Do Me Right

by Lisa G Riley

  “Let me play devil’s advocate for a minute and say, yes, that’s what you would do,” Connor said. “But from everything you’ve told me about Mrs. Patterson, she’s not like most people. She sounds like a dink—a naive one.”

  “Yes, she is naive generally, but this is her money. She’s always been sophisticated about her money.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  Connor made it a point never to rush into anything, and Sloan knew it. Sloan sighed impatiently. “I’m thinking the same thing you’re thinking—that she might be dead.”

  Connor took a slow sip of his coffee before putting the cup back down. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because she’s all of a sudden contemplating moving aboard a cruise ship, and she’s on a six-month cruise when her husband used to complain about how much she hated to travel. All of this makes her suddenly unavailable to discuss the trust, and her nephew, Barlow Sims, is being difficult when it comes to helping me get in contact with her. I’ve been trying since I found out about the theft, and I just heard from her today. Surely he’s talked to her several times since my first request. I also say that because the missing money barely registered a blip on her radar, and that’s unusual. And finally I say that because, damn it, I just don’t like or trust the nephew. I never have.”

  “So…I take it you think the nephew is involved.”

  “Yes. Either Barlow killed her, or she died naturally. Either way, hiding it means he gets access to the Patterson money, which he’s wanted since Terrence made his first million.”

  “Won’t he get it when she dies anyway?”

  “No,” Sloan returned. “Terrence’s wishes were very clear. He didn’t want Barlow to get one cent of his money after he died. Terrence hated him, said he was a greedy, lazy, manipulative, no-good punk. Terrence knew he wouldn’t be able to keep Mrs. Patterson from giving Barlow—her only living relative whom she couldn’t love more if he were her own child—money after he died, but he made sure the guy wouldn’t get it after she died. Once she dies, what’s left of the money will be split among various organizations like hers and Terrence’s college alma mater, the United Negro College Fund, and the United Way. The nephew gets nothing.”

  “Okay, so the nephew has motive. But let’s say he couldn’t put you in touch with her because she’s not keeping in touch with him. A lot of people like to just forget about their regular lives when they’re on vacation, and they deliberately stay out of touch.”

  “Not for this long, and not Mrs. Patterson,” Sloan countered. “The woman’s a first-class nurturer from way back. She’d call just to check on him to see if he was eating right or getting enough rest. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.”

  “All right. Say the nephew did kill her. How does that explain the theft from the trust?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think that he’s stealing as much as he can before somebody realizes that Mrs. Patterson is dead. Laying the groundwork now for her possibly moving permanently on board the ship could help him steal from the trust indefinitely. I mean, think about it. When you live on a cruise ship, you never come home. I think he came up with this plan and is working with someone in my firm to pull it off.”

  “Any idea yet who that might be?”

  Sloan shook his head no in renewed frustration. “No, not yet. I’ve got to figure out another way to trip that particular thief up.”

  “And if all of this is true,” Connor conjectured, “who the hell did you talk to on the phone this morning if not Mrs. Patterson?”

  “An actress or one of the nephew’s friends, I guess. The connection was really bad—something I think was done deliberately.”

  “Maybe her nephew isn’t involved at all. Maybe the thief in your camp arranged to have the call made.”

  “I haven’t told anyone in my firm that I’ve been trying to contact her, so if the thief does know, it’s because Barlow told him, or her. I guess if the thief in my office is working alone, he—or she—could have logically concluded that I’d want to contact Mrs. Patterson about the theft, but why arrange for the phone call at all if they’re not working with Barlow? If the thief from my office is working alone, he or she would have no need to kill Mrs. Patterson, and if Mrs. Patterson has died of natural causes, the thief wouldn’t know that. No, that scenario only works if Barlow is involved. No matter how I look at it, it goes back to Barlow.”

  “Or,” Connor said drily, “Mrs. Patterson could be on the high seas enjoying some sun, and your imagination is running on overdrive. Hold on.” He held up a hand when Sloan started to speak. “That isn’t to say that the whole thing doesn’t stink of something fishy. Talk about talent being wasted. You should have been an agent. Your suspicious mind would have fit in perfectly at the bureau. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to use your contacts to get me proof that she’s on that cruise.”

  *

  “I thought you said you were going to arrange that phone call.”

  Barlow Sims listened to the soft, whiny—and ultimately accusatory—voice and wanted to wrap his fingers around his lover’s throat. He wanted to squeeze that throat, robbing it of all ability to make a sound. Instead he made his voice soothing. “I did. The call to Sloan’s office was made at eleven forty-five this morning, just as promised. You sound worried again,” he chided. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “It’s just that when I saw Sloan, he didn’t look any more relaxed than he has since he found out about the missing money. And when I saw him, it had to be almost immediately after that call. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him less relaxed.”

  Barlow scowled and let his impatience show. Fuck the soothing bullshit and fragile egos. Barlow Sims will not tolerate slippery conclusions drawn from anything less than solid evidence. “Don’t be stupid! He could have been in a bad mood because of a case or a problem in his personal life. It could have been anything! Stop jumping to conclusions just because you’re afraid—I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He backtracked hurriedly when he saw the hurt in his lover’s eyes.

  “I’m just nervous like you are baby,” he said with a soft kiss. “You know how bad I get when I’m nervous. Now, come,” he cajoled as he walked backward toward his bedroom. “I’ve been a bad boy, and you know bad boys always have to be punished.”

  “But what if Sloan finds out it’s us?”

  “He won’t, sweetheart,” Barlow said with full confidence. He dropped his pants and underwear to reveal a rock-hard erection. “But if he does…well, then you’ll just have to let me take care of him. I’m your man, and it’s my job to take care of you, right?” He sat down on the edge of his bed. “Now climb up here and fuck me,” he demanded, patting his lap and watching slyly as uncontrollable desire asserted itself. It was there in his accomplice’s dilated eyes and choppy breathing.

  Barlow whimpered as clothes came off hastily in the name of lust. “That’s it, baby.

  “Now climb in Daddy’s lap,” he demanded and fell back on the bed in rapture when his dick slid easily into moist, wet heat. “Oh fuck me!” he yelled and came instantly. Power and domination always did that to him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So, Kendra, how are things between you and your mother?” Dr. Pendegrast asked.

  “They’re no better than they were last week or the week before that,” Kendra answered.

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think that it shouldn’t matter so much.”

  “And other times?”

  “Other times I’m not surprised. I know my mother. I should have known that this would happen, so I can’t really blame her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it should come as no surprise to me that she’s disappointed and mad. After all, she’s the one who raised me, and she did a good job. Why should I need therapy?”

  “Complete this thought for me, Kendra. I want you to say the first thing that comes
to your mind after I say this. Maybe my mother is upset because if I need therapy, then…”

  “It makes her look like she wasn’t a good mother,” Kendra finished before she really thought about it. Overwhelming guilt immediately followed. Dr. Pendegrast remained quiet, and Kendra imagined she could hear the other woman’s patience in the silence. “So,” Kendra said finally. “What does this mean? Does this mean that everything is my mother’s fault?”

  “That’s something for you to decide, Kendra. And it means that you have something more to think about.”

  *

  Camille painted her last toenail and jerked to grip the slipping telephone receiver between her face and shoulder. “Sorry about that, Myrtle,” she said “I’m polishing my toenails, and the phone slipped.” She tightened the cap on the bottle. “There. Now what were you saying?”

  “I was saying that the luncheon ladies ought to consider going to Connecticut or Maine or even New Hampshire for our autumn trip. The leaves up there turn really beautiful.”

  “Um-hmm,” Camille said as she flipped through television channels. “The leaves in Michigan are beautiful too, and we won’t have to spend as much money to see them. We could drive there, and that will be a lot cheaper than flying to the Northeast and—”

  “Yes, I know, but we always go to Michigan. I, for one, would like to go someplace different this year.”

  “That’s a fine attitude to have, if you’ve got the money. I know I don’t want to spend that much, because it will be just after Kendra’s wedding.”

  “Yes, but you said that Kendra wouldn’t let you pay for the wedding. You bragged about it.”

  “Myrtle Washington, I did no such thing! I only said that Kendra wouldn’t take any of my money because she’s doing so well—” Camille cut herself off, realizing that she was even bragging at that moment.

  “See, I told you. But that’s okay, because it’s all right to brag when a child is doing as well as Kendra is doing. It’s practically written that you’re supposed to. Just don’t do it too much.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Besides, you should be proud of Kendra. That child has come a long way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Now don’t go getting your back up, Camille. I’m only saying that after all she’s been through—especially that year Cedric left you two—Kendra’s done well for herself.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Camille insisted stiffly and listened to the silence. “Myrtle, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been touchy about everything having to do with Kendra lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Camille debated and then decided to give in. She needed to tell someone. “You’re my oldest friend and one of the few people who know all the details about Kendra’s and my life, so I’m going to trust you. Kendra is in therapy. For some reason that is unclear to me, she’s decided that she needs it.”

  Myrtle cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her words came out cautiously. “Well, did she say why?”

  “Some mess about unfairly distrusting her fiancé and needing to get it cleared away before they get married. I’m sure he’s the one who talked her into this whole therapy thing. If you ask me, any woman who distrusts a man is a smart woman.”

  “Now, Camille, I told you years ago that you need to stop being like that. Just like I told you not to fill Kendra’s head with that stuff in the first place.”

  Camille was quiet for long moments before saying, “I’ve got to go, Myr—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not finished. Like you said, we’ve been friends for a long time, so I should be able to tell you the truth. You need to let that girl move on with her life. Every man she meets is not going to be like Cedric.”

  “I’m going to hang up now, Myrtle.”

  “Just stop it, will you? For once you’re going to listen to someone about this whole sorry situation. When Cedric left you, you acted like your life was over. You stopped enjoying yourself, and what’s worse is that you took that precious little girl of yours and filled her impressionable mind with your bitterness.”

  “Are you finished?” Camille asked angrily.

  “No, not quite. You were almost as bad as Cedric—”

  “Excuse me!” Outraged, Camille took the receiver from her ear, looking at it as if it were a snake about to strike. She took a deep breath and put it back to her ear because she felt she needed clarification. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. I’ve been biting my tongue on this for twenty years, actually for longer than that if you’d care to get precise about it. Before Cedric left for good, you were acting like a woman who had lost her mind. I can remember coming over to your house more than once when Kendra was a little bitty thing, because you couldn’t press yourself to take care of her.

  “So get snippy with me all you want, but I’m going to say what needs to be said. Kendra almost didn’t stand a chance. She had a rootless father who cared more about seeing what was over the next horizon than he did about raising a child; and she had a mother who nursed her anger like a second child, so much so that sometimes there wasn’t room for the living, breathing child who needed her. Both you and Cedric are guilty of letting her down—you just didn’t do it to the extent that he did.”

  Camille rubbed her head in agitation. She was flabbergasted, but she was more hurt than anything, and when she spoke, her voice was choked. “How can you say those things? I love Kendra. I told her the truth, and I did it to help her. I’m the one who raised her. Me! I did it all by myself, without the help of her worthless father. Where was he when she needed braces, dance lessons, violin lessons? Was he at your house? Because he certainly wasn’t at mine. Where was he when she broke her arm? He could have been on the next block, and I wouldn’t have known it! I did it all, Myrtle, and I resent like hell that you would even think to compare me to him!”

  “Calm down, Camille. I don’t want to get you upset, but you’ve just proven my point. You’re still so mad at Cedric that right now, twenty years later, you’re comparing yourself to him.”

  “That’s because you did. And Kendra didn’t stop needing or wanting things the day Cedric walked out the door, so you can throw that twenty-years-later stuff out the window. I had to raise her by myself on a teacher’s salary. Life did go on, you know.”

  “Exactly. Life goes on. But in some aspects, yours didn’t. And in a lot of ways, you’re trying to prevent Kendra’s from going on as well. It isn’t fair to her. She’s found happiness with a man she loves. What’s wrong with her doing something that will help her to keep that happiness and the man? Don’t you think she deserves them, Camille?”

  It was on the tip of Camille’s tongue to say that she herself didn’t have it and she was just fine, but instead she said, “The girl doesn’t need therapy. It’s just a waste of time and money.” She rolled her eyes when she heard Myrtle sigh.

  “Obviously Kendra doesn’t think so, and I wish that was all that mattered to her. It’s too bad your opinion matters so much to her in this instance. I mean, realizing she needed therapy was probably hard enough, but to have your disapproval must make the whole thing horrible.”

  “My opinion should matter to her. I’m her mother.”

  “That’s right. You’re her mother, Camille, so act like it. You know what the Bible says about pride.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me my Bible,” Camille said indignantly. “And I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with Kendra. She’s my daughter. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone before getting a reply.

  “She’s got some nerve,” Camille muttered as she got rid of her toe separators and stood. “As if she knows anything. She barely even hears from her own kids, and she’s trying to tell me about my relationship with my daughter. I like that.”

  She walked down the stairs to her small kitchen and tried not to cry when she was reminded of the last time Kendra had been over. Things w
ere pretty tense between the two of them now, and even when they talked on the phone, one or the other of them hurried to get off. She knew that Kendra only called now out of responsibility. It wasn’t as if she actually wanted to talk to her.

  Camille put the kettle on for tea and sat at the table to wait for the water to boil, thinking about the Fourth of July and how for the first time in years she’d not been with Kendra. Over the past few years, Camille had gotten used to spending the holiday with Sloan’s family, and before Kendra had started seeing Sloan, they’d just spend the holiday with one of their neighbors. Camille had stopped doing all the hoopla—the decorations, the grilling out, the fireworks—herself in Kendra’s late teens.

  Kendra had invited Camille to Sloan’s parents’ house again this year, but Camille had passed. She’d only gone before because it meant so much to Kendra that she get to know Sloan’s family. The kettle whistled, and Camille rose to remove it from the fire and pour the boiling water over her tea bag. “I just don’t understand why she’s doing this,” she mumbled as she sat back down. Sipping the tea, Camille thought about Kendra’s calling to tell her she was in therapy. She’d called only hours after they’d spent the day together.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Kendra. What’s up? Did you leave something behind?”

  “No, um…do you still have company?”

  “No, the girls left hours ago. What is it, honey? How bad is it? What do you want to tell me?”

  “How do you know that there’s something to tell?”

  “Because you’ve been nervous about it all day, Kendra. Just tell me what it is. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve started getting therapy.”