CLAUDIA:We’ve now set up a special contact point for anyone wishing to share their experiences with Imogen Garron and/or the Inherit the Future Fund—all that information will be in the show notes. Shifting gears, as I alluded to earlier, as so often happens when women go missing, the question quickly becomes: What about the husband?What do we really know about him anyways?
LEO:Mark Janssen, Imogen’s second husband, is a trainer at the Yorkville FitLuxe. None of Imogen’s clients who we’ve spoken to had the impression that he was affiliated with the ITFF in any way. However, it has come to light that Imogen was paying Mark a hefty six figures per year in “consultancy” fees, which begs the question: What was he consulting on? And how much does he know about the inner workings of her scheme?
CLAUDIA:I’ll just jump in here to say that, as yet, he has not been charged with any crimes.
LEO:Mark was at the police station yesterday with his lawyer to give a statement, and sources tell us they spent more than three hours inside. When he emerged, he gave a press conference in which he pleaded with Celeste Sarkassian—the missing employee—to come home and return the money. What about his wife? It was so bizarre.
CLAUDIA:Apparently, Mark is trying to get the court to unfreeze certain bank accounts. He’s claiming that he can’t live on his personal income alone, and that he needs access to the accounts that he and Imogen share. Sir! What are you doing? Those accounts are full of stolen money! Allegedly. Anyways, I’ll put a pin in the Mark of it all by saying that he posted a shirtless photo of himself looking serious and captioned it “thoughts and prayers for my missing wife.” What a clown.
LEO:The fact that Imogen has gone missing is obviously front and centre now, but we don’t want to forget about the other missing persons in this case.
CLAUDIA:Celeste Sarkassian, for example, Imogen’s sole employee at the ITFF. She hasn’t been named in any of the court documents or charged with any crimes, but you have to wonder how it was, working for Imogen. Like, what did Celeste know?!
LEO:The search and rescue team recently located an empty kayak on Massassauga Lake—it was half-submerged and more than a kilometre from shore. However, the fact that her body hasn’t been found has led to rampant online speculation that Celeste is implicated in the ITFF scam, and that she’s alive and on the run.
CLAUDIA:Okay, but guys, there’s more. This is totally disturbing news, and I cannot wait to see what everyone will be saying in the Discord. Just yesterday, a fisherman made the gruesome discovery of a severed hand in the shallows. Between the hand and the kayak, things are not looking good for Celeste’s safe return.
LEO:Now I did say missingpersonsplural, because do we ever have a bomb for you: There is athirdmissing person connected with this case. Here’s where shit gets really interesting.
CLAUDIA:One of the other women vacationing with Imogen and Celeste was Marta Hebard, Imogen Garron’s childhood BFF. Get this: Her husband, Derrick Williams, has been missing for weeks! Apparently, shortly before his disappearance, Derrick reported the ITFF to the Serious Fraud Office, and it seems like this tipoff was the likely catalyst for the investigation that resulted in the raid on Imogen Garron’s home.
LEO:It sounds like this Marta character is at the sticky centre of a web of disappearances. Now I’m not saying she’s done anything wrong, butdamn. That’s a lot of people to go missing in your orbit.
CLAUDIA:She’s like a black hole.
42
MARTA
When Imogen skipped town, Marta cold-plunged into her new reality. Her money was gone and she was totally, irrevocably screwed. If she couldn’t figure out a way to carry the mortgage on her own, she was going to lose the house, and if she lost the house, then it would only be a matter of time before she lost everything.
Weeks later, Marta thought she must be hallucinating when a text from an unknown number lit up her phone.Martyparty. Please hear me out. I can explain everything. What followed was a set of instructions to download an encrypted messaging app. Marta ignored the message for an entire day (which was to say, she picked up her phone every ten minutes to reread it, and used every ounce of self-control not to respond). The next morning, while still in bed, Marta downloaded the app and messaged the unknown number a question mark. She was gratified to see a ( . . . ) pop up right away, and she liked the idea that Imogen had felt even a smidgen of anxiety while waiting for her to reply.
I’m so sorry to disappear like that but I needed to go to my offshore bank in person and there was no way the cops were going to let me leave the country. They have it out for me, I swear. I told them I could clear it all up, but they wouldn’t let me do what I needed to do.
Marta wanted to believe her, she felt that familiar tug at her heart. Her best friend was in trouble and neededher . . .but she knew better now. She knew what Imogen was capable of.
I left so fast I couldn’t return your money, but I swear it’s safe. Everyone’s money is safe. I just need to work through a tax nightmare and some crypto shit and everything will be fine. But I need your help. You’re the only one I can trust.
This was it, the test of loyalty she had suspected was coming.
There’s a safety deposit box. I left so fast I didn’t have time to clear it out, and now I can’t come back to the country until I fix this mess. Marta, if you help me with this, I will not only return your money, I’ll double it out of my own pocket. Will you help me? I am literally begging you.
Marta felt hope for the first time in weeks. She slowly tapped out her response.Tell me what you need me to do.
Over the encrypted messaging app, Imogen explained that she’d taken out a safety deposit box at a bank downtown. There was a briefcase stored there containing documents that were going to be crucial in untangling the financial snarl and clearing her name. If Marta couldpleasego to the bank in her stead, get the briefcase, and bring it to her in Saint Kitts, Imogen would be able to get everyone’s money back.
Marta asked how on earth she was supposed to access the safety deposit box without the key, which was presumably in Imogen’s house. There was no question of her getting in to retrieve it—the door was still belted with police tape and there was a patrol car parked permanently outside. Imogen’s answer felt like a home invasion. The matryoshka doll on Marta’s bookshelf, gifted to her by her grandmother when she was ten, had been a constant in her life, moving with her everywhere she went. Imogen told her to open up the smallest doll. The key was inside, just as Imogen said it would be. Apparently, Imogen had hidden it there over a year ago, around the same time she’d added Marta’s name to the bank’s list of people with authorized access to the box. Marta set it down beside the deconstructed wooden doll, examining the key with revulsion, as if it were a parasite that she’d extricated from her flesh. Imogen’s presumptuous hijacking of her cherished childhood artifact was just the latest in a string of violations; nonetheless, it wounded Marta to her core.
Once she decided what she was going to do, Marta wasted no time. At the bank, after presenting her ID and the key, she was ushered to a vault where safety deposit boxes were set into the walls from top to bottom. The bank employee used the dual control key to turn one lock while Marta used Imogen’s key in the other. She let out her breath in a littleahhwhen it clicked open smoothly. Marta removed the only item the box held—a slender leather briefcase—and placed it directly into the backpack she’d brought with her. She exited the bank as swiftly as she could and went directly home, where, contrary to Imogen’s instructions, she bashed open the lock. After sorting through the contents, Marta’s heart soared. She arranged the items in two piles, then picked up the phone to make the call she’d been putting off since she got home from the lake.
Marta spoke with a duty officer who perked up when she gave her name, and she was patched directly through. Detective Ramirez was on the other end of the line in seconds, a buzzy energy audible in her greeting. “I’d like to help you find her,” said Marta. “I can get Imogen’s location and set up a meeting. She needs to pay for what she’s done.”
The sparkly azure water and arcs of peaceful palms should have had her in a blissed-out state, but Marta was clenched and rigid. Despite the sun on her shoulders and the breeze dancing through her flowy linen pants, Marta had almost never felt this tense. Sitting at a table facing the ocean at the Kitts Back and Relax beach bar, she nursed her strawberry daiquiri, unable to relish its bursting sweetness and boozy kick.
Marta had landed on Saint Kitts late the night before, so it was her first time seeing the island’s splendour in the daylight. On a normal vacation, she would have been nose-deep in a book on the beach, or strolling around to check out the local cafés. As it was, she was sitting at the overpriced tourist trap Imogen had selected for their meeting and wondering if it was possible that her spinal discs were fusing together out of stress. Her fingers moved restlessly, folding and unfolding her straw’s packaging in an endless paper accordion.
Imogenwouldbe late to her own clandestine meeting. It was so typical it almost made Marta smile. But then she remembered why she was here and what she had to do and it felt like someone was making a paper accordion out of her insides. She took another sip of her drink, then almost spat it out when she felt a warm hand brush her back. Suddenly, Imogen was sitting at her table, her face obscured by gigantic shades and an offensively floppy hat.
