“I was.” He stopped and tucked his hands inside pockets of his tight jeans. “I just got back last week.”
“So, uh … what brings you back so soon?”
“Soon?” His expression was sullen. “I’ve been gone several months,” he said, looking up at me. “I came to the realization that I was running away from my life and from the pain of losing my sister. I thought leaving home would clear my mind and help me make sense of it all.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I spent a lot of time thinking about the people I’ve lost, and not enough time thinking about those who are still around.”
My legs began to move, seemingly without me willing them to. I was closing the distance between us and couldn’t stop myself. Now inches from Max, I lifted my hands to his cheeks. He leaned forward and took me in his arms. I buried my face in his neck and he squeezed me tight.
“I wanted to call so many times,” he said as he stroked my hair, “but I sensed you needed space.”
I tilted my head back and looked up into his eyes. “I wanted to call you, too. To see how you were. To hear your voice. But I realized something, too.” I grabbed his hands and took a step back. “We helped each other through a difficult time. When two people share that kind of bond, feelings can be … misinterpreted.”
Max looked confused. “So what are you trying to say, Sarah?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’m having a hard time understanding why you have feelings for me. I’m seven years older than you, Max. I don’t get it.”
He smiled and nodded his head. “That’s why. It’s because you don’t even know how wonderful you really are.”
I let go of his hands to cover my eyes. I didn’t want him to see my tears. “This is crazy, Max. You know I’m married. This isn’t … I can’t let this happen.”
Max backed away. “I know. That’s why I almost didn’t come back.”
“Then why did you?” I slapped away the spill of emotion from my cheeks, frustrated. The words betrayed my heart.
Max shrugged and zipped his jacket. “I guess I needed to know for sure.”
“Know what for sure?”
“That my feelings for you were valid.”
“And are they?”
Max turned and headed for the door. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” He pulled the door closed behind him and I was alone.
I stood there for quite some time, sobbing, and unable to move. The tightness in my chest was palpable; if my heart kept hammering against it, I was certain it would shatter. I wiped my tears with my sleeve, cursing my vulnerability. The empowerment I’d felt the past few days now crumbled in the face of heartbreak and regret. “Shit,” I said aloud. Then louder. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I grabbed my coat and purse then headed for my car. As I started the engine, I swore I wouldn’t waste another minute thinking about Max or what could have been.
* * *
Andover Estates was a bland statement in brick, the circa 1970s edifice reminding me more of my old high school than a retirement community. I encountered an elderly woman behind an imposing brown desk as I entered. The black, horn-rimmed, cat’s eye spectacles perched on her narrow nose seemed too big for her face. The nametag pinned to her flower print blouse told me her name was Ruth.
“May I help you, my dear?” she asked. Ruth’s wide smile revealed red lipstick smeared over ill-fitting dentures.
“Yes. I’m here to see Ted Wilcox. I was told to meet him in the common area.”
“Oh, how nice. He’ll be so happy to have a visitor. How do you know Ted?”
I patted my bag as if to suggest that the contents were of significance. “I’m writing an article and Mr. Wilcox has agreed to an interview.”
“An interview?” Her eyes lit up as if I were Barbara Walters. “How exciting. What’s it about?”
“I love your necklace,” I said, skirting the question. “Are they freshwater pearls?”
“Why yes … how sweet of you to notice. My son gave them to me.” Her bony fingers caressed the decorative string. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my jewelry. What’s your name, dear? I’ll ring Ted’s room and let him know you’re here.”
“My name is Sarah … Sarah Woods.”
“Sarah? What a pretty name. I had a friend named Sarah. She loved cats so much, she had fifteen at one time. Her house smelled like a big litter box.”
“I’m allergic to cats,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.
“That’s too bad. You know, my son used to be allergic to milk when he was young. His ears would turn bright red. I took him to a specialist, but it didn’t help. Then, when he turned twelve, it simply went away.”
“Really,” I said, trying to conceal my growing impatience.
“Well”—she lifted the handset—“I’m sure you’re anxious to see Ted.”
I looked around at the tacky artwork hanging on the mauve walls as I waited.
“Mr. Wilcox asked if you’d mind meeting him in his room. He’s feeling too weak to walk down to the common area. Please sign your name and jot down your phone number here in our guest book, if you would.”
I took her pen and scratched my name and cell number in the book.
“Thank you,” she said as she popped up out of her chair. “I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
Before I could object, she’d grabbed her fancy walking stick and was heading down the hall. “My goodness,” I said, trying to keep up with her, “you must do a lot of walking to get around so well. Why do you need a walking stick?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she said with a wink. “I only carry this stick as a prop. It works wonders for getting all the good-looking, younger men to take my arm and walk with me. However, someone stole my last one, so I don’t let this one out of my sight.”
I broke into laughter; my view of her changed in that instant. We arrived at the elevator.
“Once you get upstairs, just follow the signs down the hall to room three thirteen,” she said.
“Okay, thanks.” I waved and stepped inside the elevator, still smiling about her spunk. I followed her instructions to the room. As I knocked on the door, I remembered Carter’s advice about not meeting people in a private setting. Yet, I figured if this guy couldn’t make it downstairs, he was probably safe enough. The door slowly opened and there stood a short, portly man who looked to be about seventy. His wispy white hair reminded me of a dandelion gone to seed.
“Hi,” I said, raising my hand in a neighborly wave. “Mister Wilcox? I’m Sarah Woods.” He nodded, opened the door a bit wider, and motioned me inside. “I’m grateful to you for taking the time to meet with me. If you’re not feeling well, I can come back another time.”
“I’m not sure”—he spoke slowly, pausing between words as if perpetually out of breath—“what this is about. You said you wanted to . . . to talk about Marty?” From his milky yellow eyes and the rancid stench of his breath, I surmised Ted was quite ill. He closed the door and we stood for a moment facing each other in the small apartment. He looked at me quizzically then gestured toward a chair.
“I’m writing an article about Marty for Gourmet Magazine,” I began, as I settled into the chair. “I was hoping you could tell me a little about your friend.”
Ted raised his palm to stop me. “Please forgive me. This is all . . . so shocking. Marty and I were . . . friends for many years. I always figured I’d . . . be the first to go.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to get up from the chair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’ll be fine. I want to . . . help you if I can.”
I settled back into the chair, withdrew a notebook from my purse then asked, “How would you characterize Marty?”
Ted lowered himself slowly into a dark, mustard colored recliner and ran a shaking hand through the thin strands of hair. “Marty was one of those guys . . . always had a joke, always la
ughing. He was . . . a good time Charlie . . . a fun drinking buddy. I don’t think he had . . . an enemy in the world.” Ted began to cough and his face turned red and blotchy. He pointed to a glass of water on a nearby table. I quickly got up and handed it to him. He took a few short sips and looked at me apologetically. “Sorry about that. It happens more and more. I wish it would . . . just end.”
“No need to apologize.” I gave him a moment to recover, then asked, “How did you and Marty meet?”
I followed Ted’s gaze to a framed photograph on a shelf. A young woman sat with a small girl in her lap. His expression changed.
“My wife, Lorraine . . . passed away over twenty years ago . . . from breast cancer. I was devastated . . . as you can imagine.” Ted coughed into his handkerchief and cleared his throat. “I started frequenting Marty’s restaurant. Spent many a night at the bar . . . having a scotch or two. Marty would join me on occasion.” He began to cough again.
“Is that your wife?” I asked, gesturing towards the bookcase. The woman in the photo had dark auburn hair, green eyes, and a slender jaw. She appeared to be in her mid-forties.
He nodded. “That picture was taken right before she died.” He hesitated. “She was a lovely woman. She suffered too much at the end.” A heavy frown appeared on his face.
“Is that your daughter?” I pointed my pen at the photo, but he quickly looked away. I waited. Evidently, he didn’t want to talk about her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s get back to Marty. You mentioned he was a good time Charlie. Did you ever meet any of his other drinking buddies?”
Ted hesitated as he stuffed his handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “I don’t recall. The only time I saw Marty . . . was at the restaurant. People were always coming and going. I may have, but I . . . wouldn’t remember names.”
“How about faces?” I asked, showing him the photo of Harding. “Did you ever see this man at the restaurant?”
Ted looked at the photo and shook his head. “He doesn’t look familiar.”
I slipped the photo back into my purse. “Did Marty ever talk to you about his wife?”
“He mentioned her a few times. I never met her.”
“Did Marty seem happy in his marriage?”
Ted shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”
“I understand. I don’t expect you to put words in Marty’s mouth. I’m just trying to get an overall picture of the man.”
“You don’t plan to write anything . . . derogatory, do you? Marty deserves to be remembered in a good way.”
“Of course, Ted. That’s my intention, I assure you.” He seemed to relax a bit upon hearing my reply, so I decided to take a chance with my next question. “Did Marty ever talk about his lady friends?”
Ted’s eyes narrowed. He shifted and placed his hands in his lap. “Yes, well . . . Marty was a ladies man.” He chuckled and looked away, breaking into another fit of coughing.
“So it was common knowledge?”
Ted nodded. “He had that reputation.”
“Oh,” I said with mock surprise. “Did he ever mention names?”
“He seduced so many, I’ve lost track. Whenever Marty talked about them . . . I subconsciously blocked it out.”
I figured even if Ted knew, he wouldn’t divulge names. I admired his loyalty.
After asking a few unimportant questions about Marty’s restaurant for effect, I thanked Ted for his time, and insisted that he not get up to walk me to the door.
* * *
I dug Carter’s cell phone out of my purse and dialed his number as soon as I got back to my car.
“What’d he have to say?” Carter asked.
“Not too much. He’s not in very good health, so I didn’t press it.”
“Did you mention Harding?”
“I showed Wilcox the photo. He didn’t recognize him.”
“Were you able to get hold of that attorney, Jason what’s-his-name?”
“Not yet. I left him another message. How’s the tracking device working?”
“He’s sticking to his route, so far. I’ll be waiting for him when he gets back to the shop. I’m gonna try to swap the tracking device from the van to his car.”
“What’s our next move after that?”
“Can you still meet with the restaurant manager, Abigail Rodrigues?”
“Sure. I don’t have any massage appointments scheduled.”
“Good. Meet me at the diner at nine.”
* * *
It was after eight in the evening when I pulled into my driveway. I found Brian sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop.
“Hey, honey.” I tossed my purse on the table and slipped my arm around his waist.
“Hi, mom,” he replied without looking up. “I just finished my essay for class tomorrow.” He closed his laptop, slid it under his arm, and politely extricated himself from my motherly embrace.
“So how was your day?”
“Fine,” he replied, barely looking at me before heading off.
“That’s all? How was dinner at Allie’s?”
“Good,” he said, disappearing into his room.
I followed. “Hey, what’s up? You’re acting a little strange,” I said, catching up to him before he closed the door.
“Nothing, mom, I’m just tired. G’night.” He promptly shut the door in my face. I stood there wondering what to do. My first instinct was to rap on the door and demand that he come out and talk to me. Instead, I slowly turned away, walked to my bedroom, and got into my pajamas.
Saturday, March 10
I awoke to a message signal coming from my cell phone. It ended up being a missed call from the office of Jason Wells. His secretary informed me he had an opening at 8:15. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. His office was a twenty minute drive from my house; I had an hour.
The office of Jason Wells, Attorney At Law, was located next to a holistic health center on the end of a strip mall.
“Can I help you?” asked a woman with frizzy, shoulder-length blonde hair as I walked in. She neglected to look up from the magazine she was reading, her jaw chomping feverishly on a wad of gum as if she were in some sort of contest.
“Hi. I’m Sarah Woods. I have an eight fifteen appointment with Mr. Wells.”
The blond glanced down at her laptop, tapped a few keys, and nodded. “He’s expecting you. Go ahead in.” She motioned toward a closed door with an engraved gold placard.
I entered and nearly walked directly into a massive glass desk, far too large for the space. Wells stood up. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, settling into a rolling, faux-leather chair.
Before me was the strong, angular, pockmarked face of a man who appeared to be about Marty’s age. His eyebrows furrowed when he spoke. “I’m not really sure how I can help. What do you need to know about Marty?”
I crossed my hands in my lap and tried to act as if I’d been interviewing people my entire life. “When did you hear about the accident?” I asked.
“I read about it online a few days ago. I’m still in shock.”
“How long had you known Marty?” I asked, crossing my legs and shifting in my seat.
“Marty and I were college roommates. After graduation, we went our separate ways. I went to law school; he got into the restaurant business.”
“But you remained friends after all those years?”
“Sure, we kept in touch. Played golf together once every couple years, and had lunch at the country club once in a while. Marty’s other hobbies kept him pretty busy.” He smiled and looked down.
“Are you referring to Marty’s female friends?”
Wells paused then said “I guess it’s no big secret, is it? Do you plan to mention that in this article?”
“I’m just trying to get a well-rounded snapshot of who Marty really was.”
“Marty was a brilliant business man. Very detail oriented … smart as hell … knew all the right people.”<
br />
“Did he have any enemies you were aware of? People sometimes become successful by stepping on other’s toes, right?”
Wells laughed. “That’s true. But that was part and parcel of Marty’s genius. He didn’t piss people off. And if he did, he’d just buy them a cocktail. By the end of the first round, they’d be best friends.”
I doodled on my notepad, pretending to write down his every word. “Does the name Lance Harding mean anything to you? Did Marty ever mention his name?”
Wells looked up toward the ceiling. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That name doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”
I produced the photo and slid it across the desk. “An acquaintance of Marty’s. I’m trying to track him down for an interview.”
He looked at it quickly, then slid it back to me. “No, I don’t recognize him.”
Harding, it seemed, was not a popular guy. I was beginning to feel discouraged. “Look,” I said, leaning across the desk, “could you help me out with something, strictly off the record?”
Wells smiled. “Off the record, huh? In my experience, that means beware, I’m digging for darker secrets.”
I cleared my throat and looked directly into his eyes. “To tell you the truth, Marty’s life seems to have been a bit of a cliché. Nobody has had anything very interesting to say about the guy. So what if he had a successful restaurant? All I really care about is getting a compelling article written.” I pushed the chair away from the desk, my exasperation partially genuine. I reached for my purse.
“Whoa, hold on,” Wells said. “Hey, if that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you say so? To be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Marty’s reputation. If you want the juicy, sordid details of his life, I’ll give ‘em to you.”
I rolled my chair back up to the desk.
Wells commenced to ratting out his dearly departed friend. “Marty was involved with an exotic dancer who works at a place called Lola’s.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “He described her as a brunette with legs that went on for miles. He used to go on and on in great detail about how good she was in the sack.”
An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries Page 4