Breath of Scandal
Page 23
She looked at him shrewdly. “You finally got one, didn’t you?”
“Got one what?”
“A mistress. According to our neighbor downstairs, all Frenchmen have at least one. She warned me that it was only a matter of time before you adopted that custom, especially since my figure is no longer svelte and seductive.”
“You’re seductive as hell,” he snarled, laying his hands on the mound of her abdomen. He pushed up her top and kissed the taut skin. His lips worked their way up to her braless breasts. “You’ve adapted a few French customs yourself,” he murmured as he flicked his tongue over one dark nipple.
“All my bras are too small now.” She cupped her breasts and offered them to him. His mouth caressed her until their mingled sighs proved the neighbor downstairs wrong.
Later, as they lay with her back to his chest, his hand protectively resting on her belly, she asked sleepily, “When did you plan to pack me off to Mother?”
“Forget it,” he sighed, kissing her ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”
It wasn’t until he held his squirming, squalling newborn son in his arms that Dillon relaxed his vigilance over capricious fate. In his father’s eyes, Charles Dillon Burke was a miracle. From the first moment Dillon saw him, he was besotted with his child and fatherhood in general.
His luck at work continued to hold. The insurance building had been completed to everyone’s satisfaction. Forrest G. Pilot himself had come from Florida to inspect it personally. He had aged considerably, Dillon thought, and appeared to be under a strain, yet he commended Dillon on his fine work and demonstrated his appreciation in the form of a cash bonus.
“Take six weeks off with pay. That should give you plenty of time to make the move before reporting back to work.”
Before going on to Tallahassee, they planned to spend at least two weeks with the Newberrys in Atlanta and let them get well acquainted with their newest grandson. Dillon was confident that Forrest G. had big plans for him. He had more than fulfilled the older man’s expectations.
Resting his head on the hard seat cushion, Dillon closed his eyes contentedly. Over the roar of the jet engines he could hear Debra’s steady breathing and the sweet, guttural baby sounds that Charlie made in his sleep.
* * *
“What the hell is all this about?” Dillon roared. “Where’s Forrest G.? What are you doing behind that desk?”
Haskell Scanlan leaned back in the sumptuous leather desk chair and smugly regarded Dillon. “It’s my privilege to inform you that Mr. Pilot no longer works here.”
It took every ounce of Dillon’s self-control not to hurdle the desk, grab Scanlan by his scrawny neck, and wring the life out of him. This was a hell of a shock to receive on his first day back.
When he noticed the unfamiliar sign in the parking lot, he had hoped that it meant only a new name and logo for the original company. But as soon as he entered what had formerly been Forrest G.’s executive office, he was met with an unpleasant surprise. Pilot Engineering Industries was under new ownership and management—and at its helm was Haskell Scanlan.
Dillon glared down at his old enemy. “What happened to Forrest G.?”
Scanlan’s long fingers slid back and forth along the edge of his glossy desk. “Your mentor has retired.”
Dillon scoffed. “He wouldn’t vacate that chair without putting up a fight.”
“There was some nastiness,” Scanlan admitted with an insincere moue. “I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the newspapers.”
“I’ve been busy getting my family settled. What happened?”
“With the assets that were available, the company you now work for decided it could do more than Mr. Pilot was doing.”
“In other words, it was a hostile takeover. A conglomerate came in and muscled out Forrest G.” Dillon’s eyes narrowed on Scanlan. “I wonder who supplied their inside information.”
Scanlan’s grin was as obnoxious as fingernails on a chalkboard. “I did what I could to assist the new ownership.”
“I’m sure you did,” Dillon sneered. “I’m sure you kissed ass until your lips were raw.”
Scanlan shot from his chair, his eyes batting furiously, his cheeks puffing out like those of an adder. Dillon leaned across the desk. “Go ahead, Scanlan, hit me. Please. Give me a good reason to beat the hell out of you.”
Scanlan took a step back. “If you value your job, you’d better watch the way you address me, Mr. Burke. We haven’t dismissed a single employee since we seized control, but it’s inevitable. I wouldn’t mind you being the first to go.”
Dillon was tempted to tell Scanlan to go fuck himself and then storm out. But where would that leave him? He wasn’t short of cash, thanks to the bonus Forrest G. had given him. However, he had incurred a lot of expenses during the move. There wouldn’t be that many jobs available in Tallahassee, and he couldn’t very well ask Debra and Charlie to move again after just getting settled.
They had decided not to buy a house until they were more familiar with the city. Instead, they had leased a house in a neat, respectable neighborhood. The yard was smaller than Dillon wanted and had only one tree. But Debra seemed pleased with it.
For the time being, it would be stupid to bite the hand that was feeding them. “What have you got for me?” he grumbled.
Scanlan pinched up the creases of his slacks as he sat back down. He reached for a folder, opened it, and ran his index finger down a column of figures. “Ah, there’s a cubicle on the second floor that’s available. Number 1120. You can move your supplies in there today and begin tomorrow.”
“You’re putting me back on a drawing board?” Dillon shouted. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“That’s the only job I currently have available. Take it or leave it.”
Dillon muttered a string of French obscenities.
“It goes without saying,” Scanlan added, “that the job of draftsman doesn’t pay as much as field work, so your salary will be scaled down until it’s commensurate with the position.”
“You must really be enjoying this,” Dillon said.
Scanlan smiled pleasantly. “Enormously.”
“I can’t go back to drawing. There’s got to be something else.”
Scanlan assessed him for a moment, then swiveled his chair around and pulled a folder from the built-in filing cabinet behind him. “Actually, I just remembered something. We recently acquired a property in Mississippi that needs massive renovation before it can be utilized productively and profitably. Are you interested?”
* * *
Dillon summed up his explanation to Debra. “So it’s either take the job in Mississippi or start drafting again.” He socked his fist against his opposite palm. “I don’t know why I didn’t bust the little bastard and walk out.”
“Yes, you do. You’re not a street fighter any longer. You’re a family man, a professional, who isn’t going to let slimy characters like Scanlan defeat you.”
“Well, right now this slimy character is holding the aces, and he damn well knows it. After I left him, I tried to set up job interviews. I must have made two dozen phone calls. The answer was always the same. Nobody has any work. Nobody is hiring.”
“Short of separating Scanlan’s body from his head, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, Debra.” He dropped onto the sofa and tiredly rubbed his eyes. “I sure as hell don’t want to go back to drafting.”
“Then you’ll take the other job, and we’ll move to Mississippi.”
Dillon plucked Charlie off Debra’s lap and settled him in the crook of his elbow. The baby tightly clutched his father’s index finger. “I’ve got an alternative. It’s not great, but keep in mind that it’s only temporary.”
After he had laid out his alternate plan, she asked, “Where would you live?”
“In the trailer at the site. I could make do with a cot, a small refrigerator, and a hotplate.”
“What about a bathro
om?”
“I’ll use the Port-o-lets. And the building I’ll be working on has a shower room. Scanlan gave me the plans to study before I make my decision.”
Her expression relayed her lack of enthusiasm. “You’d come home every weekend?”
“Without fail. I swear.”
“I don’t see why we can’t all move to Mississippi.”
“Because Scanlan would likely pull me off the job the minute we got settled. He could keep us hopscotching indefinitely.”
“But this is indefinite, too,” she said plaintively. “He could keep you there forever.”
Dillon stubbornly shook his head. “I won’t have the emotional attachment to this job the way I did to the building in Versailles. I’ll leave it flat the minute I hear of anything opening up. I’ve left applications all over town. Something’s bound to come through before too long.
“Scanlan has never forgiven me for pulling rank on him in France. He got his revenge on Forrest G., and now he’s given me a choice between a shit detail and moving back into one of those damned glass boxes. He expects me to take that because it’s easier. I don’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction.”
Keeping Charlie cradled in one arm, he drew his wife close and kissed her temple. “Trust me, Debra. This is the best way. The weeks will speed by so fast, you won’t even have time to miss me.”
Unfortunately, the commuting arrangement wasn’t as temporary or as easy as Dillon had hoped. His accommodations in Mississippi were squalid, but he didn’t tell Debra that because she was doing her best to keep a positive attitude.
There was no end in sight. An exceptionally rainy fall had caused construction sites all over the South to stand deserted. There were heavy layoffs. No one wanted to hire a construction engineer, no matter how bright, ambitious, or doggedly determined.
Dillon had bought a new car while they were in Atlanta. He left that with Debra and traveled the long trip to and from Mississippi on a used motorcycle. He arrived home late each Friday night and had to leave early on Sunday afternoons. That barely gave him time to rest up from his exhausting weekend before Monday morning came around.
The work itself was uninspiring. Most of it involved interior refurbishing. He replaced collapsing walls, rebuilt falling ceilings, resurfaced floors. The building was old and ugly and when he was finished it would still be old and ugly. Nevertheless, he operated under the same rigid standards as he would have had the building been new. He ran a tight ship and insisted that the workers give 100 percent to the job. It was a matter of pride. Besides, he wasn’t going to give Scanlan an inch of advantage over him. He might demote or dismiss him out of pique, but never for doing substandard work.
The situation put a strain on Dillon’s family. Because they crowded so much togetherness into their weekends, they had to work at it, and that took away some of the enjoyment. Household chores that Debra couldn’t do fell to Dillon. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded doing them, but he spent precious hours every Saturday morning doing menial tasks when all he wanted to do was sleep, make love to his wife, and marvel over the rapid development of his son.
Although they were surrounded by young families like themselves, they had no social life. That began to tell on Debra. She spent all week, every week, alone with a baby less than a year old. She doted on Charlie and was an excellent mother, but she had no outlet for self-expression and seemed disinclined to get involved in any neighborhood activities. Dillon began to notice signs of increasing depression, and it frightened him.
One Sunday evening as he was preparing to leave for the long trip to Mississippi, he drew her into his arms. “I’ll take next Friday off and come home a day early. Do you think you could stand that?”
Her smile was tremulous but brilliant. “Oh, Dillon, would you? That would be wonderful.”
“I didn’t get to all the chores on your list this weekend. I’ll have plenty of time to do everything next week and still be lazy. Get a babysitter for Saturday night. We’ll dress up and go out. Dinner. Dancing. A movie. Whatever you want.”
“I love you,” she said, burying her nose in the collar of his shirt. They held each other and kissed some more, until he either had to make love to her again or leave. Regrettably, he picked up his crash helmet. Debra followed him to the door, carrying Charlie, who, out of practice, had learned to wave bye-bye.
Dillon didn’t dare formally request the day off from Scanlan, so he bribed one of the subcontractors to oversee things while he was away. It only cost him a case of beer.
On Thursday afternoon, he called Debra. “This isn’t to say you’re not coming, is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, ye of little faith. Of course I’m coming.” He lowered his voice and added in a Groucho Marx accent, “I plan on coming a lot this weekend.” She giggled. “What are you doing?”
“Putting together a few surprises for you.”
“Hmm. I can’t wait. Is that my son I hear in the background?”
“He’s squealing because he knows I’m talking to you.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Be careful, Dillon. The weather here is terrible.”
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
The inclement weather couldn’t have stopped him from making the trip, but it certainly slowed him down. The Florida panhandle was experiencing the coldest weather on record. Rainfall was heavy. Sometimes pellets of sleet would strike the visor of his helmet. Inside his leather gloves, his fingers froze in their grip around the handlebars. When he finally arrived, Tallahassee had never looked so good.
The moment he opened the front door of his house, he was greeted with tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen. In the center of the dining table were a vase of fresh flowers and a chocolate cake with his name spelled out in the icing. A pot roast was simmering in the oven.
“Debra?” He dropped his helmet and gloves in a chair and moved toward the back of the house, where the bedrooms were. “Are you in the tub?” He checked Charlie’s room, but the crib was empty. “What are you two up to? Is this part of the surprise?”
Dillon opened the door to the master bedroom and paused to gaze at his wife and son as they slumbered peacefully on the bed. Charlie was tucked into the curve of Debra’s arm. Her golden hair looked beautiful spread out across the pillow. Dillon’s heart ached with love. She had worn herself out to make this a special weekend for him. He moved toward the bed, sat down on the edge, and stroked her flawless cheek.
That’s when he realized they weren’t sleeping.
* * *
Haskell Scanlan often worked late in his pursuit of success, but on one particular evening he stayed even later than usual. It was after dark before he left the building. His car was the only one remaining in the parking lot.
A tall, shadowed figure appeared and blocked his path. Even before Scanlan could exclaim his astonishment, a fist with the impetus of a pile driver slammed into his mouth, breaking off all his front teeth at the gum line and snapping his head back with such impact that he was in traction for two months. Before he slumped to the ground, he was caught by the collar and struck again. The second blow fractured his jaw. A final blow was delivered to his midsection; it ruptured his spleen.
He had been in the hospital for a week, wavering in semiconsciousness, before he could communicate to the police whom he suspected of the brutal and seemingly unprovoked attack.
The police squad car rolled to a stop at the address he’d given them. No one answered the doorbell. The two officers questioned the next-door neighbor.
“After the funerals,” she told them, “he only stuck around for a few days.”
“Funerals?”
“His wife and son died three weeks ago of suffocation. Remember when we had that freak ice storm? Before Mrs. Burke lay down to take a nap, she turned on the furnace for the first time of the season. It wasn’t ventilating properly, so they died in their sleep. Mr. Burke found them when he got ho
me.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“I haven’t seen him for more than a week. I assumed he went back to work.”
The officers got a search warrant and went into the house. As far as they could tell, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the fatal accident. There was a bouquet of dead flowers standing in a vase of smelly, stagnant water on the dining table. Beside it was the remains of a chocolate cake that ants had gotten to.
No one at the construction site in Mississippi had seen Mr. Burke since the Thursday night he left for home. His co-workers expressed sorrow over the deaths of his family. “He was crazy about that kid,” one said. “Talked about him all the time.”
“How’d he feel about his wife?”
“Her picture’s still here in the trailer where he left it. He didn’t screw around on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Assault charges were never filed for the attack on Haskell Scanlan. The only viable suspect had vanished. It seemed as though he had simply walked away from everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Palmetto, South Carolina, 1987
“A freaking faggot! Can you believe it?” Neal Patchett shook his head in disbelief and took another sip of his bourbon and water.
Hutch Jolly was as shocked as Neal by the news about Lamar. Hutch just wasn’t as outspoken. “I hadn’t been around Lamar very much for the last few years,” he remarked. “Not near as much as you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Neal asked defensively.
“Hell. It’s not supposed to mean a damn thing except that I hadn’t been around him much. Did you notice any changes in him over the years?”
“No, and that can only mean one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He was queer all along,” Neal said. “All those years he stuck to us like glue, he was a fairy. It gives me the willies to think about it. I lived with the guy! Jesus!”
Until now Donna Dee had refrained from entering the conversation. “The way y’all are bad-mouthing somebody who just died is pitiful. I don’t care if Lamar was gay, he was still a human being. He was our friend. I feel sorry for him.”