What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  “The safe only holds our jewelry.”

  “How about an offshore account? He ever mention that?”

  “A what?”

  “A bank account held in another country?”

  “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered that.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s get back to the safe. Houses like yours often have more than one. Helps to fool the more dim-witted burglars.”

  “We’ve lived here a long time. You’d think I’d know.”

  “Unless Rich thought it safer to keep you in the dark. If you’d like, I could help you look around.”

  God, no. I picture the messiness of the rooms. “That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll poke around a little later.”

  He smiles. “All right. But I suggest you speak with your attorney. Rich was a wealthy man. Money should be the least of your problems. Worst case you could borrow against the estate.”

  “I’ll talk to him about that.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks, his voice so kind it almost brings me to tears.

  “You’ve done so much already,” I say, picking up a handful of bills.

  “All I’ve done is give you a little of my time. Now, tell me. What else do you need?”

  I hesitate. “There is one thing. Maybe you can explain these papers to me.” I get up and retrieve the Casa Bella file from the cabinet and hand it to Arthur. He quickly flips through the contents. “Seems to be some kind of real estate investment.”

  “Could some of our money be tied up in that?”

  “It’s hard to tell . . .”

  “Is it possible Rich owes someone something? I mean, is it possible I owe money to anyone?”

  He reads for a while, shuffles through the papers, and reads them a little more. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “It’ll take me time to go through this file, and our son’s soccer game begins at three. What if I take it home with me and review? I’ll call you if I find something important.”

  “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?” A weight lifts off my shoulders.

  “Not too much trouble at all.” Arthur holds out his hand and helps me up. “One thing,” he says. “I suggest you don’t mention I’ve been here. You know how this town works. All gossip, rumor, and innuendo, especially if it gets around that I was alone with a beautiful woman.”

  “Of course.” Beautiful?

  “So we’ll keep this our little secret.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Rich helped our community in so many ways. It’s an honor for me to have a chance to give back.”

  My eyes mist over. “Thank you.” I follow him to the front door. “I can’t tell you how much your kindness means to me.”

  He sets his hand on my shoulder and gives it the lightest of rubs. “Anything you need,” he says. “I mean that. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

  I shut the door, and my mind turns to my novel. I picture my hero’s lips pressing against the lips of my heroine. He runs his hand along her inner thigh. I shiver. They will have a love that lasts forever. That’s one thing I know for sure.

  March 26, 1984

  I thought it would be easier to make friends at UCSB. It was at first. But then my roommate started sneaking her boyfriend into our dorm room late at night. Like I couldn’t hear them doing it under the covers. UGH! So gross. But now Carol refuses to speak to me, and half the dorm has taken her side. It’s not fair!!

  I know Rich feels bad about how it’s all turned out. I had asked for a transfer to a new room, but he insisted I turn Carol in. Said no one should have to put up with such filth, and she should be the one to move, not me. Or course he was right, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow I’ve become the bad guy. I’ve even received threatening notes.

  Rich says I shouldn’t worry and that I don’t need anyone but him. He’s right, of course, but I still feel awful. I had hoped by my sophomore year in college, I would be part of a big group of friends.

  Crystal

  July 6, 2015

  It’s been five days since Tyler’s indiscretion. He never made it back to the Stable. HR intervened along the way. I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on, so the morning of the incident, I offered to walk a set of loan documents to the executive offices and conveniently dropped the papers outside of George’s closed door. I crouched to pick them up and smiled when I heard a man choking on tears. Tyler was begging. Really begging. My mouth watered like I was getting ready to lick icing off a cake.

  An hour later I received a text from one of the many bank snoops. Tyler was slinking out the back door. I ran—well, I lumbered—upstairs so I could peer out the window and watch the holiday parade. Poor Tyler staggered with shoulders slumped, gripping his storage box of shame. He looked broken, shattered, defeated. His new aura was a pleasant reminder of my ex-Bakersfield boss.

  Days later I heard Tyler had packed up his things and moved back to Kansas. Amanda gave her notice by the end of the week. Rumor is she received a six-figure settlement. It all worked out in the end.

  On the following Monday, we’re hard at work when George orders the loan support staff to appear at a mandatory meeting. Including the loan assistants and mortgage servicers, there are twelve of us in all, down two in just one week. Shortly before ten, I follow Dipak and Eric upstairs to the small conference room that doubles as an overflow storage space for old file boxes. When our contingent arrives, George is pacing the room.

  “Take a seat,” he orders without looking up. His green tie is askew, his hair slightly ruffled, and one of his shoes is untied. According to the company gossips, management blames him for Tyler’s dabble in porn. I honestly feel bad about that.

  “It’s taken me nearly a week to pull my thoughts together,” George says once we’ve gotten settled. “I apologize for that. But to be perfectly honest, Tyler’s actions were so ignorant and repugnant I had to do some hard thinking on the matter.” He looks up, his glass eye rimmed in red. “I’ve decided I’ve given this department too much slack. It’s over now. Do you understand?”

  I nod with the others, but I’m thinking Dipak and I shouldn’t be here. We’ve done nothing wrong. Well, of course I’ve done something wrong, but they don’t know that. And little Dipak is squeaky clean. His life’s an open book, and he never strays far from the rules.

  George stops pacing and, with hands on hips, eyes us with disdain. “My understanding is that the analysts’ office has been nicknamed ‘the Stable.’ That Tyler’s behavior didn’t come as a surprise. Does anyone here want to counter that claim?” He waits a few beats before continuing. “I want you to know that the IT department has gone through your computers. They’ve read through your emails and viewed your downloads. You’d think this was a college dorm, not a conservative workplace.”

  Eric’s face has gone pale, and he lowers his head to the table. He must’ve really screwed up.

  “If it weren’t so difficult to find adequate employees, there would be more firings happening today. But you’re lucky. We’re not going to let you go. At least not for now. Instead, what I expect is that beginning today, all twelve of you will behave like professionals. Understand?”

  There’s a murmuring of agreement but no eye contact. No one wants to be singled out.

  “You will arrive at work by eight,” he continues. “Your lunch break won’t exceed an hour. Your workday will not end before five. And your computer will be used for work purposes only. Have I made myself clear?”

  I nod, feeling queasy. This morning’s chorizo-and-egg burrito sends a warning signal from my gut.

  “Good.” George shakes his head and begins pacing again. “It’s going to take me weeks to hire a new analyst. In the meantime we need to divvy up the files. Who has room in their portfolio for a few of Tyler’s credits?”

  My hand shoots up. “I do.”

  George looks at me, and his expression softens. “Tyler managed some fairly complicated loans. You comfortable taking those on?”
<
br />   “I am.”

  “All right, then. Come with me.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now. There’s a meeting in the executive conference room, and I need an analyst to sit in.”

  I follow George out the door. We’re halfway down the hall when he pauses and turns to me. “Before we join the meeting, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” He steps into his office and signals that I should follow. “Please take a seat,” he says, settling into his chair. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. He couldn’t have found out, could he? Have my plans been blown to bits? I hold my breath until he speaks.

  “I wanted to check in with you,” he says. “You’re the lone woman in that office. And after the stunt Tyler pulled, I can’t help but wonder what else he’s been up to.”

  I shake my head, relieved. “Nothing terrible. I mean, he was rude and unfriendly, and sometimes he told questionable jokes.”

  “Sexist?”

  “And racist.”

  “Why didn’t you report him?”

  “I needed my job.”

  “There wouldn’t have been any retaliation.”

  I just stare at him. We both know that’s not true.

  He hesitates before continuing. “So tell me. Was Eric involved?”

  Eric? Now that’s an interesting question. Maybe I can unload him too. But I’ll have to think on that angle a little more before I make such a bold move. “Eric was like Dipak and me,” I say. “He just played along.”

  George nods, looking relieved. “In the future I hope you’ll confide in me if another uncomfortable situation occurs.”

  “I will.” I get to my feet, stomach grumbling.

  “Wait a moment,” he says. “There’s one more thing.” He opens his desk drawer. “I don’t want you to be offended. I’m only doing this to help your career. You’re smart and good at your job. I think you know that.”

  I nod because I do.

  He slides a business card across the table. “If you’re going to work on Tyler’s credits, I need you to dress the part.”

  I gaze at the business card in confusion. A Nordstrom private shopper?

  “We all know that it’s expensive to live in Santa Barbara, and salaries are primarily spent on rent and food. So the bank has agreed to offer a five-thousand-dollar clothing allowance for its up-and-coming officers. But you have to work with this personal shopper. She’ll help you choose the right look. And we’re only talking about work clothes. How you dress on your own time is up to you.”

  “What about Dipak?” I ask, feeling defensive. “Will he be getting a clothing allowance too?”

  “He will.”

  There’s a sudden crack in my wall of anger, which I quickly work to mend. I consider telling George that he of all people should know that nice guys finish last. That even with his perfect hair, groomed nails, tailored suits, and good intentions, some staff members call him Cyclops and laugh behind his back. But in the end, I only say thank you.

  “You’re welcome.” He glances at his watch. “Let’s get going. The meeting is about to begin. Kevin is the loan officer on the credit. You know him, right?”

  “Yeah, I know him.” Kevin is Dipak’s original model for the Great White Hopes, a balding man in his early forties with sloped shoulders and a pasty complexion. Part kiss ass, part fool.

  “He’ll take the lead along with Rich,” George continues. “Your role is as an observer. Sit away from the table, and don’t speak or make a face. Take notes. If you have questions for the borrower, Kevin will field them later on.”

  We step into the executive conference room adjacent to Rich’s office. With its walnut paneling, heavy curtains, and western landscape paintings, it oozes snooty money. Rich and Kevin are already seated with their client. Getting to their feet, they do a quick round of introductions. When I take a seat in one of the metal overflow chairs that line the wall, it squeals and pinches my thighs. I lick my lips, tasting spicy chorizo, and curse the storm brewing in my bowels.

  “So good to have you here, Arthur,” Rich says, his eyes caressing the man. Arthur Van Meter must be everything every man has ever wanted to be. Determined eyes sparkle above razor-sharp cheekbones; his cleft chin juts like a rock. He’s wearing old jeans and a faded polo shirt yet looks more elegant than the men in suits. He carries his looks in a casual way, as if they mean less than nothing to him. I shouldn’t like him, but his neatness draws me in. Not a stitch out of place, not a pound too much. Let’s see what he has to say.

  Kevin fidgets with his files while Rich and Van Meter engage in a smattering of small talk that drags on for what seems like hours. I try to concentrate on their words, but it’s made difficult by the gurgling in my gut. They chat about upcoming vacations, their latest cars, and the last time they played golf. They touch on their respective families and make plans to meet for lunch. The only comment of interest is Rich’s boast about his son’s promotion from C-list actor to series coproducer. I don’t believe him. I’ve been lurking on his wife’s Facebook page, and she hasn’t mentioned a thing. It’s an easy lie to fact-check. He’s either a poser or a fool. When the chatter finally dies down, Kevin jumps up and asks to see the plans.

  Van Meter rolls them out on the table, settles back in his chair, and folds his hands together, his wedding ring flashing gold. It’s the thick signet kind that royalty used to seal letters a few centuries ago. “I’m not one to pat myself on the back,” he says, “but I think I’ve done an amazing job. This is by far my best work.” His face has morphed from handsome to gloating. It’s not an attractive look.

  “Four stories and twenty-one units?” Kevin says, his hands caressing the plans. “That’s huge for downtown. You can get that approved?”

  “We already have,” Van Meter says with a smile. “I’ve been working with a few local developers to set the stage for these types of infill projects. The city has a housing crisis, and we’re offering a solution. We call it ‘affordability by design.’”

  “Affordability by design.” Rich sucks on the term like it’s a piece of candy. “I love that phrase. It has a nice ring.”

  “Doesn’t it? We borrowed the idea from some shrewd San Francisco developers. It’s been a win-win all around. The city gets kudos for increasing the housing stock, while the developers get to circumvent the permitting process and build denser developments on smaller lots. We’ve even made headway in preliminary discussions to raise height restrictions to five stories. Can you believe that? Just a year ago, suggesting four stories was like breaking one of the Ten Commandments. Co-opting the affordability language has been a godsend for a long list of stalled projects. I wish we had thought of it before.”

  “I was at that city council meeting and heard your presentation,” Kevin says, patches of pink lighting his pale cheeks. “It was brilliant. Simply brilliant.”

  “Why, thank you.” Van Meter takes on a modest look. “But I was just a member of an incredibly talented team. Enviro-Friendly Planning was our biggest resource. They did all the legwork while taking cover under the workforce-housing facade.”

  “But you were the visionary,” Kevin interjects with a look verging on love. “It must’ve taken a lot of work to get those council members to follow your lead.”

  Van Meter chuckles. “I’m sure you’re aware that they’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer. They’re easily swayed by a few nice meals and well-placed charitable donations. Add to that the repurposing of our mayor’s socialist language, and we’ve been able to turn public opinion our way.”

  “Impressive,” Rich says.

  Should I ask them to get a room? I consider blurting out those career-ending words when my stomach begins to growl. Low at first, but then it grows loud enough that there’s no way the men can’t hear. I shift uneasily in my seat and check the clock. Can’t we move this along?

  “How affordable is affordable?” George asks in an overly loud voice. I’m guessing he’s trying to provide cover for my gastri
c problem.

  Van Meter laughs. “Depends on how much money you have.”

  George’s glass eye twitches. “Let me ask my question another way. Does the term affordability come with any restrictions on sales price or income level?”

  “Of course not. That’s the beauty of the concept.”

  “Beauty?”

  “Yes, beauty. We’ve set the presale price for the smallest units at a million dollars. The larger units will go for well over that.”

  “But only the wealthiest one percent can afford those prices.”

  Van Meter cocks his head. “True. But I can promise you we’ll have no problem selling out.”

  “I understand that. I just want to clarify that there’s no real intent to help solve the workforce-housing issue.”

  “Sure there is. Our intent is to solve the problem for the working rich.”

  George’s face remains frozen while Rich chuckles and Kevin doubles over with laughter. Van Meter turns to Rich with a sigh.

  “George doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, does he?”

  “He’s had a tough week.”

  “That’s too bad.” Van Meter begins to speak in slow, mincing words. “Well, just so you understand, George, we’re doing nothing illegal. We’ve never called this program affordable housing. It’s affordable housing by design. In other words, the units are smaller and less expensive to construct, so they could be sold in the affordable range. But we live in a capitalist country. The condos will sell at a price the market dictates. And the fact that the design will allow our buyers to readily blow through walls . . . well, let’s just say in the end the prices for the smallest units could easily top two million.”

  George frowns. “Blow through walls?”

  Van Meter nods. “Our design allows a buyer to snap up two or more units and combine them into a wonderful living space. Combine all four top-floor units, and the penthouse would be outrageous.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of designing smaller units?”

  “In what way?”

  “You’re supposed to be providing housing for more people, not fewer.”