“Tricks?” asked Tamra, the first word she had uttered to Gillian.
“Yeah, tricks. You know—like wrapping your ankles around your neck.” Gillian turned to Esmond. “I thought you’d have mastered that by now.”
He asked, “What possible interest do you have in the asanas I’ve mastered?”
“Their entertainment value, of course.”
The rest of us exchanged a bewildered glance.
Gillian explained, “Say, for instance, we’re throwing a party. You could provide some entertainment, Esmond, by wrapping your feet behind your head and walking on your hands. Better yet, you could serve cocktails that way, balancing the tray on one hand, hopping on the other. Our guests would get a kick out of it. Hell, I’d get a kick out of it.”
“Mrs. Reece,” said Tamra, sounding truly appalled as she approached the woman, “yogic practices are not undertaken for the amusement of an audience, but rather for the student’s own spiritual and physical well-being.”
“And how ’bout the instructor?” asked Gillian. “There’s some enrichment there, too, isn’t there, swami? And I’m not talking about spiritual enrichment. Catch my drift, swami?”
“Mrs. Reece,” said Tamra, flushed and shaking, “that’s an insufferable insult. I won’t take it.”
“Oh, really? You won’t take it, huh? Then take this.” And with no further warning or provocation, Gillian bitch-slapped Tamra.
Covering her face with her hands, the yogi slumped to the floor and burst into tears. Neil and I stepped forward and knelt with the woman, trying to comfort her.
But Esmond snapped. Gillian had apparently pushed him beyond the limits of his serenity training. Without hesitation, he stepped in front of Tamra, raised his left hand, and bitch-slapped his wife.
“Why, Esmond,” she said, utterly unruffled, “I didn’t know you had it in you.” Her tone, for once, was anything but snide; she sounded proud of her wimpy husband for standing up to her.
“Yeah, well, it seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me—and never will.” He leaned down and helped Tamra to her feet, telling her, “Let’s get some air. The stench in here is nauseating.”
Tamra stared for a moment at Gillian’s face as if looking into a mirror. The stinging welt on Tamra’s left cheek matched the one Esmond had planted on Gillian’s right. Tamra opened her mouth, intending to speak, but quickly reconsidered. Turning, she steadied herself on Esmond’s arm, and he led her from the room.
“Are you all right?” I heard him ask as they reached the foyer.
I didn’t hear Tamra’s mumbled answer.
“Gillian,” said Neil, “I hope we’ve seen the last of these outbursts. Try that on the wrong person, and you could find yourself behind bars.”
She smirked. “I highly doubt that. Besides, it was almost worth the payback from Esmond.” She rubbed her cheek, wincing. “Now, at least, I know how to get a rise out of him.”
Needless to say, I now wished that my curiosity about the curtains had not prompted me to visit the Reece house that morning. I’d seen far more than I’d bargained for, and most disturbing of all was the perverse pleasure Gillian took in being struck by her husband. I now seriously questioned the wisdom of my endorsement of the impending merger. Did I really want to put this woman at the helm of the company my uncle Edwin had founded?
Without elaborating, I told Neil and Gillian, “I need to go.”
“Me too,” said Neil. “I’ve got to find Todd before he blows out of town.”
With perfunctory good-byes to Gillian, we took our leave and stepped from the living room to the foyer. Opening the front door for Neil, I told him, under my breath, “Let’s get the hell out of here before there’s any more trouble.”
“Oops,” said Neil, looking down the sidewalk. “Too late, methinks.”
And up from the street strutted Glee Savage. Today’s ensemble was black and white, stark and tasteful. Her oversize purse sported zebra stripes.
Meeting her halfway along the brick walk, we greeted her with hugs. After a round of hellos, I asked inanely, “What brings you to these parts, Glee?”
“Have you forgotten? I need to talk to Gillian.”
“Uh,” said Neil, “this morning may not be the best time for that. Gillian seems a tad—shall we say—vexed at the moment.”
Glee shrugged. “Then my visit should lighten her emotional load. I’m here only to apologize for yesterday’s unfortunate run-in. I feel terrible about it. And I’ll be sweet as pie—I want that photo feature for this weekend.” She winked.
“Good for you, Glee.” I laughed. “Work your magic on her.”
And she stepped up to the front door.
As Neil and I walked back to our cars, he shook his head, muttering, “If photos are running this weekend, let’s hope they show curtains.”
Then we got into our cars and went our separate ways, I to my office at the Register, Neil in search of Todd Draper.
Chapter Ten
My morning at the office turned busy, not with breaking news, but with the everyday minutiae of running a business—a meeting with bankers, another with a potential new advertiser we were courting, and a third with representatives of our writers’ guild, whose contract was up for renewal. Everything went routinely; in fact, the proceedings were dull. But I was grateful for the distraction, which occupied my mind and prevented my thoughts from lingering on the disturbing confrontations that had jump-started my day with a surge of adrenaline that caffeine couldn’t match. My nascent hangover from the previous night’s cognac had been nipped in the bud, and I was cruising noonward at warp speed.
Sometime after eleven, when my last meeting ended, I returned to my office to check proofs and read mail at my desk. Adrift in this sea of printed words—an altogether pleasant experience, compatible with my calling in life—I was rattled to the bone when my cocoon of silence was shattered by the twangy strains of the William Tell Overture seeping from my trousers.
I instantly stood, as if I’d discovered a venomous reptile in my pocket and needed to be rid of it—fast. I’d forgotten I was even carrying the phone, convinced that I’d broken it, rendering it harmless. But there it was, resurrected, taunting me from the warm, dark depths of my pants. Esmond Reece, I recalled, was partially responsible for this intrusion, having invented some crucial thingamabob that had changed the world. I cursed him as I plucked his demon spawn from my pocket and flung it on the desk.
It continued to chirp, like some large black insect, and I decided the only way to silence it was to answer it. So I lifted the phone gingerly and flipped it open, wondering who was calling. It wasn’t Lucy; I could see her through the glass wall of my outer office, leaning over someone’s desk in the newsroom. Perhaps it was Neil, reporting on his search for Todd Draper. Curious to hear his update, I punched the green button and answered, “Yes?”
“Good morning, sir. I understand from our database that your investment portfolio—”
I punched the red button.
Then I stepped out to the newsroom. “Lucy,” I called across the hubbub. When she looked in my direction, I motioned her inside.
“Yes, Mark?” she said, stepping into my office. “What’s up?”
“This phone,” I groused, pointing to it on my desk, not wanting to touch it.
She picked it up. “Something wrong with it?”
“It rings entirely too often.”
She grinned. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
“That’s exactly what Roxanne told me.”
“Really?” she squeaked. Lucy was normally on an even keel, nose to the grindstone, but just mention Roxanne, and lesbian Lucy went ditsy. She could barely conceal her infatuation with my Chicago friend, now a married woman. Roxanne, in turn, took this doting as a profound compliment, a response rooted not so much in tolerance as in vanity.
“She sends her best, by the way,” I lied.
Lucy beamed. When her feet touched ground again, she ask
ed, “So what’s the problem with the phone?”
I sighed. “It’s not just that it rings too often; it’s how it rings. It’s doing William Tell.”
“Huh?” A computer whiz, a crack researcher, and a true-blue techie, Lucy was left-brain all the way. Artswise, she was clueless.
I sang, “Ta-da-dump, ta-da-dump, ta-da-dump-dump-dump …”
“Hi-yo, Silver!”
“Yeah. Can you fix it? Please?”
She shook her head out of pity for my helplessness, studied the phone for a moment, then tapped a sequence of buttons so quickly you’d have thought she was dialing her own number. “What would you like? They’ve got Brahms’ lullaby …”
“Just make it ring,” I said wearily, “like a phone.”
She shrugged—I was hopelessly square. “How’s this?” She played a demo.
“Fine, Lucy. Thanks.”
Placing the phone in its charger on my desk, she said, “As long as I’m here, I was wondering about our coverage of the merger tomorrow. Can I assume Charles Oakland will attend the ceremonial signing?” She winked, acknowledging the open secret of my pen name.
I laughed. “He’ll be there.” Then I frowned. “Unless …” I strolled to the conference area in my outer office.
Lucy followed me. “Hmm?”
“Those due diligence issues raised by Tyler Pennell—let’s just say that Gillian Reece and Perry Schield don’t see eye to eye on the best means of addressing them. Truth is, Gillian doesn’t want to address them at all.”
“The signing is scheduled for tomorrow at noon, so I’m holding most of page one for Friday morning’s edition.”
“I hate to say it, but I think we should have an alternate layout as backup.” Trying to be helpful, I suggested, “Between now and then, something will blow up in the Mideast.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “The deal’s in jeopardy?”
I sat at the round table. “I don’t know. I hope not.” Reconsidering, I added, “I’m not sure what I hope.”
Sitting in the next chair, she asked warily, “Should I be taking notes?”
“No, but let me fill you in.” My mounting concerns fell into two categories, so I detailed for Lucy, first, what I knew of the accounting inconsistencies discovered by Tyler Pennell in his perusal of the books at Ashton Mills. Second, and even more disturbing, was the animosity and physical violence that seemed to be spreading from Gillian Reece like a virus. “Until yesterday, I’d only seen bitch slaps on soap operas, but—”
“Since when do you watch soap operas?”
“Well,” I admitted, “I used to watch Dynasty.”
Lucy grinned. “Joan Collins fan?”
“Of course. And, brother, she could really smack’em. What a hoot. Point is, till yesterday, I’d never witnessed the real thing, and it was anything but funny. I’ve now seen four of these assaults, all involving Gillian Reece—twice pitching, twice catching.”
“Really, Mark, sports metaphors just aren’t your strong suit. Don’t even try.” Lucy crossed her trousered legs.
“And oddly”—I paused before I gave words to my thought—“Glee started it.”
Through a skeptical laugh, Lucy said, “Glee? You make her sound like a playground bully.”
“It’s a disturbing image, I know. Glee gave me the whole story—a romantic feud with Gillian during their college days. Though I don’t approve of physical aggression, I can understand what motivated her. More to the point, it seems Gillian also understood, as if she knew she had it coming. Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. Now it’s open season.”
“Well, at least Glee’s out of the fray. She apologized by phone yesterday, and her piece on the house ran this morning.”
I nodded. “Neil and I ran into her as we were leaving the Reeces’ today. Glee was heading inside to make amends in person—and to set up a photo shoot for her Sunday feature. I warned her she was walking into a hornets’ nest.”
“I wonder how Glee made out.” Lucy reached for the phone on the conference table. “If we’re serious about running a photo feature on Sunday, we need to get hopping.” She tapped in Glee’s extension, waited a moment, then groaned. “Voice mail. I’ll try Connie.” So she dialed again, asking the downstairs receptionist, “Is Glee in the building?” She listened, then said, “Thanks, Connie,” and hung up.
I asked, “Well?”
Fingers to chin, thinking, Lucy reported, “Glee hasn’t been in the office since she left for the Reece house—hours ago.”
I instinctively stood. “I’m going over there.”
Lucy stood. “I want to go with you.”
So I grabbed my keys and my phone, and we left.
Chapter Eleven
Driving Lucy to the edge of town, I wondered aloud, “Wouldn’t Glee let us know if something had … gone wrong?” My question was prompted not by a premonition of what, precisely, might have gone wrong, but by the series of confrontations I had witnessed that morning. I wasn’t sure of the exact definition of “bad karma” (perhaps Tamra Thaine could explain it to me), but I knew it when I saw it, and I had seen it in the Reeces’ living room.
“Of course she would,” said Lucy, trying to sound convinced. “Besides, you know Glee—she keeps her own schedule. It doesn’t mean a thing that we haven’t heard from her.”
Ironically, Lucy’s reassuring words seemed only to heighten our concerns. We rode the rest of the way in silence, our somber mood within the car seeming at odds with the colorful autumn landscape that blurred past the windshield.
As we entered the wooded development, I asked, “Have you seen the house yet?” I inflected the question with a bouncy tone, as if the purpose of our drive had no more urgency than sight-seeing.
Lucy shook her head. “From everything I hear, I’m in for a treat.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” I tried not to sound facetious.
When we turned the last corner and the new house came into view, Lucy gasped. “Wow, I see what you mean.” The lilt of her voice conveyed not only her enthusiasm for Neil’s impressive architecture, but a sense of relief that our fretting seemed unwarranted. It was apparent at a glance that Glee was not there; her fuchsia hatchback, conspicuous anywhere, was nowhere in sight. In fact, the only vehicle parked at the house was Gillian’s hulking Bentley.
“That’s odd,” I said, pulling to the curb in front of Gillian’s car. “When I was here this morning, there was hardly room to park, with trucks all over the place.” Among those trucks had been the Draper Studios van, now gone.
Removing her seat belt and opening the door, Lucy suggested, “Maybe they all went to lunch; it’s noon.”
With a sidelong glance, I told her, “I didn’t know tradesmen ‘did’ lunch.”
“You snob.”
“I mean, don’t they generally bring something to the job?”
“Beats me. I’m an office gal.” This was a first—Lucy referring to herself as anything other than a woman.
As we got out of the car, I paused, looking up and down the vacant stretch of curb. “I’ll bet the job is done. Gillian was really cracking the whip, and she knew about that photo feature. Shall we ask her if everything is ironed out with Glee?” I gestured toward the brick walk to the front door.
“Lead on,” said Lucy, and I escorted her up the walkway to the stylized but unpretentious portico that framed the home’s entrance.
When I had visited twice before, Neil had accompanied me, walking through the front door unannounced. Amid the surrounding activity of landscaping and decorating crews, this seemed appropriate. Now, however, with the work finished and the lady of the manor home alone, the construction site had been instantly transformed into a private residence. Standing at the door, I rang the bell.
As we waited, Lucy looked about, taking it all in. “Now I understand what Glee meant in this morning’s headline about ‘the “ah” factor.’ It’s breathtaking.”
I was delighted that Lucy shared Glee’s enthusia
sm for Neil’s work; I shared it as well. But at the moment, I was wondering how long it would take Gillian to answer the door. Had she not heard the bell? Was she soaking in the tub? Or was she simply ignoring us? I pressed the button again.
Lucy said, “I didn’t hear chimes. Maybe they’re not connected yet. Try the knocker.”
Nodding at this reasonable suggestion, I grasped the handsome, massive brass knocker (which Neil had sent to a metal finisher for nickel plating, claiming, “Yellow metal always looks cheap”) and gave the door a couple of solid clanks. As I did so, the door opened gently before us; though it had been closed, the lock had not caught. Poking my head inside, I called, “Gillian? It’s Mark Manning.” Hearing no response, I added, “Anyone home?”
Under her breath, Lucy told me, “Maybe she’s on the crapper.”
Wincing at the image Lucy had conjured, I told her, “Gillian’s not the type.”
“What does that mean?” asked Lucy through a blurt of laughter.
I wanted to shush her, but I wasn’t sure why. For some reason, I felt as if our presence there, with my foot through the door, was stealthy. Sidestepping the issue of Gillian’s bodily functions, I wondered, “Where is she?”
Lucy grinned. “Maybe she’s out on a lunch break with the paperhangers.”
“No,” I said, looking through the doorway, glancing about the foyer, “the walls are finished.” Meaningfully, I added, “But the windows are not.” I stepped inside.
Lucy followed. “My God,” she said, moving to the middle of the foyer, “it’s a palace!”
I doubt if Neil would have appreciated the description, as his quest had been to build a home of understated elegance, with the emphasis on understated. To Lucy’s eyes, however, it was glamour beyond reckoning—and she had seen only the front hall. “Wait till you see the living room,” I told her.
She wandered about the foyer, running her hand over the marble top of a sideboard. “Why, we could get a photographer in here yet this afternoon—except for those boxes.” She wrinkled her nose at the cartons from Draper Studios that stood unopened beneath each window.
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