by Dixie Lyle
And then something happened.
His body rebelled. All that manufactured outrage ran into the high brandy content in his bloodstream and they fought it out. Normally, the outrage would have won; it was used to dealing with brandy, after all.
But this time the booze had an ally, a great hulking brute named grief. It pounded that outrage flat with one thump of its fist; Hayden’s shoulders slumped and his face crumpled. “Oh, hell,” he said. “What does it matter now? Who cares what’s proper, or how things appear? She’s gone. Just gone.”
His voice was different, too. It was puzzled and sad and very, very weary. “I tried to be a good husband. I wasn’t, but I tried. I don’t know if that counts for anything or not.”
I didn’t say anything. Often, pain bleeds honesty, and anything I might say would just stanch the flow.
“It was exhausting, being married to Anna. Having to say the right things, meet the right people, act the right way. She chose me, you know. She could have married anyone, but she chose me. I used to think it was for love, but that was naive. No, with Anna it was always about control. The golden rule.”
“The golden rule?”
He gave me a bitter smile. “The one who has the gold makes the rules. She had the money, you see. I had the proper upbringing, but my family suffered some extreme reversals in the financial crash. She more or less rescued me; Lord knows I wasn’t ready to fend for myself.”
[She adopted him?]
“That must have been difficult for you,” I said.
He poured himself another drink. “Emasculating is the word you’re looking for. And yes, it was. But the funny thing is, I wasn’t even aware of it until I met Teresa. She was the one who made me see the bars on my cage. No matter what you might think of me for cheating, I didn’t go looking for it. I thought I was happy.”
“But you weren’t?”
“No. I wasn’t. I was comfortable, you see. Not the same thing.” He gestured at me with his drink, a little amber liquid sloshing out. “Happiness is … wilder. Unpredictable. Or that’s how Teresa made me feel, anyway. Maybe it was just a case of the grass being greener on the other side of the bed.”
No money of his own, and a mistress who brought out his wild side. Hayden was looking more and more like my prime suspect, though Teresa Firstcharger wasn’t exactly off the list, either. “Were you and Anna going to split up?”
He stared into the distance with haunted eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “It’s not what I wanted, no matter how things might look. I told Teresa we were through.”
“Oh? What happened to happiness?”
He took another quick drink and looked away. “Sometimes comfort has to be enough,” he said quietly. “Or maybe it’s just that the fear wins. That’s the way Teresa sees it, anyway; she thinks I’m a coward. I’ve lost both of them now.”
Maybe, I thought. It’s surprising how fast forgiveness shows up on the heels of a fat inheritance.
[Indeed.]
Pain tends to give people tunnel-vision—all they see is what’s right in front of them, and what’s sitting there is their own suffering—but Hayden surprised me. “How’s Ben doing?” he asked.
“He’s angry.”
He nodded. “So am I. I’m just not sure at whom, or why.”
“Try Efram Fimsby.”
He frowned. “Fimsby? Why?”
“Because he’s the reason you and Anna are here. Anna met him in Australia, and they cooked up this get-together between them. Any idea why?”
Some not-very-nice things I should point out right about now: questioning someone who’s been drinking gives you an advantage. Questioning a drunk who’s emotionally vulnerable gives you a bigger one. Hitting an emotionally vulnerable drunk between the eyes with a surprise revelation is like shooting fish in a teacup.
Boom.
His eyes widened in shock. If he was faking it, he was awfully good. “What? But—I thought this was one of your employer’s salons—”
“Yeah, no. ZZ was in on it, but Ben wasn’t. It had to do with all three of them, though—Anna, Ben, and Fimsby. Fimsby won’t tell me anything, Ben doesn’t know, and Anna’s dead. What was the reason, Hayden?”
“I—I don’t know. She didn’t tell me everything. She started acting strangely just before her trip to Australia.”
“Strange in what way?”
“Nervous, distracted. Odd mood swings.” He hesitated, thinking. “She seemed very sensitive to the weather. She’d cry when it rained, and stop when it was over. I was worried she was having some sort of breakdown. But she seemed better after she came back. You’re saying she was hiding something?”
I knew the reason for Anna’s behavior, of course: She’d just discovered she was a Thunderbird, descended from a line of ancient, god-like beings who could control the weather. But I couldn’t tell Hayden that, and it wasn’t the secret I was after anyway.
But sometimes, when you pounded on a door long enough, you got results. Not necessarily the ones you wanted—it might just be someone opening a window and yelling at you to go away—but results just the same.
I saw the look that crossed his face, though he tried to hide it. “You say Ben is part of this,” he said. “And ZZ.”
“Yes. Though Ben’s just as much in the dark as I am, and ZZ—well, let’s just say ZZ is being dragged into this very reluctantly and leave it at that.”
“Leave it? When it seems she was instrumental in arranging this whole thing? No. No, I don’t think I will.” He put down his glass with the exaggerated care of the inebriated, and lurched to his feet. “I will have words with the woman, by God. Yes, I will.”
I got up, too. “Hold on. Words about what? What are you talking about?”
He glared down at me, but I didn’t back off. “I’m talking about the secret. The one Anna knew and Ben didn’t. The one ZZ doesn’t want to talk about. I should have known—appearances, just like I said. Everybody’s so concerned with bloody appearances.”
He tried to step past me, but I was both quicker and completely sober. I stayed in his face like a dance partner who’s forgotten how to go backward. “What secret, Hayden? If this involves Ben, I deserve to know. Maybe you and Anna kept secrets from each other, but we don’t.”
That stopped him like a slap to the face. I hated playing the your-wife-is-dead-but-my-boyfriend-isn’t card—hell, I wasn’t even sure it was really a card, or just a piece of cardboard with some crayon squiggles on it—but I was desperate. Also a little worried Mr. Brandy might steamroll right over me if I didn’t get him to shift into neutral.
“Very well,” he said. His breath was combustible. “I suppose you have that right. You know, of course, the story of how Ben came to work for ZZ.”
I did. ZZ had found Ben slinging hash in a hole-in-the-wall diner off the interstate, and after sampling one of his omelets hired him as her personal chef.
What ZZ was unaware of was that Ben wasn’t quite the diamond-in-the-rough that he appeared to be. In fact, he’d grown up just as privileged as ZZ, was classically trained as a chef, and had been running his own restaurant only six months prior—right up until he’d had a fight with his father (also a chef) over creative differences and had quit in anger. He’d taken the diner job not out of desperation, but simply to prove to himself that he was his own man and could make it without his father’s help.
“Sure,” I said. “So what?”
Hayden fixed his bleary, red-rimmed eyes on mine. “So it’s a lie, Foxtrot. A total, complete lie.”
CHAPTER SIX
“What do you mean?” I said to Hayden. “Are you trying to tell me that never happened? That Ben made it all up?”
Hayden swayed slightly on his feet, but his voice was steady. “No, Foxtrot. That part of the story is entirely true. It’s how it came about that’s f
alse. I’m surprised you didn’t figure that out for yourself.”
“Figure what out?”
“That the wealthy all know each other. Look at all the different kinds of guests ZZ gets. Know what they all have in common? Lots and lots of money. When you’re rich, the whole world’s your private club.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “ZZ has plenty of guests that aren’t rich. Scientists, activists—”
“Oh, you can invite anyone you want to visit your little clubhouse. But only the members get to enjoy all the privileges. Only the members do favors for each other.”
That wasn’t exactly true, either—but the meaning behind those words was. And that truth was suddenly, horribly obvious.
I sank back down onto my chair. “ZZ wasn’t in that diner by accident. She knew exactly who Ben was.”
“Of course she did. Did you really think the Montains would let their only son slave away in a greasy spoon? Not that they cared about his welfare—they were just thinking about appearances. About how his actions—his status—would reflect on them.”
[It’s a matter of honor, Tango. He thought he earned his rightful place in the pack, and he didn’t.] Dogs, on the other paw, while normally very practical, have a keen understanding of social protocols.
“So that’s what she couldn’t tell me,” I said. “She said I’d understand if I knew. And I guess I do.”
“Do you?” Hayden seemed to abruptly remember he no longer had a drink in his hand, and set about correcting that. “I’m not so sure. It’s a very odd thing, to be a kept man in our society. Makes you question your own worth. Your own ability. I’ve been one for so long I’m not sure what I’m going to do now that I’m on my own.”
Whatever you want, I thought. Maybe you’ll just find another strong woman to tell you what to do. Maybe you already have.
But I wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. I’m used to dealing with big egos in both sexes, and I know how fragile the male one can be. Hayden may have gone into his marriage with his eyes open, but Ben was blissfully unaware he was being manipulated. He’d set out to prove he could make it on his own, and the fact that the exact opposite was true would be like a punch in the face. Or maybe lower down.
Hayden, having poured himself another shot and drained it, then demonstrated the kind of immediate, impulsive decision making that alcohol loves to fuel. “He has to know,” he declared. “He must be told.”
He lurched forward, glass still in hand, his intentions a lot clearer than his thinking. I leapt to my feet to try to block him, but he was already past me. I grabbed his arm and tugged, trying to slow him down. “Wait! What about Fimsby?”
He staggered to a halt. “Fimsby? What’s Fimsby got to do with this?”
“Exactly. What does Fimsby have to do with this? He’s an Australian meteorologist. Think about it.”
His brow furrowed as he did. “That makes no sense.”
It did, but only if you knew what I knew. “I know. And until we figure out how he fits into all of this, it would be extremely unwise to just charge in, hurling accusations. I mean, an Australian meteorologist. Think of the ramifications!”
I saw him trying. Just as I’d hoped, it was a baffling enough statement to send his brandy-soaked brain into a self-defeating whirl. He found his way back to his chair and sat down without prompting, muttering, “Hmmm. Yes, that could be … huh.”
I doubted he’d come to any coherent conclusions, but after all his talk about male disempowerment I very much doubted he’d admit that—not to me, anyway. At the moment I was the living embodiment of his resentment: a hypercompetent woman in charge of just about everything.
“Look,” I said. “Until we have a little more information, let’s just keep this to ourselves, all right? And if anyone’s going to tell Ben, it’s going to be me.”
He studied me for a moment before replying. When he did, he sounded much more sober—and sadder. “I wanted to spare you that. He’ll hate you for it.”
“No, he won’t,” I said.
But I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
When Hayden had promised me he wouldn’t confess what he knew to Ben or ZZ, I went to have a little chat with my boss.
[Foxtrot?]
“Yes?”
[You’re walking in a very peculiar way.]
[You forgot to mention the steely gaze.]
[A train?]
[Oh, you mean a runaway train. Yes, I see it now.]
“I am not a runaway,” I said grimly. “I am in perfect control. When I reach my destination, I will come to a complete and graceful stop. And then I will cause massive damage.”
[Ah. So more like a train loaded with high explosives, then.]
[Do you really think so?]
“I am not going to get drawn into a discussion of the poetic qualities of badgers, rabid or otherwise. I am going to talk to ZZ. About. Things.”
“What state would that be, Tango? You’re good with words. Am I in a state of displeasure? Anger? Incandescent white-hot fury?”
[Offitive?]
I strode up the stairs. “I’m not going to get fired. I’m just going to ask her a few questions.”
[And once she answers them, you’ll resign. Your sense of honor and fair play will demand it.]
“That’s not going to happen.” I reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hall toward ZZ’s office.
“A few,” I admitted.
[And how often was it over a matter of principle?]
I hesitated. “Maybe once or twice.”
“Okay, every time. But I always had a very good reason.”
[And perhaps you do this time, as well. But you can’t quit, Foxtrot. Not this time. You have a greater responsibility to keep in mind: the safekeeping of the Great Crossroads.]
That stopped me. Which was a good thing, because I was honestly a little overwrought. Which in turn was weird, because overwrought is an emotion I don’t generally do. I’m good at keeping my head in a crisis; even when I’ve had people loudly threatening to remove it with a rusty knife—true story—it’s stayed firmly in place and kept functioning.
But this wasn’t about me. It was about Ben.
He was my first serious relationship in a long time. And during that long time, I’d apparently been storing up all sorts of feelings just in case I needed them later, which is exactly the sort of delayed emotional response I’m also terrifically good at.
I leaned up against the wall of the corridor and got my breathing under control. “Ooookay,” I said quietly. “This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a high school bully just beat up my boyfriend.”
[Perhaps a better analogy would be a teacher who betrayed a fellow student’s trust, but with the best intentions.]
I thought about that. “You’re right. You’re right. ZZ’s a good person. All she did was gi
ve a complete stranger a good job and then consistently compliment him on how well he’s doing. What could be wrong with that?”
“What could be wrong with that?” I repeated, yanking the door to ZZ’s office open. “I don’t know. Let’s go ask her.”
ZZ looked up from her desk. “Ask me what, dear?”
[Foxtrot, I beg of you to reconsider—]
Relax, both of you. I’m all right. “You know that thing you couldn’t tell me? Somebody else did.”
She met my eyes calmly and didn’t seem at all bothered by their steeliness. “Are you bluffing, Foxtrot?”
“What? No. I know about Ben, and the real reason you hired him.”
Her gaze dropped. “I’m sorry, but I had to check. You’re an excellent bluffer.”
“Yeah, my poker face is legendary. But apparently, some people can pull that sort of thing off for years.”
She nodded but didn’t wince. “I suppose I deserved that. Would you like an explanation, or would you prefer to keep using me for target practice?”
I shook my head. “No, that’s all I got. But I’m not exactly happy.”
“I know. Please, come in and close the door. I’ll explain as best I can.”
I walked into the room, Whiskey at my heels. Tango stayed out of sight, back in the hall.
I pulled up a chair and sat down. Whiskey sprawled casually at my feet, panting, but I knew he was alertly listening to every word. “All right, I’m listening.”
ZZ leaned back in her chair. “Growing up, you had a cat—Tango. You loved her so much you named the stray Ben adopted after her. Right?”
[If only she knew…]
“Right,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t have any pets. My father didn’t believe in them. No matter how much I begged and pleaded, he wouldn’t let me have anything—no cat, no dog, not even a hamster. I guess maybe that’s why I went a little overboard with the concept when I got older.”