Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  The banker cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on his desk in his most intimidating manner. Beautiful women fascinated him, but business was his god. He opened a folder and pulled out a legal document, then pushed it across the desk for her inspection. “I beg to differ with you, Mrs. Marshall, but this is your signature, here at the bottom just below your husband’s.” She looked quite composed, but one could never tell about new widows, he thought as he studied Clare’s face. Sometimes they went all to pieces at the worst possible moment. “And as you can see on the account ledger, it has been quite a while and no payments were ever made.”

  Clare blanched. It was clearly her signature on the. But when…? “Mr. Thorndyke, this wasn’t my idea. I mean… I didn’t know anything about this until I got the bank notice last Monday,” Clare tried to explain. She racked her brain for some due as to how this could have happened. It must have occurred when Elliot bought that plane. Damn him!

  “Whether it was your idea or not, Mrs. Marshall, you did sign the mortgage. This is a community property state, you know, and I assure you that this is legally binding on you.”

  I’ll never be able to prove that I didn’t study those papers carefully enough, she reasoned with herself before answering. “Nevertheless, I had no knowledge of it. Surely, realizing that, you can extend your payment period or give me some extra time to catch up,” she argued resignedly. “Exactly how much do I owe you?”

  “It’s a rather large amount, Mrs. Marshall,” he said slowly. God, she’s beautiful, he was thinking. He had seen her from a distance for years, but he hadn’t been aware of the magnetism of her dark eyes. With mounting desire, he noticed that she was perfectly proportioned, with high, firm breasts, a slender waist and rounded hips. Her soft, sensuous lips looked more prone to smiles than to frowns, and they were slightly parted, giving her a breathless look as if she were about to speak. Her eyes were the deep gray of a stormy sky, with no pretense of being blue, and were set like jewels in her lightly tanned skin.

  He cleared his throat and proceeded cautiously. “As I said, Mr. Marshall mortgaged the land for a rather large sum. I’ve examined your bank records and, well, I see nothing to do but foreclose.”

  Clare steadied herself and refused to drop her eyes. “How much, Mr. Thorndyke?”

  “The thirty-year note is for a hundred sixty-five thousand dollars, but”

  “What!” she interrupted with a gasp.

  “But only nine thousand is currently due.” He watched the tiny pulse race in her slender throat. “That’s for the six back payments and interest to date.

  “That seems rather high. Have you doublechecked your figures?” Clare was stalling for time. How could even Elliot have gambled away all that money? The room seemed to dip and swirl around her.

  “Our figures are quite accurate,” Thorndyke replied. “Unfortunately, so is the accounting of your checking and savings account. This is, of course, confidential, but you must have known about it for quite some time.”

  “No,” Clare said hoarsely, “I didn’t. As you know, Mr. Thorndyke, I”

  “Please,” he smiled generously. “Call me Neal. I knew your husband quite well. We were on a first-name basis. Besides, I’m not that much older than you,” he joked with a low chuckle.

  Clare glanced over at him. In his youth, Neal Thorndyke had probably been a fine-looking man. Now his sandy hair was thin and graying, and his green eyes had an odd, calculating look about them, as if he never said what he was thinking. His skin was tanned, but it had the slack look that comes from too many years and too much alcohol. Trying to be polite, she ignored the older man’s ridiculous reference to the similarity in their ages.

  “Elliot had a very large life insurance policy, as you probably know. I haven’t notified the office yet, but I’m certain it will pay off what I owe.” There was a strong possibility the policy might never be paid, but she needed to stall for time until she could think of some way to come up with the money.

  “No, no, I checked into that. Elliot had taken too many chances in that airplane of his. The insurance company sent him a notice several months ago that he wouldn’t be covered any longer while flying.” Thorndyke shrugged philosophically.

  “Mr. Thorndyke”

  “Neal,” he interrupted, smiling.

  “Neal,” she conceded hesitantly. “I can get the money for you, but it will take me a little while. I… I have other assets I can cash in.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask her what they were, because she had no idea.

  “Well…” he drew the word out on a long sigh. “Naturally we don’t like foreclosures. Nobody does. The bank’s stockholders are just a bunch of people like you and me.” He bent his head and pursed his lips as if he were pondering carefully. “Tell you what, Clare,” he said, sliding quickly over the familiarity, ”I’ll take it on myself to give you, oh, let’s say a week. I’ll stick my neck out for you. Because I believe you can do it.” He nodded decisively.

  Clare was startled at the use of her first name, but didn’t rebuff him. He smiled reassuringly at her as he reached out and patted her hand. He left his hand covering hers as if he were unaware that he hadn’t withdrawn it.

  “I don’t suppose it would look right if you went out to supper with me so soon after Elliot’s death,” he said as his eyes rested lewdly on the curve of her full breasts, “even for the purpose of discussing your terms of payment. Perhaps I could drive out to your place tonight with the necessary papers.” Slowly, he stroked her wrist with his thumb as his palm grew hot and moist.

  Stunned, Clare stared at him. Her hand felt slick from his touch, as if she had accidentally touched something slimy from under a rock, and she jerked her hand free. This, coupled with the expression in his voice when he had used her name and the odd suggestion of an after-hours meeting could mean only one thing.

  “Mr. Thorndyke! I don’t think”

  “Now, Clare,” he soothed. “Don’t thank me. I want to do all I can to help you.” His green eyes met hers and there was no humor in them. “After all, if it wasn’t for me, how would you keep your property?”

  For a moment, the silence was deafening, then Clare stood up and replied coolly, “I appreciate your offer to help. As you say, whom else can I turn to?” She moved quickly away and opened the door before he could touch her again. “But there’s no need to come out tonight. I… I have company coming over and I’ll be in town tomorrow, anyway. I can tell you then how much I will be able to pay each month.” She flashed him her most dazzling smile and stepped gracefully into the bank lobby. “It’s been interesting doing business with you… Neal.”

  Clare restrained herself from running across the lobby and out of the front door, but felt a wave of relief wash over her as she slid into her car. Nine thousand dollars! And on top of that, the banker’s thinly veiled proposal! Had she misunderstood? What else could he possibly have meant?

  She put her key in the ignition and listened to the powerful engine purr to life. How ironical, she thought, to be driving a Mercedez-Benz and wearing a Christian Dior blouse and have not one red cent in the bank. If she hadn’t been so miserable, she might have laughed.

  Clare ran into her house and up the broad staircase to Elliot’s room. For a second, she hesitated at the sight of his clothes and personal belongings, lying about as if he might still use them.

  On several occasions in the past week, she’d considered getting rid of his things, but somehow it had all seemed to be too much trouble, too fresh a hurt, too difficult a decision. Now she jerked out one drawer after another in a frantic search for money he hadn’t had enough time to spend, or a deposit slip from some other bank. Anything.

  “Surely he left something!” she reasoned desperately.

  But she knew he hadn’t. She’d seen the plane deliberately crash. Elliot wouldn’t have done such a thing unless he was positive there was no way out of his problems.

  She lay back on his bed and tried to think. He’d driven his new Datsun 280
ZX to the airport that fateful day, but his creditors had repossessed it from the parking lot before she’d thought to go get it. That didn’t matter, though. He probably owed more on it than it was worth.

  Most of his rings and neck chains were gone, but she found a neat stack of pawn tickets. How strange, she mused, that I never even noticed he had stopped wearing jewelry. The last few months of their marriage, they’d avoided each other as much as possible. It had been during this time that Clare realized that Elliot was having an affair with Regina… and taking few pains to hide it.

  Systematically, Clare searched the house for something she could sell quickly. Something no one would notice was gone. Unfortunately, Elliot had had the same idea, and she found nothing.

  Clare ended her search in the den. Of all the rooms in the house, she liked this one the least because it bore Elliot’s stamp everywhere. Golden pine block paneling lined the walls, and animal trophies from past hunting expeditions hung everywhere. Clare hated them. She’d always believed it was wrong to kill animals needlessly; Elliot had taken a perverse pleasure in collecting trophies after she’d objected.

  Angrily, she began taking the heads off the walls. She’d have Eldon dispose of them however he thought best. In the meantime, she piled them in a heap beside the door.

  Another wall held a glass gun case. Elliot’s collection! She pressed her fingertips against the cool glass. Of course! He had acquired the guns for years, buying and trading them with an avid interest that she’d found chilling. At one time, she recalled, he’d had eight or nine handguns, but only four remained. It appeared as though Elliot had overlooked them, or more likely, couldn’t bring himself to part with them all even in his desperate need. Clare, however, had no such awe of the weapons. They were all collector’s items and must be worth a considerable sum!

  But whom should she call? Clare racked her brain to come up with the name of the collector Elliot had always preferred dealing with.

  Quickly, she sat down at his desk. The file drawer was locked, but she wasted no time searching for the key. With the aid of a long, stiletto-shaped letter opener which was lying beside his desk calendar, she soon had the lock open.

  Here were the papers she needed. Fingers flying, she sorted through Elliot’s records and receipts. Attached to a recent bill of sale was the business card of his local contact.

  As exactly as she could, Clare figured from the descriptions he had marked in some books and letters which guns were still in the cabinet and what price they would fetch. Finally, she arrived at what she felt was reasonably close to their correct value and dialed the number on the card.

  “Hello? Burleson speaking,” a gruff voice sounded over the phone.

  “Hello. My name is Clare Marshall. We haven’t met, but my late husband dealt with you in regard to his gun collection.” Only a week had passed since the funeral, and it still seemed very awkward to refer to Elliot in this way. She forced herself to continue. “I have no desire to keep the collection and I thought perhaps you’d be interested in it.”

  “Yeah, I would. Hey, I was real sorry to hear about Elliot going like that. God, that must have been awful.”

  “Yes, well, I doubt he ever felt any pain, Mr. Burleson. I understand he died on impact. But about the guns, are you interested? If not, I have some other names to contact.” She was bluffing, but she doubted the man could tell.

  “Oh, yeah. Elliot had some real fine pieces. How about me coming over and taking a look at them this afternoon?”

  “Of course. Would it be convenient for you to come by early?” Mustn’t sound too anxious, she cautioned herself.

  “Sure. I can kick loose from here at about twelve-thirty and be at your house by one o’clock. Okay?”

  “That will be fine. I’ll see you then.” With a grimace, she hung up the receiver. Elliot’s friend was clearly the sort that she avoided as often as possible.

  At precisely one o’clock, the doorbell chimed, and Betty showed Mr. Burleson into the den.

  “Burleson, ma’am. Chet Burleson.” He engulfed her hand in a painful handshake. “God, that was just awful about old Elliot.”

  Clare glanced at him. “Yes, yes, it was. The gun collection is over here. I’ve unlocked the cabinet so you can see them better.”

  Like a boy in a candy store, Burleson moved over to the case, removed a palm-sized derringer and whistled. “Just look at that. Ain’t she a beauty?” Recalling he was the buyer and not the seller, he cleared his throat. “Of course, most of these are just a drag on the market. You know what I mean?”

  Clare hid her amusement. “Oh, yes, I know exactly what you mean. Which ones are you interested in?”

  Burleson picked up one gun after another, examined them for wear, then replaced them almost reverently on the green felt pad Clare had laid on top of the desk. “I might be able to place these here,” he said, motioning vaguely. “Maybe that little derringer, too.” He pushed the Smith and Wesson. apart from the others and shrugged. “That one has some bad scratches on the handle. I can’t use it at all. Maybe you ought to keep it for your own protection. You know, seeing as you’re alone now and all.”

  Clare glanced at him suspiciously, but his concentration was entirely on the array of guns. “Maybe you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Yep, that’s a good idea, what with you being alone,” he repeated. “That’s a real pretty one for a lady. That’s real pearl and silver in that inlaid handle, you know. Too scratched for a show, though. Here, let me show you how to load it. See? You just stick the bullets in there. Got it?”

  Clare, who had helped her father load his guns most of her life, forced a smile to her lips. “Yes. I understand.”

  He turned back to the display case. “Yeah, I know women are all scared of guns. I ain’t surprised you want to get rid of them. I reckon we can work out a deal.”

  “That’s nice. What would you estimate they’re worth?”

  Burleson’s lips moved silently as he added up totals in his head. “You being Elliot’s widow and all, I guess I could give you four thousand.”

  Clare fought down her anger. Even she knew they were worth more than that! “I’m afraid that won’t be good enough. According to the receipts, they’re worth at least five thousand.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t know where you come up with those numbers, but nobody wouldn’t give that for these three here.”

  “Elliot did. I have the papers right here.”

  “But what you aren’t figuring is the depreciation and all. I imagine it’s real hard for you to understand, but these guns won’t bring as much now as they did then.”

  Clare’s voice was noticeably cooler when she replied, “I have no trouble understanding finances, Mr. Burleson. These guns are all collector’s items. Their price has gone up, not down.” She made a move to shut the case. “I guess you aren’t really interested in them, after all.”

  Now, hold on a minute. Let me look at them again. Yeah, I guess I could go four thousand, five hundred.”

  “Five thousand, Mr. Burleson.”

  “Forty-seven hundred and that’s just because I know you’re a widow woman.”

  Clare’s eyes narrowed. “Five thousand and I’ll throw in Elliot’s game trophies to boot.”

  Burleson’s eyes flickered over the animal heads by the door. “Done.”

  Clare helped him wrap the guns in cloth to prevent scratches, and held the door open for him as he carried out the trophies before she could change her mind.

  “Now, you can call the bank on this check if you want to. Won’t hurt my feelings none,” he said as she took his check for five thousand dollars. “Like I said, that was awful about Elliot. That’s an awful way to go.”

  “Yes, I doubt that anyone truly enjoys dying in a plane crash, Mr. Burleson,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “Yeah. Well, take care of yourself.”

  She refrained from slamming the door as he left, but smiled triumphantly to her
self. Now she wouldn’t have to haul out those hideous heads.

  However, she still had to raise nearly half the amount she owed the bank, then figure out where she would get the money for the monthly payment on the loan. Time was running out.

  Restlessly, she went to the morning room. She dropped down on the couch and ran her fingers through her hair. There was nothing else she could sell on such short notice.

  On the wall behind her hung a painting she’d done. It was a spring scene on her parents’ farm the swimming hole and the huge dogwood in full bloom, mirrored on the water’s reddish surface.

  “I could teach art!” she exclaimed.

  Elliot had never let her show her paintings, much less sell them. He had firmly maintained that the Marshall women did not work. Yet she felt her paintings must be worth something.

  She grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil from the drawer of the side table and began to figure feverishly. Based on what she had paid for lessons some years before, and estimating two two-hour lessons per week, Clare decided she could make the land payments and eke out enough to get by for a while with just nine students. Surely she could find nine students, somewhere! Especially with the college right there in town. This didn’t solve the immediate problem of the back payments she owed, but it gave Clare a boost to know she was doing something positive instead of just worrying. Before her courage could waver, she dialed Maria’s number.

  Marla lived two doors down, in a yellowish house that she referred to as Kilgore’s answer to Stonehenge. She was at Clare’s back door in five minutes.

  “What’s up?” Maria asked as she lowered her angular body into a chair. She had been reporting plants and still wore a blue chambray blouse knotted at her waist and tight, faded cut-off jeans that exposed a great deal of her deeply bronzed legs.

  “I talked to Neal Thorndyke and it’s even worse than I

  thought,” Clare started hesitantly. Even though she and Marla were closer than most sisters, Clare found it hard to talk about her desperate financial plight. “The land is legally mortgaged, and I don’t have any money in either the checking account or the savings account.”