by Ron Hevener
On the drive back to Phantom Lake, Ben took a chance. “Hey, Joe. What’s going on back there?”
“Back there? Landfill.”
“What’s going on in the shed?”
“Those idiots? Funny, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said.
“Some kind of scientific experiment, Kid. That’s all I know. “Some of the guys think it could be military. But shut up about it. All you and me care about is getting’ paid. Paid and laid, right?” He lit a cigarette. “Ben,” he said. “If a farmer knows what’s good for him, Rule Number Four is: keep your mouth shut.”
“I think I have something on the project,” Ben said on the phone, describing what he had seen.
“How long has it been going on?” Wembly asked.
“Long enough for everybody to look the other way,” Ben said.
“Are they suspicious?”
“They act like it’s a joke. The government wasting money on some kind of big experiment. I think the construction company’s in on it somehow. I was told to keep my mouth shut.”
“I must thank you for taking this risk, Benjamin. I assure you, what you discovered is worth more to us than anything they are after. I’ll be at the farm tonight,” he said. “We have business to do.”
Sarah found a pair of mugs in the kitchen and Wembly made himself comfortable at the wooden table and chairs Ezra had made for her. “Hot chocolate?” she asked. “Only take a few minutes.”
“That would be nice. Thank you,” he said, noticing a picture of Sidney Leigh and Ben among several horse trophies and ribbons nearby. “They look very good together, those two,” he said.
Sarah smiled. “Ezra and I raised them like they were our own. I guess we weren’t surprised when they fell in love. I knew it since they were kids. Just natural, I guess. I mean, it’s not like they’re related or anything.” She brought sweet-smelling chocolate topped with whipped cream and joined him. “Your beverage, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the mug and sipping. “Delicious. And what a nice idea—the whipped cream.”
“That’s how my brother and I used to like it,’ she said, remembering a great childhood.
“Sidney Leigh’s father,” Wembly said. “You miss him, don’t you.”
“We’re never ready when they go,” she said, warming her fingertips on the cup and remembering the brother she loved. “Damn cars!” she said, making no attempt to hide her anger. “I miss him and his wife every day I live! If people still rode horses, we’d be a hell of a lot safer!” Whiskey would have been better than hot chocolate, she thought now.
“If everybody still rode horses,” Wembly said, wisely, “a lot more people would be dead than Sidney Leigh’s parents. Life takes precious things away from us. And always too soon. It’s part of the life experience, reminding us how precious is the gift.”
Sarah thought of Sidney Leigh when he said that. “Right now, I don’t know what I’d do without my niece. I have to stop thinking of her as just a kid.”
“I am sure, Sidney Leigh will help you with that,” he smiled.
She almost laughed now. “Well, she does lift my spirits!”
“Yes,” he said. “She is a young lady with a sense of humor! Was it not Sidney Leigh who saw herself as a fashion model?”
Sarah smiled and nodded. “Ohhhhh, yessss. Until somebody reminded her she was only five feet tall and she made Ezra lower all the mirrors! And, when a schoolteacher said she was too heavy?” Sarah smiled. “She used her lunch money to send him a pizza loaded with the works—and only one piece left!”
“She is what we call wonderful!” Wembly said. “And I must speak with you about something the one she loves has discovered about Phantom Lake. May I?” he asked.
“Ben hasn’t mentioned anything special that I know of,” she said, curious. “He’s a lot like Ezra that way. They can both keep a secret. I mean, could. Ezra, I mean. Ezra had more secrets than anybody I ever knew. Like his will. And before he died, he was so upset. I know it was the medicine talking. But for God’s sake, Wembly, all those years together, he gave me anything I ever wanted. Spoiled me, really.”
“He did not think so,” Wembly said.
She considered that, but only for a moment. She had known Ezra better than anyone else could. But even when people think they share everything, there are walls that can’t be penetrated.
“Sarah, there is something bothering me.”
“What is it, Wembly?”
Hesitating at first, then sure how to ask, he said, “If there was a secret at Phantom Lake, would Ezra know it?”
His question struck her as odd. “What kind of secret? It wasn’t really a lake until the government damned it up. Up to then, it was just plain, old Phantom Creek.”
“I understand,” he said. “But one of our accountants has found a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” She waited.
He explained only that he must meet with Theodore Trimble, and that he wanted Ben with him.
“All you have to do is ask,” Sarah said. “He worships you. But why must you see Trimble? Are we in trouble? Is it something illegal?”
* * *
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
It was Trimble who picked the meeting place: A popular cafeteria on the lower level of the Paxton Building, directly across from the capitol campus in Harrisburg. Convenient and public enough to keep sensitive issues safe and tempers cool. He was late.
Wembly and Ben waited over coffee, his sweetened occasionally with grape jelly, as they glanced across the room or toward the busy entrance. It was lunch hour. They had hardly been able to find a parking space, and finally settled on a spot across the street even though it certainly meant a parking ticket.
Backlighted by sunlight in the entrance to the cafeteria, the dark outline of a man appeared, and from his slight hesitation, they knew their wait was over. Trimble nodded to them while crossing to the food line for a tray and a hot meal. Too fast, Wembly thought.
Clearly a regular here, the cafeteria workers seemed to know him and Trimble exchanged pleasantries openly. Delaying a few seconds with the cashier, he made his way to their table wearing the pleasant expression of a natural charmer, smooth and practiced as one becomes in the practice of politics and law. For the occasional few who thrive on such dynamics, he was in the perfect psychological arena.
Ben noticed the dark grey suit and matching tie, the slightly balding head and the sense that Trimble was proud of it. He noticed Trimble’s square face and the practiced way of shielding himself from unwanted intrusions past eyes that had seen plenty. Theodore Trimble was a man who controlled his own life and everything in it. “Mr.DeCroy!” he greeted Wembly. “Good to see you again. And, young Mr. Hoover! Wonderful that you’re so interested in the business now. Wonderful!” Friendly. Unruffled. Professional. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” he said. But, Theodore Trimble, Esq., of Trimble & Associates was uneasy. Keenly aware that DeCroy had never used his services before, his instincts told him the newly appointed trustee of Ezra Hoover’s estate would replace him as legal counsel. Now that he was in charge, DeCroy was probably planning to use his own legal firm in New York. Coldly speaking, he would probably do the same thing. He congratulated himself for getting the enemy to meet on his own turf. But why bother with niceties?
“It is good to see you again, also, Theodore. Perhaps we can find a more private table?” but they all knew that wasn’t likely during lunch hour. “I was hoping to speak with you more intimately,” Wembly said.
“Wonderful place!” Theodore smiled, making sure Wembly knew he didn’t care. “So alive! Don’t you think so?”
Suspecting what Trimble feared, that this was a meeting to replace him, Wembly made no particular effort to reassure him otherwise. But replacing attorneys was the furthest thing from his mind right now. Now, above all else, he was absorbed with business of a far greater concern than mere personality differences.
“Wha
t did you want to see me about that couldn’t be said in a letter or over the phone?” Theodore asked. “I’ve got to admit, I’m curious.”
Wembly took another sip of grape jelly coffee and replied evenly. “But a letter wouldn’t have done it, Theodore. Not between friends who have a history such as ours.”
Trimble sobered and paused. As he had suspected, the matter was serious. Crinkling his brow expectantly, he gestured with his hand as if to say, “Go on,” and Wembly seized the opportunity.
“There may be a problem involving the Phantom Lake project,” Wembly said. “If my information is correct, it is very serious for us. And I don’t think Ezra would have approved. If he did, and if he knew about it, then we have a deeper problem in the investment group than I realized.” Without taking his eyes off Trimble, he took another sip of coffee. “I need your help, Theodore. I must ask you not to discuss this with anyone other than myself, or Benjamin. And from now on, we can discuss this only in person. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Theodore said quietly.
About to speak words that terrified him, making the very hair on his arms stand on end, Wembly gazed into his coffee cup asking forces beyond himself for strength. “There were rumors,” he said. “At first, I dismissed them as too fantastic. Too out of character for Ezra. Not our style of doing business and completely opposite of what we believe in. But they came from sources too reliable for me to ignore.”
A waitress approached their table, “More coffee?” but Trimble ignored her. “I’ll come back,” she said, walking away.
“Is it possible,” Wembly asked directly, “that something has been found in the digging at Phantom Lake?”
“Like what?” Theodore said, playing cool.
“Something valuable enough that, if in the wrong hands, perhaps, the government would never want it to leave the country?”
At first, Trimble scoffed. But seeing how serious Wembly was—how deadly serious—he stopped. “What on earth could you possibly be talking about?” he insisted. “I know that land, Wembly. I know it. You can’t grow a damn thing on it! Nothing! Damn best thing Ruthie ever did was unload that paper on the government. I saw the studies for the project myself, personally. Every one of them. Surveys, perks, you name it! If there was anything on it at all, the government would know. For God’s sake, Ezra would be amazed Ruthie got anything out of it at all!”
“I understand what you are saying, Theodore. But I believe we must do some more checking. We need to look into this. Will you help me?”
“Yes. Yes, Wembly. Of course I will. Leave it to me.”
As Wembly and Ben stood to go, Trimble, wiping his mouth with a napkin, made an effort to stand also.
“Please,” Wembly protested by placing a hand on the attorney’s shoulder. “Enjoy your meal.”
Out of ear shot, Ben said, “That went pretty well. He seemed decent.”
“Perhaps he was thinking about us when he buttered his bread?”
“I didn’t look at it that way,” Ben said. “But I guess that always has to be factored in. Do you think he can lead us to anything?”
“That is very difficult to say, Benjamin.”
“Aunt Sarah doesn’t trust him.”
“Fortunately for us, looking for information, he is not her attorney. I never doubted Ezra’s reasons for working with anybody. I just didn’t always know why. Theodore Trimble and Ezra went back many years. All the way to Steitzburg Bank and the Crash. Did you know that?” Giving Ben the chance to answer, and knowing he couldn’t, Wembly finished. “That man back there is good at many things. But when it comes to getting what he wants, very few people are better.”
“And we want him to want to help us.”
“Your powers of observation are improving, mon frer.”
CHAPTER 13
Picture Perfect
Diane crosses her legs, then uncrosses them and just smiles her sure-fire look, meaning “Let’s talk more intimately…about the advertising campaigns,” she says.
“OK,” Ben says. “What would you like to know?”
“Well,” she almost squirms in her seat as if this part is difficult to bring up, “forgive me for saying this, but, weren’t they a little bit…cutsie?”
Completely caught off-guard by her set-up of the question, he can only laugh. “Diane,” he laughs again, “you could ask me anything here. And…well, I just wasn’t expecting such a nice question,” he admits.
She just looks at him and tilts her head slightly as if to say, “Well?”
“Refreshing, is what a lot of people said.” He smiles. “Thought-provoking.”
“Refeshing. Cute. They were certainly memorable among our viewers, I’m sure. Whose idea was it to campaign for The Good Life and work animals and fashion together like that, anyway? Having Nature look at us like that?” Her eyes say she’s hoping it was his. In which case, he can return the compliment of her own good ideas and she can get a plug for the show. Not that she needs it, but….
“That credit,” she hears him saying, “goes to my wife, Sidney Leigh.”
Diane is surprised. Astonished almost. “Ah, yes!” she acts as if she already knew, but there was no way for that. “We’ve met.”
Ben just smiles and shoots a quick glance off-camera.
* * *
Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Mattison Farm
Stretched out on a lounge chair, Ben was nothing short of handsome in an easy, jeans and T-shirt kind of way, when his lazy noon was interrupted by Sidney Leigh’s “how’s it goin’ Mr. hard-workin’ man?” Opening his eyes to see her shiny skin, wet from a dip in the pond, for a minute she was so much of a woman it scared him. Bending a leg and rolling on his side, he curled and smiled.
“Not talkin’ today?” she teased, tossing her curly, blonde hair and leaning to the side with one hip out.
He saw. He appreciated. He winked, just before she pushed his lounge chair over and ran for the water. “Hey!” Ben hollered—jumping up, ripping off his T-shirt and pulling off sweaty jeans as she romped away.
“Help!” she screamed, without meaning it. “I’m being attacked!” she teased, as she reached down and grabbed his shorts “Rape!” Who was raping who at that moment was as muddy as the water.
Laughing, he latched onto her suit and popped out loose, rosy-pink nipples bouncing off breasts all the whiter against her tan line. “Gotcha!”
Screaming, but loving the attention, she jumped at him with the fire of Hell. “Bully!” Then, diving with one powerful stroke, she lunged, pulled down his underwear and yanked.
“WHOA!!!” he yelped, loving it.
“Sidney! Sid!” It was Aunt Sarah calling from the house.
“Down here!” Sidney Leigh called from the pond.
“I need you guys to look at something!”
One last splash at each other. Gather up the clothes. Back to the house.
“To be continued?” he asked, sure of her answer.
“After supper tonight. In the barn,” she smiled. “Can’t wait!”
Sarah’s office at the farm was her place of refuge. A few trophies and ribbons, a few paintings and lots of books set the tone, and Arden’s scratched-up wooden desk made it all seem just right. Sidney Leigh made herself comfortable nearby and continued drying her hair with a towel.
“Take a look at these picture proofs of the horses,” Sarah said, adjusting her desk light. “I got Maxine Bochnia to take them.”
“She’s the best,” Sidney Leigh reassured her. “I’m sure they’re good.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m saying.”
Curious, Sidney Leigh waited for Sarah to explain.
“I mean, why do we only advertise in horse magazines?” She was serious. “I mean, think about it. Who can we reach that way, except our same old friends and competitors?”
“Well, yeah,” Sidney said. “But isn’t that the point?”
Sarah took off her glasses and grew even more serious. “The point, dear,
is to reach new customers. Especially now that Ezra’s gone and we have to be careful about making the right decisions.”
Silenced, but not for long, Sidney raised the question. “But you always make a sale or two from your ads, anyway. So, you must be doing something right. Right?”
“I want more, Sid. We’ve got some money to work with now and I want this farm to grow!” She got up and started walking around the room. “Ever since Wembly’s been here, I’ve been thinking about his horse Fashion Statement. And I started asking myself, wait a minute. The guy’s a designer, and you know, he’s on to something. We need to start asking ourselves what we’re really doing with this farm, Sid! We need to find people who think a horse is really something special and different. Like having a fancy car, or a great wardrobe—you know. A must have!”
“How can you find people like that?” Sidney wanted to know.
Sarah returned to her desk and smiled. “You find them exactly where Wembly DeCroy does,” she said, “fashion magazines. Ever since he got here, I’ve been talking to him. I mean, isn’t a horse fashionable? An accessory for some people? Part of their lifestyle? I know it sounds mercenary talking about animals that way. But stylish people like stylish things, and a lot of them don’t even know the first thing about finding a good horse. They don’t know where to buy the right equipment or how to dress, or anything! They need us, Sidney!”
“They need help!” Sidney Leigh caught the excitement.
“So I’ve already asked Wembly what he thinks the best magazine would be for us to test an ad in. It’ll cost an arm and a leg, and I can’t believe I said yes!” Bright for the first time in months, Sarah said, “I bought a whole page in Squire!”
Squire Magazine. It was the premiere magazine of fashion, with an international audience for Mattison Farm’s Arabian racehorses. It was daring. It was brilliant.