The Trophy Wife Exchange

by Connie Shelton

  She opened the top desk drawer, finding only blank stationery and a handful of ballpoint pens imprinted with the company name. Who actually uses letterhead anymore, she wondered as she shuffled through the pages. Email and attachments were ubiquitous these days. The next drawer excited her a bit as she spotted a leather portfolio of the sort a man would use to carry important documents. Sadly, however, there was nothing inside but a fresh yellow legal pad. She tossed it back into the drawer.

  She looked at the time. 12:15. She’d already missed her airport ride with Pen and Gracie. This recon of the offices had certainly been a wasted trip. It appeared every trace of Clint Holbrook had been removed.

  Amber set her bag on Clint’s desk and pawed through it. Clearly, she would accomplish nothing further here, so her mission now was to get herself to the airport so she could leave the country. The cab ride would cost at least three-hundred-fifty yuan but her wallet was empty of cash and the other compartments in the bag yielded no money either. She would have to find an ATM somewhere. The plane would begin boarding in an hour.

  Chapter 37

  Gracie paced the international departure lounge, scanning the corridors which teemed with people, watching for the one head of curly hair among the thousands with smooth dark hair. She glanced toward Pen who sat with their carryon bags. Boarding had already been called for first class and business class passengers, but they had agreed—they would wait until the moment before the doors closed if Amber had not yet arrived.

  There had been a series of texts: Leaving Clint’s office.

  The next one: Got cash. Found a cab.

  The next one came what felt like an interminable time later: At airport. Check-in line long!

  So, Amber was here somewhere. It didn’t necessarily mean she would make the flight. Gracie watched the steady queue of coach passengers thread their way past the gate agent. The crowd was thinning at an alarming rate. She imagined them aboard the aircraft, inching their way toward their seats, stowing their too-many items in too-few bins, flight attendants edging along the crowded aisles to assist. For the first time in her life, Gracie willed the process to take longer.

  At last she spotted Amber’s familiar bouncy gait. Her curly hair, pulled into a fluffy knot at the top of her head, made a perfect beacon. Gracie sent a thumbs-up toward Pen before dashing out into the crowd.

  The last of the passengers had disappeared into the long Jetway.

  She ran to Amber, grabbed her hand and gave a tug, wanting to give the same lecture she used on her kids to hurry up. No purpose to that—Amber was already nearly in tears.

  “Come on, sweetie. We’ll make it.”

  Pen was speaking to the agent at the boarding pass scanner when the other two dashed into the glassed-in area.

  “Ah, yes,” they heard her say, “here they are now.”

  “The aircraft door closes in one minute,” said the agent. “Do not dally in the Jetway.”

  As if they needed to be told. They rushed in, thankful to see the first-class cabin had settled early and they were easily able to take their seats as the safety briefing video began. Pen’s seat was next to Amber’s, with Gracie across the aisle. The way the semi-private pods were arranged, conversation wasn’t easy. When the little video screens shut down and she felt the plane lift off, Pen leaned forward to see around the divider.

  “So—what happened?”

  Amber paused, deliberating how much to say. Catching the wrong bus, breaking into Clint’s office, the mad scramble to the airport and almost missing the flight. Most likely Pen only wanted to know about the mission to find important papers.

  “The blueprints and building plans were there, but nothing personal at all. Not even a coffee cup. Nothing that would say ‘Clint Holbrook worked here’. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  Pen admitted it was. “The question is, who cleared it? Clint was only leaving for a few days to go fishing, so why would he take away absolutely everything?”

  “I wondered if Rudy Tong or someone in his company did it. I don’t know … that building, that company … the whole place has a very sterile feeling. But to send somebody in and clear a guy’s office within a day after he dies—that’s cold.”

  Pen nodded. She remembered the remark about Chinese mobsters and whether Clint had gotten himself—purposely or inadvertently—in with them. And what if the office had actually been cleared before Clint’s death? Did someone at Tong Chen Enterprises know their American contractor wouldn’t be coming back?

  A flight attendant paused beside Pen’s seat. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, may I bring you something to drink?”

  Pen requested tea, something which always calmed her nerves. Something she needed after the tense morning.

  Beside her, Amber sat upright. “What if Clint had left a bunch of his private stuff there, like maybe even his computer? And what if the Chinese took it all away. They’ve probably already hacked it.”

  Pen nodded.

  “So, it means they’ll know and have access to his money. If we don’t find it and steal Mary’s share away, we don’t even have to worry what the American court would do. The money’s going to be gone. My god, I’ll bet it was that slimy lawyer of his. I’ll bet he’s working with those guys at Tong Chen.”

  That got Pen’s attention. “You’re saying … this whole thing could have been planned far in advance? Give an American contractor the job, bring him over, gain access to his money, kill him?”

  “I know. It does sound pretty far-fetched.”

  It did, and yet it didn’t.

  Amber twitched in her seat. “But I won’t have secure internet access to find out what’s going on for another fifteen hours.”

  Chapter 38

  Kaycie stared into her closet, her mind numb. Black was not her color—it simply wasn’t good for anything other than a chic cocktail dress, preferably off the shoulder and overridden by a diamond necklace of stunning design. She had nothing to wear to the funeral. She didn’t even want to own anything appropriate for a funeral. She was twenty-six years old, for heaven’s sake, and the idea of widowhood had never once crossed her radar.

  She walked out of the closet and picked up her purse from the bed. But the idea of going shopping was too daunting and she tossed the purse back. Unpacking had been overwhelming, too. The suitcases from the China trip sat in the corner of the bedroom where the Vandergrift doorman had left them when she arrived home. She stared at Clint’s bag, knowing she would have to choose a suit for him to be buried in. She couldn’t face the task.

  She threw herself onto the bed and wept. Novels always showed the heroine crying until she had no more tears to shed. Kaycie wondered when that would happen. Her entire face had felt like a leaky sieve for three days now, with no sign the waterworks would ever quit.

  People had called—she ignored the recorded messages. The buzzer had announced a few—she’d turned them away. Channel Three’s news department had come nosing around, the journalists sympathetic, but it was so obvious they really only wanted to cover the tragic story. She’d screamed at Hal Erickson to get out of her face. She would regret it, she knew. One day soon she had to go back to work there. Or not. Maybe she would move to L.A. and start fresh. Or not. She couldn’t think straight.

  Her mother was the only person she could even think about seeing. Sylvia had brought Kaycie’s favorite Chinese takeout food the night she arrived home. The sight of it threw Kaycie into spasms of uncontrolled weeping.

  “Chinese food, Mom? Really?”

  “It’s your favorite. I only thought—”

  “I’ve just come from China, had to leave my dead husband behind … and you thought …”

  Sylvia had looked crushed. “Honey, you’re so right. Let me order us a pizza.”

  “I can’t eat. I’m going to bed. See yourself out.”

  Sylvia had called more than a dozen times in the following two days, apologetic and worried. Kaycie knew there was business to take care of, arrangements to m
ake—she would eventually have to face it all, and having her mother by her side might help.

  She rolled off the wrinkled bed and headed toward the shower, ignoring the suitcases and the gaping closet door where no appropriate clothing awaited. Okay, there was something her mother could do. She detoured back to her purse and dug for her cell phone, hoping it held enough charge to make at least one call.

  “Mom, I need a black dress. Can you go to Neiman Marcus and find me one? I don’t care what it looks like. I’m only wearing it for one day.” And then it’s going into the trash because I can’t handle any more reminders.

  “Sure, honey. Anything else? You have shoes and a bag?”

  Leave it to Mom to think of the details at a time like this.

  “Everything else is fine.” Kaycie knew her voice sounded flat and rude but she couldn’t muster anything more right now.

  “I’ll do it right now and be there before noon. Think about lunch, sweetie. It will do you good to get out of the house.”

  Whatever. Kaycie hung up without committing.

  She dropped her robe on the bathroom floor and got into the shower, steeling herself for her mother’s visit. She had to start dealing with this, had to see people, get out of this cave-like condo with the drapes closed tightly and the suitcases in the corner. She told herself to start acting like the competent woman she knew herself to be. Then she felt the tears well up again. It didn’t matter how many times she washed them off, they always came back.

  She turned off the hot water and let the cold blast her until she was shivering. It was horrible but at least she no longer felt numb. When she couldn’t stand it another second, she shut off the valve and stepped out. A towel wrapped around her body felt snug and comforting, like one of Clint’s big bear hugs. The tears started again. She gave up trying to stop them and meandered to the closet where she dug out an old pair of sweats and a shapeless sweater from her college days.

  Without bothering to dry her hair she went to the suitcases. Clint’s was easy—she simply wheeled it into the far corner of his closet, parked it and closed the door. She knelt in front of her largest bag and unzipped it.

  The door buzzer startled her. Mom surely couldn’t have shopped for a dress and gotten here already, which meant she’d come by to convince Kaycie she should join her on the shopping trip. Come along, she would say, you always love browsing in Neiman’s.

  Kaycie was tired of the battle. She walked through the living room and pressed the buzzer to admit her mother, then left the front door cracked open a little while she headed back to the bedroom. It was inevitable—she would have to put on something suitable to be seen in public.

  A tap sounded from the living room.

  “Mrs. Holbrook?” came a male voice.

  Oh shit. Who have I let in? She scurried to the door.

  It was Clint’s attorney, Derek Woo. She hadn’t seen him since Shanghai, when he’d come to the clinic to break the news and later at the hotel to escort her to the airport.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think you must have been expecting someone else?”

  Kaycie nodded and waved him in. “My mother. She’ll be along any minute.”

  “I won’t take much time then. How are you holding up?”

  Didn’t her puffy red eyes and her hair, all kinked and damp from the shower, give him a clue? She made a dismissive gesture. She should probably invite him to sit down but, truthfully, didn’t really want him to stay.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked with a nod toward the file folder under his arm.

  “I brought a copy of the death certificate. You’ll need it for certain things, such as filing an insurance claim.”

  She reached for the folder.

  “There’s more. We should probably sit down.” He looked toward the large sofa in the living room.

  “What more? What do you mean?” This whole week had turned to pure hell—what could be worse?

  He gently took her elbow and steered her toward the nearest chair.

  “I’m afraid … well, I’ve just learned …” He took a breath. “Clint’s body has not been recovered. I was unable to bring him back with me.”

  Kaycie felt the room tilt and her vision narrowed to a small tunnel.

  “They told me there’s no chance. The boat was twenty miles offshore in an area known to have many sharks. He won’t be found.”

  She heard the words I’m sorry coming from a great distance as the tunnel closed in around her.

  Chapter 39

  Mary picked up her cell phone and pressed the button so it would light up and show the battery level. Yep, it still held enough charge. Why wouldn’t it?—she’d checked it ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that.

  “Either make the damn call,” she muttered to herself, “or put the whole idea out of your head and get on with the day.”

  She punched the digits of Kaycie’s number, the one given to her by Debbie when she’d made her exploratory call and acted surprised at the news about Clint. Everyone wanted to be the first to tell her, assuming as the ex-wife she wouldn’t otherwise know. Well, it was true—no one official had bothered to tell her. She was actually surprised when Kaycie answered.

  “Hi, Kaycie, it’s Mary Holbrook.”

  A stammer? A sob? Mary couldn’t decipher the sound.

  “I’ve just heard the news and I wanted to offer condolences.”

  This time it was definitely a long, exhaled breath. “Yeah, you too.”

  “I wondered if there’s going to be a funeral. I mean, there are several old friends I should tell. I won’t come myself, not if it’s going to be painful for you.”

  “Painful? This whole thing is so painful, I can’t even describe it. Do whatever you want. It’ll be a memorial service at Tanich on Tuesday. I don’t know if that’s the right thing, considering ...”

  “Considering?”

  “The body. Oh god, you haven’t heard. Clint’s body … well, they haven’t found him.”

  “What? Oh my god, Kaycie, I had no idea.”

  “I just found out. The attorney came by and he brought the death certificate and it’s two pages of printed stuff from the Philippine government. One of the pages looks like a diploma or something—red ribbons and a gold seal and all this fancy writing and signatures and everything. At least they’re written in English.”

  “Kaycie, slow down and take a breath.”

  Mary felt her concentration shooting all over the place. Clint’s body was still over there somewhere but they’d sent paperwork? She forced herself to take a deep breath also.

  Kaycie had barely paused. “And I feel so rotten because there I was about to go in for a stupid surgery that was nothing but a vain attempt to look different, and if I’d been with him instead maybe I could have done something to save him. And, god, Mary, the lawyer said the water was full of sharks.”

  She stopped talking only because she was now sobbing.

  Somehow, the news that Clint’s body had probably been torn apart by sharks was more disturbing than the fact he was dead. Mary backed up against her kitchen cabinets and sank to the floor, her back pressed against an uncomfortable knob, her forehead resting on her bent knees.

  Kaycie was babbling on and all Mary could think of was, how could events have suddenly taken this bizarre turn? Over the phone she heard a buzzer in the background and Kaycie paused for a blissful second.

  “That’s got to be my mother,” she told Mary. “Sorry I’m not more coherent right now. I gotta go.”

  “Sure. Bye.” The connection was already gone.

  Mary sat there until the cabinet knob at her back reminded her to get up.

  “What the hell,” she said to the empty room. “What the effing hell?”

  She dialed another number from her contacts list. “Sandy, I really need to see you guys.”

  “Mary, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s complicated. Is there sometime all the ladies can meet?”

 
“It’s Sunday, so most likely anytime will work. I’ll call them. Shall we come to your apartment?”

  Mary glanced around, taking in the small space. She’d meant to clean this morning and had instead wasted the time. But the alternative was to find something decent to wear and catch the bus and ride across town … “Sure, that’s great. As soon as you can get here.”

  “You okay? Never mind. I already asked that. I’ll round everyone up. We’ll aim for an hour—say, two o’clock?”

  Turning over at least part of the burden to Sandy’s efficient ways gave Mary the energy to pick up the dust cloth she’d left on the bedroom dresser. Within an hour the bathroom sparkled and the small apartment looked as good as it ever would. If they’d been at Sandy’s there would no doubt have been tea and cookies or some fancy little spread, but she didn’t have anything beyond a bag of potato chips so they’d have to make do with it.

  She washed her hands and put on a shirt that wasn’t sweaty. It was 1:55.

  * * *

  “You’re saying there’s going to be a funeral but no coffin and no body?” Gracie looked as if that was the most foreign idea in the world to her.

  “How do they actually know? Maybe Clint managed to swim ashore somewhere and he isn’t actually dead,” Pen said.

  “His lawyer delivered a death certificate issued by the government over there. He’s really dead.”

  Amber sat cross-legged on the floor within easy reach of the chips. “There’s something about this whole thing that seems off. I checked the regional weather reports before we left Shanghai. You know, to see if we were going to be in for airport delays or anything. There was absolutely nothing in the way of a major storm in that part of the world.”