Wainwright closed Headly’s office door. BJ watched him through the office window dialing his ex-wife’s phone number from memory. Easy. It had been his number for six years. Debbie answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Deb, you’ve been trying to get me. Are the boys all right? Tell me, what’s up?”
“Oh, good, I’m glad you called. No, they’re fine, at least physically. It’s that you told them you’d pick them up for the weekend, and…well, Garth, they don’t want to go. I’m sorry, but they told me Tuesday after you talked to Tim. Both Tim and Brian are adamant—they don’t want to go to your cabin this weekend, well, today, isn’t it? I wanted to let you know earlier so you’d be able to make other plans, but I couldn’t reach you and didn’t want to leave that kind of message with a secretary. You can understand that, right?”
Wainwright was silent, with a knot in his stomach and the invisible hand of emotion crushing his throat.
“Garth, I’m sorry the boys choose not to spend time with you on your visitation days. It’s their choice, and we both must respect their wishes.”
Now he spoke. “That’s bullshit, Debbie, and you know it. They are five and seven years old, for Christ’s sake. They don’t have wishes that need to be respected. I want to be with my sons, damn it.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth and swallowed saliva before continuing. “I’m sorry for the outburst. I’m just very disappointed and took it out on you. Forgive me, please.”
“Garth, your temper is going to get you in some deep and serious trouble one of these days. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Changed? It was four years ago we were divorced. Yeah, Debbie, I’ve changed. Never mind, I sure don’t want to go there, again.”
“Yes, change and your crappy time management skills. You didn’t make time for me when we were married, and now you have none for the boys. Money! You care more about your damn job and making money than you do for me…for any of us.”
“Listen, Deb; we don’t need to argue. Please tell the guys I said hi and will call later, will ya? Okay, take care of them and yourself, Deb.” Wainwright left the borrowed office and stepped into BJ’s area of Keating’s office, borderline pissed-off. “Is he free yet?”
“He’s on the phone. Give him a minute, and while we have this brief interlude, are you having dinner with Mr. Chaplain tonight?”
Trying to calm his temper, Wainwright took several deep breaths. Good ol’ Debbie. She was always quick to blame him for whatever she was unhappy about at the moment, just like that call. Suck it up, cowboy. Suck it up!
“Tonight…aah, no I’m not. I thought, aah…I thought you and I were having dinner. Aren’t we?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t call me back, but I haven’t made any other plans. What was the phone call about? You looked like a caged tiger, pacing the floor in there with the phone stuck in your ear.”
“I am sorry, BJ, way too much stuff going on.” Wainwright took another deep breath. “Sorry to be so rushed. My ex is still manipulating everything. I feel like a marionette sometimes. She uses the boys to keep a hold on me. I hate it, but…never mind. Not your problem. I’ll see you tonight. How about I get to your place around sevenish?”
She was pretty sure he’d forgotten their date and had hastily covered that point. She knew Garth could focus like a laser, but on only one thing at a time. She put on a coy smile and said, “Fine, but please, sweetie, could you stop at a liquor store on the way? I’m out of scotch.”
Wainwright saw the light on BJ’s telephone base station go out, indicating Keating was off the phone. In an exaggerated stroll toward his office, Wainwright said, “What a lucky man I am. What could be better than a gorgeous blonde-haired woman and some single malt?” Then he sang, “Every morning, every evening, Ain’t we got fun…” as he opened the door and entered Keating’s office.
What a guy! BJ was justifiably pleased people considered her the heartthrob of the building—for healthy males, anyway. She liked that. And why shouldn’t she? At five-three in her bare feet—the way Garth often saw her—BJ had everyone’s attention as she paraded down office corridors. With large blue eyes and long blonde hair that hung down her back like a silk shawl, BJ was an hourglass-shaped vision. Nobody ever called her timid. She admitted to liking sweaters or blouses that clung to her, showing just enough to attract the right attention. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?
When they started going out, Wainwright told her she was one of those rare women who ooze sex without trying or even being aware of it. Well, sweetie, I’ve been keenly aware of that factoid since I was thirteen years old, and I use it to my advantage as often as I can, she reflected. BJ remembered he once mentioned she possessed the requisite three B’s: brilliant, beautiful, and bodacious. BJ liked that description and tried her best to live up to it. She wore her hair long, down to the small of her back. The color was a soft golden blonde, the way wheat fields look before harvest where she grew up. BJ liked that, too. And apparently so did other women in the building. She had seen some who dyed their hair the same color. But BJ’s hair was the color she had at birth.
Speaking of bottle-blondes. BJ looked up as Karen approached her desk. “Good morning, sunshine,” Karen said. “I see the love of your life is in with the boss.”
“Karen, Garth Wainwright is the only unmarried partner,” having survived his second divorce earlier. “What’s wrong with my dating Garth? We have a healthy adult relationship,” whenever Garth is up from LA LA Land, that is, “and I like that.”
BJ and Wainwright were not in love—maybe in lust, but definitely not in love. That wasn’t important to either of them, anyway. No strings, just fun times. But he’d be a great catch for someone, ’cause Garth is very handsome and real rich!
Before heading out for BJ’s house, Wainwright called Deb’s to speak with Tim, his oldest son, but there was no answer. He’d try again in the morning. The Friday night traffic was heavy and he didn’t want to be late, especially after cancelling her last Tuesday. Wainwright had been to BJ’s condo a couple times before. It was not easy to find, but man, when you got there, what a spectacular setting it was. Tucked away from the city of Kirkland, behind a series of small hills, the road passed through a tunnel and on the other side, you were face-to-face with Lake Washington, a heart-stopping view of the Seattle skyline beyond, and a small private boat harbor plopped down between you and the panorama.
When he called BJ last Tuesday night to break their date, she was not upset; in fact, she invited him to come over after he’d finished business. Wainwright begged off, saying he had a lot to think about, but asked her out for Friday, tonight. He was looking forward to seeing the beautiful BJ for dinner.
He brought the scotch she’d earlier asked for and some Bailey’s Irish Cream, her favorite after-dinner liqueur. He also carried a dozen long-stemmed white roses. He’d been told they were supposed to symbolize purity, innocence, and secrecy. Tonight, however, Wainwright could do without that third descriptor. He’d been knee-deep in Burke’s death, in addition to the intense corporate climbing by others, for way too long. He was hoping BJ’s natural, fun-loving enthusiasm, and the flowers, would allow for a memorable evening of distraction.
When BJ answered the door, he knew he was on his way to wish fulfillment. This beautiful blonde had on an old white T-shirt that was so thin it couldn’t tolerate one more washing. Her short, tight, cutoff jeans and heeled white sandals sent a strong message. Wainwright stood on the stoop and first stared down at her bare legs, then up to other significant attributes. The outfit was perfect. It said to him, I’m dressed casually, but this stuff comes off, oh so easily.
“Are you gonna just stand there staring at my tits or would you like to come in? Here, let me put your flowers in some water.”
“The flowers are a peace offering. You look awesome, by the way. Somehow minimal clothes are a lot sexier than if you’d come to the door wrapped in Saran Wrap.”
Turning her head w
hile bending over the sink—her short jeans hugging her beautiful butt—she looked over her shoulder and said, “Yes, I know.” BJ put the flowers in a vase. “Why don’t you take off your coat and tie and sit down? May I get you a cocktail? I assume that is what you brought in the sack.”
“Thank you, BJ. I’d do great with about three fingers of scotch. Neat, please. The Bailey’s is for you, sweet girl.”
“I think I’ll join you in a scotch. No point in confusing our lips by mixing beverages on them, is there?” Setting the vase on the dining table, BJ brought the drinks into the living room. “Here’s to a wonderful evening. Cheers.”
“Babe, I’m so sorry about…”
“La dee da, no recriminations tonight. I’ve worked long enough to know things come up and plans change.” She set her glass down and put both arms around Wainwright’s neck. She pulled him near and very gently kissed his lips. “There, now, isn’t that better?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m very much better. But I don’t think that kiss was my best effort. Let’s practice some more until I get it right.”
As he spoke, he reached his arm around the small of her back under her T-shirt and long blonde hair. No bra? Well, who’d have guessed? Wainwright brought BJ tight to his chest with a passionate kiss. “Now that’s what I call a welcome home kiss,” he told her with a grin.
“Wait until later. I’ll show you how grateful a girl can be when her hero comes home.”
She placed her hand on his crotch. “Is that my welcome home present in your pocket?”
BJ lifted her chin, signaling Wainwright to kiss her exposed pale throat. She liked him to kiss that sensitive spot where her pulse was racing. BJ liked it that way.
Wainwright’s mouth covered hers and he kissed her fervently as she massaged his excitement into frenzy. His tongue thrust into her mouth, dancing alongside her teeth…and the evening had begun.
The view from her patio deck was just as impressive in the morning as it had been the night before, with lights on the boats in the harbor and the view of Seattle lit up across Lake Washington. It was a million-dollar panorama. What a magnificent way to start the day. To his left, he could see downtown Bellevue, and beyond, the Seattle Space Needle. While BJ was in the shower, Wainwright got busy making coffee. He had showered quietly without waking her and dressed in chinos and a plaid flannel shirt. Wainwright loved that shirt, but could never figure out where he could wear it in LA. One of the benefits of being a longtime road warrior was you always had a change of clothes and shaving kit with you.
He thought about the many questions BJ had asked him last night, including the status of his Burke investigation. She wanted to know how much assistance he was getting from the police, what the police knew about the killing, and so many other questions. The fact that she’d incessantly kept at them disturbed him. Wainwright had come to her place to put that stuff behind him for a little while. He would have if she weren’t so insistent on pelting questions at him, like tennis balls from a serving machine. He decided to take her to the marina for breakfast and ask some questions of his own.
Wainwright heard the shower and used the time to call Tim. “Hey, sport. How’s it goin’?”
“Oh, hi, Dad. It’s okay, I guess.”
“Tim, is anything wrong? You sound really down. What’s up with that, pal?”
“Well, Mom said you had to change your plans about this weekend and me and Brian, well, you know… it’s a bummer, that’s all.”
Wainwright kept the seething anger from his ex-wife’s lies out of his voice, or hoped he did. “Yeah, well, sometimes things come up and plans change. I’m sorry, sport, but how about you guys give me a pass so I can make it up to you? I’ll bet I can get your mom and Norman to trade time with me for next weekend. How would that be?”
“Fine, I guess. Norman said something about us going somewhere with them after school next Friday. Dad, we both want to spend some time with you, though. Try to talk Norman into trading with you.”
“I’m on it, pal. I love you. I’ll set it up and call you before Friday, okay?”
Wainwright set the phone down as BJ came into the room. That bitch! Lies, all lies. To me, to the boys. How could she do that to them? Fixing a smile in his voice and inhaling deeply, he said, “Good morning, gorgeous.” She wore a powder blue velour warm-up suit and running shoes. “I hope you slept well.”
“Sleep? Is that what we were supposed to do in there?” She laughed in her early morning husky voice.
“You did get some, I hope,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, I got some all right!”
“Okay, enough with the double entendres all ready. Here, have some java.” He handed BJ a steaming cup of coffee. “How about we get breakfast in the marina? It’s almost ten-thirty, so I’ll bet we can sweet-talk the bartender into a couple of Bloody Marys, if you like.”
“Yes, I like.”
They walked downhill to the restaurant. A little exercise would do them both good. After the acrobatics of last night, both of them walked a bit gingerly. Hand-in-hand, they navigated the winding brick path past the guarded gatehouse on the drive leading into the boat harbor. The morning was beautiful cool, but sunny, with big white puffy clouds hanging still in the windless blue sky. The light mood the day promised didn’t reflect Wainwright’s dark need for questions he intended BJ to answer.
The Crow’s Nest was busy, but the hostess recognized BJ as a regular and they were shown to a table right away. They took a booth with a view of the hill they just navigated, their backs to the marina and the countless masts bobbing in the harbor.
The development that included BJ’s condominium climbed the middle section of the Kirkland Hills neighborhood. All of the buildings had white Spanish stucco and red barrel tile roofs. The project spoke of understated elegance, as well as outrageous cost. The layout design provided each condominium units, a 270-degree Bellevue-Lake Washington-Seattle view. This was a remarkable property in an exceptional location. As everyone knows, in the real estate biz, it is location, location, location. BJ had all three in spades.
“I guess I’ll have to talk to Keating about how much we pay our admin assistants. That place of yours looks very expensive. If you don’t mind my snooping into your personal affairs, how do you afford it?”
“You didn’t seem to mind being in my personal affairs last night.”
“And privileged was I to be so deliciously accommodated. Didn’t you notice how delicately I walked down the hill? No tennis for me today. My recuperative batteries need recharging.”
BJ giggled her throaty laugh. “Jack, my ex, is responsible for me having that house. I walked in on him being accommodated from beneath his desk by his twenty-something secretary, Jill—believe it or don’t, that is her name. Now he has her and I have the condominium. Frankly, I got the best of that deal. I’ve lived here since the project was built, about seven years, the last three without a mortgage, thank you very much, Jack and Jill. Now it’s only me that goes up the hill.”
“I suppose you inherited that new Jag from the same generous person.”
“No, I bought it used a little less than a year ago. A friend of mine is in the car leasing business and when this one became available, he called me. He’d had his mechanic go over it. He said it was a low mileage creampuff, I should come see it, right away. I brought it home that day.”
“Wow! What a good friend to have. And you’ve worked for Robert for the last three years, right?”
“Yeah, I got lucky again after the property settlement. The employment agency sent me out on an interview with Mr. Keating. We hit it off right away. One interview and I had the job. Well, maybe two interviews, since he wanted me to have lunch with Caroline my first week on the job. I’m still here, so I guess I passed her test.”
Amazingly, Mr. Keating’s comely wife, Caroline, quickly decided to like BJ and was not defensive about her having both good looks and brains. All was good on the Keating office and home front. BJ knew Caroline wou
ld like her because that is what her psychic told her. But liking BJ didn’t keep Mr. Keating’s transplanted Southern belle from wanting all the escapade gossip about her hubby’s hot assistant.
“You are one very lucky lady, BJ. But I want you to know it is I who consider myself lucky to be with you.” He said it, but didn’t really mean it. It was true BJ was a most striking woman, in clothes or out, but little things she did nagged at Wainwright. Besides, he would rather be with Lacey.
She was a highly intelligent woman. He guessed that was the reason she was always asking so many questions, probing him for information. Questions based on her employer’s activities. Why did that bother him? The questions didn’t have anything to do with them as a couple, or about her work. Instead, she was focused on the Burke killing. Her questions were outside of the non-exclusive relationship he shared with BJ. With this line of reasoning, Wainwright had to question his relationship with her. What did they have? A lot of good sex, some companionable times together for dining and traveling, and a lot of very good sex.
Wainwright was sure the budding relationship with Lacey had everything to do with his changing feelings about time spent with BJ. If Lacey were on the West Coast instead of being boxed up in Boston, there would be no questions about which he would spend time with. But she was on the East Coast and he was out on the Left Coast.
Wainwright was not an expert on jewelry, but he’d purchased enough over the years for wives and lovers to know the good stuff from the paste. What BJ wore was unquestionably in the former category, and she had a lot of it. At the office, she occasionally wore a few—a couple of rings and an occasional bracelet—but when they went out to an event or fancy dinner, she dragged out the most awesome collection of expensive trinkets he’d ever laid eyes on. Based on previous property settlement appraisals, Wainwright estimated he’d seen over a million dollars’ worth of baubles on this woman. What? Also from a grateful and wealthy ex-husband? Yeah, sure, in a pig’s eye!
Mystery and Suspense:The Tipping Point: A mystery thriller full of intrigue about greed, fraud and murder... (International Mystery: Book 1) Page 7