by Sheedy, EC
Bridget glanced at the hurricane of paper, then at Keeley. “She’s knocked up, I think.”
Keeley grimaced. “Ugh, don’t say that. It sounds so abusive. And ‘bun in the oven’ isn’t any better. Not much into baby bumps either.”
Bridget shrugged, apparently unaffected by semantics. “She’s pregnant, then. Shall I bring her in?” Another mouth to feed; her heart sank. She hadn’t planned on taking anyone in until the place was back in order. Mary’s health—so she’d learned—had been in free fall for over a year, and along with it the maintenance and financing of an old house that had been in desperate straits long before that. So here she was, intent on protecting and nurturing Mary’s legacy, and her first act would be turning away a woman needing help.
“Keeley? You okay?” Bridget asked. “Shall I go get her or what?”
“I’m fine, but it’s a mess in here.” She pushed the chair away from the desk and stood. “I’ll see her in the front hall.”
“Forget the mess. You can see me right here.” Keeley looked up to see a tall brunette step into the room. She was probably closer to forty than the fourteen she’d expected, and one of the most spectacularly beautiful women she’d ever seen. Vivid was the word that jumped to mind. That and … sumptuous. Her eyes, wary and sharp, observed Keeley with a degree of studious detachment, as if she were in need of a personal makeover or was a stooge in a police lineup.
What she was sure about was the woman looked one labor pain away from giving birth.
“Are you Keeley Farrell?” she asked.
Keeley crossed to where the woman, dressed in designer maternity wear and gripping an expensive leather bag, stood straight as a spar; she held out her hand. “That’s me.”
“Erica Stark.” She set the bag down and shook Keeley’s outstretched hand.
Keeley gestured toward a cracked leather chair beside the roll top desk. “Sit,” she instructed. “You look exhausted.”
“Thank you.” She flicked her long hair back, gave the chair a distrustful glance, and sat carefully on its edge.
“Bridget, would you get us some tea or—” She looked at her unusual guest questioningly.
“Water please,” she said to Bridget, who nodded and left the room, leaving the door open.
Keeley took the seat she’d just vacated and studied the striking woman in the chair across from her. “I’ll say this right off. You do not look like the kind of woman who needs the services of Mayday House.”
“I suppose not. But here I am,” she said, her expression tight, guarded, or maybe embarrassed. Keeley couldn’t be sure.
“How did you find us?”
“From a friend. I remembered her telling me how, uh, out of the way Mayday House is. So when I got myself into this ridiculous situation”—she rolled her eyes, patted her stomach—“I talked to her, and she put me on to Mary Weaver. I called, she asked me a few questions—mostly about the pregnancy—I answered them, and here I am.” She paused. “I was sorry to hear she passed on. The girl”—she gestured toward the door Bridget had gone through—“says you’re running things now.”
“Yes,” Keeley said, nodding, then added, “When was it, exactly, that you talked to Mary?”
“A month or so ago.”
“And she sounded … all right?”
“All right? I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“Mary had been very ill and toward the end she often got confused.”
Erica Stark studied a fingernail, looking bored. “She did ramble on a bit, but I’d say she sounded okay. We talked for fifteen, twenty minutes, I made the booking, and here I am.”
“I see.” And she did. A month ago, according to Bridget, Mary was barely able to remember where she was most days, and her lucid times were becoming further and further apart. Erica must have called at exactly the right moment—or wrong one, considering the perilous state of Keeley’s finances.
She picked up the pencil she’d been figuring with minutes before and rolled it between her fingers while she tried to come up with a way to let Erica Stark down easy. “Mayday House is pretty basic accommodation, as you can easily see, Erica, and most of Mary’s guests were without resources. Often without family. In need, both financially and emotionally.”
Erica nodded, looked away for a second. When she turned back, her gaze was unflinching. “Look, all I need is a place to be alone, a place to disappear for a while and think a few things through.” She shifted back in the chair, placed a hand on her distended abdomen, and glanced around the room, her expression weary. “And frankly, Mayday House is perfect. The last place anyone would look for me.”
Everything in Keeley wanted to help. There had to be a way. All she had to do was find it. “How far along are you?”
“Going into my seventh month.” She paused before adding, “Twins.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“And the father?”
Erica took in a breath, then glanced away. “Out of the picture.” She got to her feet, placed both hands on her lower back, and looked down at Keeley. “Look, I’m exhausted, so if we can continue this interview later, I’d appreciate it. I need to lie down. And for your information—and as I explained to Mary—you don’t have to worry, medically speaking. I’ve had regular checkups, and I’ll be gone before my due date. I’ve already arranged for the delivery, and I’m healthy as a horse. My doctor, one of the best in Seattle, by the way, says my pregnancy is normal given my age—”
“Which is?”
“Forty-five.” Her expression was challenging.
Keeley raised her hands, tried to look innocent instead of shocked. “You look a lot younger.”
Her face softened somewhat. “Thank you for that, but right about now I feel like a hundred.” She rubbed her back again. “Now can I fill you in on the intriguing details of my late-in-life pregnancy tomorrow? Right now I need that bed. If you’ll just tell me how much, we’re in business.” She picked up the tote she’d placed beside her chair when she sat down, and withdrew a checkbook.
How much? Keeley’s mind stumbled. Erica Stark wanted to pay! “We don’t actually have rates. Mayday House is a women’s refuge. It’s always been privately sponsored,” she said, sounding as stiff as a besieged bureaucrat. “But we are willing to accept donations.”
Erica smiled thinly. “I’ll bet.” She scribbled out a check. “Will this do?”
Keeley gulped once, hoped it didn’t show, and looked up into the tired face of Erica Stark. “How long are you wanting to stay?”
“A week … a month.” Erica walked to the door and, for the first time, let her shoulders sag. “I’m not sure.”
“I have to say, I still don’t understand why. Why Mayday House?”
“Because I needed to get away, and I need time.”
“Time for what?”
“To make a choice.”
“Between?”
She hesitated, pursing her lips. “Becoming a midlife mother of twins or putting them up for adoption.”
“That’s some decision.”
“Not one an ex-nun could fathom, I’m guessing.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Like I said, Mary did ramble a bit. She mentioned it. It’s the kind of information that sticks.” She walked to the door, almost colliding with the slow-moving Bridget who’d finally arrived with the water. Erica turned and looked back, her expression curious. “Mary said you worked in Africa. I’d like to hear about it sometime.”
And it was the last thing in the world Keeley wanted to talk about.
She gestured to Erica’s bag. “Bridget,” she said. “Will you take Miss Stark upstairs, please? Either of the freshly painted rooms should do. They’re well aired by now. I’ll get some clean linens and be right up to help her get settled.”
When Bridget and Erica were gone, she looked at the check again. “Three thousand dollars.” She looked up and whispered the sum like a prayer, then sil
ently mouthed the words thank you and closed her eyes.
Mayday House was safe … for now.
Upstairs, the door closed behind her, Erica sat heavily on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her face, took a couple of deep breaths, then rifled in her bag, first pulling out a 9mm Glock, then a cell phone.
She dialed, waited until the familiar voice came across the line, and said, “I’m in.” She immediately disconnected from the call.
Gus walked into Malta’s Bar and Grill. Its casual name belied its expensive and classy interior. Definitely upscale. Exactly where he’d expect to meet a client looking for personal security.
The restaurant host, busy reorganizing poster-sized menus, looked up when he approached the front desk. “Gus Hammond,” he said. “I’m expected.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Hammond. Follow me.”
He did and was led to a table in the back, not quite a booth, but made private by being enclosed in pony walls, surrounded by greenery, and placed a discreet distance from the other tables.
As to the occupier of the table, until he stepped closer, Gus saw only his back. He started to offer his hand, but let it drop when he recognized the man in the chair.
Gus usually rallied fast, but seeing Hagan Marsden—here—was a real head kick. It had been six years since they’d met. Gus had intended it be forever.
Hagan didn’t bother standing, nor did he offer a handshake. What he did was scan Gus from his ankles to his face. “Looks like the male whoring business is treating you all right, Hammond.” He did another scan. “Maybe I took a wrong turn in the road, working for a living instead of fucking for one.”
Gus considered his options: walk away, slam a fist in the bastard’s mouth, or take a seat.
He sat. “From what Dinah told me, you’d never have made it. So you were probably smart to stick to your paper clips or whatever the hell it is you get for a penny offshore and sell at a thousand percent markup.” He was about to signal a waiter when one arrived at his shoulder. “Vodka, lots of ice,” he said.
“Brand, sir?”
“The best you’ve got.” The waiter gone, he turned back to Hagan. “If this is about Dinah, you’re wasting your time. She’s in Miami. I’m in Seattle. That should answer all your questions.”
“I know all that. It’s one of the reasons I set this meeting up. And as to the bitch of the century, I don’t give a fuck where she is.”
“Hm-m, that’s a switch from a few years ago, when you tried to throw me off a twenty-story balcony.”
“I was seeing a little red that day. Watching Barracuda Woman living the high life—with a piece of male ass young enough to be our son—and me so goddamn broke, I— Forget it.” He glanced away, his expression sour. “Bitch doesn’t describe that woman. More like miserable cu—”
“Don’t go there, Hagan.” Gus picked up a knife, made circles with its point on the white tablecloth. “The way I see it, Dinah might have been a whole lot friendlier if you’d kept your fists in your pockets instead of using them on her face.”
Hagan’s voice dropped an octave. “That’s a goddamn lie. One of her lousy ploys to get sympathy and pump up the settlement.”
“Right,” Gus said, letting his tone drip with disbelief and balancing eight inches of knife between tabletop and index finger. “Still … that’s no way to talk about your wife.”
“Ex-wife.” He took a drink of what looked like single-malt scotch. “And as it turned out, getting rid of the bitch was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Even if it did take the next ten years to get back a quarter of what she took from me.”
“Her and those unsavory business partners of yours.”
Hagan shrugged, but the gesture was more defensive than nonchalant “I owed people. When they saw that Dinah was going to clean me out, they wanted their pound of flesh while there was still some on the bone.”
“Either way, it looks like you’ve survived.” But from the looks of him, the survival had come at a price. Hagan Marsden looked a hell of a lot older than his sixty-odd years. Every fiber and weave covering his body might be the best money could buy, but his hair was a muddy gray, and his face was lined and pale. But his eyes were the same, still feral sharp, and at the moment, gleaming with intent. The intent to what, Gus couldn’t yet figure out.
“Survived and prospered, Hammond. Survived and prospered.” He looked at the knife Gus fooled with on the table. “Still playing with your toys, huh? You’re damn good with those things, as I recall.” He touched a thin, white scar under his ear, a souvenir Gus had left him from the balcony episode.
“Good enough.” Gus set the knife back on the table. “What am I doing here, Hagan?”
“Applying for a job.”
“I don’t think so. You know damn well if I’d known who I was supposed to meet today, I’d have been on the other side of town.” Gus made to stand. To hell with the damn drink—this guy made his skin crawl.
Hagan’s hand shot out and clasped his wrist. “I don’t think so. Not when you hear what I have to say.”
Gus looked at the knuckles whitening from their grip on his arm, then hard into the eyes of the man they belonged to. “Let go. Now.”
Hagan released his grip and lifted his two hands in the air, palms facing Gus. “There, you see how agreeable I am.” He paused, and the lines in his face firmed and set. “Now, if that nice little nun will be half as agreeable, we’ll all be happy. What was her name again? Something Irish sounding, wasn’t it? Oh, yes … Sister Keeley Farrell.”
Gus reined in his shock just as the waiter showed up. “Your vodka, sir?” The server stood over them, tray in hand, his gaze darting between him and Hagan.
“No point in letting a perfectly good drink go to waste,” Hagan said, nodding at the tray, then settling back in his seat. “And bring some menus, will you? I’m hungry as a starved dog.” He glanced at Gus. “Plus we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“How do you know Farrell?”
“I don’t. What I do know is that Dinah has been sending money—my money—to support that house she’s living in for over thirty years.”
“And you know this how?”
“Divorce has a way of exposing things—especially ugly divorces.”
“Then my next question is, so what? It isn’t the only charity Dinah supports.”
Hagan snorted. “It’s the only one she keeps quiet about. All the others are strictly for PR and name-dropping privileges.” He snorted again. “Do you honestly believe Dinah gives a shit about kids starving in some godforsaken African village, whether or not some poor schmuck knows how to read, or some fag somewhere is dying of AIDS?” He shook his head. “No way. All Dinah cares about is Dinah getting lots of good press.”
Gus couldn’t argue with that. “Same question. So?”
“So I want to know why she’s paid out thousands over the years to support a women’s halfway house, or whatever the hell it is, in the middle of nowhere.” He paused. “And why she quit paying the minute Mary Weaver went toes up.”
“For a longtime ex, you’ve got a lot of current information.”
Hagan eyed him coldly. “Dinah is the mother of my son. I make sure I keep up—make sure his interests are protected.”
“Perry’s a grown man, Hagan. He can look out for himself.”
“She’s threatening to cut him out of the will. When every fucking dime she has is mine—and Perry’s. I won’t let her do that.” The feral glint in his pale eyes set diamond hard.
“First off Dinah won’t do that, and you damn well know it. And even if she did, Perry wouldn’t give a damn.” But Gus didn’t put it past Hagan to use Perry as an excuse to get back at Dinah, stir the old resentment pot. Because if ever two people had raised marital discord and outright hatred to high art, Dinah and Hagan Marsden had. No doubt whatever Hagan had in mind, it had more to do with vengeance against Dinah than concern for Perry’s financial well-being. Because u
nless things had changed, Perry was still living in a drafty apartment in Tribeca, doing the starving artist routine and staying as far away from Dinah and his dad as the planet allowed.
“He doesn’t give a damn. But I do,” Hagan grumbled. “That money is his. And I won’t let that bitch screw him like she did me.”
Gus picked up his drink, swirled the glass, listened to the ice clink against its sides, and took a drink. No way did he intend to get involved in Dinah and Hagan’s endless dispute over which one of the two was the most hard done by during the divorce; Dinah because Hagan was an abusive, egotistical brute, or Hagan because Dinah was a greedy, self-centered money grabber. The way he saw it, their son had the right idea, take off and don’t look back. Gus glanced at his watch. “This is fascinating stuff, Marsden,” he said, “but I’ve got a late date.” He tossed some bills on the table.
Before he could stand, Hagan leaned forward, his expression hard. “I know Dinah asked you to come down here and buy off the Farrell woman. That she wants Mayday House shut down for good. She’s hiding something, and I want to know what it is, Hammond, and I’m willing to be generous to the person who finds out.”
“Not interested. Not only do I not give a damn. I’m not inclined to work against my former employer.” Gus sat back in his chair, puzzled and more than a little interested. “But I’m interested in how the hell you know so much about Dinah’s plans.”
Hagan said nothing but managed to look smug as hell all the same.
An errant, unwelcome thought slid into Gus’s logic. “Can’t be,” he muttered, more to himself than Hagan. But, damn it, he couldn’t see any other way Hagan could access this kind of information. “You’re paying off Cassie, aren’t you?”
Cassie was Dinah’s manager, bookkeeper, secretary, and any other thing Dinah wanted her to be. She was a twenty-four/seven employee, quiet as an unplugged radio, and was—or so Gus had thought—as loyal as a hound. She’d also been endlessly good to Josh, who was nearly the same age as her daughter when Gus first went to live with Dinah.