In Plain Sight

by Lorena McCourtney

  “I’m sorry.” To me a failed marriage is a cause for sorrow.

  She ignored my sympathies. Or perhaps she thought I was apologizing for my obvious curiosity.

  “This photo was taken …” she paused, as if running some time line through her head, “about six years ago, so he’d look older now. His hair is probably shorter. And maybe darker, since he was bleaching it then.”

  “You looked different then too.” Then I mentally kicked myself for the insensitive comment. But it was true. Even the beautiful wedding gown and veil couldn’t hide the fact that she was considerably heavier in the photo than she was now. “I didn’t see the hair of the man with binoculars,” I went on hastily. “He had a droopy old hat pulled down on his head. But this definitely isn’t him.”

  “Did you see a car?”

  “No. I figured he’d probably parked in the city park like almost everyone who walks on the trail does. You think your ex-husband may be in the area?” I added cautiously. I knew I was overstepping housekeeper bounds here, but I asked anyway.

  Not that it did me any good. She ignored the question. “Describe the man you saw to me again.”

  So I did. I wished my subconscious would toss up some helpful tidbit I’d missed before, but my subconscious must have been snoozing that day.

  “Did he ask any questions?”

  “Not a one. Actually, once he realized I’d seen him, he seemed anxious to get away as fast as possible.”

  “Nothing unusual about his voice? No accent or anything?”

  I considered that suggestion thoughtfully. Perhaps my subconscious hadn’t been totally asleep. “Now that you mention it, maybe a smidgen of British accent. But he didn’t say more than a half dozen words, so I can’t say for certain.”

  I had the impression that my description of the man, skimpy as it was, meant something to her. Especially the deep tan and British accent details. I thought she might go back in the office and produce a different photo. Another husband? An unfortunate possibility, in these days of fast-food marriages. But she just stood there, frowning slightly as she tapped the wedding photo with the back of a forefinger.

  “Does he sound like someone you might know?” I asked.

  She didn’t ignore that question. She lifted her head and gave me a cool stare that put me in my place. I thought she was definitely annoyed by my curiosity, but she came out of her office just before 2:00, shortly after I heard the phone ring, and astonished me by handing me a key.

  “I’ll be gone one night this week. I don’t know yet which night it may be, but the house will be locked when you arrive in the morning, so you’ll need a key to get in. I’ll expect you to put in the same hours as usual. If you have spare time, you can work on the books in the library.”

  The door was indeed locked when I arrived Friday morning. I let myself in with the new key, rather looking forward to being on my own for the day. Not that I had all that much contact with Leslie on any day, and she certainly never hovered over me. But the day suddenly felt looser, like the freedom that came with removing an old fifties-era girdle.

  Yet when I stepped inside, I stopped short. The house felt … odd. Not the silence. Leslie never had music from radio or CD player blaring. Not the lack of homey scents. Whatever Leslie ate for breakfast never left any lingering scent. Not the closed office door. It was always closed when I arrived. Not even the emptiness. Unless Leslie was in the same room with me, which wasn’t often, I was barely aware of her presence.

  I rushed to the door that connected with the garage. Empty. The Mercedes was gone.

  So, nothing strange here. Leslie had simply gone away overnight, as she’d clearly said she planned to do. What had I expected from the odd feeling of emptiness—a mystery-novel scenario? Her body dramatically sprawled on the curved staircase or draped over the satin bedspread? A kidnapper’s note?

  I put on the coffeemaker and filled the kitchen with lovely scents of the mocha blend I’d found in the back of a cupboard. I turned on the unused radio hidden in a cabinet in the kitchen, and Alan Jackson sang about the Chattahoochee. I opened the windows and let in spring air and the cheerful chatter of a couple of blue jays.

  And then I had this awful urge to snoop. I’d been almost everywhere in the house. It was my duty to poke into corners and clean medicine cabinets and put away fresh laundry. But I’d never been beyond the doorway of the office, and the urge to open the door and prowl was like a Godiva truffle pulling a chocoholic. I wanted to open drawers. Peer in the file cabinet. Examine those manila files and papers scattered all over the room. Turn on the computer and mouse-click into secrets.

  I was appalled. How could I even think such a thing? I instantly plunged into a whirlwind of vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, and laundering. I didn’t even try the office door to see if it was locked. Lead us not into temptation, Lord! By noon, I had the necessities taken care of and dug into that treasure trove of books, which finally put the unacceptable urge to snoop to rest.

  I spent a wonderful four hours there, because, without Leslie present, I granted myself permission to stay a couple of hours extra to luxuriate in the books. I found the master list she’d said existed and checked off books as I found them. William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Pearl Buck. But also Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, and even a Frank Peretti. Nonfiction ranged from astronomy to botany, philosophy to ancient history. I started shelving fiction alphabetically by author, separating the hardcovers and paperbacks. There was no better system for organizing nonfiction than the good old Dewey Decimal System used in libraries, but I’d have to refresh my memory on the numbers.

  I was strongly tempted to take a Mary Higgins Clark mystery home to read, but I decided that wouldn’t be ethical without asking Leslie’s permission first. I set the book aside so I could ask later.

  Leslie hadn’t yet returned when I left for the day. I was burning with curiosity, of course, wondering where she’d gone and what she was doing. Financial business? Conference with an out-of-town lawyer about the gate-ramming neighbor? Male friend? Or had this something to do with her ex-husband or the man I’d seen on the dock? Or maybe she just liked to get away and shop and take in a bit more culture than Woodston offered. Fayetteville had all the activities connected with the University of Arkansas.

  She did not inform me where she’d been when I went to work the next morning, but the trip certainly had not put her in a good mood. This day, although the office door was closed, she was on the outside of it. She prowled the house like a cat looking for some unsuspecting mouse to pounce on. And complaining.

  She asked would I please clean the stain out of the cabinet in her bathroom. She spoke as if it had been there for weeks, although I knew the cabinet had been spotless two days ago. She called somewhere and went into what Sandy calls “riot mode” because some mechanic couldn’t take the Mercedes for servicing until next week. She complained that a soiled blouse I’d set aside for dry cleaning didn’t need that expensive handling, and why wasn’t I hand-washing it? She complained that I hadn’t put the chair in her bedroom back where it belonged when I vacuumed.

  Right. It was at least six inches away from where it usually stood.

  By this time I was ready to shove her in the office and nail the door shut.

  I was relieved when she finally did disappear into the office after lunch. I cleaned up the kitchen and started the dishwasher, thankful that I could now spend a few minutes with the quiet, uncomplaining books. But when I crossed the living room I was startled to look out and see someone sitting—no, lounging, as if he owned the place—on the broad curve of front steps.

  His back was to me, so all I could see was his green windbreaker and a baseball cap. I wavered between yelling at the guy to beat it and telling Leslie there was a trespasser out there. Even with her present surly mood I settled on the latter and tapped on the closed office door.

  “There’s someone sitting on the front steps. Should I call 911 or the police? Or—”


  Leslie threw open the office door and marched to the double doors opening onto the lake side of the house. She jerked one door open, and I assumed she intended to order the intruder off the property in no uncertain terms. Perhaps even bodily eject him. But she stopped so short that I almost whammed into her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Leslie was not one to gasp, but this was definitely a gasp. She apparently recognized the guy from the back. When he turned and grinned I realized who he was. The ex-husband in the photo. With the same cocky grin.

  “I figure there’s enough of my money in this Tara of the Ozarks where you’ve been hiding out that I’m entitled to a spot on the steps. Great view,” he added approvingly.

  Always icy calm, Leslie now sputtered like an overheated teakettle. I had the impression she was so furious she didn’t know which of his statements to attack first.

  “I haven’t been hiding out,” she snapped.

  “No one’s known where you were. Although you’re lookin’ good, Les. Very good. Down … what? Sixty pounds, maybe even seventy?”

  She ignored the weight numbers. “I’ve been living here exactly like any other resident.”

  “But using your maiden name,” he pointed out. Which gave me no clue as to his name, of course.

  About that time I realized I probably shouldn’t be standing here eavesdropping on this conversation. But no one said anything about my leaving, or even seemed aware I was present. So who was I to jump to the conclusion that I should remove myself?

  “My maiden name is my name. I’ve had it longer than I had … yours. In any case, everyone here knows who I am.”

  “Yeah. Right. The mysterious lady in the Scarlett O’Hara house.”

  “And you, the guy who successfully hacked into the Pentagon, didn’t have any problem coming up with my address, of course.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it was no problem. You’ve done a fair job of cutting yourself off from the gang. And it took me a while to come up with the phone number.” He recited a number that, from the angry tightening of her mouth, had to be her unlisted number.

  “How did you get it?”

  He grinned. “Vee haf our ways,” he said with a waggle of eyebrows.

  Leslie was not amused. “Did you try to call me?”

  “I thought, just for old time’s sake, a face-to-face visit would be preferable. Although your hospitality technique could use a tune-up,” he added reproachfully.

  “Did you send Michael to look for me?”

  “Michael? What makes you think that?”

  “Someone reported seeing a person of his description over on the other side of the lake. Michael never did know when to quit with the tan. One of these days his skin’s going to look like a steak left too long on the barbecue. He was watching this place with binoculars.”

  “Actually, I haven’t had much contact with Michael or either of our other partners since the demise of a certain dot-com company. If Michael has been watching you, he’s done it on his own. We’re not working together. Maybe he’s a bit … ah … miffed about what you did.”

  The sarcastic emphasis on miffed implied a considerably stronger emotion than that moderate word suggested.

  Leslie crossed her arms across her chest. “Okay, so you’re here. So what?” she challenged.

  The guy rose from his sitting position on the steps and lounged against one of the front pillars. He pushed the baseball cap back on his head, revealing a tumble of blond curls. “A lawsuit comes to mind.”

  “I didn’t do anything illegal, and there’s no money of yours in this place. It’s all mine, money, house, everything. Fair and square.”

  “Fair and square?” He quirked a blond eyebrow. “That’s a matter of opinion. California has community property laws, you know.”

  “All that was settled in the divorce. You got your share of CyberPowerAds; I got mine. The sale of my share of the company was after the divorce. No community property involved.”

  “Perhaps some high-powered lawyers and a judge will put a different spin on things. Perhaps concealment and inside information during the divorce settlement should be considered.”

  “You had as much inside information as I did. You were just too stupid, or egotistical, to use it.”

  “I see your sharp tongue hasn’t lost its edge. That may get you in trouble one of these days.”

  “Oh, woe is me.” She put a hand to her throat. “However will I live with myself, knowing my sharp tongue may have wounded you.”

  He ignored the mock melodrama, although the cocky grin had disappeared. His head tilted thoughtfully. “At the very least, you have to admit that what you did was unethical.”

  “Being smart is unethical?” She laughed suddenly, no humor attached. “You are lecturing me about ethics?”

  “I have ethics.” He managed to sound offended.

  “Oh, really? Is that what you and the redheaded bombshell were doing in her apartment all the time, discussing ethics? I hired a private investigator, in case you didn’t know.”

  “You and I were divorced by the time Rhonda and I—”

  “What you did after the divorce is not now and never has been of any interest to me. I don’t know anything about a Rhonda. I’m talking about a Wendy, and we were very much married then.” She studied him with an open sneer. “What do you have, a Redheads-R-Us to provide a steady supply?”

  He ignored the taunt. “In any case, our personal differences didn’t give you the right to sabotage the company.”

  “I didn’t sabotage the company! I simply got out when the getting was good. If the rest of you wanted to ride CyberPowerAds off into some cyberspace sunset or wherever it is dead dot-com companies go, that was your business.”

  “You took the other partners in the company, including me, for almost two million bucks!” he yelped. “We all went up to our ears in debt to buy you out.”

  “As I recall, all of you jumped at the chance to buy my share of the company. I think, in fact, there was some glee about putting something over on me. Perhaps taking advantage of the situation of my not wanting to be in partnership with you anymore.”

  “A belief you fostered.”

  “A smart investor knows when to get in and when to get out. I’m a smart investor. You’re not. Now get off my property before I call the police. There are No Trespassing signs all over the place. Which you ignored.”

  He hesitated, his fists clenched, and for a moment I thought something more than words was going to explode between them. Then he lifted the baseball cap, ran his fingers through the curly blond hair, and replaced the cap. The cocky, daredevil grin returned. “Expect to hear from my lawyer.”

  “Expect to hear back from mine.”

  He looked at her warily. Her confidence probably told him, as it did me, that she had her legal bases covered. “There’s more than one way to settle the score,” he said finally, with a stare as frigid as the inside of Leslie’s enormous freezer. “No lawyers involved.”

  “Are you threatening me?” She hesitated, as if for the first time wondering if it was possible that she didn’t hold the winning hand here. “I remember you used to have a gun—”

  “Sweetheart, I’d have to stand in line to take a shot at you.” He blew Leslie a kiss and sauntered off, taking his time before disappearing around the corner of the house.

  I expected Leslie to snap something at me standing there practically open-mouthed, watching and listening to everything, but she brushed past me as if I didn’t exist. She disappeared into her office and didn’t come out again before it was time for me to leave.

  I went home feeling both curious and unsettled. And when I got there I received a surprise of my own. Apparently this was a day for unexpected visitors.

  11

  I recognized the vehicle immediately, and my visitors were a more pleasant surprise to me than Leslie’s ex-husband had been to her. Who else owns a behemoth with an enormous mural of a bumblebee hovering over a h
uge magnolia blossom emblazoned on the back?

  Magnolia Margollin, my neighbor from back on Madison Street, rushed out of the motor home the minute my Thunderbird rolled into the driveway.

  “Ivy!” She wrapped her arms around me and gave me one of her big, bosomy hugs, all-enveloping as a wraparound pillow. “It’s so good to see you! Running off without a word—”

  “I left a note on your back door. And I told Dix and Haley to get in touch and tell you I was fine.”

  She stood back, still holding my hand, and looked me over critically. “Well, yes, you do look fine.”

  Magnolia looked fine too, her robust, Victorian-style figure and creamy magnolia complexion radiating vigor and good health. Her hair was a ripe tomato now, piled into a coronet on top her head and decorated with a silk magnolia in back. Her earrings were also magnolias, of course. Her gauzy caftan swirled around her in a dreamy mist of leafy green. As had occurred to me before, when I first discovered my own aged-into-invisibility status, flamboyant Magnolia would never be invisible.

  Husband Geoff came out of the motor home, his wiry figure in tan pants and khaki shirt a conservative foil for Magnolia’s splendor. He’s much more reserved than she is, but he gave me a hug too. I was so glad to see them, and yet I couldn’t help but feel dismay that they’d located me without apparent difficulty.

  “I didn’t think anyone knew where I was. How did you find me?” I asked, trying not to sound ungrateful that they were here.

  Magnolia laughed. “Oh, Ivy, where else would you be, except down here in Arkansas with the only family you have?”

  Well, no high-tech detective work involved here. Thirty seconds of thought, and Magnolia and Geoff had it figured out. And they were right. Where else would I be except here with niece DeeAnn and family? An elemental fact that the Braxtons, with minimal investigation, might also deduce.

  That brought me up short. But then I reasoned that if they hadn’t zapped me yet, they probably weren’t going to. No reason for them to delay if they had some lethal scheme in mind.