by Dianne Emley
Lorraine breathed out in disgust. “You think I want money?”
“Why else are you here?”
Lorraine looked dully at Barbie. “My life in Salt Lake City is ruined. You revealed my…sexuality…to my family. I never wanted that.”
“You’d rather keep the real you hidden?”
“It was better than having my family disown me. Better than having my father tell me that I’m no longer welcome in the house where I grew up.” She abruptly stood. “I sacrificed everything for you!” she shouted. “Everything! And then you left me. Alone. With nothing. You didn’t just steal my money, you stole my family, my dignity, my self-respect”—she swung out her arm and sent the vase of flowers tumbling over, spilling water and petals on the table and floor—“my sanity! You can’t write a check big enough to cover that.”
“Well, what in God’s name do you want from me?” Barbie whispered.
“What I want, Charlotte, or whoever the hell you are, is the dream. I want the dream. I want what I gave up my old life for. What you promised me. You owe me that. You owe me you.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Yeah. And you know what?” Lorraine walked slowly toward Barbie, who stepped back. “I don’t care. I’m tired of trying to live how other people tell me to live, of being poked at and prodded and having people dig through my head and my dreams, telling me, ‘Don’t do that, do this, don’t say that, say this,’ and trying to make me into something I’m not. If I’m crazy, I’m gonna stay crazy. Sanity is too much work.”
Barbie caught herself walking backward and stood her ground. Lorraine walked close to her. She reached out her hand, put it on Barbie’s hair, and stroked it. Barbie recoiled.
“You know why they think I’m crazy? Because in spite of everything, I still love you. Now, that’s crazy.”
Barbie circled her hand around Lorraine’s head and pulled it down to meet hers. They kissed. Barbie broke the kiss first.
“You’re right, sugar,” Barbie breathed. “We were meant to be together. We’ll be together now. It’ll be just like it was.”
“I’m the only one in your life, aren’t I?”
“You’re the only one.”
“I was afraid you’d found someone else. You know what I thought?”
“What, sugar?”
“That you’d come to L.A. to be with that woman we saw on television the day before you left. I even got a videotape of that show so I could hear your voice from when you called in, so I could have something of you. You never let me take your picture. The tape was the only thing I had. I couldn’t bear it if you’d found someone else. I just couldn’t bear it.”
Barbie took Lorraine’s face in her hands. “Barbeh’s here now. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was Monday morning. Iris was late. She showered and decorated herself, splashed a second cup of coffee into her commuter mug, scooped makeup into her purse, grabbed her briefcase and pull-out stereo, speed-walked down the corridor, forwent the elevator, and skipped down the stairs instead. She walked through the lobby and into the garage of her building, where the Triumph waited silently under its shroud. She set the commuter mug on the ground, rolled off the TR’s canvas cover, stashed it in the trunk, got in the car, pulled out the choke, stepped on the accelerator twice, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over and the Triumph’s baritone, heightened with the choke out, reverberated through the garage.
She reached into her purse and threw assorted tubular, square, and cylindrical makeup containers onto the passenger seat, got a flashlight from the glove compartment, turned it on, and held it up between her knees. She twisted the rearview mirror to face her and applied her makeup, working around the flashlight’s eerie lighting.
She threw the car into reverse, backed out, put it in first, rolled down the window, and shone the flashlight beam onto the drip pan. It was splattered with more black and amber globs than the day before but nothing outside the normal range.
She waited for the garage security gate to slowly slide open. She rolled the car out and was startled by a bundle in the bushes on her left that writhed underneath a blanket until she remembered that the street man was still in residence.
Freeway traffic on Mondays is light, and Iris’s drive downtown was uneventful. She opened the glass doors of the McKinney Alitzer suite and quickly walked down the corridor that led to the Sales Department. She shot a glance at Dexter’s office. His door was closed and his lights were off. She breathed a sigh of relief and sped to her own office.
Art was already at his desk. When he spotted Iris, he stuck his palm into the corridor, perpendicular to the floor. She slapped it as she walked by. Amber was on the phone and raised her neatly arched eyebrows to greet Iris. Sean Bliss didn’t look at Iris’s face but focused on her chest. Iris unconsciously touched the buttons on her blouse to make sure they were fastened. The last cubicle was where Billy Drye lived. He pointedly ignored her and she offered the same sentiment back.
She unlocked her door, put her things away, turned on her computer, pulled files from her briefcase, opened one on top of her desk, moved some of its papers around, then threw a yellow pad and pencil on top of that. She rolled her chair out at a careless angle to the desk. She surveyed her work, decided it provided an appropriately busy aura, grabbed her BUDGETS ARE FOR WIMPS mug, walked back down the corridor and into the lunchroom. She opened the refrigerator door. There was no leftover cake. It only held neat lunches. She rolled open one of the crisp paper bags and had a look at a different lifestyle. She refolded the bag and surveyed the snack machine. She dug a thumb into her skirt waistband, which was tighter than it had been the previous week.
“Hell.”
With tremendous resolve for a Monday morning, she turned away from the snack machine and walked to the coffeemaker and poured a cup with her back to the door. She heard the lunchroom door open and close and heavy footsteps approaching her. His footsteps were a clue, but his cologne cinched it. She finished pouring her coffee.
“Happy Monday, Drye.”
He stood beside her, impolitely close. She faced him. Not being on top of her game so early in the morning, she took a step backward. He merely made up the distance with a step forward.
“You mean you plan on speaking to me?” Iris asked. “I thought you were punishing Amber and me with your silence. Don’t stop on my account.”
When Billy Drye smiled, his pointed ears, diamond-shaped face, and upward-angled eyes created an effect that was puckish and endearing. When he scowled, the effect was demonic. He was scowling now.
“Garland Hughes is flying out from New York to meet with you and Amber today over at the Edward Club.”
It was too early to face both Drye and his sour breath, so she took a sip of coffee and casually walked over to a table where the daily newspaper had been placed. “I’m glad to see you’re still plugged into the information pipeline.”
“I’m impressed that the firm’s second-in-command is coming out for you two broads.”
“Not just for us, Drye. For you, too.”
“I happen to be very tight with Hughes. If you think he’s gonna sell me out, you’re in for a surprise.”
“Tight with Hughes?” She casually turned a page of the paper. “What? You shook his hand at a sales meeting?”
“I’m not losing my job because of you two bitches. I’m not going down without a fight.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Good. Wouldn’t be as much fun if you just lay down and rolled over.”
“Just go ahead, Ice Princess. Just keep talking.” He left the lunchroom.
“That’s what they pay me for,” she said to the closing door.
She went back to her office. At her desk, she logged onto the word processing program and started to write a client proposal. She rewrote the first two sentences four times. She gave up and spun her chair around to look at the cityscape from her western-facing window. Dark clo
uds were in motion across the sky. A storm was predicted for later in the week, just in time for Easter. She looked out the window to her right at the other worker bees in the office tower across the street. She spotted someone in one of the offices gazing out their window at the Monday morning, just like her.
She left her office, walked to the supply room, and pulled open the double doors of a tall cabinet. Thick telephone books were stacked inside, spines facing out. Several different filing methods appeared to be in effect: geographic, alphabetic, and random. She walked her fingers across the book spines, then started over and tried again. She finally located the book for Atlanta and took it back to her office.
The book was over a year old. Hal’s restaurant had a quarter-page ad featuring a drawing of a columned mansion with a wide porch. The copy read:
“Hal’s offers you French cuisine in a classic Old South setting. Your host, Hal Stringfellow, invites you to join him in his restored plantation house in an experience of dining elegance.”
Iris tore the page from the book and dialed the phone number listed with the ad.
A woman answered. “Minnie’s Porch.”
“This isn’t Hal’s?”
“No, we’re Minnie’s Porch now. But if you enjoyed Hal’s, we’re sure you’ll enjoy us.”
“What happened to Hal’s?”
“Mr. Stringfellow died about a year ago and the restaurant was sold.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, but the owner might have. Name’s Jack Goins. He’s not here right now.”
“How about Mrs. Stringfellow? Did you know her?”
“I didn’t know about a Mrs. Stringfellow.”
Iris said she’d call back later. She returned the phone book to the cabinet.
“Closed for a year.” Iris muttered to herself. “That checks.”
She resumed work on her proposal and worked for fifteen minutes before she caught herself staring out the window again. She opened her personal phone book, found a number, and made a call.
“Research Library.”
“Tom Butler, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“This is Iris Thorne. I’m an old college friend.” Polite classical music played on the phone while she was on hold.
“Iris! It’s been too long. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Hi, Tom. I’m sorry to say I’m not calling just to chat. I need a favor.”
“I didn’t expect anything else,” he said playfully.
“You’ve known me too long, Tom. There’s lunch in it for you.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
“Does the library carry newspapers from Atlanta, Georgia?”
“Sure. The ones that aren’t current are on microfilm. We go back a couple of years.”
“I’m looking for an obituary that ran about a year ago. A man named Harold or Hal Stringfellow.”
“I’ll put someone right on it.”
Iris gave Tom the number to the office fax machine and made lunch plans with him for the following week. She looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock and she had done virtually no McKinney Alitzer work the entire morning. She focused on the client proposal and forced herself to finish it. As she was struggling with a snappy closure, a secretary came in and handed her a fax.
The obituary read:
“Harold Stringfellow, seventy-one years, lifelong Atlantan. Proprietor of the well-known restaurant, Hal’s, which he opened twenty-five years ago. Avid golfer and bowler. Revered boss, beloved brother, and uncle. Survived by his sister, Margaret Conners of Nashville, niece Lucy Fields of Fort Worth, Texas, nephew Allan Conners of Springfield, Missouri, and grandnephews Tyler and Colin. In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to a favorite charity.”
Iris picked up the phone and punched in three numbers.
“I see you survived,” Art said. “You were fun-ny on Saturday.”
“You weren’t exactly the picture of moderation yourself.”
“I was totally hungover at my golf lesson on Sunday.”
“Golf?”
“Lots of business conducted on the golf course, Iris. You should get with the program.”
“Right. Hey, can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Sure, I’ll be right down.”
“No, in the stairwell.”
“One of those. Oh-kay.”
Iris folded the fax in half, grabbed the ad for Hal’s, slipped them both between the pages of a yellow pad, and picked up a pencil. With sufficient props to look busy and purposeful, she walked briskly out of her office, down the hall, and into the stairwell.
The stairwell’s raw concrete and plain white walls were a stark contrast to the plush carpeting, wall coverings, and artwork in the suite. A woman stood on the landing, smoking. The unpainted concrete floor was covered with cigarette butts, ground-in ashes, and Styrofoam cups coated with brown coffee stains. The woman gave Iris a rebel-with-a-cause look. The building’s nonsmoking policy had forced smokers either to the stairwells, lobby, or outside the building where they huddled together, having only their shared habit in common.
Iris walked through the smoke cloud and down a flight of stairs to the floor below.
Art waited a couple of minutes then followed her. When he didn’t see her inside the stairwell door, he walked down to the next landing. He pointed at her and snickered. “You said it, the bigger they are…”
“How long before I live this down?”
“Never.”
“Did you spend the night at Barbie’s?”
“Sort of. I passed out in the Mustang. She couldn’t wake me up.”
“You slept there all night?”
“I woke up a couple of hours later and drove home. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”
She pulled the fax from the yellow pad.
Art read it and handed it back to her. “Good old Hal.”
“You don’t see anything unusual?”
“No, what?”
“Where’s the widow? And Barbie said he had grown kids.”
Art shrugged. “It’s the newspaper. They make mistakes. What’s your point?”
Iris stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “I think you should seriously check out Barbie before you go into business with her. I don’t think she’s everything she says she is.”
“Iris, I know you don’t want to lose Barbie as a client, but don’t you think this is a little desperate?”
“Art, I’ve had some weird things happen with Barbie lately, and I don’t want you to get burned.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I caught her in a lie about something she and I talked about on Saturday night after you went to the store.”
“A lie about what?”
“She was trying to pry information from me when I was out of it.”
“What kind of information?”
“I can’t tell you. But she definitely lied.”
Art folded his arms across his chest and raised one side of his upper lip, revealing his even, white teeth.
“And then on Sunday she stopped by, spur of the moment, and I caught her going through my desk drawers.”
“Did she have a reason?”
“Said she was looking for a pair of scissors to cut the tags off a blouse she’d bought me.” Iris raised her hand as if it held scissors. “But she already had scissors in her hand.”
Art leaned against the wall. “Nice of her to buy you a blouse. Of course she wanted to take the tags off. What’s the problem?”
“It was a smoke screen to give her an excuse to go into my bedroom. You know what else she did? She made my bed.”
“That made you mad? I wish someone would make my bed.”
“I had a feeling she’d gone through all my stuff.” She took a few frustrated steps away from Art. She turned and walked back to him. “Listen to this. I caught her with my keys in her hands. She said they were on the floor, but they weren’t. She took them out of
my purse.”
“Iris, you were so out of it on Saturday, how do you know you didn’t drop them on the floor?”
“Because I picked them up Sunday morning and put them in my purse.”
“I was still drunk when I got up. How do you know what you did Sunday morning?” He slapped his hand against his thigh. “You’re spinning out, girl. Just chill, okay?”
“How about this?” She balled her fist and pointed her thumb over her shoulder as if Atlanta were next door. “Hal’s restaurant.” She pulled the ad from between the pages of the yellow pad. “Look. The ad doesn’t mention Hal and his wife, it just mentions Hal.”
“So Hal got married and never redid the ad. So what?” He put his foot on a step to start walking up, then turned to face her. “Are you jealous of Barbie and me because John dumped you?”
“Oh, Art. I just want you to check this woman out before you…hop into bed with her, so to speak. It’s sound business practice. You don’t know anything about her.”
“Bullshit. She and I have done a lot of talking.”
“Yeah, pillow talk? Speaking of which, you know what else happened on Saturday? She kissed me. On the mouth.”
Art threw his hands up. “Now I know you’ve lost it. I don’t know how you remember anything from Saturday. You didn’t know your ass from your elbow.” He started walking up the stairs.
“Fine. I’m done. I’m through. But I suggest you call some of Hal’s relatives listed in that obituary.”
Art turned back. “Did Barbie tell you we’re meeting my uncle tonight? Is that why you’re all over me?”
“I thought you were waiting until your uncle got back from Mexico.”
Art leaned against his hand on the wall. “We had to move it up. Barbie’s got some people in Phoenix, some potential investors, who she wants to talk to before they leave the country for a couple of months. She wants to iron out specifics with me and my uncle first.”
“Is she going to ask you for money?”