Blown Away
Page 26
Oh, yes. The kiss. And she hadn't even seen it, only heard a second-hand version from that worm, Spider. Suddenly, she wondered if he'd made the whole thing up. There was no question he was attracted to her, right from the git-go.
That morning at the job site she was looking for Mac, and Spider was looking at her. Most men did, the ones that still had a pulse.
Water, meet dam. This was no different than the moment her first husband and future NFL star blew up his knee and their marriage. She'd survived then, and she would now.
Honey slumped in the fake leather seat of her Lexus and ran down her rapidly dwindling list of options. Maybe she could borrow against the farm. She seemed to recall a commercial saying don't wait for your structured settlement—whatever that was— but to get your money now.
But now it was time to revisit the man who considered her more lovely than Mac described. Kingman something. The guy not wearing a wedding band. She rummaged in her purse, squirted Binaca in her mouth, and dabbed Dior's Poison on her pulse points.
Honey paused outside the office of her corporate lawyer and stared, unblinking, at the bright fluorescent ceiling lights. On cue the tear ducts responded, and her eyes brimmed as she pushed through the door.
“Oh, Kingman,” she wailed, after Margo had settled her in the visitor's chair, provided a tissue, and a glass of water, “I'm destitute!”
Margo rolled her eyes and left the pair alone, but settled behind her desk and pressed record on the intercom. The boss never took meetings without minutes.
“I just met with my banker, and found out I haven't a penny to my name. Everything is all tied up in something called prostate, and that awful coroner won't give me the certificate you want.”
She dabbed her eyes. “And I learned Shelly Varnish is a lousy lawyer.” She leaned forward to drop the tissue in the trash, giving King a good look at her tangible assets. “I'm at my wit's end, Kingman. You're our corporate council. Is there any way you can help me?” She sucked her lower lip.
“Pawn some of your jewelry.”
“Oh, Kingman, be serious.”
“Get a job?”
“That's better. What positions in the corporation have a nice salary? I majored in communications.”
“There aren't any. I thought you understood H. Poitrine and Associates is a shell. When I said get a job I meant a real one. Try Lowes, or Home Depot. Mac tells me you were selling ladders when he met you.”
She circled the desk, hiked her hemline, straddled his legs. “I'm looking for a more permanent solution.” Her lips brushed his ear. “With Mac gone, you control the purse strings.”
King grinned, eased her off his lap. “I'd like to help you, Honey,” he lied, “but I'm gay.”
—o—
Mac parked the company pickup on the street, followed a trio of businessmen into the lobby. Ignoring the elevators, he pulled open the steel-clad door to the fire stairs. His wingtip's leather heels echoed off the glazed brick walls as he climbed to the fourth floor.
Disguised in a pair of his wife's Ray-Bans, his own Ralph Lauren chalk stripe, and a brand-new Gucci necktie, he walked into the office of Kingman Brewster, Attorney at Law. Until he knew what the hell was going on he'd play dead man walking.
Margo did a double take, leapt to her feet, and pushed him back into the hallway. “Your wife is in there,” she whispered, dragging him into the fire stairs.
“What's she doing here?”
“From what I could hear, seducing King.” She opened the fire door. “Stay here until the coast is clear.”
—o—
King examined his client. “Hell of a disguise. You look like you just climbed out of your coffin.”
“I feel like a corpse.”
Margo returned from walking Honey to the elevator, stood in the doorway. This was real-life soap opera, and she wasn't going to miss a minute.
Mac said, “I was blown out of my boots, and into the Susquehanna. The radio says there was a body, and an arrest. What can you tell me?”
King shrugged. “News to me. I've been dealing with a threatening lawsuit from the Redevelopment Authority. They're trying to claw back the two point three, and I sent your junior vice president out of town while I deal with it. I'm going to suggest likewise for you.”
“And leave Honey to face the music?” Mac smiled at the scenario. “Serve her right.”
“Do I detect marital disharmony?”
Mac ignored the question. “Margo said she's been up here twice? In between visits she tried to borrow against the farm. Left my banker standing at the church.” He didn't mention Spider's phone message. “What's she up to, King?”
“Her husband is missing, and she's broke. No corpse, no death certificate, no inheritance.” King raised his boots to his desk. “Not for seven years.”
“This is beginning to sound like a movie plot.”
Margo grinned. “Tom Hanks on a desert island.”
“I can't be missing for seven years; I have a business to run.”
King explained, “Not until I deal with this lawsuit. I just learned OSHA has stopped all work at the site. I advise you to join young Magnolia on her Caribbean vacation. A month should do it.”
“Vacation?”
“I sent her to Belize. If the corporate officers can't be called to appear in court, the suit will fade like a summer's tan.”
“Won't they subpoena the president?”
“Five minutes on the witness stand, and your wife will have them wishing they hadn't called her. I won't even have to cross.” He dropped his boots back to the floor, stood. “Believe me, Mac, their suit isn't going anywhere.”
“Neither am I. If I'm missing, I can't use my credit cards. I'm broke as Honey.” He laughed for the first time since this morning, when he told Mags to sign his name, and blame Honey. “Dead broke.”
King opened his desk drawer, handed his client an envelope. “Take our petty cash.”
“I can't leave the country. My passport is in the safe deposit box.”
“No problem. I have your power of attorney. Give me the key, I'll go get it.”
“You can do that? If I'm dead, I mean.”
“Mac, I hate to break it to you, but you're not dead. Missing, yes. Legally, there's a difference.”
Mac fished out his wallet, removed the key. To Margo he said, “That's why the lawyers get the big bucks.”
King dropped the key in his pocket, checked his watch. “Back in twenty minutes.”
After an awkward few minutes of silence Mac checked his Timex. Still ticking. “You want to go get a coffee?”
Margo smiled at his unease. She was in King's chair, behind the desk. “If you need coffee, Mr. McClintock, we have a Keurig machine. Your fifteen minutes of fame aren't up. Your face has been all over the TV since the explosion.”
She'd known him since he won the bid to tear down the Iron Works, and hired Kingman. Spent hours with him during contract negotiations, filings, motions. Doing the paralegal paperwork of business.
He struck her as a man more at home in jeans and a hard hat than a very nice suit and a necktie that had to have cost him a bundle. Make that cost his wife a bundle. Honey was a piece of work, and she wondered how they'd come to be married.
As if reading her mind, he said, “Can I ask you a question? What's your opinion of my wife?”
“Snap judgments are dangerous, and you know what they say about first impressions. I only met her an hour ago, when she arrived with her lawyer and your will.”
She hesitated, deciding just how far to go. It was painfully obvious this poor man hadn't a clue. In the few minutes she'd spent with the daughter it was clear the kid was smart as a whip, and head over heels in love. And the mother had invested in a long-term asset that had matured, and she expected to cash it in for full face value.
Without editorializing she said, “She expected Kingman to just hand her a check. But most people do; they don't understand what probate involves.” She smiled.
“A visit to a lawyer is like seeing a doctor. You tend to put yourself in their hands, until they tell you something you don't want to hear. Then you suddenly acquire a medical degree of your own.”
Mac laughed. “Honey never let facts sway her opinion.”
“But I bet she has a woman's instinct for the end game.” Margo studied Mac, uncomfortable in his suit. She suspected Honey had picked it out, trying to mold the man into her vision of a successful businessman, never realizing she had a diamond in the rough, and some women like them that way. “Your wife checked out Kingman, decided he was screwing me, which automatically made him seduceable.”
Mac blushed. He'd wondered what their relationship was, but not enough to ask King. It was none of his business. “She does that. I think it goes back to her days selling those stupid ladders. She told me a carney taught her how to read a crowd, find the marks. With my wife, sooner or later, everyone's a mark.”
He stripped off his tie, shoved it in a pocket. “That said, she's helped me. A lot. I had all the social graces of a baboon when we got together. Couldn't tie a proper Windsor knot.
“Honey and her daughter played a big part in getting me to a point where I even needed to hire a corporate lawyer. You met Congressman Varnish. He's the one who brought the money here, but my wife is the one who got him to do it.”
Margo liked this guy. A refreshing change from the parade of slicksters who passed through the office, always with some angle needing Kingman's imprimatur. “The boss is old money, The New England Brewsters. I'm from Minnesota, land of ten thousand blondes. In a way, I'm like your wife. Playing a part. Kingman wants a paralegal with the icy coolness, the look-but-don't-touch, atmosphere of K Street. He says my job is to intimidate the local rubes. His term.”
She crossed her legs with a swish of nylon, let a pump dangle from her toes. “You're a different breed, Mr. McClintock. You actually do something useful, even if it's just tearing down old buildings. My dad builds decks and gazebos, and like your stepdaughter, I learned to swing a hammer at an early age.”
His raised eyebrows made her laugh. She said, “I can see my disguise is working. Kingman's plan is for me to finish law school, marry him, and be a partner in the firm.”
“You say that's his plan. What's yours?”
She stood, smoothed her skirt, moved to the window, and looked down at the traffic. “The same. Or go home, and work for my dad. Marry some high school sweetheart, and make grandchildren.”
She turned. It was time to go out on a limb, give their client a nudge. “Your stepdaughter impressed the heck out of me. Even grief-stricken she has the savvy of a lawyer, which you may take as an insult. She caught on to your financial situation in a flash. Asked about liability insurance. And was smart enough to listen to Kingman's advice. So should you. Go to Belize, get a tan.” And get to know your stepdaughter.
King strode through the door, passport in hand. “Listen to Margo. Is she terrific, or what?”
—o—
He left the company truck in long term parking, paid cash for a one-way ticket to Belize. Honey would hitch a ride with someone; she wouldn't starve. Margo was deciding to marry the boss, or go home. He had a few weeks to make a similar decision.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Honey yanked open the door of her Lexus, made a point of banging it against the Porsche.
Her trip from town to the farm seemed to take forever. She was so distracted she missed the farm lane, and had to put her rear end in the ditch to make a U-turn. Thank the Lord the Lexus had front wheel drive.
She unlocked the front door, dropped her Gucci on the piecrust table, and wearily climbed the stairs. Time to swallow one of mother's little helpers, and sleep for a week, a month, forever.
That damned lawyer enjoyed her misery, and his little assistant, walking her to the elevator and oozing false sympathy, was just rubbing salt in her grief.
She wished Mac were alive so she could kill him. Because it was all his fault, making her president, giving her a false sense of security for years, knowing all the while she was at his mercy.
She'd bet her daughter was in on it. Why else did she have a key to a box full of cash? The pair of them, colluding against her. Was it any wonder she was distraught?
She bypassed the master suite and walked down the hall to Mag's pigsty. Honey suspected her daughter smoked dope, and if there was ever a time to smoke some herself, it was now.
It had been years since she'd gotten high; weed was on every set, as well as blow and an assortment of uppers, but she refrained, not wanting to be a bad influence on little Magnolia.
Well, little Mags was grown up now. And gone. Only she couldn't find a stash; maybe she was wrong about Mags. She'd been wrong about an awful lot, lately, and it was time to drown her sorrows the old fashioned way, with booze.
She took the backstairs to the kitchen, found a recorked bottle of champagne in the fridge. Curious. She raised the bottle to her lips and swallowed. Damn, but that icy, bubbly tingle was heavenly. To hell with a glass; she carried the champagne back upstairs, and opened the door to the master suite.
And screamed.
Just when she was sure it couldn't get any worse, it did.
Spider was sprawled on the bed, watching Days of our Lives on Honey's flatscreen.
He had a bottle of Rolling Rock in his hand, and he aimed it at the television. “You think this Jack guy is good looking?”
She glanced at the screen, playing for time. “Of course he is. All soap stars are. You think their audience wants to look at ugly people? They can do that with a mirror.” She furiously searched for some way Spider could resolve her calamity. There wasn't one, so she said, “Turn it off, Spider, and get the hell out of my bed, my house, my life.”
Spider had the Rothenbuhler in a fresh ziplock bag. He raised it between his thumb and forefinger, waved it at her. “Before you call the cops to throw me out, you need to know your finger prints, and only your fingerprints, are on this device.” He cupped his crotch and made smoochy sounds. “Slip off those heels, sweet cheeks, and join me.” He turned up the volume. “Jack's about to get lucky.”
Honey was nothing, if not a survivor. She gritted her teeth and manufactured a smile. “Spider, darling. I wouldn't think of calling the cops. I just got back from a meeting with the bank and my lawyer. All of Mac's money is tied up, so we have to somehow keep Poitrine & Associates going for seven years, or there won’t be anything left to inherit.”
Seven years was plenty of time to put Spider and his damned Rothenbuhler at the bottom of Lake Magnolia.
Spider rolled off the bed, saying, “Spider, seven years with this woman is too much for the both of us.”
“You got that right. Let's go find someone normal.”
—o—
Mags had stored her gear in the bunkhouse, met the rest of the crew, geezers all, but skilled electricians, plumbers, and roofers, and she looked forward to learning new skills. If she ever made it back to Wilkes-Barre she'd decide if she wanted to join a construction crew, or go to college. Either way, she'd be honoring Daddy Mac's memory.
The old guys liked to knock off early, and as the newbie on the crew, the afternoon beer run was Mag's last task of the day. With Belize's drinking age at eighteen, she quickly developed a taste for Lighthouse lager.
Harpoon Willie's was on the beach, and a short bike ride from Habitat's offices. Mags pedaled off to pick up a couple of six packs and relax with her new friends.
She coasted to a stop behind a no-tan tourist sitting at a table beneath a Belikan Beer umbrella, with a frosted bottle in front of him. Her heart skipped a beat as she climbed off her bicycle, but Mags tried to play it cool. “Well, look who the tide washed in.” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slipped into the seat across from her father, reached across the table, and squeezed his hands.
Mac winked. “Aren't you going to kiss me hello?”
The End
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Fice
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight