by Saks, Tessa
“Even rub her out?” Rory laughed.
“Yes …” Sam said softly, unable to force a laugh. “Even that.”
***
The rain lashed hard against the window of the coin shop. From inside the shop, Ellen could see dark thunderclouds approaching.
“Here are some of the pictures I took of the subject. She wasn’t hard to tail—goes out a lot.” Morty pushed the stack of photos toward Ellen. She picked them up and studied each one. There was several of her with Jonathan at lunch. By the dates in the corner these were recent lunches. Her stomach tightened. As she looked at Sam’s face, envy started to rise, a stinging feeling, expanding in the wall of her chest. Jonathan had had mistresses before, but this one was different. Yes, she hated to admit, she was beautiful. Ellen could see how he was so easily seduced by her looks, and her—what was it she felt as she stared at this vixen?
“She’s got charm, that one,” Morty cut in, breaking Ellen’s jealous fixation. “Charm up the yazoo, pardon the expression. Seen loads of girls in my line of work, but she has that extra something, men just goes crazy around her. Hell, even I felt a little—”
“Point taken, Morty, I get it.” Ellen set the pictures down. “Actually I don’t get it. If she’s that amazing, why him? Why my Jonathan? I mean, let’s be honest, he’s no movie star. She could have anyone, so why on earth him? I mean, he’s far too old for her anyway.”
“It’s like this …” Morty adjusted himself in his chair, creating a wretched screech. “Way I see it is—she’s from small-town nowhere and has had nothing her whole life except the attention of men … she gets to the big city, full of dreams and ain’t no ordinary guy gonna give her those dreams. See, she’s used to brushing off loads of guys, especially good-looking ones, so it’s easy—” Morty raised his hands for emphasis. “She waits until she catches a big fish.”
“A big fish?”
“A catch, a rich sugar daddy.”
“But why so old?”
Morty abruptly leaned backward, the rusted bearings squealing without mercy.
“You ain’t gonna like this—”
“Try me,” Ellen pleaded.
“These rich old guys are easy, they usually been nagged to death and starved so long in the bedroom sense—hell, they’re ripe for the picking.”
Ellen blushed, feeling the full heat of her own failures burn across her face.
“Then you factor in that no one listens to them anymore, no one thinks they’re good-looking or sexy and—wham!” Morty smashed his fist on the desk, causing Ellen to flinch. “You have a recipe for instant gold-digging. It’s like a license to print money. That and the daddy angle. See,” Morty leaned forward in his rusty chair, “some girls grow up without a daddy and without all that love and security a daddy brings, so they go out and find it. They need it. They attach themselves to a man that gives them that safety, and nothing’s gonna stop it. They become obsessed. She probably believes she really does love your husband.”
“I feel sick.” Ellen rose to her feet. Morty stood and poured a glass of water. “Where’s your ladies’ room?” she asked, holding her stomach.
Morty pointed down the hall. “First door on your left—don’t mind if the seat’s up.”
She stood beside the door to the bathroom, leaning against the wall and holding her stomach. Who was she kidding? This wasn’t news. This was what she knew all along. You aren’t here to listen to sugar-coated lies; you are here to get the truth—even if it hurts. It’s the only way you can win. Ellen closed her eyes and imagined victory against the pretty face that filled her mind with such hate. Morty is here to help; now get out there and get on with it.
“Morty,” Ellen said, as she took her seat again, inspired with renewed vigor. “What have you got? I want to fix this minx and send her off in a new direction, to find a new catch.”
“You see, Mrs. Horvath, that’s the problem. There just wasn’t much to find. I mean her mother, well … now, there’s a project for you, a real loser. A former stripper, a druggie with a charge of possession, spent most of her years wasting away, dating and supporting career criminals, you know the type.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Well … the rest of her family appears completely corrupt, a rap sheet of drug-related offences and a bunch of theft. Big losers, but nothing much to shame your old man—er, husband about. Now, this Samantha girl, there’s not much, I’m afraid. She’s clean, seems to be staying far away from the family’s gutter lifestyle, if you get my drift. I’d have to look harder—”
“Are you asking for more money?”
“Yes—well, no.” Morty waved his hands in the air and leaned toward Ellen. He tugged on his belt and rested his hands on the buckle. “You sorta get a hunch about this stuff. I don’t think there’s much dirt to find.” Morty tapped the file folder.
“Well, what do you have?” she said, dejected. She had truly expected that he would uncover a scandal, something horrible, or at the very least, something to be embarrassed about.
“Let’s see …” He rifled through the pages. “Here …” he pointed a grimy page of notes. “She graduated from Sherburne-Earlville High School in 1972; average grades, and then took a job in a night club, as a martini girl.”
“Martini girl, maybe there?”
“Nothing. I checked it out, was hired because of looks and not much else, said she got lots of tips and kept the men happy. They loved watching her shaking that martini shaker.”
“I bet they did.”
“But no action.” Morty shook his head in apology. “She wasn’t into much outside of work. Occasional boyfriends. One guy, a Rory Chasen, seemed a bit of a regular squeeze, followed her to the city. Other than that—oh here—she did a stint dancing at the Upside Club on Seventh Avenue. A cage dancer. Not for long though, as soon as she got her job at Horvath Industries, she quit.” Morty smoothed his thinning hair back. “Like I said, no monkey business. No nude photos, not so far anyway, and no sex for sale.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief,” Ellen said with her best sarcastic smile. Morty didn’t return the smile. “What about drugs? She must have used some drugs, girls like her—”
“Nothing. She might be using, but she’s never been busted.” He flipped through more notes. “Driving—she’s clean, no DUI or accidents.”
“Why on earth would I care if she was in an accident?”
“Mostly if she caused one. Hit and run shows bad if you killed someone. You run over a mom and kids—your life’s over!” He snapped his fingers. “Especially if you was drunk.”
“Oh yes, of course … and nothing like that?”
“Zip!” Morty pulled out a page covered in colored post-it notes. “But man, her finances are something nasty, a real big mess. Seems she’s addicted to charge cards.” Morty’s head nodded in all directions like a bobble-head on a dashboard. “Wow, has she got a lot of plastic—racked up a whole pile of debt.” Morty looked up, anticipating a reaction.
“Well, that’s encouraging.” Ellen leaned closer and smiled. “Go on.”
“Seems to be buying a lot of appliances, lots of washers and dryers.”
“Appliances? Why on earth would a young girl need—?”
“See it all the time,” Morty clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back and nodded, “usually gambling problems. They buy the appliances on credit, then sell ‘em for cash. Classic little scam. Hell, she might not even know about some of them.”
“How can that be?”
“Seems to be a bunch under her name and credit file, but at a different address. Me?” Morty leaned forward. “I think she’s none the wiser. I think her naughty Mommy or an old flame is racking these babies up and she won’t know about any of it till the shit hits the fan.”
“Well, that’s something; maybe she has the gambling problem and they’re helping her.”
“I thought of that, tailed her all month. She never went near no spots to gamble. Never even went to any a
ppliance store, but they still racked up. I bet someone’s using her credit, getting bills sent elsewhere and then paying the minimum just to keep the accounts going.”
“My, that’s actually quite sad,” Ellen said, trying to imagine dealing with all that debt. “If I didn’t hate her so much, I might feel sorry for her.” Ellen slumped back in her chair and watched the cast shadows of rain, creeping down the wall.
“Yeah, she’s in deep, this one.” He spread the pages across his desk and started circling numbers. “Some of the debt seems to be hers, mind you. A bunch of college debt, she paid tuition, started and then got kicked out.”
“Kicked out? Wonderful.” Ellen sat up and focused on his notes. “What type of college?”
“F.I.T. You know, the Fashion Institute of Design downtown. Seems she wasn’t showing up much. Anyhow, once she started working full time, she started to buy clothes like crazy …” He flipped through his notes. “A few charges from Mexico, Florida and the Bahamas.”
Ellen’s face flushed. “That’s when they must have been together,” she whispered aloud.
“Seems as much, she probably spent a bit on him so she wouldn’t look too gold-digging. Classic move really. She’s clever, this one.”
“I guess with all her debt, Jonathan must look pretty attractive.”
“I’ll say. Know how much he’s worth? They say more than fifty mil, plus secret accounts in Switzerland.” Morty nodded, pursing his lips as he leaned back in his chair.
Ellen flushed again. She had always let Jonathan take care of all the finances. She didn’t have a clue what they were worth. Besides, they had never been to Switzerland.
A bolt of lightning hit something nearby and the whole office lit up, and then just as quickly, turned into darkness. Thunder boomed and startled Ellen to her feet. Streetlights went out and car alarms sounded as Morty got up and reached for a lighter from the wrinkled jacket that hung on a rack behind him. “Guess this meeting’s over,” he said with a laugh as he flicked his lighter toward Ellen and piled the notes together.
In the dim glow of the lighter, Ellen looked at Morty and noticed softness in his eyes. Was this sympathy?
Morty glanced away. “I’ll keep looking, eh?”
“Yes, please do. I’d like to know more about her finances and the debt. Just dig deeper; something is bound to turn up. I need something.”
“Yes, I can feel it. We’re close, we’ll get something,” he said. As he opened the door, another crack of lighting lit the evening sky. Morty reached for Ellen’s umbrella and opened it.
A regular gentleman, Ellen mused as she stepped outside. “Morty, I really hope you’re right.” Ellen took the umbrella from his hand.
She stood near the door waiting for Weston. Rain lashed hard at right angles and her umbrella blew open, drenching her, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything anymore, except destroying Samantha Miller.
CHAPTER 8
Sam studied the two choices lying before her on the bed. One outfit, the black crepe sheath, was sophisticated and elegant and whispered Audrey Hepburn. The other, a cream dress with a plunging back, screamed sex-kitten centerfold. She touched the black crepe and imagined herself in a room full of society people—belonging—in a world she couldn’t wait to enter.
Standing before the mirror and holding the dress in front of herself, she saw the image was also safe, like his wife. Suddenly, the black dress was exactly the type of lame dress his wife might wear.
She tossed it unceremoniously onto the bed. She picked up the creamy silk sheath and held it against her body. The soft shimmer enhanced her every curve, revealing her assets. She knew exactly how sexy she was, for Jonathan more than reminded her. His dumpy wife would never wear a dress like this. The company party tonight was casual, but Sam knew that for Jonathan, this would be the perfect dress.
She picked up her evening bag, checking to ensure it contained the essentials. Lipstick, mints, perfume … and where was her diaphragm? She went over to her nightstand and rummaged through the drawer until she found it. Sam felt a pang of guilt as she pushed her diaphragm into the zippered compartment of her bag. She had lied to Jonathan and told him she was on the pill. The truth was, she would be, except for the nasty ten pounds it always adds. It was better to use the diaphragm in secret—after all, it was only a little half-truth. And she was doing it for him.
After they married, she could go on the pill and gain as much weight as she wanted. A charge of pleasure ripped through her as the image of a huge diamond on her finger flashed into her head. Sam grabbed her jacket and turned to leave. Yes, she thought, after we are married, I can do whatever I want.
***
Ellen hurried through the ornate lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, glancing up at the clock tower in the center of the room, which clearly showed it was now 6:45 p.m. and she was late. Ellen loved the Waldorf. It was one of New York’s best hotels, and was her preferred spot for hosting parties. But more important, this was where she and Jonathan had renewed their vows on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, in front of hundreds of friends.
It had been an impressive evening, complete with hundreds of orchids arranged in Baccarat vases on every table. And the food was flawless, as Ellen had made sure the menu reflected their impeccable taste. Even now, she could almost taste the lobster canapés. Yes, she mused as she entered the elevator, I certainly know how to throw a party.
The elevator stopped on the second floor, opening to the reception area outside the ballrooms. The entire room was decorated like a western carnival. She saw a beanbag toss right next to the entrance to the ballroom. A palm reading station and ring toss were next to the windows and at the far end, a shooting gallery. She flinched as the sound of gunshots rose above the arcade music.
This couldn’t be their company event, not Horvath Industries. Jonathan had always insisted on formal company events. She searched for a sign identifying the company. As she looked around, she spotted familiar faces, Gregory and Eileen, Bill Tate, from accounts, and his assistant Wendy. Almost everyone she spotted had a connection in some way to the company.
Ellen chatted with Gregory and Eileen for several minutes, then headed into the ballroom. The tables were set with plaid tablecloths and rusted tin buckets, filled with daisies and carnations. The four-tiered crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, in a cry of outrage against the injustice of the shabby décor. She looked down at her emerald silk Bill Blass dress and sighed.
“My, you really outdid yourself this time.”
Ellen turned and saw Patty, wearing a bandana over her nose and mouth like a bandit. Ellen smiled. “Where is the hay? I specifically requested hay and they assured me there would be huge bales, bushels of them.”
“Somehow, I don’t see your hand in any of this,” Patty said, pulling off her bandana.
“I seem to have missed the cowboy dress code memo.” Ellen touched her dress. “But thanks for donating the prizes again this year.”
“Glad to help. I’m always here for you, in spite of your lowbrow party.”
Ellen blushed. “I had anticipated a higher caliber event.”
“We seem to be alone in that department.” Patty pointed to her own black velvet dress.
“Yes … speaking of which, have you seen Jonathan?”
“Last I saw, he was showing off at the shooting gallery, trying to impress everyone.”
“I wanted the staff to see us together, to stop all those … rumors.”
“I’m sure there’s been plenty of that.”
“But everything has changed. I can’t explain it. He just seems more content lately.”
“Well, that’s wonderful news.” Patty put her arm around Ellen. “I’m so happy for you.”
Ellen nodded and was about to speak, when she caught sight of her—of Samantha Miller. She was facing toward Ellen and had her hand on someone’s sleeve—on Jonathan’s.
Patty noticed the direct target of Ellen’s gaze. “Is that her?”
Patty asked, motioning toward the lithe figure draped against her husband. She was wearing high heels and a revealing short dress, leaving little to anyone’s imagination.
Ellen nodded. “I haven’t seen her up close before. I saw her at a distance when I visited Jonathan at the company. She is beautiful …” Ellen choked on her words.
“If you like the trampy type—all body, no brains—an airhead without an iota of class.” Patty grinned. “Hey, go over there and talk to him, show her who’s boss. Stake your claim.”
Ellen glanced over toward the cluster surrounding Jonathan.
“Go. You’re his wife. Show her that you aren’t going anywhere. You never shrank from these bimbos before—in fact, you’ve crushed them. Go crush this little one.”
“You’re right,” she said, running her hand over her hair. She turned to walk toward them.
Ellen smiled at Jonathan. Samantha turned her head toward his intended gaze. Her flirtatious laughter stopped and she straightened her posture, as if preparing for an attack. Ellen’s strength resurfaced with every step, like a soldier heading to battle and growing more powerful by the moment. Ellen smiled directly at Jonathan and Samantha as she drew closer.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Horvath. I don’t believe we have met,” Ellen said, extending her hand.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Ellen, may I present Sam, er, Samantha Miller, from our accounts department.”
Sam stared at Ellen a moment, her mouth agape, looking confused. She ignored Ellen’s hand and reached over to brush imaginary dust off Jonathan’s shoulder. “I’ve heard so much about you,” Sam said, in a soft baby voice. “Johnny talks about you all the time.” Her voice had a mocking undertone beneath its superficial cheeriness.
Ellen’s face flushed with heat as she withdrew her hand. She looked directly at Jonathan, hoping to meet his eyes but he glanced out into the distance, smoothing his shirt and ignoring them, trying unsuccessfully to appear relaxed. Ellen knew better; she knew the guilt coursing through his mind as tiny sweat beads sprouted and multiplied across his forehead. Samantha smiled and let out a soft, giggly laugh as she leaned close to Jonathan.