Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Dressing?” the waitress asked.

  “Yes,” Greg said.

  The waitress, an older woman with rust-colored curls and too much mascara, gave him a mock scowl.

  He laughed. “Ranch, please. Smother it. The way you smother a chicken-fried steak with gravy.”

  She rolled her eyes but laughed, too. “I’ll see what I can do.” She smacked the menus back into their resting spot and strode off.

  Greg took a drink of his water, swiped his lips with the back of his hand, and huffed out a breath. “I’d sure hoped Sheila would remember some of her dad’s friends’ names, but I guess we can’t blame her for drawing a blank. She was only a little girl, and a lot of time has passed.”

  Meghan pulled the wrapper off her straw and slid the length of plastic into her glass. “She did remember Uncle Wally, though, who wasn’t really an uncle. Is there someone named Wally working at the bank?”

  “No one I recall from the list of employees during Menke’s time.” Greg frowned, tapping his chin. “Maybe it was a nickname, though. What are names that could be shortened to Wally? Besides the obvious Wallace.”

  “Hmm, Walter. Waldo.” Meghan used her finger and made a series of circles in the condensation on her glass. “Walker. Walton.” She jolted.

  Greg gave a start, too, and they chorused, “Wallingford.” One of the men who’d been sent to answer their questions about Anson Menke.

  Meghan check-marked the last circle, then set the glass aside. “That could be it. Do you remember what title he holds at the bank?”

  Greg tapped his chin again, the taps fast. “I think he’s the commercial-lending director, but when Menke worked there, they were both loan officers. I don’t remember what kind—commercial or consumer.”

  “But they’d have worked closely enough together to know what the other was doing.”

  “In all likelihood.”

  The waitress put Greg’s salad in front of him. At least, Meghan assumed there was lettuce somewhere under the sea of white dressing. He gave the woman a double thumbs-up, and she walked off laughing.

  Greg picked up his fork and plunged it through the glop of white. The tines came away with a chunk of drippy lettuce. He popped the bite into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and grinned. “Perfect.”

  Meghan looked aside as he ate his salad. Watching made her stomach swirl.

  Her sandwich and his meal arrived before he finished the salad. Meghan bowed her head and asked a brief blessing over the food, and then they ate without chatting. The sandwich, with its layers of tender corned beef and tangy sauerkraut, pleased Meghan’s taste buds. She could have eaten the whole thing, it tasted so good, but she saved half of it and most of her fries, then asked for a to-go box. Sheila needed supper, too. Greg winked at her as she boxed up the leftovers, and she offered a sheepish grin in reply.

  They paid their tabs, each tucking the receipt into their wallets, then headed for the hotel. Greg set a sedate pace going back, probably slowed by his full stomach. The chicken-fried steak had been the size of a hubcap. Not to mention the sea of gravy drowning it.

  He linked his hands behind his back and angled a pensive look at Meghan. “If Mr. Wallingford is the man Sheila called Uncle Wally, I wonder why she didn’t recognize him during the first meeting.”

  Meghan shrugged. “People can change a lot in fifteen years. Maybe he wore a mustache or beard back then. Maybe he didn’t have glasses or his hair wasn’t gray. Plus, like you said earlier, she was a little girl. She might have a picture in her head, but then again, given the stress and trauma of her life, she might not. She might’ve blocked a lot out.”

  “True enough.” Greg opened the door, and Meghan preceded him into the lobby. They paused outside her hotel room door. “Pull up the bank’s website on your computer and see if they have a pictorial directory of the major players at the bank. If they do, have her look at Wallingford long and hard and try to remember if he’s the man she called Uncle Wally. Even if she doesn’t remember, I want us to have some one-on-one time with him tomorrow to learn about his relationship to Menke.”

  He started for his room, then turned back, a sly smile creasing his face. “But if she does think he’s Uncle Wally, then we need to take her with us to the bank tomorrow. Bring Wallingford in and ask the same set of questions we went through earlier, but this time with Anson Menke’s little girl staring him down. His reaction should tell us a lot.”

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Kevin

  The alarm clock blared, jolting Kevin from a sound sleep. He rolled over and slapped the offending box into silence. Then he groaned and buried his face in the pillow. Thursday already. His sixth day in Vegas.

  “Time flies when you’re having fun,” Dad used to say with a grimace, which always put a sarcastic edge to it. But Kevin had discovered the truth of the old saying during his time in Glitter Gulch. He’d had fun finalizing the purchase of the building he planned to call Harrison Heights. He’d had fun setting the groundwork for renovating the building. He wasn’t ready to return to Arkansas. And not only because of the building.

  But he needed to get that side of his thoughts lassoed, hog tied, and tossed in a well, like the good guys did with the villain in last night’s old-time spaghetti Western. He’d already messed up one kid’s life by playing daddy. Why do the same to another one? Especially one who had it all together. Getting himself entangled with Diane would lead to becoming a fixture in their daughter’s life. She was pretty hard to resist, though.

  Strong. Independent. Confident. A lot like she’d been in college but with a maturity that made her even more appealing. After losing her in college, he’d gone after insecure girls. Ones who relied on him, needed him, were afraid of losing him. But his interest in them always waned. Eventually he’d figured out he wanted a partner who matched him strength for strength, wit for wit, spunk for spunk. The problem was finding her. Or maybe he had. Diane did all that.

  She’d loved him once. Could she love him again?

  He wasn’t going there. She was better off without him. They both were. The recognition made him consider ordering a bottle of something strong enough to steal his ability to form rational thought.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, waited for a moment to let the usual first-thing-in-the-morning dizziness pass, then pushed to his feet and plodded to the bathroom. A shower and tooth brushing brought him fully to life. He considered shaving, but he liked the casual look a couple day’s growth of whiskers gave him. His calendar didn’t hold any formal meetings today, so the stubble could stay. He dressed in a pair of khakis and a striped button-down shirt. While rolling the sleeves to his elbows, he slid his bare feet into tasseled loafers, then returned to the bathroom.

  He rubbed his hair nearly dry with a towel. Using a scant amount of gel spread on his palms, he finger combed the thick strands into a series of ridges that swept away from his forehead. Finished, he grinned smugly at his reflection. Fifty-two years old and not even a hint of a receding hairline. Thank goodness he’d inherited Mom’s hair genes and not Dad’s. Dad’s hair had been mostly gone up top by the time he was forty. Mom said he worried too much and that’s why his hair fell out, but Kevin wasn’t sure he believed it.

  One steel-gray strand drooped toward his left eyebrow, Elvis Presley style. Appropriate for the city, perhaps, but too unkempt looking for Kevin Harrison. He gritted his teeth, squirted out a little more gel, and smoothed the strand into place. He checked his reflection again and nodded. Even Tawny would approve.

  With a grunt, he turned from the mirror and crossed to the dresser for his wallet and watch. He gave the drawer a pull, and three books slid forward. The writing on the spine of the largest one—Holy Bible—caught his eye.

  Without warning, Hazel DeFord’s comment about being content tiptoed through the back of his mind. She’d quoted something from the Bible
to back herself up—in Philips? Philpins? Something like that. He chuckled. She was something else, Diane’s mother. So angelic looking with her snow-white hair and serene smile, but those eyes of hers sparked with humor, and she wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. Kind of like Diane.

  And here he was thinking about her again. He jammed his wallet into his back pocket, stretched the band of his watch around his wrist, then bumped the drawer closed with his hip. A man would have to be pretty hard up for entertainment to take out any of those books and open them. He didn’t intend to ever be that bored.

  The plumber he’d hired was scheduled to work in the loft apartment today, and Kevin wanted to catch him before he got started. The man wouldn’t arrive before eight, though, so he had time for a leisurely breakfast and at least three cups of coffee in the hotel’s restaurant. Then he’d walk to Harrison Heights.

  He smiled as he set off up the hallway. Harrison Heights…It had a great ring to it.

  Diane

  Diane used the key Kevin had given her and let herself into the loft apartment. Inside, she dropped her bag on the floor, leaned against the wall, and waited for the ache to leave her leg muscles. Worried she might not be able to lock the elevator correctly, she’d used the stairs. Obviously she needed more exercise if climbing three flights of stairs winded her this much. She made a mental note to check out gyms in her area. Thanks to the check Kevin had given her, she’d be able to afford it. And buy new tires. Mother called the money a God-kiss. Using that terminology had erased Diane’s reluctance to keep it. But she was determined to do the very best job possible in decorating. She’d make sure she earned every penny of it.

  She scooped up her bag and carried it to the kitchen. She spilled the contents across the counter. Measuring tape, multihead screwdriver, spiral notebook, pencils, a dozen paint swatches she and Mother had selected from a home improvement store, and—she burst out laughing—two vegan granola bars. Obviously tucked in by Mother, who hadn’t been happy about her skipping breakfast.

  Diane shook her finger at the bars and imitated her mother’s voice. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Fifty-one years old and Mother still viewed her as her child. She couldn’t blame her. Diane felt the same away about Meghan, who likely received Diane’s motherly advice as graciously as Diane sometimes received Mother’s.

  Chuckling, she unwrapped the chocolate-coconut bar and took a bite. While she ate, she examined the main room in the apartment. She’d been curious about how much morning sunlight came in, given the row of windows facing east. So many tall buildings clustered together certainly blocked some of the light, but she was pleased to see fingers of sunlight reaching through gaps in the curtains. Once she’d taken down the ghastly balloon shades—seriously, bubblegum-pink chintz in a living room?—the place would seem instantly cheerier.

  She popped the last bit of the granola bar into her mouth, grabbed the screwdriver, and stalked to the windows. Removing the curtains proved easier than she’d expected. Someone had hung them on tension rods. A quick tug and down they came. And what a difference! She stood in the middle of the tumble of sheeny pink and stared in amazement. Her imagination revved to full throttle. She envisioned an entertainment armoire—maybe one with leather panels inset in its rich stained wood doors—on the north wall. An abstract painting above the fireplace. Matching leather armchairs flanking the fireplace. A long, low, overly-laden-with-pillows sofa facing the chairs.

  In her mind’s eye, she made the chairs smaller in scale, with rolled arms and tufted backs, in a bold yet tasteful burnt orange. The modern-style sofa would be covered in forest-green velvet. Pillows in both florals and geometric designs, incorporating earth tones with splashes of gold, would bring out the—

  “Diane?”

  She yelped and spun toward the open doorway, her hand on her pounding heart. “What are you doing here?”

  Kevin took a few steps into the room, his gaze dropping to the pile of curtains and then returning to her face. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  How long had he stood there watching her daydream before he made his presence known? Embarrassment struck hard. She planted her fist on her hip and glared at him. “You paid me to redecorate this place, remember? I can’t do that without taking measurements and getting an idea of what it looks like at different times of the day. Paint colors can appear different depending on the amount of light, you know.”

  A funny grin twitched the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I know.” He stepped around the pile of curtains and gazed out the window. “Wow. It sure makes a difference, having the open view.” He peeked at her over his shoulder, the grin still hovering on his lips. “And the sunlight coming in makes everything seem more…beautiful.”

  A provocative statement like that might have made her swoon when she was a teenager, but not anymore. So why did her stomach get all trembly? She grunted and scooped up the wad of pink chintz. “I had the same thought after I tore down these atrocities. Just so you know, whatever goes back up will not hide the view or block the sun. And it won’t be pink.” She tossed the pile into the hallway and then crossed to the kitchen counter.

  She flopped open the spiral notebook and wrote backsplash on the top line. She tucked a pencil behind her ear, snatched up the measuring tape, and aimed a tart look at Kevin. “Why are you here, anyway?” She measured from the counter to the underside of the cabinets and wrote down the number of inches.

  He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and ambled to the opposite side of the island. “The plumber is due to start replacing lines in here today. I wanted to talk to him about fixtures that are more conservation friendly.”

  “I wouldn’t take you for someone who wanted to protect the environment.” She stretched the measuring tape across the south wall, noted the length, and wrote it down.

  “It’s smart business to protect the environment.” He leaned on the counter, observing her with his forehead pinched. “Why waste water? Up the usage, up the bill.”

  She tucked the end of the tape into the corner and moved along the west wall. “Ah. So it has to do with the bottom line, not the environment.” The tape slipped, and she returned to the corner.

  “Here.” He rounded the island and leaned in behind her. “Let me hold that for you.”

  His nearness made her scalp tingle. She scuttled a few feet away. “Thanks.”

  He held the end of the tape flush against the wall, his gaze so intense she wanted to squirm.

  “What time will the plumber get here?” She blurted the question.

  “Anywhere between eight and eight thirty. Why?” He must have lost his hold on the end, because the tape skittered across the cabinet and snapped into the case. “Are you nervous being here alone with me?”

  She was, but she’d never admit it. “You’re distracting me. I have a lot to get done.”

  “Well, since I’m distracting you anyway, let me totally steal your focus.”

  If he meant what she thought he meant, he’d better think again. She glowered at him, silently warning him to keep his distance.

  “Why didn’t you ever get married?”

  Twenty-Two

  Kevin

  Whatever she’d expected, he’d taken her by surprise. Her frame jerked, her mouth dropped open, and she ceased to blink.

  “W-what?”

  Kevin leaned on the counter. “You heard me. Why did you stay single all these years? I mean…” He coughed out a self-deprecating laugh. “I took my time getting married the first time—waited a good ten years out of college—but between marriages? Never more than two years.”

  The stunned expression turned puzzled. “First time…How many times have you been married?”

  He held up four fingers.

  She slumped against the counter, her mouth falling open.

  He nodded. “Yep. But you…not even once. Why
not?” If she said he’d scared her off from men, he might regret the question, but he wanted to know. How much easier her life would have been if she’d had someone to add to the income, someone to share responsibilities with her. “Why not, Diane?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and pressed into the corner, her brown eyes sparking. “I don’t think it’s your business.”

  “I think it is. After all, you were raising my kid, raising her pretty close to poverty. If you could’ve done something to make it easier, then—”

  She burst out laughing. A shrill, sarcastic laugh. “Are you kidding me? It’s ironic, don’t you think, for you to criticize how I raised her when you chose not to take any part at all? What happened to the apology you gave me for not helping? Was that just lip service?”

  He cringed. “I phrased that badly. I wasn’t trying to accuse you, and I’m not criticizing. I want to understand. Weren’t you lonely? You were an attractive woman.” She still was. “You were real social when I knew you.” And now she lived with her mother—out of financial necessity or a need for companionship? “But you became a hermit. Why?”

  “I didn’t become a hermit, Kevin. I became a parent.” She swung her arms wide. “Do you have any idea how many children are abused, even killed, every day by someone their mother brings into the household? I couldn’t risk that. Besides, every man I loved bailed on me. First my dad, by dying, then you, by—” She turned away and clamped her lips together.

  Kevin waited a full minute, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t move except for her chest heaving in rapid breaths. He slowly closed the distance between them, anticipating her bolting. But he came within arm’s reach, and she still hadn’t moved. He could’ve touched her. Could’ve taken hold of her shoulders or rubbed her arm or even cupped her cheek. But he kept his hands in his pockets.