“Anyway,” she continues, perking up. “You should consider yourself lucky. You have a handsome, successful son. A Hollywood insider. I’d give anything to have a child like that. What if he gets nominated for an Emmy? Just think of it. What would you wear? Gucci? Saint Laurent?”
“I haven’t thought about it . . .”
“Well, I would. Oh, to have a boy like Jack to support me in my darkest days. I don’t have anyone. No one at all.” Jane’s eyes glisten for a moment, and then she returns to the subject of the ball. I pretend to be interested, but my thoughts slosh around like water in a tub.
It’s nearing noon when Jane asks the waiter to split the bill. He returns with my credit card and a frown on his face.
“My mistake,” I say. “Try this one.”
He returns with that one too. A flush of shame creeps up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. I think back on the weekend’s shopping spree. Leo will be disappointed, but what else could I do? I had to buy new clothes to fit my smaller figure.
“Oh, Kathi.” Jane reaches out and pats my hand. “I’m sure it’s just some complication with the estate.”
“Yes. A complication.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
“Leo Silverstein.”
“Frumpy Leo? He’s very good. Did you hear his ex-wife is getting a divorce? Apparently her trophy gal was a cheat.” Jane turns to the waiter and instructs him to put the entire bill on her card.
“I’ll get it next time,” I say, pinching my wrist.
“Of course you will.”
I want to die right then and there. Melt into the floor. I rack my brain but find no upside to being broke. No conceivable upside at all.
April 21, 1982
It’s just so hard to decide. I only know I want to go to a faraway place where no one knows a single thing about my family and where I don’t get that pitying look. I’m sick of lonely Kathi. I want to be someone else.
Since my dream is to become a writer, Aunt Genny thinks I should go to NYU. She lived in New York for a year after college before returning to run the family farm. I think she regrets giving up big-city life, but it’s really not for me. I’d rather live in a beautiful place like California. Swim in the big, wide ocean. Maybe even learn how to surf. And UCSB is right on the beach. RIGHT on it! The pictures in the brochure are SO beautiful. I think it’s the perfect place for me.
Crystal
June 15, 2015
When I arrive at work a few minutes late, Dipak looks up and whispers, “Surprise audit.”
He stands at the entrance to our office dressed in his shabbiest suit and scruffiest shoes, eyes wide and lips drawn tight, cracking his knuckles nonstop.
Four members of the compliance department rummage through our desks. They’re all middle-aged and dowdy, dressed in shades of black and brown. They scurry about like ants in search of sugar, looking for morsels of mistakes. If they find one, it’ll be a feeding frenzy—they’ll all pile on top.
This is our second audit, so I already know the routine. First they’ll check the basics: files locked in cabinets, desks cleared of clutter, no confidential papers sitting loose in the drawers. After that they’ll move on to loan files. They’ll hand us lists of ten customers each—no substitutions allowed. Then they’ll whisk the chosen files to the bowels of compliance, where our work will be chewed and digested. A small mistake might earn a slap on the wrist. A big one will result in the loss of a job. That’s what happened to my predecessor. It will never happen to me.
Sue is the oldest and crankiest of the bunch, a devil of a woman with spotting scopes for eyes. She digs through my drawers and pauses at my hidden stash of candy. As she holds up a king-size chocolate bar, her lips twitch into a grin. “Breakfast?” she asks.
Dipak snickers, and I almost kick him. “No,” I say, pretending to play along. “I’m saving that for lunch.”
She drops the bar in the drawer and gets back to work. “Where are Tyler and Eric?” she asks, pouncing on Dipak’s desk.
Dipak glances at me and shrugs. “They’re usually in by nine,” he says. “Ten at the very latest.”
“Are you serious?” Sue straightens up, hands on hips. “You millennials drive me crazy.”
There’s a sudden commotion, and the head of compliance totters in on her trademark four-inch heels. Vanessa Sophia Allen has a smile that’s whiter than white, hair that’s blonder than blonde. A body that’s thin as a rail except for the fake boobs that explode from her blouse. The two boys trail behind her like dogs hot on a scent.
You’re a professional, I want to tell her. You’re old. At least forty. You should be mashing those boys into paste, not playing into their hands.
“Thank you for the coffee,” Vanessa says, flashing Tyler a starstruck smile. She wouldn’t be smiling if she knew the boys had christened her Shipwreck Barbie for her listing walk and pointy breasts.
Vanessa turns to Sue. “How’s everything going?”
“Fine. We’ve finished with the desks. We’re collecting the files.”
“Good to hear. This needs to go fast.” She taps her foot a few times and then turns to me. “How are you enjoying your new job, Crystal?” Her eyes are a strange shade of green this morning. She must be wearing contacts.
“It’s not so new anymore. But everything’s just fine.”
“You don’t mind being the only girl in the Stable?”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“That’s because we think of her as one of the boys,” Tyler says.
“Not hard to do,” Eric adds.
Vanessa laughs, and my mind slips into game mode. Maybe I’ll send her an anonymous note and let her in on her Stable nickname. Might not destroy her life, but it sure would ruin her day.
The audit drags on through the morning, and I’m bored beyond belief. I’m about to excuse myself when Sue holds up her list. “There’s a problem here,” she says. “I’m missing two files. Jared Franks and Arthur Van Meter.”
“Those are my clients,” Tyler offers.
“So where are the files?” Sue asks.
“Rich’s secretary took them.”
“You let her?”
“Of course.”
Sue’s eyes narrow to slits. “Per bank policy, all original files must remain in this office.”
Tyler folds his arms and offers her a sly grin. “So why don’t you tell that to the president yourself.”
“That’s your job.”
“You think?”
“I don’t like your attitude.”
“And I don’t like yours.”
Vanessa jumps in. “Let’s all try to stay calm.”
Sue’s face has turned the color of an Early Girl tomato. “But bank policy says that—”
“I know what bank policy says,” Vanessa snaps. “You might recall I wrote it.”
“Well, of course, but—”
“Just take the boxes and go.”
Sue straightens her back, picks up a box with a grunt, and hurries out the doorway, almost knocking George to the ground.
“Everything all right?” he asks as he steps in.
“Good morning, George,” Vanessa says stiffly.
“Good morning, Vanessa,” he replies. “Are you about done?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Everything in order?”
“It better be. Regulators arrive next week.”
“I’m aware of that.” His glass eye twitches.
The compliance team gathers up the remaining boxes and carries them out of the office. Not a mention of the missing files to George. I squirrel that away in my head.
Kathi
June 6, 2016
I’ve subscribed to a writing magazine that has some wonderful articles on how to write your first novel. One of my favorites suggests background sketches on all the key characters. Know their history, their wants, their desires. It gives a list of twenty-five questions to ask. Where were they born? Family intact or divorced? Good
student or bad? Cat or dog? Straight or gay? Children? And then there’s “innermost desire.” You need to know your characters’ dreams—what they really want in life. By the time I fill out the questionnaires, Honest Love should be a snap to write.
The article suggests you try it on yourself first, but you have to be brutally honest. Easy enough. I’m sure I can do that. I pour a goblet of wine and head for the terrace. It’s a warm afternoon but not too hot. Just perfect in the shade. I settle on a bench beneath our ancient oak and get to work on my questionnaire.
Name: Katherine (Kathi) Smith (Wright)
Birthplace: Ames, Iowa
Childhood angst: Parents died in a car crash
Family status: Married. Husband recently deceased.
Good student or bad: Good
Cat or dog?: Neither (Rich didn’t like pets)
Straight or gay: Very straight
Children?: Yes
Names and ages: Jack, 29
Best friends: Jane & Laurie
Dream job: Novelist
Innermost desire:
I pause on that last one. What do I want? What do I really want? I suppose what I want is to have my family back. But that’s never going to happen. Not with Rich gone.
The doorbell rings, and I startle, dropping my pen. It rolls beneath the bench, and I get on my knees to retrieve it. The doorbell rings again. And again.
Oh, go away, I think. I don’t want to answer the door. I’ve been doing that lately. Pretending I’m not at home. Whoever it is, they’re insistent. I hide my wine at the foot of the bench and head back into the house.
When I open the door, Mabel McCarthy is on the other side, our elderly neighbor from three houses down the block. I’m not in the mood for a neighborly chat, but there’s no escaping her now.
“Mabel, so nice to see you again.”
She holds a homemade pineapple upside-down cake in her tiny, clawlike hands. She was born in Montecito and has lived in the same house for fifty-some years. At one time her family owned most of the surrounding property, but they sold it off in bits and pieces to fund their lifestyle over the years.
Dressed in a bright-orange muumuu and dirty slippers, Mabel doesn’t seem to notice three scruffy cats that weave through her legs. She claims to own five cats—the legal limit—but Rich insisted she owns more than ten. They wander through the neighborhood leaving mounds of poop wherever they go. Rich used to sprinkle hot pepper flakes around our garden to keep her felines at bay. I thought that cruel, so when he’d leave for work, I’d take the hose and wash away the flakes.
“I hope you like cake,” she says with a near-toothless smile. The cake is sunken on one side and just a little too brown. “I made it myself. Would you mind if I come in?”
“Please do. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“Tea would be nice.”
I try to shut the door on the cats, but all three scamper in. I start to say something, and then I don’t. What does it matter anymore?
“You have such a beautiful home,” Mabel says. “Everything white. Such a bold choice.”
“Thank you.” The house is a mess, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I try to picture the room through her eyes. Rich insisted on our spare, modern style with floor-to-ceiling glass pocket doors. They’re a horror to keep clean, but on a nice day you can open the doors wide so that the living room and terrace become one. I prefer a comfy cottage look, but Rich insisted a bank president’s residence must set a certain tone.
Mabel plops onto our living room couch, and I take the cake to the kitchen. By the time I return with mint tea and slices of cake, the cats have settled into a ball on her lap. The cutest one, black and white with orange spots on his back, shoots his head up and yawns at me before resettling with a purr.
It doesn’t take long for Mabel to begin reminiscing on her favorite subject of old Montecito, when artists and hippies ruled the land. In the 1950s, her father—a mediocre landscape painter at best—was smart enough to save his pennies and buy up acres of cheap land on Mountain Drive. When times changed, he went from starving artist to local real estate baron. Mabel was one of his four children. Her siblings have all since passed away.
She’s in the midst of retelling a story about the trouble she got into jumping from the end of the old Coral Casino pier when she abruptly switches direction.
“I’m so sorry about Rich,” she says, reaching across the glass coffee table to take my hand. Hers is a little moist, and I can’t help but wonder when she last bathed. “Was the funeral nice?”
“It was.” I gently pull my hand away and wipe it with a napkin. “So many people in the community came to pay their respects.”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“Well, I appreciate your thoughtful card. I’ll get around to writing a thank-you note one day soon.”
Mabel waves her hand like she’s swatting a fly. “Don’t bother yourself. That’s a silly old tradition. Now, tell me, where is Rich buried?”
“Santa Barbara Cemetery.”
“Oh, I love it there, don’t you? I have my plot picked out right next to my dear Edgar. We’ll have an ocean view together for eternity.”
“That’s sweet.” How stupid of me. I’d been so devastated by Rich’s death I didn’t give a thought to location. I chose a grave site that backs up to the street. Rich would’ve preferred an ocean view.
“Anyway,” Mabel continues. “I would’ve attended the service, but I can’t drive anymore. After my last little mishap in the Upper Village, they’ve taken my privileges away.”
I heard from a neighbor that her last little mishap involved hitting a fire hydrant and flooding the nearby streets.
“No worries,” I say. “I know your thoughts were with us.”
“Of course. I always liked Rich. He was a big help with my money.”
“You were a client of the bank?”
She shakes her head. “Goodness no. I’ve had my accounts at Wells Fargo since I was a girl. Rich gave me investment advice—that’s all.” She finishes her cake and eyes mine like she wants to eat that too.
“You mean he helped you find rates on CDs?”
“Heavens no. CDs pay next to nothing these days. Most of my money was invested in a thirty-year treasury bond paying close to eight percent. When it matured last year, I didn’t know what to do with the proceeds. Interest rates had fallen through the floor. Then Rich told me about a special investment where I could make ten percent or more.”
“My Rich?”
“Yes. I was so very thankful.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “It’s not pin money, you understand. I gave him a million dollars. It’s nearly the last of my inheritance.”
I set down my fork. “You gave a million dollars to Rich?”
“I did.” She tilts forward, and the cats scatter every which way. “The thing is, I was receiving regular interest payments until four months ago. I tried calling the bank, but Rich was always on the phone or busy and never returned my calls. And then, well, and then he was suddenly gone. I didn’t think it proper to bother you with questions while you were in a state of mourning. But enough is enough. It’s all the money I have in the world, and I have a stack of bills to pay.” She sits up straight. “So I’d like my money back as soon as possible. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course.” The woman must be crazy or suffering from dementia. Nothing she says makes sense.
“Can you get it for me? My money?”
“I don’t know . . .”
She folds her hands together. “My daughter says what’s happened to me is called elder abuse. If I don’t get my money back soon, she intends to call the police.”
“Police? No. Please don’t do that. There must be a misunderstanding. I’ll look into it for you.”
She smiles sweetly. “I knew you would. It’s not like Rich was a thief. Are you going to finish your cake?”
“It’s all yours.” I hand her the cake, and she gobbles
it down while I worry and wring my hands. “Do you happen to know the name of the investment?” I ask when she finishes up.
She swipes the back of her hand across her lips, leaving a swatch of red lipstick behind. “I know it’s some kind of real estate investment. Bella Verde or Casa Grande. Something like that.”
“Do you have any documents I can look at?”
“No, I don’t. I’m a born scatterbrain, so Rich agreed to hold on to them for me.” She stands, wobbling a little. “Now if you’ll be so kind to help me round up my cats. They’re so very mischievous. They’ll be the death of me one day.”
As soon as Mabel and her cats are out the door, I hurry up the stairs to Rich’s office. He called it his “man cave.” No women allowed. So when I open the door and flick on the lights, I feel a rush of guilt.
The office is so very Rich. White walls, sleek furniture, aluminum file cabinets, and an oversized window with an expansive view of the coast. But the mess—Rich would have hated it. The night he died, the police insisted on going through his things, so drawers yawn open and file cabinets sit ajar. Papers litter the surface of his desk. They asked to take his computer and have yet to return it. I make a mental note to call them tomorrow.
I think back on that night. “Where were you at nine?” they asked, as if I had something to do with his death. “Was your husband depressed? Were there money problems? Was he having an affair? Were you?”
“No, no, no, and no,” I answered between racking sobs.
I rustle through the papers on Rich’s desk and slide open the top drawer. Pencils, pens, paper clips, and rubber bands lie in precise rows. I move on to the file cabinets, opening and shutting the drawers. There are masses of papers going back decades, all perfectly sorted and labeled. When I open the last cabinet, I come across a thick file labeled CASA BELLA.
I pull the file out and scatter the pages across the white wool rug. Loan documents, I think, with $100,000 typed across the top of one, $200,000 on another. I see names I recognize: Peter Sterling. Jennifer Ross. Susan Evers. And then I spy Mabel’s name next to a handwritten number: $500,000. Didn’t she say a million? I’m sure she did. What could this possibly mean? Does it have something to do with the bank?
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 5