look for the secret fortune inside. It’s Chinese tradition from Ming dynasty.”
Alistair broke his moon cake in half, exposing the small slip of paper inside. “Your past success will be overshadowed by your future success. Let’s hope so. Ziele?”
I read it aloud. “The first step to better times is to imagine them.” I tasted a bite of the moon cake. The texture was odd; I preferred the fruit.
Isabella laughed and added hers. “Grand adventures await those willing to turn the corner. If only it were so easy.”
I moved our conversation back on point. “I follow what you are saying about why Alistair’s financing of the research center is done through donations. Now what?”
Alistair shrugged. “The money stays there, earmarked for the research center, until I put in a formal request.”
“That’s something Mrs. Leab has traditionally done,” Isabella added, “with Alistair dictating the request and signing off on it. The problem is that huge sums have gone missing over the past year from Dean Arnold’s earmarked account. Checks were disbursed from the account made out to the research center, but they never made it to Mrs. Leab. Someone else managed to cash them by forging Alistair’s name.”
“You never noticed missing funds?” I asked Alistair.
Alistair looked embarrassed. “Apparently not. We are talking about funds I never requested. Whatever I asked for, I received. There seemed no reason to inquire about what was held in reserve for later.”
“How much money, exactly, do you donate every year?” I asked. It seemed inconceivable that someone would not keep tabs on what was obviously a large amount of money. But Alistair’s relationship with his money was different from that of most people. Because he had more than was ample for his requirements, he had no reason to keep close track of his funds. His answer made that clear.
“I’d have to ask my accountant,” Alistair said. “For the university as a whole, I donate my annual salary back, several times over. But we are talking about a portion of that earmarked for my research.”
Isabella cradled her cup of tea as she leafed through the dean’s papers, which included a series of budget memoranda from various academic departments. “Sarah caught the problem because anyone who receives money from the dean’s discretionary fund is required to document exactly how it is spent, supported by receipts or canceled checks. This is done on a quarterly basis,” she explained. “What Sarah discovered was that large sums of money sent to the research center—totaling nearly fifteen thousand dollars—were never documented.”
She pushed her plate aside to make room for the papers, prompting a waiter to appear from nowhere to clear the table.
“My first question has to be whether someone from the research center could have put in for the checks, then intercepted and taken them?”
“I thought of that, too,” Isabella said. “But look”—she pushed a paper in front of us—“I compared this requisition request for $2,000 against all of our handwriting—Tom’s, Fred’s, Horace’s, even Mrs. Leab’s. It’s not a match for anyone.”
“Someone might have disguised their writing,” I said.
“Maybe,” Alistair responded, “but most of us academics aren’t in the profession for the money. We’re motivated by a passion for our field. So it’s hard to see greed leading any of my associates to concoct this sort of scheme.”
What Alistair said was no doubt true. But I could not help but reflect that Alistair’s associates were not independently wealthy, either. Their perspective might be different.
“You mentioned Lonny was perpetually in need of money, so there’s an avenue to explore,” I said thoughtfully. “Our best bet will be to contact the bank on Monday morning. The check was cashed, so the money went somewhere. By tracing the canceled check, perhaps we can generate additional leads.”
Alistair pushed his dessert plate aside. “The important issue for now is what the discovery of this scheme may have meant for Sarah Wingate. She may well have identified the person who stole these funds. But everyone described her as upset. Theft . . . money . . . budget discrepancies . . . these strike me as annoyances, not something that would have upset her to the degree Angus MacDonald and Ruth Cabot suggested.”
“Especially since no one stole the money from her,” Isabella added.
“Also, let’s not forget that the person who stole from my fund may have no connection to Sarah’s murderer,” Alistair said. “The theft and the murder may be wholly separate crimes.”
“Remember the money you found at the crime scene under Sarah’s mattress?” I asked Alistair. “It was