by Dana Dratch
“Not with native speakers—they talk too fast. But I can sing the Macarena, count to ten, and flirt with slow-speaking gringos.”
“Skills that will serve you for life, clearly.”
“Hey, we can’t all be doctors. Let’s start at the other end of the suite. We can double back to this room right before we leave. He’ll be long gone by then.”
“So what is in there?” she said, pointing to the door.
“Right now, my ex-boss,” I whispered, as we rolled our trolleys down the darkened corridor. “And a small digital recorder my sister gave me. Voice activated. It’s in one of the two vases on the giant bookcase in the back. There was a big meeting in there last week. I’m just hoping the recorder picked up something that will help me.”
Even if all they talked about was the ongoing plan to frame me.
When we got to the very back of the office, I hit the lights.
“Holy crap!” I said.
Elia looked at me. I pointed to a desk with something taped to the side of the computer monitor.
“That’s me,” I said. “From an article that ran in one of the papers this weekend.”
My photo—the smirky one that accompanied Mira Myles’ column—had been decorated with devil horns and a nose wart.
The next desk had one, too. Only the artist had gone for a pirate theme. Eye patch with a scar on the cheek. We scanned the room.
“They’re everywhere,” Elia breathed.
For the next five minutes, we held our own version of an Easter egg hunt. Or “Where’s Waldo?” Only it was my head, and it was everywhere.
I found them taped to walls, mugs, desks and file cabinets. All sporting a selection of black eyes, oversize ears, mustaches, goatees, eye patches, scars, horns, witch hats, and tattooed epithets.
Someone even put one on the dartboard in the back of the office.
And one techno-savvy individual had turned it into a screen saver. The head inflated like a balloon until it exploded. That one freaked me out a little.
“What did you do to these people?”
“Ever read The Lottery? Shirley Jackson?”
Elia shook her head.
“Scapegoat thing. They’ve been told I killed their boss. Doesn’t matter that it’s not true. This gives them a safe outlet and a common target for their rage.”
“Because they loved him?”
“Because they hate this place and everyone connected to it.”
“America is so strange.”
“Tell me about it.”
If I couldn’t get into the conference room, I was going for the next best thing: C&W’s sanctum sanctorum. Otherwise known as Margaret’s office.
There weren’t any pictures of me, I’ll give her that. Of course, she’d vented her rage on the real thing.
Immediately, I noticed two changes. First, three large floral arrangements, each set off with a wide black velvet ribbon around the vase. Condolence flowers.
Second, the candid shot of her and Everett, which had occupied the heavy, silver frame on her desk, was gone. Replaced with a studio portrait of Pat and Patti.
Grief? Guilt? Refocusing her energies? Or just redecorating?
As I pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, I took a minute to study the neat-as-a-pin desk. Because, after I rifled through it, I wanted to put everything back perfectly. If I didn’t, Margaret would notice. And that would not be good.
I opened one of the file-sized drawers. Neat, orderly rows of files. Unfortunately, none of them labeled “redheaded she-devil.” I was gonna have to wing it.
I flipped through until I found one labeled “Founding Fathers Life Insurance.”
Hmmmm.
The first page was a letter from the company, addressed to Margaret. It offered “our sincerest condolences on your recent loss,” and apologized for the delay in payment, explaining that its investigation was “still ongoing” and “would be concluded in the near future and with the utmost possible haste.”
Interesting. What, exactly, was the insurance company investigating?
There was a policy number at the top of the page. I copied it into the small notebook I’d stashed in the pocket of my oversized jeans.
I flipped through the file and found a copy of the policy itself. Fifteen million dollars. All to Margaret. Taken out ten years ago. It made sense—that was about the time C&W moved into this office.
I kept flipping. Another letter from the company. This one, a Xerox, had been addressed to Walters. It skipped the condolences and simply informed him that the payout of C&W’s business policy would be delayed, pending the conclusion of the insurance company’s investigation.
Love to share a mocha latte with that investigator.
I scrawled down the policy number and the name of the executive who’d signed the letter.
And I kept shuffling. Near the bottom of the file was another policy. “The insured: Everett P. Coleman and Benjamin H. Walters.”
“Beneficiaries: The last surviving of the above-named insured. Amount: thirty million dollars.”
Bingo!
I checked my notepad again. The policy number matched the one on the letter to Walters.
Damn! Of that thirty mil, I’m guessing a good portion would go to Margaret to buy out Everett Coleman’s half of the business. Then again, if she went to jail, I bet Pat and Patti would sell cheap.
That’s when inspiration struck. Or maybe it was just the memory of Margaret’s open hand.
I grabbed the policies and the letters and hit the copy room. Five minutes later, I fed the copies into C&W’s fax machine, and punched in a familiar number. As I watched the high-speed fax inhale the pages, I dialed Trip.
“Billy Bob’s getting a fax.”
“You’re his psychic secretary now?”
“Yes, and I predict twenty-two pages. Just make sure he sees it.”
“You OK?”
“Yeah, but babysit the fax tonight. He might get more stuff.”
“Where are you?”
“Belly of the beast.”
After I replaced the originals, I divided the stack of copies, wrapped half around each ankle, and yanked up my socks.
I went back to the drawer and spotted another file, intriguingly labeled “IRS.” I pulled it out and flipped it open.
Wow. Thank you, Santa.
Not only was C&W being audited, but the Feds were less than impressed with Margaret’s bookkeeping. And there was some money missing. To the tune of nearly ten million.
I ducked outside the office. “Any sign of him?” I called to Elia.
“Locked in that room still.”
“If anyone comes, give me a heads-up.”
She looked puzzled.
“Signal me. Or come and get me.”
“What are you doing?”
“You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.”
I kept the copy machine warm for the next few minutes, then fed the fax again, and dialed Trip. “Second batch, coming through. Fifteen pages.”
At this rate, I was really thankful C&W had shelled out for the lightning-fast model. The one at the paper, a relic from the ’90s, crawled along at one page per minute. And with Walters still in residence, I didn’t have that kind of time.
“This one’s from the IRS,” I hissed into the phone.
“That should definitely get Billy Bob’s attention,” Trip said. There was silence for a half a beat, and I heard a door close on his end. “Hot damn, millions in insurance. This is dynamite. Literally. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Am I sure I want to? Yeah. Is it a good idea? Probably not. But I’m tired of running from the monsters. I want to do the chasing for a while.”
“Hey, look out for yourself,” he said. “I mean it.”
“Yes, Mom. Gotta go. Look, I’ll call you when I get back to my car.”
I had one more mission. And this one was strictly personal.
The name I was looking for this time: my own. A
nd it was hiding at the very back of her drawer, behind some blank, empty files.
It was pitifully thin. Just a copy of my résumé, my insurance application (complete with my Social Security number), and a canceled check stapled to a form authorizing direct deposit, which I’d supplied on my first day.
There was also a form I’d never laid eyes on: the one canceling my health insurance.
The guy from Selecta HealthCare was half-right. Someone had checked the box dropping my coverage. But the signature was not mine. Someone—Margaret?—had tried to catch the flavor of it with the slant and lack of loops. But it was a good thing Margaret was already a rich woman. She was a lousy forger.
“My” insurance form was clipped to a typed note on C&W letterhead. One sentence stating that “Alexandra Vlodnachek is exiting the group health insurance plan, both medical and dental, effective immediately.” It was dated last Monday, and signed by Margaret’s assistant.
I wanted the originals. But eventually Margaret would realize they were missing—back of the file drawer or not. And that would be like signing my name to the information leak.
As it was, the phone number and time-and-date stamps on the faxed pages would show that they came from someone inside C&W. Let ’em chew on that.
I made two quick copies and tucked the originals back into place. Then I rolled the copies—the IRS letters together with my insurance pages—into a tight tube and shoved it down the front of my bra. I emptied the trash, sprayed air freshener and furniture polish into the air, flipped off the lights, and closed the door.
At this point, I had so many sheets of copy paper stuffed in my socks, I was limping. But for once I was actually grateful for the apron and my baggy sweatshirt. They helped obscure the mobile file cabinet that was my bra.
So much for the glamour of espionage.
I gave ten more offices the “dump-the-trash-and-spray-the-air” treatment.
When Gravois came to collect us, Walters was still locked in the conference room. Alone, apparently, because he wasn’t talking to anyone. There was just the occasional shuffle and thump.
I wondered if the long hours had anything to do with the impending audit or the missing millions. Or maybe it was just the murder.
Life wasn’t easy for the new head of Coleman & Walters.
And I planned to make it a lot harder.
Chapter 32
The next morning, I slept late. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there was a lovely cinnamony smell in the air.
Either I was still dreaming, or I was in the wrong house.
When I shuffled into the kitchen, Nick was taking a pan out of the oven. Several more pans were cooling on the table. And covered cake tins filled with God-knows-what had sprouted up on my counters.
“This place smells like Cinnabon.”
“Yeah, I just finished a batch of sticky buns. But they have to cool. I want you to try a scone.”
“No way. I’m never eating one of those things again. Ever.”
“That’s not what they’re really like. Those were evil scones.”
He set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me, along with something that looked suspiciously like one of the English rocks we’d thrown out Sunday.
“Just try it. Trust me.”
“You do know I don’t have dental insurance, right?”
“One bite.”
I broke off a piece and sniffed it. What can I say? Living with Lucy has rubbed off on me.
Still warm, it had a rich, buttery aroma. I took a bite. And another.
“Oh my God, Nick, this is wonderful! It’s light! It’s yummy! It’s actually delicious!”
“That’s what they’re supposed to taste like. That other thing was a mutant. Here, put some butter on it.”
“I want another one.”
“Just one, for now. I’m saving the rest.”
“What for?” God forbid we were getting more houseguests. We’d have to sleep them on the roof.
“I invited your nice British neighbor over for tea.”
“Ian? You invited Ian over? Why?”
“I figured after the other night we should do a little fence mending. And he seemed like the logical place to start. Plus, he was so cool about sending over that food basket, even after all the news trucks and everything.”
Mr. Flaming Bag of Poo was making nice with the neighbors? Something definitely smelled here, and it wasn’t cinnamon buns.
“Did you invite Mrs. Sterling?”
“I don’t think he’s married,” Nick said. “But you might want to change. He’s gonna be here in about twenty minutes.”
“What? Today? You invited him today? And come to think of it, when did you learn how to bake?”
“At the ranch. In the middle of the desert, if you want bread, you make it yourself. And Brandon loved the baked goods.”
“Brandon was baked goods.”
“I had to play around with the recipes a little, to account for the difference in humidity and altitude. But I really think that last batch is some of my best work.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother? And where’s Baba?”
“She took Lucy for a nice, long walk,” he said. “But only after she had two of my chocolate croissants and told me they ‘melt in mouth.’”
“Chocolate croissants?”
“Not until you go get ready. And a little mascara wouldn’t hurt.”
Thanks to Baba, my bathroom smelled of lemons and lavender. And it had never looked better.
But I couldn’t say the same for me. The night hours were taking a toll. My eyes looked like two fried eggs. And my hair just looked fried. I was Ronald McDonald’s younger, scarier sister.
Well, the heck with it. I didn’t invite Ian. And I’d be damned if I was going to get all glammed up. This wasn’t a date. This was just having a neighbor over for coffee. Or tea.
I brushed my teeth and pulled out an outfit that was casual but cute: a long-sleeved, forest green T-shirt and dark jeans. Then I attacked my hair. With a lot of brushing and a little water and mousse, I managed to make a loose, presentable ponytail.
I kept the makeup light: liner, mascara, a little concealer, a touch of blush, and some tinted lip gloss.
No push-up bra. No perfume. No way I could compete with the smell of cinnamon buns, anyway.
I blew into the kitchen with one thing on my mind. “I want a chocolate croissant!”
There was a firm knock on the front door.
“Go greet your guest,” Nick said.
“He’s your guest. You invited him.”
“I have to finish here—go,” he said, pointing to the front door. “Nice work with the makeup, by the way. You look almost human.”
I stuck out my tongue.
“Your face will freeze,” he called out behind me. “But in your case, it’ll be an improvement.”
I checked the peephole and opened the door.
Ian stood there holding a plant in a clay pot, wrapped with a purple bow. He was wearing jeans and a perfectly pressed oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up—blue this time. And there was clearly some muscle under that refined exterior.
So what had he done before he bought the B&B?
“Hullo there,” he said, smiling. The breeze carried in a waft of his cologne—subtle, spicy, and masculine.
I felt butterflies in my stomach again. And I regretted not wearing my push-up bra.
“Hey, come on in. Nick’s finishing up in the kitchen.”
For the first time, I noticed that my living room was almost as clean as my bathroom. And the stockpile of mystery boxes was gone. Oh yeah, something was definitely up.
“This is for you,” Ian said, presenting the plant.
“It’s beautiful, thank you.”
“Gardenia,” he said. “In a few weeks, it should do very well outside. And I noticed from your yard that you have a very green thumb.”
&nbs
p; “Yeah, I went a little crazy when I moved in two years ago. I finally had a place where I could dig in the dirt.”
I decided to take a stab at solving at least one mystery. “I thought you both were coming,” I said.
“Oh, I’m afraid my father is spending the morning at something called ‘NAPA Auto Parts.’ He needs a few odds and ends to get the Bentley in fighting trim.”
“Is Harkins his first name or his last?”
“Last. Don’t tell me, let me guess. He played the old family retainer when he dropped off the basket?”
“Even managed to doff his cap. Are you really Sir Ian?”
Ian grinned, and my heart beat a little faster. “I’m afraid not. But my father believes it adds a little class to the place. So where’s the little pup?”
“Out for a walk with my grandmother. She’s staying with us for a few days.”
“Wow, you’ve really got a houseful.”
“Yeah, whoever said misery loves company wasn’t sharing one bathroom with three people and a dog.”
“Your dog uses the bathroom?”
“She likes to unravel the toilet paper,” I said. “And she actually fell into the toilet once. I still can’t figure out how she managed that one.”
“Poor little thing.”
“Yeah, she was pretty freaked out. For the next few hours, every time someone went in, she sat outside the door and howled.”
“I’ve been reworking the bathrooms in our old place,” Ian said. “I must say, I’ve felt like howling a few times myself.”
“Demon plumbing?”
“Precisely. But we’re leaving that off the website.”
“So what did you do before you bought the B&B?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” he said casually. “Nothing terribly interesting. But this has always been my dream. When I finally got the chance, I leapt at it.”
Could he be more vague? As a reporter this was when I’d press for more information. And ask about those paintings. But at a neighborly tea, that would probably be considered rude.
“So you have a Bentley? Is that for the business, too?”
“Yup. That’s Dad’s bailiwick. Thanks to him, we can ferry guests to and fro in a vintage Bentley. Of course, ‘vintage’ means he’s had to practically rebuild the thing from scratch. For a while, I believe it was using more oil than petrol. But now it’s a real beauty, and he’s got it running like a top.”