 and had managed to stay open despite the economic downturn. In 1935 they secured a contract from the federal government to produce the fabric for a series of high-altitude weather balloons. In January of 1936 there was a fire at the main mill in New Ipswich. Thirty-seven workers suffered second- and third-degree burns. Nineteen died.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it was,” he said. “One of those thirty-seven workers injured was Catherine Hennessy’s father.”
“Jeff Cameron’s great-grandfather.” I couldn’t think of the man by any other name.
“That’s where the Cameron name comes from. Charles Cameron’s wife, Alice, took her husband and their six children back to her family’s farm in the northern part of the state. They stayed there until Charles died four years later. After that, they ended up in Connecticut, where Alice Cameron worked as a housekeeper to support the children. And eventually remarried. She either chose not to stay in touch with her family or perhaps they chose not to stay in touch with her.”
“That’s so sad,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking how different things had been for Catherine Hennessy when her father died than they had been for me. Gram, along with Rose, Charlotte and Liz, had wrapped their arms around Mom and me, literally as well as figuratively.
“I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand the next part of the story,” Channing said.
“I’m guessing it has something to do with the money?”
He cleared his throat again. “An investigation found negligence on the part of the factory’s manager. A lawsuit was filed which took years, more than a decade, to work its way through the courts. Eventually the mill’s owners settled. Each of the injured workers got twenty-five thousand dollars. I know it doesn’t sound like much money by today’s standards.”
“But it was a lot of money at the time,” I finished.
“Yes, it was,” Channing said. “Charles Cameron wasn’t the only one of the injured workers who had died by the time things were settled. In those cases the money was paid to the wives and children of the injured men.”
I began to see how the details about Alice Cameron mattered to the story. “They couldn’t find Alice Cameron or her children,” I said.
“No, they couldn’t,” Channing said. “As incredible as it sounds, the money sat in a trust earning interest for more than sixty years.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars turned into more than a million.”
“The magic of compound interest.”
I set down my pen and ran a hand back through my hair. “So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, as far as I could ascertain, there was a new trustee in charge of the money and she decided to see if she could find any of Charles Cameron’s children.”
“She found Catherine Hennessy.”
“Yes, she did,” Channing said. “Catherine was the youngest of Alice and Charles’s children. The other five were dead. All the money went to her.”
“Do you know when this happened?” I exhaled slowly.
“Approximately four years ago.”
“About a year before Catherine Hennessy died.”
“Nine and a half months,” he said.
“And when she died the money disappeared.”
Channing made a sound of disapproval. “The account was transferred to another financial institution. That account was closed. Shortly after, a Cameron Hennessy opened his own investment account.”
I looked at the notes I’d been scribbling on the pad in front of me. “How did he get away with it? What about his sister?”