“Do you think they’re still alive?” she asks hopefully. “Do you think I’ll find them one day?”
My heart softens. Just the tiniest bit. “Yeah, I think you’ll find them.”
“Will you come look with me?”
“Someday, sure. Now, let’s concentrate. Remember—we’re on a secret mission.”
Mimi sighs and snuggles a little too close. But I don’t push her off. Instead, I shut myself down and suck it up and get more and more nervous inside. Where the hell are they? Have they changed the time? Traded texts without my knowing? Water drips in the misty darkness. Ducks rustle and quack. A lone owl screeches and dives, crashing into the bushes and swooping back up holding something wriggling in its talons.
“I hope that’s only a mouse,” Mimi says. “Not some poor baby duck.”
“Hope so.”
“I bet it’s a mouse. Yes, it has to be. Momma ducks would protect their babies at night, don’t you think?”
“Yep.” My teeth chatter. The dampness chills me to the bone. I’m getting ready to call off our vigil when a shadow flits across the road.
“Look there,” I whisper, pointing at the street. “See it?”
“No.”
“Over there.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s Van Meter.”
“Who?”
“The pretty man.”
“He’s walking?”
“Must be. His beach house isn’t far from here.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Now, no more talking. The game has begun.”
“All right,” she drops her voice. “I’m just so glad to be playing. And I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“Shush.”
Van Meter stands in the shadows, arms folded, foot tapping. His head tilts up and to the side in his cocky-cool way. Another five minutes pass before Rich pulls up in his convertible. It’s a red Corvette Stingray, the kind that proves a man is a man. He climbs out of his car, and the two men circle like dogs preparing to fight. There’s a pulsing rhythm of an argument, but their words dissolve in the wind.
I tap Mimi’s arm. “We need to move closer.” We creep through the bushes, Mimi’s switchblade clicking, until we’re less than a stone’s throw from the men.
“I’m asking you nicely,” Van Meter says. “Remove your shirt, or I leave.”
“My shirt? Are you crazy?” Rich asks, slurring. He’s been drinking. Not the smartest move on this night. “Why would I need to do that?”
“Heard a rumor your lawyers tried to contact the feds. It’s possible you’re wearing a wire.”
“That’s fucking bullshit. Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m asking you to remove your shirt. You can either do so or suffer the consequences. It’s your choice.”
“Maybe the feds have you wired. I should ask you to do the same.”
Van Meter turns and begins to walk away.
“Wait.” Rich tugs at his tie and then rips at the buttons of his dress shirt. He flings his shirt over his shoulder and spins around. “You happy?”
Van Meter nods. “Now bend over. I need to pat down your pants.”
“Hell if I’ll let you touch me.”
“As I said before, it’s your choice.”
Rich hesitates. “Okay, damn it. Just make it quick.”
Van Meter moves his hands up and around Rich’s butt and crotch and smoothly down each leg. “You pass,” he says with a laugh. “It’s no wonder you need the Corvette. Damn, your package is small.”
“Fuck you.” Rich pulls on his shirt.
“You’ve already fucked me.”
“It’s not my fault those bones showed up.”
“Maybe not. But it is your fault that the feds have come sniffing at my door.”
“How’s that?”
“You left a trail of stinking bread crumbs that led them right to me.”
“They would’ve found you anyway. You and your Ponzi schemes.”
“You’re the one who steals from old ladies.”
“I didn’t steal a fucking thing. I borrowed her money for a short-term investment. I had every intention to give it back. Everything would’ve been fine if your project hadn’t gone belly-up. Now, well, it’s different. I need that money. I can’t give it back.”
“Do you ever take responsibility for your mistakes?”
“Do you?”
Van Meter stiffens. “I’ve had enough of your stupidity. Get me my money, and I’ll move on.”
Rich sways back and forth. “First . . . I have a proposition.”
“I’m not in the mood for bargaining.”
“You need to hear me out.”
Van Meter folds his arms. “I’ll give you one minute. Go ahead.”
Rich lowers his voice. “I need you to alter the syndication documents. Show that Mabel McCarthy invested a million with you, not half.”
“You want me to forge a set of documents?”
“No. Just alter the ones you have.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to. She’s been calling me. Leaving messages. She wants her money back. She’ll contact the police before long, and when she does, they’ll pay you a visit. If we can show them the money was legitimately lost in your sunken project, then it’s a sad story, but no one can deny that a ten percent return comes with a sizeable risk. But if they think we made off with the money and used it to pad our nests, well, that’s a different story. One that could land us in jail.”
“Us? Why would they think I was involved in your theft?”
Rich chuckles. “Let’s just say I’m not the idiot you think I am. I’ve left a few clues to tie you in. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”
“But I haven’t touched a cent of it yet.”
“Yet being the operative word.”
“And if I walk away tonight without the money?”
“My lawyers will know how to spin this, whether or not you take the cash. I can see the headlines now. Gullible bank president conned by local developer into swindling widow’s inheritance. If you’re lucky, you’ll get probation, but I doubt it. I’m thinking five to ten.”
Van Meter makes fists like a boxer raring to fight. Then he drops them. “All right,” he snaps. “I’ll make the changes to the documents. Now, enough with your blabbering. Go get my cash.”
“We have a deal?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Honestly? No. You don’t.” Rich staggers to his car, returning with a canvas bag. “Here you go.”
“Not here, you idiot. Follow me.” Van Meter heads for the clutch of shadowy trees that lines the railroad tracks. Rich hesitates and then follows. We creep along behind the men, nerves gnawing at my throat. In the distance a train rumbles along, sounding its warning horn. When Van Meter reaches the tracks, he turns to face Rich.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
Rich holds out the bag. Van Meter takes it and peers inside. “What the hell?”
“Consider this a down payment. I’ll give you the rest when you follow through on your promise.”
“How much is in here?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
“I repeat. You’ll get the rest when I see the documents.”
“Fuck that. Our deal is off.”
“Then return my money.”
“Are you kidding me?” Van Meter begins to walk away. Rich grabs him by the arm, and Van Meter shakes him off. “Let go of me, loser.”
“No!” Rich lunges for the bag. “I want my money.”
Van Meter rears back and punches Rich hard in the face. Rich stumbles and falls across the tracks. His head hits the rail with a crack. “No one makes a fool of me, you double-crossing asshole.” He lifts his foot high and smashes it down on Rich’s face. The train light is flashing, the ground vibrating. Van Meter stands for a moment, considering. Then he tucks the bag under his
arm. “Die, creep,” he mutters under his breath. He looks over both shoulders and then hurries away, his back straight and stiff.
“Holy Christ,” Mimi hisses. “We’ve gotta help him. He’s gonna die.”
“Wait!” My heart thrums. My gorge rises. I watch Van Meter get swallowed by the shadows and then count to twenty. “All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We scuttle from the bushes and onto the tracks. Rich looks like a bloodied corpse. The tracks ping, and the train’s horn blows. This wasn’t part of my master plan. I grab Rich’s arms and pull. He’s heavier than I ever would’ve guessed.
“I can’t budge him!”
Mimi tugs him by a leg. “I think he’s stuck on something.”
One of Rich’s bloodied eyes flutters open. The other one doesn’t seem to work. “Help me,” he whispers.
I try yanking him in the other direction. “His foot is caught between the ties,” Mimi says. “Or maybe it’s his belt.”
“Cut it off.”
Mimi’s knife flashes. She slices through his belt. The train’s horn blasts through the night, its light whipping like a strobe. Rich grabs hold of my arm.
“Don’t leave me,” he gasps.
I tug with all the strength left in my body, but still, the man won’t budge. “Get up,” I yell. “Save yourself.”
“It’s too late,” Mimi cries, pummeling my back. “Let’s go.”
“No!” Rich howls.
“Move!” Mimi screams.
“Wait!” I put my face in Rich’s as Mimi grapples with my arms. “I’m your daughter. The one you gave away in Reno.”
Rich’s good eye widens and then closes. “Just save me,” he begs.
“Why’d you do it? Why’d you throw me away?”
“Please!”
“Move!” Mimi lunges, knocking me over. We tumble off the tracks and roll away in the dirt, coming to a stop in a tangled bundle. The train bursts by us, screeching like a flock of Satan’s demons.
There’s a humming in my ears. A thrumming in my bones. A slick of wetness dampening my face. A howl bubbles up in my throat and bursts like a missile from my lips.
“It’s okay,” Mimi says, hugging me tight. “But we can’t stay here. They’ll be coming soon. We don’t have much time.” Taking hold of my hands, she helps me up, and we stumble our way back to my car.
Kathi
July 17, 2016
I awaken to a blurry brightness and a gnawing, grinding pain. An axe has split my head. Lightning sparks my eyes. The room is dim with shadows. Could it be afternoon? I roll over and try to sleep, but a rustling brings me back. Crumpled papers rest near my head. They look like pages torn from my journal. But why would I do that? I start to crush them in my fist but reach for the light instead. December 25, 1989. After several moments, bile rises in my throat.
They’re garbage. I don’t need this. I throw the bedcovers aside and force myself to stand.
After staggering into the bathroom, I shred the pages into tiny pieces and flush the evidence away. Then my gaze shifts to the mirror, and my knees almost buckle. I’m naked. That’s impossible. I always sleep fully clothed. Running my hands along my stomach, I finger a raised, crusty patch. I scratch and sniff. I smell sex. Sex? Sweet Jesus! What’s happened? I honestly don’t understand.
I force myself to think. Think! Where was I last night? Oh yes, I was here. Arthur came over. We had dinner. I served quiche and an endive salad. He brought wine. And . . . and . . . and . . .
I drop to my knees, grab on to the toilet, and retch until my ribs rebel. Then I fall backward onto the cold tile floor and stare at the spinning light. I have a vague recollection of being carried and falling across the couch. Of lips coming close. Of Arthur’s caring eyes. There’s darkness after that.
Oh my god, this is it. No more wine. I swear! Or maybe just a little. One full glass. That’s it. Not a goblet. Just a regular-sized glass. I’ll fill it to the brim. I promise no more than that.
I heave myself up and peer into the mirror. My eyes are sunken in shadows, my pasty face framed by my bushy brown hair. My breasts look shrunken, my privates pink. I run my finger across the scar that stretches like a smile from hip to hip. I hate it. I bet Arthur did too. I’ll bet that’s why he didn’t stay. A shadow of a memory pokes through the fog, but it just as quickly fades. I run my tongue across my lips. They feel horribly cracked and dry, and there’s a fetid taste of vomit rummaging around my mouth.
Taste?
Fumbling for my perfume, I spray it on my wrist and breathe in the orange-blossom scent.
No! It can’t be.
I coat my toothbrush in toothpaste. I begin to brush. An explosion of mint fills my mouth, and my knees almost give out. That’s it. It’s over. I’ve lost my secret to success. No more designer dresses. No more hollowed-out cheeks. It won’t be long before I return to my former pudgy self.
I cry until my tears run dry and then force myself to shower. The scents swirl around and sicken me like the fumes of rotting fruit. Coconut shampoo. Mango conditioner. Peach shaving cream. It’s all too much. Too much! I towel off, pull on a robe, and drag a comb through my knotted hair. Then I head downstairs in the hope I’ll be able to sort everything out.
It’s five o’clock. That’s impossible. But the kitchen clock doesn’t lie. The sun hides behind the fog. It’s gray and dreary outside. Mr. Calico has made himself at home on a corner of the living room couch. The
couch? Another sliver of a memory drifts through my mind. I picture Arthur’s handsome face. He told me about his screenplay and asked about my book. He said something about cats. He doesn’t like them. He’s allergic or something like that.
Did I do something embarrassing? Did I say something wrong? Did I get so drunk I asked for sex? No. That’s not me. I’m sure of it. But why is my mind so dim? In a frenzy I search for my cell phone and find it under a pile of rumpled clothes. My beautiful designer blouse and jeans, wrinkled and stinking of wine.
I stare at my cell phone for the longest time. I almost don’t want to know. I get up my nerve and scroll though the handful of texts. When I reach the final entry, my heart breaks out in song.
Last night was wonderful. Call me. Love you.
Last night was wonderful? How great is that? I spin in circles like a little girl. He likes me! He wants me to call him. He even used the word love. Is that possible? Do I deserve him? Could he be with a simple girl like me?
I brew a cup of tea, and for the first time in months I can taste the mint. I add lots of honey and bask in the sweetness that awakens my long-lost tongue. I search the refrigerator for the remains of the quiche, but we must have finished it off. So I rummage in the freezer and spy an ancient piece of coffee cake tucked in an ice-crusted plastic bag. Oh. Just this once. It’s a celebration.
I head upstairs to get dressed while my perfect pastry bakes. A sugary scent wafts to the upper floor, causing my stomach to growl. I pull on a pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt and apply a layer of shimmery makeup. I have to look good. What if Arthur stops by? He’s almost my boyfriend now.
Skipping downstairs, I slather butter on the coffee cake and try my best not to drool. When I take a bite, the sugary dough rolls up and around my tongue. It’s like spring has come to winter. Summer has been cooled by fall. The upside to getting my taste buds back? Food is a delightful treat. But I must be careful. Watch my calories. It’s important I maintain my weight.
Licking the last of the crumbs from my fork, I head out onto the terrace, relax in my favorite chair, and fondle my cell phone. Finger the buttons. I return to the text and read it out loud. Last night was wonderful. Call me. Love you.
Does that really mean what it says? Could it possibly be true? I shiver, take a deep breath, and tap out Arthur’s number. My call goes directly to voice mail. And so does the next. And the next and the next. And the next one after that.
Crystal
July 16, 2016
It was on a Tuesday four months ago t
hat management announced Rich’s untimely demise. The news hit the bank like a gunshot. Wednesday brought a bank-wide audit. Thursday followed with a series of layoffs. By Friday, a new president was installed: Matt Brown. Big and bald with shifty eyes, he constantly straightens his tie. All of these moves must’ve been in process—Rich’s death just sped them up.
Within days of Brown’s arrival, he called an all-hands meeting and announced a series of changes. Said the employees could either get with the program or leave with a two-week severance. I was tempted to take the money and run, but I’m tethered to my job by unease. I have to be careful. Very careful.
There’s Van Meter to worry about. And the press has the train’s grainy video. The footage caught two homeless women leaning over Rich right before the accident occurred, one as big as a lineman, the second as small as a child. Were they urging him off the tracks or forcing him to stay down? Opinions have been flowing on both sides, but it’s no wonder the police are on the hunt.
Van Meter saw us on the street that night. Could he put two and two together? Would he hurt us if he did? I’ve convinced Mimi to stay away from me during this dangerous stage of the game, so she’s back on the streets and keeps her distance. But there’s the problem of her chattering mouth. What if she spews our story, and it makes its way to Van Meter’s ears? Or to Marco and his uniformed minions? Now there’s a frightening thought.
Now, here I am, four months later, still waffling. One day I’ll feel guilty about Rich, and the next I want to take out the wife. The part of me that wants to let go says I’ve done enough to ruin her life. Led a crazed man to kill her husband. Sank his reputation in the mud. Sent a letter to the son outing his dad. Blew their financial security to bits. But then there’s this nagging voice that says my work here isn’t finished. That the wife deserves her own brand of punishment. That the worst has yet to be done.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 20