No Perfect Secret

by Weger, Jackie

  Caburn slumped in his chair. “This sucks.”

  After a moment, Helen said: “I have an idea. Anna mentioned that Clara was the only one who would be happy with this situation. Not with Nesmith’s death per se, but the fact that Nesmith had another wife and child. Especially about the little boy.”

  “I’ll talk that over with Dr Neal. You could give the girl, Janie, the option, if she wants, to contact Nesmith’s mother. However—make certain she and the parents understand that the woman has stability issues. How that’s handled is their business—not ours. Do show some empathy.”

  “For Nesmith?” Caburn asked, frowning.

  “For the situation, Frank. How upsetting it is for everyone involved.”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “Albert—you are a master of understatement.”

  “Yes, well, I am the boss.”

  Helen stood. “Give me the de mort certificate, Frank. I’ll get the letter done, make copies for the file, then I’m out of here. I ordered a cab for three o’clock sharp.”

  “What happened to your car?” Phipps asked her retreating back.

  “Flat tire,” Helen shot over her shoulder, her eyes cutting toward Caburn, daring him to contradict her.

  He gave her one of his better fake smiles.

  “I’m glad you’re in a good mood,” Phipps told Caburn. “Because you’ve got to buy a whole table this year.”

  “What?” This was a yearly battle between Caburn and Phipps. Phipps’ brother-in-law was a member of a VFW in Germantown, Maryland, just north of downtown D.C., and every year Caburn was pressed into buying a couple of tickets to their New Year’s Eve bash. He never went, but he bought the tickets, and Phipps was happy.

  “A whole table is a round of eight. And you need to be there. Dinner buffet at eight. Bring a date. Better yet, fill the table up. We want to sell a bunch of wine and beer. Of course, every couple gets a free bottle of champagne at midnight. Breakfast at one. A real band this year—no DJ. Lots of easy listening, and dancing music; melodies, piano.”

  “I don’t go out on New Year’s Eve with all the crazies, Albert.”

  “Are you calling me crazy? Louise crazy? Her brother-in-law crazy? Well, maybe he is. You’ve got to do your patriotic bit, Frank. The VFW is raising money to renovate those old apartments across from the VA hospital for families visiting the Iraq and Afghanistan vets. Plus, you get to dress up.”

  “How dressed up?”

  “Good suit, fancy tie, polished shoes. The ladies will be in cocktail dresses.”

  “Why do you do this, Albert? Don’t we have enough on our plates?”

  “Life goes on, Frank. It’s called multitasking.”

  Caburn exhaled an expletive. “Okay, Albert. You win—as usual. What’s the tariff?”

  “If you could just bring a check with you in the morning. Four hundred dollars will do it.”

  “Geez. Does this mean I don’t have to order flowers for Louise on Christmas Eve?”

  “Only if you don’t want to be invited for Thanksgiving next year.”

  “I wish you’d get divorced, Albert. Then working for you would be cheaper.”

  “You’re a good scout, Frank. I couldn’t run this office without you. Oh. The Ladies Auxiliary is having a silent auction—so bring a few extra dollars. You could probably pick up a cake.” Phipps came around his desk and patted Caburn on the back.

  “Careful,” Caburn cautioned. “That’s right where the doc put those staples.” The wound no longer hurt. It only itched like crazy. The tape that circled his chest and back was going to have to come off—sooner, rather than later.

  “Sorry. Listen, when you get upstairs. Choose the right five days. We’re closed Friday and Monday because Christmas is Sunday, so I’ll give you an extra paid day.”

  “You always surprise me with your generosity, Albert.”

  “Well, charity has a spirit all its own,” he replied, pleased—Caburn’s sarcasm sailing over his head, as usual.

  Helen had the death certificate and letter ready when he entered her office. Caburn folded it carefully and put it inside his jacket pocket.

  “I have another favor to ask you, Helen.”

  “Oh, I just adore doing favors for you, Frank. Not.”

  “Right. Albert cajoled me into buying a round of eight for the VFW bash on New Year’s Eve—so I’ve got to fill up the table. You want to go?”

  “Oh, my. Lovely. Drinks, dancing, food, and drinks.”

  “You have drinks on the brain. I’ll spring for a limo, if you fill the table. Can’t have you driving into a ditch and breaking your neck.”

  “You are so thoughtful. Last year was a western theme. I learned to do the Cotton-eyed Joe.”

  Caburn did not want to imagine that.

  “So, Frank. Who are you taking?”

  “Nobody. I’m showing up for dinner, saying hello to Albert and Louise, then going home for a good night’s sleep, because New Year’s Day is football all the way.”

  “Thank you for reminding me why I never married.”

  “Hah. As if any man ever asked you.”

  “Hah! Yourself. You better learn to recognize good bones when you see them, otherwise you will marry beauty today and hag tomorrow.”

  “You have good bones?”

  “I damned sure do. If I wanted to spend the money on rejuvenation, I’d knock your socks off.” Helen called to Phipps that she was going to the cafeteria for a snack. Caburn helped her into her coat. Since Maintenance turned off the heat on weekends, it took until late afternoon for the basement to really warm up.

  “Are you certain you’re okay?” he asked.

  “If you quit nagging me I’ll admit to a tiny hangover.” She eyed his jeans and slush-dampened loafers. “And, I’ll even call the travel master and tell him you were called in on your off day.”

  “Your kindness makes me want to cry.”

  Helen grinned. She always got the sarcasm. Before they parted at the elevator, she touched his arm. “You’re going off the deep end with Anna Nesmith. Do you have a clue whether or not she likes you?”

  “She said I was a renaissance man.”

  “Oh, you poor, poor creature. That’s a compliment, Frank—not a commitment.”

  ~~~~

  The travel desk was manned by Mr Charles, a small dapper man who wore custom-made double-breasted suits, kid gloves, a Homburg, carried an umbrella to work every day, and wore his custom-make vicuna coat draped over his shoulders in the European fashion. His costume did not change to accommodate the hot, sultry summers of D.C., with the exception that he changed the color of his gloves from black to beige, and his vicuna coat was put in cold storage at Saks Fifth Avenue along with his wife’s furs. He tipped his hat to ladies and lifted his umbrella to men. He also drove a pristine, if ancient, green and yellow Aston Martin, and woe to the staffer who had the bad sense to park either side of it in the garage. Should that staffer need to book a two-hour flight with Mr Charles, the staffer found himself changing planes in dank, understaffed airports, and having five-hour layovers.

  On his very first visit to the travel office Caburn had homed in on the indescribable air about Mr Charles that made men stand military straight in his presence, and women behave demurely.

  Caburn had enormous respect for the little man and watched his manners with Mr Charles as carefully as with his great aunt Tillie, who thought nothing of boxing the ears of a thirty-eight-year-old for a single lapse in old-fashioned etiquette, such as failing to stand when she entered the room, or an elbow on the dining table. In spite of Helen alerting Mr Charles to his unexpected visit, Caburn stopped in the men’s room to wipe his shoes, and wet-comb his hair.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Charles.”

  “Oh, my. Young Mr Caburn. Haven’t been sleeping through any flight calls lately have you?”

  Caburn winced. “No, Mr Charles. I haven’t slept for the past seven years.”

  “Oh. Ha-ha. One does need a sense of humor to work in
this bureaucracy. Going to Paris to get our boy out of cold storage, are you?”

  “No, Mr Charles. My department has sort of a hot situation.”

  “So you do. So you do.”

  “You know?”

  “Indeed, I do. After all, Mr Nesmith did not use the tickets for the last two legs of his journey. That raises a red flag, you know. Also, it was unusual for him to come a cropper after all these years. In any case, Albert has kept me in the loop. I understand you were injured.”

  “Not too badly,” Caburn said modestly. One did not play the hero with Mr Charles.

  “Good. Good. Albert does not feel kindly toward Mr Nesmith’s mother, you know. Wishes her in a canoe on the Styx River sans a paddle.”

  “That’s Albert, all right.”

  “Going home for Christmas, then?”

  “Not this year, Mr Charles.”

  The man looked at Caburn with his spritely blue eyes. “Oh? You will call your mother and let her know? Can’t have her calling Helen and getting me out again on Christmas to find you slept through your flight call.”

  Caburn’s ears went pink. “Calling mom is on the to-do list.”

  “Nice woman, your mother. Not a bit of panic. Just knew something was amiss when you missed Christmas dinner.”

  Geez. That was five years in the past. “Mom really appreciated your efforts, Mr Charles.”

  To change the subject, Caburn politely outlined what was needed for whom, why, and how.

  “Oh, that poor girl. Such a shock. She will have to watch out for post-traumatic stress syndrome, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let us see,” murmured Mr Charles. There were a half-dozen computers on a long counter. Mr Charles scooted his wheeled chair down the line, his nimble fingers tapping away. Caburn noted he was as fast as JoJo. “Booked solid,” the dapper man murmured as he went down the line. “Booked!

  “Oh, I know!” Mr Charles said with glee. “I’m going to send you to a very special place. I took Mrs Charles there for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. Oh, my. It is exquisite, one might even say palatial.”

  “Albert said to remind you of the budget, sir.”

  “Budget schmudget. We won’t touch Albert’s budget, nor mine. The FBI has secret budgets, the CIA has secret budgets, Seal Team Six has a seriously secret budget. You are trustworthy, aren’t you, Mr Caburn?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The travel desk has a secret budget, as well. Our employees fly thousands of miles every year. I collect all those frequent flyer miles and reward gift cards. We’ll just pop those in and see what we get.” After ten minutes Mr Charles leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Five days at the Grand Palladium Rivera in Cancun should do that poor girl nicely. That is, if you don’t mind leaving in the wee hours of the morning.”

  Caburn was close to hyperventilating. His share was probably going to be a million dollars. “Whatever you can arrange is fine, sir. But, I’m paying my own way.”

  “We’ll have none of that, Mr Caburn. No, we won’t. You were injured in the line of duty. You need some R&R as well as the lady. There are a half-dozen swimming pools and acres of beach. You will want to have the young lady doing a lot of swimming. When Mrs Charles and I feel a bit down, we swim. It’s good exercise and eases the chaos in one’s mind. Now, the Rivera is all inclusive. Once on site, you’ll pay nothing for meals, drinks, snacks. The staff will accept tips, but you won’t find staff with a palm out as in say, New York or London. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please, do,” Caburn said, trying to catch his breath. Anna in a swimsuit? With those long, long legs? He wondered if she’d wear one of those backless suits like in Sports Illustrated. And what about the front? He hoped she wouldn’t wear a top that revealed all. Otherwise men might stare and he’d have to break some heads.

  “As soon as you arrive have the concierge make your reservations for the special dining rooms. For the breakfast and luncheon buffets you can wear shorts, swim trunks, a shirt, of course—but for the dining rooms you’ll want a proper pair of linen slacks, no cuffs. Did you hear me, young man? No cuffs.”

  “Yes sir. Linen slacks, no cuffs.”

  “Very good. Polo shirts with collars will do you well, and a fine pair of leather sandals. None of those silly rubber flip flops. Do keep in mind you’re representing our State Department, thus our country.”

  “Representing our country,” Caburn parroted. “The food is good?”

  “I did not fail your food obsession, Mr Caburn. The buffets are a block long. There are chefs on line duty for special requests. No worries. Your appetite will be well satisfied.”

  “You are awesome, Mr Charles.”

  “Modesty is a fine character trait, my boy. Sadly, it’s one I can’t claim. Just between you and me, I think I’m awesome, too.”

  Caburn grinned. “If I could make one request?”

  “Of, course.”

  “Is it possible to book bulkhead seats? I’m uncomfortable flying with my knees up around my chin.”

  Mr Charles rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? You’re going first class all the way, Mr Caburn. I won’t have that poor woman thinking the State Department considers her a second-class citizen.”

  It dawned on Caburn that the poor woman had not been approached concerning a trip sponsored by State. Suppose she declined? Suppose she had made other plans? Suppose she didn’t want to leave the States during Christmas? Suppose her passport was out of date? Suppose she was like his sisters? As soon as plans were laid for a night out or a vacation, the first words out of their mouths was: “I can’t go. I don’t have a thing to wear!” Suppose Anna accused him of having ulterior motives? Did he have an ulterior motive? Yes, he did. And, no, he didn’t. He had ulterior hope.

  He thanked Mr Charles profusely while his anxiety level rose at a chaotic rate.

  “Mr Caburn,” the travel master called, stopping Caburn in the door frame. “What is the capital of Czechoslovakia?”

  What? “Well, it’s no longer Czechoslovakia, Mr Charles. It’s the Czech Republic. The capital is Prague.”

  “If you weary of working in the basement with all those feral cats, rats, and the boiler honking away, do think about a job as my assistant. I need a smart, well-mannered man who knows his geography. I had an intern last year. Told him to book a courier to Panama City. He sent him to Panama City, Florida. We do not have an embassy in Panama City, Florida. Nor a consulate. That was the only Panama City he knew; used to go there on spring breaks. I asked him, ‘do the Brits have a fourth of July?’ He said, no. So, I asked him, ‘what do they do? Strike it off the calendar?’”

  “If Albert ever cuts me loose, Mr Charles, I’ll come talk to you.”

  “Please do. The perks are fabulous. Oh, don’t forget, pick up your travel packets on Thursday. No later than two in the afternoon.”

  “I won’t forget, sir.”

  ~~~~

  Caburn sat in his car, motor running, waiting for it to warm up. He put his hands on the steering wheel and discovered they were trembling. He had Anna on the brain. And now he had stepped in it. He reasoned that if she went to Cancun with him he was certain there would be no turning back—at least not for him. So what did that mean? Stupid question. He knew what it meant. There were positives and negatives. His mom would be happy, his sisters would circle like the Comanche, his sisters-in-law would shoot poisoned darts. His brothers would be devastated—no more poker nights or man-cave parties in the barn—until they got a look at Anna, then they’d be snide and jealous. Yeah. Maybe he’d better call the poor woman, make certain she was still on for dinner tonight.

  ~~~~

  “It’s me,” he said when she answered the phone.

  “I know. I can still hear a bit of a Kansas twang in your voice. It reminds me of home.” Which she no longer had back in Kansas, she thought sadly. D.C. was her home now. “You have a good telephone voice.”

  �
��I do?” Could she tell he was smiling?

  “Yes. It’s a bit gravely and—”

  “And what?”

  “Sexy.”

  He felt warm all over. “That’s good, or is it?”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Why did you call?”

  “I have good news. I’ve got the paperwork you need for the bank. I’ll bring it when I pick you up for dinner. Is seven okay? I’ve got to go home, shower, shave, stuff like that.”

  “Your shaving kit is here.”

  “I have more than one razor.”

  “Yes, of course you do.”

  “So. What are you doing now?”

  “I’m in the dining room, wrapping presents.”

  “You stayed out of the bedroom?”

  “Not exactly. Clarence and JoJo came over to say hello when they brought Lila home. They’re here now, packing Kevin’s things to take to the shelter.”

  Alarms sounded. “That’s great. Better than great. Could I speak to JoJo for a second?”

  When the girl came on, Caburn told her to check all of Nesmith’s pockets.

  “But, we’ve already sealed up two boxes.”

  “Unseal them. Check those pockets and save anything you find. Put them in a bag for me—not Anna—got that?” Caburn hung up. Damn. At least it would not be Anna finding those tell-tale slips that hinted at adultery, or worse.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Anna couldn’t figure out what part of D.C. they were in until Caburn drove past the Australian Embassy. Outside of a small hotel, she saw nothing but brownstones.

  Caburn drove into an alley between two of them and parked in a small lot at the back. There were only a half-dozen other vehicles.

  “Some restaurant,” she said, scouring him with her eyes. “This is where you live, isn’t it?”

  “I do not live here. I’m taking you to an underground restaurant. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t advertise, doesn’t put up signs. It’s word-of-mouth only. It’s one of my favorite places. The owners are second generation Sicilian. The food is—”