Uncharted Waters Read online

  Uncharted Waters

  A Pat Tierney Mystery – Book 4

  Rosemary McCracken

  Copyright © 2020, Rosemary McCracken.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Smashwords Edition ISBN: 978-1-77242-118-7

  Cover design by Sara Carrick

  Carrick Publishing

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you did not purchase this e-book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the author’s written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  rosemarymccracken dot com

  Contents

  Praise for Uncharted Waters

  Dedication

  Begin Reading

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Rosemary McCracken

  Praise for Uncharted Waters

  “Another delightful outing for Rosemary McCracken’s sleuth, Pat Tierney. Ever astute, Pat believably negotiates murder and mayhem that threatens to wreck her life. As well as a good story, Uncharted Waters has additional benefits such as the depiction of the inner world of financial investment. And a hilarious portrait of contemporary baby showers. More Pat Tierney, please!”—Maureen Jennings, author of the Detective Murdoch mystery series, the DCI Tom Tyler series, and the Charlotte Frayne P.I. series.

  “As a single mother in her late 40s, Pat Tierney knows her decision to embark on uncharted waters by opening her own financial planning practice is a professional and a personal risk. But when the uncharted waters prove to be a shark pool, bloody with betrayal and murder, Pat must fight not just for her livelihood but for her life. Uncharted Waters is McCracken’s best Pat Tierney mystery yet!”—Gail Bowen, author of the Joanne Kilbourn Shreve mystery series.

  For Ed Piwowarczyk, as always

  I perched on the couch, terrified by what I might see…and learn.

  Detective Hardy held the door open for me. “They’re ready. Take as much time as you need.”

  A bearded young man in jeans and a tropical shirt waited beside a monitor with a blank screen. He smiled, and motioned for me to sit in the chair facing the screen.

  “Okay?” Hardy asked when I was seated.

  I took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Here goes,” the clerk said.

  A black-and-white image appeared on the screen in front of me. Eyes closed, dark hair combed back. The face looked as if it had been carved in marble. I shivered.

  “Can you identify the deceased, Ms. Tierney?”

  Chapter One

  Fifteen days earlier…

  The party was in full swing when I arrived. Men in tuxedos, women in party dresses and waiters bearing trays of champagne flutes milled about the hotel ballroom, their lively chatter almost drowning out the string quartet on the balcony. The gala that kicked off the annual Financial Planning Symposium was a five-star event that I seldom missed. It was a fabulous evening, and a chance to network with the who’s who of Canada’s investment industry. That evening, however, I was on a mission. I was shopping for a business.

  A hand touched my shoulder. My former business partner, Stéphane Pratt, handsome in a slim-fitting tuxedo, kissed me on both cheeks. “Ma chère, you look divine,” he said. “Only good-looking blondes can wear black to advantage.”

  He deftly took two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and, with a flourish, handed one to me.

  We clinked glasses. The bubbly was crisp and chilled, just as I liked it.

  “It’s been a while,” I said.

  I had not seen Stéphane since I’d left the financial planning branch we operated together. In March, I had been assigned to oversee the start-up of Norris Cassidy Investments’ first venture in cottage country. When I returned to Toronto in August, I had left the company to set up my own practice. Now it was the beginning of September, and I was still spinning my wheels.

  I would have loved to run a business with Stéphane. He was one of the most ethical financial advisors I knew, and he was a good friend. But when I’d called him about it, he told me he couldn’t afford to strike out on his own just yet. He was a decade younger than me, and he had a big mortgage on his home.

  But I saw no harm in trying again. “Haven’t changed your mind?”

  “Can’t do it right now, but who knows? Maybe I’ll win the lottery.” He grinned and raised his glass. “I’ve always admired you, Pat. You’re walking the talk. Here’s to you.”

  We clinked glasses again. “Going out on a limb may be more like it,” I said ruefully.

  “Going out on your own is one thing,” he said. “Going out on your own as a fee-only planner takes real guts. You’re a brave woman.”

  Most financial advisors make their livings from the commissions they earn on the sale of investment products, which I believe is a huge conflict of interest. I have an obligation to place my clients’ financial interests above my own. I had come to feel strongly about this, which was why I’d left Norris Cassidy, the investment firm I’d been with for 20 years. I planned to give my clients objective advice for an hourly fee, and have them hire brokers for the actual investment transactions.

  I knew the risks. I’d earn less money as a fee-only advisor, without those big commissions. And most investors don’t realize the advantages of unbiased advice, so they’re not exactly clamoring to get it. That’s one reason there are fewer fee-only advisors around.

  So I’d come up with Plan B.

  “I’m looking to buy an existing business,” I said. “I need to hit the ground running.”

  “I don’t know anyone with a fee-only business for sale,” Stéphane said, “but let me introduce you to a guy who definitely will know.”

  He took my arm and steered me through the ballroom’s double doors. It was a warm evening, and a bar, surrounded by tables, had been set up on the terrace.

  He led me over to the bar, where a distinguished-looking man in a navy suit was talking to a man in a gray sports jacket. “Stéphane Pratt!” the man in navy said. “We’re fated to meet every year at this shindig.” He and Stéphane shook hands.

  “Dean, I’ll be at your talk on Saturday,” the man in gray said, and left with a wave of a hand.

  Stéphane turned to me. “Pat, this is Dean Monaghan of Monaghan Financial. Pat Tierney is my former boss. She ran the Norris Cassidy branch I’ve taken over.”

  “Let’s grab a seat.” Dean pointed to a table partially screened by a large potted palm. “There.”

  Dean Monaghan was a legend in our industry, and a hero of mine. A former director of wealth management at a prominent brokerage house, he had struck out on his own 15 years earlier, well before fee-only financial planning came into vogue. I’d heard him speak passionately about it at many a conference.

  Seated across from him at the small table, I put him in his early 60s. His salt-and-pepper hair was so perfect—thick, glossy, not a strand out of place—that I realized it must be a hairpiece.

  “I was sorry to hear you were ill,” Stéphane said to him. “I trust you’re better now?”

  “Fully recovered.” To me, Dean added, “I had a hea
rt attack last winter.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My husband, Michael, had died of a massive heart attack five years before.

  With his tanned face and trim build—and that head of hair—Dean looked the picture of health. But Michael had also been a fit guy. I knew appearances could be deceiving.

  “Have you cut back at work?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Not really. My business is a small one. I worked from home for a few weeks, and my wife went into the office.”

  His eyes were asking why I was so interested.

  “My husband had a heart attack,” I told him.

  Stéphane placed a hand lightly on mine.

  I could see Dean connecting the dots. “Of course, Michael Tierney. It’s a shame what happened to him.”

  I nodded, wanting to change the subject. Then Stéphane came to my rescue.

  “Pat hired me at Norris Cassidy,” he said.

  “But you’ve left them,” Dean said. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m starting my own business. Fee-only.”

  “You’ve seen the light!” He was beaming.

  “Pat’s thinking of buying a business,” Stéphane said.

  Dean looked at me more closely. Then a ringtone sounded, and he took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “My wife,” he said, looking at the screen. “She’s ordering me home.”

  He handed me a business card. “Give me a call, Pat. Please.”

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Stéphane after Dean had left the table.

  “Do what the man said. Give him a call.”

  Chapter Two

  Early the next morning, I made several phone calls. Everyone I spoke to praised Dean for his initiative in leaving a senior position at an established firm and striking out on his own in what was then uncharted territory. Some mentioned the good causes he had spearheaded in the community.

  At 11 a.m, I called the number on his business card.

  An hour later, I was seated across from him in his office.

  “What are you smiling about?” he asked from behind his large oak desk.

  I smiled. “A year ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be trying to buy a business.”

  “And I wouldn’t have dreamed I’d be selling mine.”

  I sat up straight in the chair. “You’re selling?” So that was why he’d given me his card.

  “I run a fee-only business,” he said.

  “And that’s what I’d like to buy.”

  “I kept my business small so I could manage it well into my 70s, maybe longer. But it hasn’t worked out that way. My doctor wants me to avoid stress. My wife tells me it’s time to retire.”

  “Your children don’t want to take over?”

  Dean closed his eyes, as if trying to escape a painful thought. “My only child is a financial planner at Optimum Capital.” The investment firm he’d named was Norris Cassidy’s chief rival. “But Lukas wouldn’t be a good fit for my business.”

  “He likes working on commission.”

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. “You bet he does.”

  I still didn’t know much about the business Dean ran. “How many clients do you have?”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  A small practice, so maybe one I could afford. My mind raced ahead. I could bring in more clients, probably double its size in five years.

  Then I told myself not to get my hopes up. I might not be able to afford Dean’s asking price.

  He picked up his phone. “Sam, can you come into my office?”

  Sam was Samantha Reiss, the woman who had greeted me at the reception desk. She was in her mid-to-late 20s, and wore her bottle-red hair hipster-style: close-cropped on one side, longer and wavy on the other.

  “Print out our client list for Ms. Tierney,” Dean told her. “You can give it to her when she leaves.”

  Sam flashed him a smile, and nodded.

  “Sam is my only employee,” he said after the door closed behind her. “Secretary, receptionist, general factotum. She’s been with me for three years, and I’d be lost without her.”

  I planned to run a tight ship, but I would need an assistant. Sam seemed pleasant and efficient. Would she want to stay on?

  Dean opened a folder on his desk. “If you buy, you can take over my lease should you want to. This is a well-run building, close to parking and public transit. The subway station’s just down the street.”

  The office suite was a second-floor walk-up over a print shop in Toronto’s Annex neighborhood, a part of the city I’ve always liked. The suite was fairly basic, but the rooms were large, with windows looking over Bloor Street West. It would suit me just fine.

  Dean showed me the lease he had signed, which told me how much rent he paid each month. I liked the office suite even more.

  He leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising look. “Are you interested in my business?”

  I lowered my eyes, trying not to show how interested I was. “That depends on your asking price. And I’d have to take a close look at your clients.”

  “The list Sam is printing out will give my clients’ ages, professions, income, how long they’ve been with me, and their investment assets. No names, of course.”

  He looked right into my eyes. “Look over the client list carefully. If there’s anyone on that list you’d like to know more about, I’ll ask if he or she is willing to talk to you.”

  I nodded, and he went on.

  “I’ll make my financial statements available to your appraiser. Do your due diligence. Then, if you’re interested, make me an offer.”

  That caught me off-guard. I had never bought a business before, but I assumed negotiations started with the vendor’s selling price. Still, I liked the idea of coming up with my own valuation, even if he turned it down.

  “Would you stay on with me for six months?” I wanted the transition to go as smoothly as possible for the clients. If they worked with both of us for a while, they would get used to me, and I would learn what they liked and didn’t like about how Dean ran his practice.

  He shook his head. “I’ll stay on for a few weeks to introduce you to the clients, but no longer. It was a huge decision to sell my business. Now I need to sever ties and move on.”

  He closed the folder on his desk.

  I stood up and shook his hand.

  “I’ll answer any questions your appraiser has,” he said.

  I was at the office door, when he said, “One more thing.”

  I turned to face him.

  “Sam comes with the business,” he said. “Whoever buys it will have to keep her on for 12 months.”

  “I’ll need to have a chat with her.”

  “Happy to arrange it.”

  In the reception area, Sam smiled and handed me a manila envelope. I was about to say something about meeting with her, but I thought better of it. No sense involving her until I had a closer look at Dean’s business.

  “Thank you,” I said, holding up the envelope.

  She knew why I’d met with Dean. She was probably wondering whether she wanted to work with me.

  Chapter Three

  Back at home, I went over Monaghan Financial’s client list. I was impressed. Most of the men and women in Dean’s fold were over the age of 40; some were well past it. Several had amassed considerable wealth as a result of their hard work and his financial advice. And they were all fairly conservatively invested through independent brokers. I’m a conservative investor myself, so Dean and I were compatible on that front.

  The only downside I could see was that Dean hadn’t taken on any new clients in the past five years. I was concerned that these long-standing clients would view his departure as an opportunity to shop around for a new advisor.

  I couldn’t afford to lose these clients. Norris Cassidy maintained that it “owned” its clients for a year after an advisor left its fold, so none of my former clients would be following me for a while. And, in a year’s time, they might be perfectly hap
py with their new advisor and wouldn’t bother looking me up.

  But apart from that concern, Monaghan Financial looked like a good fit for me.

  I needed to go over its financial statements and tax returns. Then I would bring in a professional appraiser, who might find nuances I wasn’t aware of.

  I fired off an e-mail to Dean asking to see his financial statements and the business’s tax returns for the past five years.

  ***

  Laura and I had our usual discussion after dinner that evening, so usual it had become almost an evening ritual. My 18-year-old daughter had been accepted into the first-year arts program at the University of Toronto, but she had put her schooling on hold until the following year. She was six months pregnant, due to give birth in late December. A few weeks earlier, she’d taken a part-time job at a fashion boutique owned by a friend’s mother.

  I understood that Laura was bored sitting around the house, but I was worried about the baby. We’d had a bad scare that summer, when she’d had a subchorionic hemorrhage. The tiny tear in the placenta had healed with a week’s bed rest, but I had warned Laura that being on her feet for hours might not be good for the baby. She’d argued that there was plenty of downtime at Clothes Encounters. Its merchandise was pricey, so its clientele was small.

  “Instead of selling clothes, why don’t you take a course?” I had asked her several times. I’d suggested she sign up for a first-year credit course at the university. The workload wouldn’t be onerous, and the reading and papers would keep her busy. And the course would count toward her degree.

  I brought it up again this evening.

  “I’m having a baby in December, Mom. Remember?” she said. As if that wasn’t at the top of my mind. “Who’ll look after a month-old infant when the course starts up again in January? You’ll be back to work soon.”

  I handed her a mug of tea, and sat down across from her at the kitchen table. Maxie, our golden retriever, settled at my feet.