Yet she couldn’t get past it. Treebeard’s story was plausible. It had the heft of truth. She could visualize it happening the way he described, picture him pushing open the Gaines’ front door, imagine him stilled by the house’s eerie quiet. Sure, he didn’t have the letter, and couldn’t identify the phantom woman, but both those lapses could be explained. And it still didn’t feel right that Treebeard would have murdered Gaines with his own arrow, left an array of physical evidence at the scene, then fled the county believing he wouldn’t be caught. Now, that was crazy.
“Do you understand,” Alicia said, “that my gut just bothers me on this one? Do you understand that?”
“Yes. I also understand that your gut has been pretty accurate in the past.” Louella leaned closer and lowered her voice. “But as I said before, Alicia, the problem is that this time your gut bothers you for the wrong reason. You’re trying to pin this on the wife for the wrong reason.”
“The old ‘Alicia resents rich women’ thing, is that it? ‘Alicia thinks they have it so easy and she has it so hard.’ ”
“Well, is that so far off?”
The question hung in the sunny, warming air, though it required no answer. Louella was right on the money, Alicia thought, smiling grimly at her own pun. Women like Joan Gaines did have it a hell of a lot easier and Alicia did resent it. They didn’t have to worry about the progress of their careers, for the simple reason that they didn’t really have to work. They didn’t have to watch every dime, or pack every spare dime off to family members to keep them in rent and groceries. They didn’t have to grow old living from paycheck to paycheck, every passing year amazed to discover that despite all their efforts, they were still in the same pit they were in the year before.
So she did have a chip on her shoulder. Fine. That damn Milo Pappas was right. But what the ambassador’s son didn’t realize was that anybody else in her position would have one, too.
“I know you’re looking for a big hit, Alicia,” Louella murmured. “I know you need one to run for judge again. And you’ll get it, eventually. But I’ve got to tell you, it’s not this. It is not this.”
It has to be this. I need it to be this. I’m running out of time. But instead she said, “Can you believe tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve?”
Louella drooped against the back of the bench. “Don’t remind me. I’ll ring in another New Year sitting with my parents drinking Asti Spumanti and watching Rockin’ New Year’s Eve on TV. It makes me feel as old as Dick Clark.” She sighed heavily. “I did turn down a date, actually.”
“Really? With who?”
“You know Tom in the Water Resources Agency?”
“The one with the beard? He’s kind of cute.”
“Kind of.” Louella grimaced. “But I don’t know, I just couldn’t say yes. It’d be like setting the bar for New Year’s Eve too low, like I’d never get it up again afterward. At least now I can maintain the fantasy of having a fabulous date. You know what I mean?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“How’s Jorge, by the way?”
“Fine.” Alicia poked the last of her muffin segments into her mouth. Was she imagining it or was there something odd in Louella’s voice when she asked that question? Like she was trying a little too hard to be offhand? But she had no time to think about it because of what Louella asked her next.
“You’re not that excited about him, are you?”
It was pointless lying to Louella. “There’s just no fireworks.”
“You want fireworks?” Louella just shook her head. “Geez, at this point I’d settle for a flare.” She glanced at her watch. “I should get back.”
They collected their cellophane wrappers and foam coffee cups and tossed them in a garbage bin near the bench. “So will you do something else for me?” Alicia asked.
Louella halted. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Will you get me a list of the Gaines campaign staff? And a sample of their letterhead stationery?”
Louella just shook her head. “You’re crazy, you know that, Alicia? You’re crazy when it comes to Jorge and you’re crazy about this.”
“But you’ll do it?”
Louella just threw up her hands.
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me about ten.”
*
For a variety of reasons she rarely cared to probe, Joan hated going into Headwaters’ Monterey headquarters. This morning her aversion was even stronger than usual, a palpable thing that threatened to wrest control of the Jag’s steering wheel and return her forthwith to the Lodge. She forced herself to exit Highway 1 at Munras Avenue and head due north into the heart of the city, less glitzy but more historical than Pebble Beach or Carmel.
Monterey was to the West Coast what Gettysburg was to the East. It was founded in 1770 by Spanish sea captain Sebastian Vizcaino, who promptly erected the first of California’s four presidios on the bay, then teamed up with Father Junipero Serra to convert the heathen natives to Catholicism. It was California’s first capital under Spanish, Mexican, and American rule, and where the state’s constitution was ratified.
When Daniel and Joan’s father acquired Headwaters from its Idaho founders, Daniel relocated most of the company’s executive operations to Monterey, leaving only a skeleton staff in Boise. Later, for both convenience and symbolic value, he chose Monterey as the site of his campaign headquarters.
Headwaters was housed not far from the Presidio in an enlarged adobe whose original foundation dated back to 1817. In the heady early days of her marriage, Joan threw herself into its renovation. At a certain point, though, she gave up, sick to death of placating the History and Art Association. Daniel hired a preservationist to finish the job but never let Joan forget that she “dropped the ball,” as he put it. Headwaters soon took its place on the list of what her family considered Joan’s incomplete projects.
She turned onto Pacific. In front of her was the marina; the blocks ahead were jam-packed with tourists heading for Cannery Row and the aquarium. The unseasonably warm air was heavy with the smell of fish, an aroma Joan detested.
She closed the window and cranked the Jag’s air conditioner, hating life. What in the world would she find in Headwaters’ books? Daniel had wreaked absolute havoc with her father’s living trust. What might he have done with Headwaters, which now represented a huge chunk of her wealth?
The only potential saving grace was that unlike her father’s trust, Daniel hadn’t been running Headwaters alone. Far from it, in fact. The primary day-to-day manager was a man named Craig Barlowe, the chief operating officer. Barlowe was one of Daniel’s Wharton cronies—a boring one, Joan always thought, one of those cookie-cutter business-school types—but Daniel always seemed high on him. Then there was the board of directors, though Joan knew it was packed full of Daniel’s sidekicks from private-equity days and not really much of a watchdog.
A good part of Joan didn’t care to deal with any of it, but she had to. Not only to wipe the smugness off her mother’s face but to investigate taking over Daniel’s job as CEO. Somehow that whole idea felt different now, though. When she’d thought of it originally, it had seemed bold and sexy: take over as chief executive, showcase her talents, lay the groundwork for her entree into politics. In other words, prove that what Daniel had done, she could do. But now, after that dreadful conversation with Gossett, she felt she had to take over as CEO to keep getting Daniel’s salary and deal with the unbelievable cash-flow problem.
Having to work for money? Joan clutched the steering wheel. It was extremely distasteful. She just prayed Gossett was right and cash flow would be only a short-term difficulty.
No one could know about it. Not Milo, not anyone. Thank God no one outside the family knew how Daniel had acquired the company in the first place. He’d even tried for a while to keep the facts from her, but he’d spilled them eventually. She’d been enraged, of course. He never appreciated how much her father had done for him, never.
Well, that was over. It was all over.
One traffic light later, Joan made a series of zigzag turns to escape the tourist logjam. Finally she arrived at Headwaters, only to be stunned into immobility by what she saw through the windshield.
Parked on the street out front was a small moving truck, its ramp deployed. Men in orange shirts bearing the words Fine Art Capital were walking between the adobe office building and the truck carrying what were obviously oil paintings wrapped in brown paper.
Carrying them away.
She abandoned the Jag by a fire hydrant and raced inside, where several employees were emptying the contents of their desks into cardboard boxes.
“What on earth is going on?” she demanded of the woman closest to the front door, a hefty middle-aged creature with red-rimmed eyes and the most hideous floral-print dress Joan had ever seen. Immediately the woman burst into tears, ran right up to Joan, and grabbed her arms with such ferocity Joan couldn’t shake her off.
“Mrs. Gaines! Mrs. Gaines!” she kept shrieking. “I am so glad to see you! Maybe you can stop this from happening!”
“Stop what from happening? And where is Mr. Barlowe?”
“He’s firing people! He’s in his office firing people.” That seemed to deflate the creature. She let go of Joan to extract a wadded-up tissue from up her short tight sleeve, a place Joan was most surprised to see it. The woman blew her nose noisily, the flesh on her upper arms shaking with the effort.
“I’m one of the first he fired,” she went on. “Today’s my last day. ‘Have to rein in expenses,’ he said—that’s why the art’s going, too. Three weeks’ severance I got, that’s it. The economy the way it is, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She sniffled and rubbed the tissue against her reddened nose, then before Joan could step away again grabbed Joan’s arm. “I’m so sorry for going on like this, telling you my troubles.” Her watery blue eyes again filled with tears, making Joan think of the pools in the aquarium a few blocks away. “After what you’ve been through, losing Mr. Gaines the way you did, you shouldn’t have to hear about my problems. But I wonder if you couldn’t just”—she stepped closer and Joan cringed at the nearness of the woman’s wet, mottled, flabby cheeks—“just talk to Mr. Barlowe and see if maybe he doesn’t really have to let me go?”
The woman’s eyes were importuning, but all Joan wanted to do was shake her hands loose and escape outside. How her father had spent all his adult life—as mayor, governor, then senator—not only listening to people’s sob stories but actually doing something about them, amazed her. Maybe, she thought fleetingly, politics wasn’t her game …
“What’s your name?” she asked the woman.
“Dolores Hartnett, ma’am.”
The way she said it, Joan thought she might bob a curtsy. “All right, Dolores.” Joan pulled her arm free but tried to put a comforting look on her face. “I intend to speak with Mr. Barlowe right now. Will you remind me where his office is?”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you there.” The woman wedged her body between the packing boxes and led Joan to a closed oak door at the rear of the adobe’s main level, on which Craig Barlowe’s name was spelled out in gleaming brass letters.
Joan made her voice dismissive. “Thank you. I appreciate your help, Dolores.”
The woman nodded and backed away, with such a naked plea in her eyes that Joan wished she’d just go, already. Finally she did. Joan leaned her ear against Barlowe’s door, through which she could hear the murmur of male voices.
It didn’t take her long to decide that it was just too damn bad that he had somebody in there with him. Now that Daniel was dead, she was the lone shareholder of this company. This company that was losing money. Her money.
Joan felt an icy nervousness wash through her. Daniel screwed this up, too. He got too aggressive and screwed up, first the trust and then Headwaters. She had a sudden strong physical memory of her husband, as if he were standing right there in the hall with her. Watching. Waiting. Wondering what she would do next.
She shivered, then forced herself to get a grip. One thing she would not do was wait in this corridor until Barlowe freed himself up. She needed answers now.
She rapped sharply on the heavy oak door, then twisted the knob and pushed it open. Craig Barlowe half rose from behind his desk, the eyes behind his wire frames widening in obvious shock at the identity of this unexpected guest.
Quickly he masked his reaction and strode toward her. “Joan!” he said, his tone falsely hearty. He was a paunchy man Daniel’s age who looked at least ten years older. He grasped her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you, as always, but you should have called first.”
“Today isn’t a bad day for my visit, I trust?” She glanced pointedly at the man still sitting in the chair facing Barlowe’s desk, assuming him to be another employee getting the ax.
“Not at all.” Barlowe included the man in that reply, then introduced him as a banker and swiftly got rid of him, with best wishes for a happy New Year. From the grim expression on the man’s face, that didn’t seem likely.
Barlowe waved Joan to the seat the banker had vacated, then returned behind his desk. “May I offer you coffee or tea, Joan?”
“No, thank you.” She set her handbag on his desk. “Craig, what in the world is going on here today?”
“Oh”—he made a dismissive gesture—“it’s nothing to worry about. Just some minor cost cutting.”
“Minor cost cutting? I see paintings going out the door and people losing their jobs.”
Barlowe’s face assumed a somber expression. Did he learn that from Henry Gossett? Joan wondered. Perhaps law and business provided essentially the same training. “It’s always very, very difficult to let people go, Joan. But we have to keep the bottom line uppermost in our minds.”
“I agree.” She was a great fan of a healthy bottom line, particularly her own. “But is there some pressing difficulty at the moment?”
“Not pressing, no.” Barlowe shook his head. “I simply judged it prudent to trim a few expenses before the end of the year. Which is tomorrow, of course.”
“Of course.” He’s feeding me the party line, as if I’m the stupid wife who doesn’t deserve the true story. She stiffened. “Craig, you realize, of course, that I am the sole shareholder of this company and as such am entitled to full disclosure of its financial state.”
He looked startled. “Joan, I am providing full disclosure. I just don’t want to worry you unduly.”
“Let me decide how worried to get.” Briefly she wondered if she should fire this Craig Barlowe when she took over. He annoyed her, but then again he did know how to run the place. Or did he only know how to run it into the ground?
She had a sudden thought. One thing she knew for sure was that Daniel and her father had acquired Headwaters in a leveraged buyout, meaning the company assumed a great deal of debt on which regular interest payments had to be made. “Does all this cost cutting have to do with servicing the debt?”
She felt a thrill of pleasure watching Barlowe’s eyes once again widen with surprise. No, she told him silently across the expanse of his antique desk, I am not the stupid wife. In fact, I know a great deal that even you don’t.
“The debt payments are substantial,” he allowed. “The regulatory constraints on what we can harvest seem to be getting tougher all the time. And it doesn’t help that lumber prices have dropped as the economy has slowed down.”
Here we go again, she thought. “Is Headwaters experiencing a cash-flow problem?”
He hesitated, then, “A small one, yes.”
Damn. That would mean she’d have trouble hiking the CEO’s salary when she took over. Daniel had paid himself only half a million dollars a year. She’d been toying with the idea of doubling it. “How many people are you laying off?” she asked.
“Six. We were already fairly lean, so we’ll really feel these cuts.”
They might have to get leaner still if sh
e was going to get her million a year. Too bad for Dolores Hartnett. But this was business. Tough decisions had to be made.
“Craig, I would like you to walk me through the profit-and-loss statements for the last year.” She rose from her chair and walked toward his door. “First, though, I have a quick call to make. I’ll take care of that in Daniel’s office and return shortly. Please have the books ready when I come back.”
She couldn’t care less about the stunned, barely hidden animosity that suddenly appeared on Craig Barlowe’s wide, square face. Instead she laughed quietly to herself, imagining his reaction when he found out she would be his new boss.
Joan had almost made it to the stairs on her way to Daniel’s second-floor corner suite when she got waylaid by Dolores Hartnett, who again halted all forward progress by attaching herself to Joan’s left arm.
“Mrs. Gaines?” the woman asked.
Again Joan was vaguely repulsed. The woman’s lower lip was actually trembling. Joan twisted her features into a regretful expression. “I am so sorry, Dolores,” she murmured. “I did my best but I’m afraid I could not talk Mr. Barlowe into retaining your services. I am so sorry.”
The woman nodded, looked again as if she might burst into tears, then released Joan’s arm and backed away.
“I’m sure things will look much cheerier for you in the New Year,” Joan called, then turned her back on Dolores Hartnett and ascended the stairs, her mind moving on to the next item on her agenda.
*
Nothing like a Rotary Club lunch, Kip thought with satisfaction, to raise money.
He looked up from his roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans to scan the crowded hall, a midsize banquet room in the local Embassy Suites hotel. There were about seventy-five Rotarians in attendance, grouped at ten round tables, and they were Kip Penrose’s kind of folk—all male, all conservative, and all primed to write a check to plump up his campaign coffers. Not that they needed much plumping. He had about a hundred and sixty grand in the bank; another thirty or so would set him up just fine for November. Not to mention scare off Rocco Messina or any other potential challenger who might otherwise think he could match Kip Penrose’s war chest. Not likely.
To Catch the Moon Page 17