Five O’Clock Shadow

by Susan Slater

  “I’m fine,” she whispered back. One of her bolder lies but she smiled broadly and kept her hands in her lap. “I can’t refer to you as snake-man forever. Is there a name?” And please God, don’t let it be Boa-Bob or Python-Pete, Pauly prayed to herself.

  “Sorry. Stephen Burke. Steve, actually.” He held out his hand and Pauly took a breath before clasping it firmly.

  ***

  “I think the sooner, the better.” Grams was busily buttering an Eggo before passing the toaster-waffle across the counter to Pauly. It was after ten. Pauly had missed the crowd that must have feasted on breakfast burritos from the looks of the pans in the stainless steel double sink behind her and the smell of green chili that hung pungently in the air.

  “I’m not saying that they won’t be fair, but you’ve got to have your wits about you. You need to tell them what you’ll accept. And I don’t want you dropping everything and running.”

  “What constitutes ‘dropping and running’?” Pauly pulled the cork out of the jug of maple syrup. Real maple syrup. One of her favorites.

  “Accepting their first offer. It’ll be low. They’re businessmen, and won’t give anything away. But you own one third. We’re not talking peanuts here.” Gram paused to lean towards her. “Their stock recently split and is going through the roof. That water project alone will keep them going another five years. Listen, sugar, this is your life now, your livelihood. You’ve got to make the most of it.”

  “So, what are you saying? Not sell?”

  “Exactly. My broker says to give it a year. Hang on. Get active in the business yourself. I have a feeling they’ll welcome you once they realize they can’t short-change you. Too many contracts give women-owned firms priority. I think you’re going to get the old red-carpet treatment.”

  Stock market. Money. Pauly would just as soon someone else handled those things—thought about them, for that matter, for her. It wasn’t how she saw her life right now. Board rooms, tailored suits, a briefcase…and wasn’t it money, a huge unexplained lump that had been found in Randy’s possession, their bank account, that tipped the cops to suspect wrongdoing on Randy’s part? The unexplained lump that she wouldn’t touch, didn’t want to think about because it might have caused his death.

  But the business, Randy had left his share to her. And that one third was hers, legally, free of strings, and the only money, aside from insurance, that she could call her own. Roughly two million dollars. Not that she was in need, she wasn’t. She could stay put for awhile. But maybe working wasn’t such a bad idea…maybe taking part in Randy’s life would make her feel better, hasten the healing….

  “You need to protect your share.”

  “What?” Pauly realized she hadn’t been listening.

  “It should double if Caton, Dougal, Brandon”—Grams looked at Pauly; yes, Pauly had caught the emphasis on “Caton.” Grams waited a split second before adding, “continues to grow in the private sector. One of the smartest things they did was shed the weaponry image when they had to.”

  “I’m not a behind-the-desk type.” Pauly was resisting running her index finger around the rim of her empty plate to get the last of the syrup. Two million. Rich. Could she call herself rich? Maybe she should sell. Invest. Live off the interest. Somewhere interesting. An island in the Caribbean. She gave in and drew a cross-hatch pattern in the syrup before sucking the sweetness from her finger and could almost hear the waves crash against the shore.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Pauly bounded back from St. Croix and gave her grandmother an apologetic smile.

  “I don’t think you have to be a certain type to appreciate money—to want to make the most of your investment. You were slated to work on that water project. Well, do it. Work in the field. Get to know what the company’s about. And don’t make a decision to sell for one year. That’s all I’m asking.”

  The suggestion seemed reasonable. But did she have to make up her mind so soon? Couldn’t there be a period of grace? Mourning in her case. A time to collect herself? It had been three and a half weeks since.… She still had nightmares of hooded men shrouded by trees aiming high-powered rifles at her. Men with bags of money strapped to their backs. And children tumbling from baskets in the sky. Small brown children in white tee shirts who pointed at her, seemed to blame her for something.… She’d reach out in her queen-sized bed and realize that she was alone. Not Mrs. Randall McIntyre but Pauly Caton, alone in a cold sweat, frightened more than she would ever admit and rich beyond her wildest dreams.

  But all the tears in the world didn’t seem to change anything. There was no sperm tucked away in a lab freezer waiting for her, no hope of children from the husband she’d trusted, and no way of finding out why he’d lied to her.

  ***

  “Pauly, Pauly, Pauly.”

  One iteration of her name would have been enough, but Pauly left her hands buried in the beefy, slightly moist, manicured ones and tried to resist wallowing in the ‘Oh, I’m so sorry’ sentiment that washed over her.

  “Archer.” Gently, she extricated her hands and fought the urge to wipe them on the sides of her navy serge skirt. Instead, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ve appreciated your support. It’s meant so much to me.”

  There had been flowers. A horseshoe wreath of mums on a stand at graveside, bigger than anyone else’s contribution, then roses for the house. And calls. The solicitous inquiries that would make Miss Manners proud. It had taken three boxes of Thank You notes on Pauly’s part to make a dent in the avalanche of condolences. But murmuring niceties had become second nature to her in a very short time, and she took Archer’s arm as they turned towards the building. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a difficult habit to break. The cloying attention was suffocating her.

  “Tom’s waiting for us in his conference room.” Archer pulled ahead to open the heavy plate-glass door. He had rushed out to meet her on the front steps. She had called, deciding that impromptu might not be appropriate. The basis for the visit was business. They would want some warning. Give Barbara, the ever-present administrative assistant, time to make coffee, fresh, something from the private imported stock, fill the heat-retaining bronze canisters and run next door for some kind of sugary pastry.

  She’d given them forty-five minutes. Make Babs hustle a little. The barely glorified secretary had never been on Pauly’s list of favorites. Anyone who got pedicures on company time was suspect. And on Babs’ part, it was probably jealousy, a younger woman with a couple degrees who had the audacity to run off with the boss.… There had never been any love lost between them.

  But Tom, that was a different story. She allowed herself to be embraced warmly. And believed that he meant it as he had quickly come around the end of the conference table and simply held her. No mumbling of something supposedly appropriate. Just a hug and a squeeze before he pulled a chair out for her.

  “Glad you called. It’s crazy trying to do the right thing. Allow the right amount of time before talking about what we have to talk about sooner or later anyway.”

  He smiled ruefully and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. He always looked like he was posing. Man with steel-grey hair, naturally curly, cut short but with just enough left to twist over a tanned brow. He could probably do “sophisticated slouch” better than any man she’d ever met. He had been a knock-out at the wedding in his tux with the latest date-of-the-month on his arm.

  He never let the philandering get in the way of business; he was always the jump right in, get things going type. She didn’t mind that. She liked his honesty, nothing wishy-washy…and nothing pushed under the rug, either.

  “It’s okay, really it is.” Pauly accepted a cup of coffee from Babs. “I’ve made up my mind to get involved. Stick around for a year or so. Become an active partner.” Might as well just come out with it. She had never been one to wait for the right moment. All too often she only realized them in retrospect, anyway.

  “Not sell?”

>   Archer covered what might have been misread as a mixture of anger and shock by quickly changing his tone and adding, “No one’s pushing you into something that you don’t want to do. But look at our offer. It’s generous. Tom, help me out here. Wouldn’t you advise Pauly to at least take a look?” Archer inched a folder of papers across the table in her direction.

  “Let’s hear what Pauly has to say, first.” Tom looked amused, a little Cheshire-cat smile played around his eyes.

  “It’s simple, really.” Pauly gave him a grateful smile. “I was going to be involved in the Rio Grande River project anyway. Why shouldn’t I stay on? At this point I see myself more in the field than here.” She indicated the boardroom with a wave of her hand. “I could act as project manager—”

  “That’s a multi-million dollar project, not one to be trusted to—”

  “What Archer means to say is that your inexperience could get in the way of things working smoothly. We don’t mean to imply that we don’t believe in you, in your ability to learn. I believe in time you could hold your own in any project you choose, but for now this one might be a little out of your league.” His smile seemed forced.

  The tiger’s stripes were showing. Wasn’t that what Grams used to say when Pauly’s docile kitten would suddenly arch its back, spit, and strike out? So much for Grams’ thinking they’d roll out the proverbial red carpet. But Pauly’s expression didn’t change. She masked the beginnings of anger, an anger that started from it being assumed she was incompetent. This was a female thing and the ugly scent of male chauvinism only made her more determined. She owned one-third of this company and that gave her a pretty hefty voice in what went on.

  She looked from one to the other and then said calmly, “I’ve shared my intentions with my lawyer. He’s anticipated a, what would you say, lack of cooperation? We’ve put everything in writing, too. I’ll have our prospectus in front of you by Monday.”

  Why was she lying like this? She probably needed to contact a lawyer, but she hadn’t. But something was telling her that playing hardball required more than just her on the team. She picked up the folder that Archer had been so anxious for her to read. “I will give your offer the courtesy of my consideration. No promises, though. I suggest that we give ourselves a few days. May I suggest that we meet a week from Friday at one?”

  Aloof? A hint of frostiness? She was pleased with her performance and wished she could laugh out loud. The look on Babs’ pinched face was shock, made the lines darting outward and upward from her pursed lips look like tiny stakes, red stakes where her lipstick leaked into the crevices. But her expression said it all. How dare Pauly go against the icons of industry, propose that she join them? A partner. A woman. A young woman. Take over one of the bigger accounts?

  “I think all this can be worked out.” Smoothly Tom rose to walk her to the door, his voice not offering a hint of what he was feeling. Archer’s jaw seemed locked in a permanent grimace as he stayed seated.

  “I believe you know why I need to do this. Carry on something of Randy’s. It keeps his memory alive for me.” More niceties and a teeny white lie. She stood on tiptoe in the doorway to kiss Tom’s cheek.

  “It’ll take getting used to. Maybe, we just need some time.” That smile again, slow to spread past the corners of his mouth. “See you in a week.” He squeezed her arm.

  She turned to walk back down the hall, around the receptionist’s desk, past the restrooms and out the front door. For the first time in two weeks, she felt she had made the right decision. But what she had decided and why would surprise even Grams. Pauly Caton, sort of McIntyre, was going to put herself in Randy’s place. She was going to recreate his world, become a part of where he worked, whom he worked with because Pauly Caton, barely McIntyre, was going to find out who her husband really was, why he had felt he had to lie about the money, about the vasectomy. More importantly, Pauly Caton McIntyre was going to find his killer.

  Chapter Three

  “So, everyone needs a reason for living. What’s new? But getting involved in something so big, so ugly as premeditated murder and trying to find a murderer.…” Grams seemed at a loss for words and finally stopped pacing to sink onto Pauly’s loveseat. “You are the only child of my only child. You are my namesake, Pauline Lucille. How can I be plainer? You are all I have. I’m asking you—no, begging you—don’t try to figure things out.”

  “Grams, I don’t want to upset you but this is something I have to do. I have to know why. I have to know that it wasn’t Randy they were after. That he just got in the way. You know, maybe wrong place, wrong time.” She sat beside her grandmother. “Don’t you see, I’d never rest if it had been me and my husband weren’t doing everything within his power to find my killer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you saying that Randy wouldn’t try to help if the shoe were on the other foot?” Grams didn’t have to like Randy, but to imply that he wouldn’t have cared enough to find her killer….

  “Ignore me. I’m just upset, sweetie. I don’t know what he would have done. I didn’t even know him well enough to guess.” Grams tipped Pauly’s chin back. “But you, sweet thing, I know. And I know that you don’t have the moxie, the stomach for ugliness. A professional killer. Isn’t that what the police said? Some crack shot who did that sort of thing for a living? Randy or no Randy, why would you even think that you could get to the bottom of it?” She reached out to stroke Pauly’s cheek. “Make your grandmother happy. Leave everything to the police. It’s just too risky.”

  This was the second time in one day that someone thought she wasn’t competent. Two different subjects. But the same conclusion. And it pissed her royally. And again the anger felt good.

  “This entire conversation started by my asking you for the name of a good lawyer.” Pauly smiled. Could she sidetrack her grandmother? Get her back to business at hand? She needed to see a lawyer and soon in order to deliver the promised prospectus.

  “Give Steve a chance.” Grams suddenly leaned forward, ignoring the lawyer ploy but at least changing the subject, Pauly noted. “I know you’re put off by the artwork, but he’s great. A truly caring person. If you give him half a chance, perhaps, he could be instrumental in getting you through these difficult times.”

  Had her grandmother just winked? What was worse, had her grandmother set her up? Meet the hunk and forget what’s-his-name. Wasn’t this the way someone with almost six husbands would think? Hop out of one bed into another? And let great sex or even mediocre sex block out the past?

  “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that. And I’m going to warn you to keep him and any other Lotharios that you might have waiting in the wings AWAY FROM ME.”

  “Don’t yell. You have a temper like your father.” Grams held her hands over her ears, but only after carefully fluffing the white-blond ringlets that hung below her shoulders. “I’m only trying to make you happy. I can’t stand to see you so upset and not be able to help. Sugar, you’ve got to believe that. Love is medicine. A cure for whatever ails you. Don’t close out the world, the possibilities for another relationship.”

  “Finding Randy’s murderer is the only kind of medicine that I need. I don’t think my schedule will allow any play time.” And doesn’t anyone care that it’s only been three and half lousy weeks? What was she supposed to do? But Pauly felt calmer. She couldn’t blame her grandmother for providing a diversion. It was just her way.

  “I applaud your getting involved in McIntyre, Dougal, and Brandon. But if they’re going to try to squeeze you out, you do need a lawyer. Call Sam Mathers. You met him at the funeral. I’ve used Sam a number of times on contract matters with the carnival. I believe he’s also the McIntyre family lawyer. It’s time you two met. Give me a minute, I have his card downstairs.”

  “The name sounds familiar.”

  “And promise me one thing, that you don’t do anything foolish.” Her grandmother caught her hand. “Now is that too much for an old woman
to ask?” She lifted Pauly’s hand to her lips and brushed the top of her fingers.

  Old woman? Grams had never called herself that. Impulsively, Pauly put her arms around Grams’ shoulders and buried her nose in the poofed mound of hair above her ear. Tea Roses. Her grandmother’s scent. Always had been as long as Pauly could remember. When she was little Pauly had told her grandmother that if she closed her eyes, it was forever summer and they were standing in a garden even if it was really Christmas. Pauly suddenly choked up. What would she ever do without this woman? With all Grams’ eccentricities, she couldn’t bear to lose her, too.

  ***

  “I just got the file out yesterday. Thought I might give it a day or two more, then call.” Sam Mathers was somewhere in his late sixties and looked like a lawyer, a successful one. But Pauly wasn’t sure what made her think that. The little round tortoise-shell glasses rimmed in gold? The heavy twisted gold rope bracelet peeking out from a perfectly pressed French cuff with gold nugget cufflink? Or just his office in thick cherry wood panels that gleamed from multiple waxings. If they waxed walls, that is. Pauly didn’t know. But something had given the wood a patina that added richness, an old world flavor. She expected to see a globe, something from Columbus’ day in decoupage, tilted on a wooden axis displayed in the corner.

  The man himself was decorum personified. Sympathetic without seeming solicitous, just the right amount of eye contact, slight frown, no undue levity; yet, she liked him, believed him right from the start. He oozed expensive good taste—the silver hair neatly trimmed, parted on the side but abundant enough to cover the crown in soft waves. A hundred dollar haircut? Probably. And the tan, beach-natural or lighted booth? She couldn’t tell, but sank into the proffered forest-green suede armchair that perfectly matched the border of the Persian rug.

  “I suppose you know that Randy’s last will was drawn up by the corporate lawyers.” He must have caught her puzzled look because he hastened to add, “Not unusual. They pay those guys handsomely to catch loose ends. And the marriage of an owner changed a lot of things. I simply want to assure you that it was done correctly. Supersedes the one we had on file here. I’ve already attended to the filing on your behalf. Everything’s in order.” He beamed at her from across the expanse of mahogany. “I think before we get to any questions, I’d like to address the matter of your will. We, ah, obviously need to make some changes.…”