Best Beach Ever

by Wendy Wax

  * * *

  • • •

  Bitsy sat on the bench across the picnic table from Joe and Nikki with June Steding at her side. The twins snoozed in the jogging stroller, a cool salt breeze stirring the fronds of the palm tree that shaded them all from the afternoon sun.

  “So, we have confirmation of fraud based on Gary Kaufman’s findings,” June said as she brought Joe up to date. “Did you get Gary’s summary and the copy of the records I sent you?”

  “Yes, I read through it and skimmed the records.”

  “And?” Bitsy asked quietly.

  “I have to say that I don’t see the FBI committing manpower and resources to getting Bertie back. He did abuse his fiduciary responsibility as trustee, but he didn’t go after or defraud others. And the fact that it was a joint account he pillaged makes things a little murkier.”

  “Oh, but . . .” Bitsy felt her stomach drop. She’d been so certain that the forensic accountant’s documentation would be enough to make sure Bertie got punished.

  “That leaves us with the Palm Beach state attorney’s office then,” June said. “This all happened in their jurisdiction and I can see them wanting to take a look at Houghton Whitfield, especially since one of their employees not only had an affair with a client but helped him steal. They could figure out whether the firm participated in or was even aware of what was going on as they should have been, or is only guilty of covering it up.” She was looking less and less like June Cleaver and more like an avenging angel. “We want to have a heart-to-heart talk with this former employee.”

  “I’d rather rip her heart out,” Bitsy said truthfully. “Assuming she has one. But Gene Houghton claimed she had a nervous breakdown and that they didn’t know where she was.”

  “Untrue.” Joe handed her a piece of paper. “I did a little poking around on my own time. Her name is Susan White. She’s still living at her longtime address in West Palm. And there’s nothing that shows she spent any time in a hospital of any kind or even had treatment.”

  “The fact that they didn’t even move her shows how sure Houghton Whitfield is that no one’s coming after them,” June said.

  “Well, it has been a year and no one has,” Bitsy pointed out. Thanks to her yearlong pity party.

  “That’s true,” June said. “But Susan White was having an affair with Bertie and she helped him steal from you. I’m guessing she had reason to think she was going with him.”

  “Well, there was a decent-size deposit made into her bank account when she left the company,” Joe said. “But nothing crazy and certainly not what one might expect as payment for helping someone steal close to thirty million dollars. Or even enough to look like much more than a severance package.”

  Bitsy winced. This was why she’d spent that year unable to face the truth. Who allowed someone else to steal that much without having a clue?

  “She’s probably pretty pissed off at being left behind. That could work to our advantage,” June said.

  “But even if she is pissed off at Bertie, how does that help us find him and get my money back?” Bitsy asked.

  “Finding Bertie isn’t the problem,” Joe said. “He’s not hiding. As Kaufman’s report indicates, he set himself up in the Caymans with money from your joint accounts. As far as the Cayman government is concerned, he’s an important businessman who keeps a ton of money in their banks, and injects it into their economy.”

  Fury coursed through Bitsy, hot and corrosive. She was deeply ashamed of what she’d allowed to happen, but she simply couldn’t let Bertie get away with what he’d done. Nor would she stay married to him for a minute longer than necessary.

  “Can’t he be extradited or something?” Nikki asked.

  “There is an extradition treaty in place, but Bertie’s not a terrorist and he hasn’t murdered anyone, so getting him back on US soil through governmental channels would take time,” Joe said. “Possibly years, even if the state attorney general agrees there’s enough evidence to issue a warrant for his arrest.”

  Bitsy tried to get her breathing under control. She’d already lost a year, but the idea of waiting for who knew how long for the wheels of justice to turn? No. She wanted results and revenge. And the sooner the better. Preferably before Bertie died of old age while living in the lap of luxury at her expense.

  “So how do we get him and the money back?” she asked. “Isn’t there something outside regular channels? Something faster?”

  Joe looked at her, his dark eyes searching. “There are freelancers with irregular rendition skills.”

  “Irregular rendition skills.” She repeated the words. “That sounds way too friendly to me.”

  “I’m pretty sure that means kidnapping or deceit,” June said, nibbling on a French fry.

  “It does. And there’s nothing friendly about it. But kidnapping can get expensive,” Joe said. “And things can go wrong.”

  “Couldn’t you just hack into his Cayman bank account and take the money back?” Nikki asked, pushing the stroller farther into the shade. “Like they do on television?”

  “We have guys who do that for us—white hats—but it’s not as easy as it sounds. You’re generally going in through the target’s computer, and the hack has to happen in very specific moments. That would require careful planning and somehow convincing him to transfer money at a specified time.”

  Bitsy looked at the burger growing cold on her plate. The only thing she had an appetite for at the moment was revenge. Which she hoped did, in fact, taste good cold.

  “I can help in an unofficial capacity,” Joe said. “I’d like to give this some thought, think about some carrot we might dangle in front of Bertie to get his attention.”

  “I’d prefer a big stick coming at him from behind,” Bitsy said as Sofia and Gemma began to rouse. “But mostly I just hope we can take some kind of action.”

  “Like I said, we’d need to come up with something that would force him to access the account we’re interested in at a specific time so that a white hat hacker could empty the account and transfer the money back to Bitsy,” Joe said. “Then once he’s penniless, the Cayman government has every incentive to simply put him on a plane and send him back—no formal extradition required. It happens more often than you’d think.”

  “We’d have to be ready for him,” June said. “Have everything in place so that he’d be arrested as soon as he set foot on American soil.”

  Bitsy nodded and tried to look positive. “All right. I’m willing to go talk to Susan White but you’ll have to come with me, June, so I don’t tear her limb from limb.” She looked into Joe’s eyes. “I want that money back, but in case we can’t get both, I want Bertie brought to justice even more.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Dustin slept the whole way back from Disney late that afternoon. But there was a smile on his face as he slept and it was still there when they arrived at the compound.

  Kyra watched Troy carry Dustin inside. Her son’s head lolled on Troy’s shoulder, his silky dark curls awry, his thumb planted firmly in his mouth.

  “Where shall I put him?”

  “Right there on the couch is good,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t think he’s completely down for the count. I’m pretty sure sleeping will be impossible once the sitter brings Max back.”

  “Now there’s an understatement.”

  Watching him hold Dustin so gently, Kyra thought about her history with Troy. When the network had first sprung their crew on them that first day at Max Golden’s South Beach home and turned what they’d intended as a renovation program into a mean-spirited reality TV show, it was a declaration of war. The cameraman and his audio guy had worked for the enemy.

  Troy had not only disapproved of her relationship with Daniel, he made it clear he believed Kyra had only gotten her position on Daniel’s film over a friend�
��s because Daniel had taken a fancy to Kyra. He’d seemed to delight in his job of shooting them in the most humiliating and intrusive ways possible and had baited her at every opportunity.

  But had he only been doing his job as she’d been trying to do hers? Had his taunts and jabs been an attempt to fuel and film the expected reality TV drama?

  She watched him settle Dustin on the couch and carefully drape the afghan over him. He’d bonded with Dustin from the beginning and he had found ways to protect them—shooting video of Tonja’s foulmouthed attempt to steal Dustin from her and getting damning video of Lisa Hogan that had gotten the program director who’d threatened them fired. And then there was his rental of Bella Flora, which she’d insisted on seeing only as a hostile act.

  Had she misjudged him? Continued to treat him as the enemy long after he’d waved a white flag? Had she focused on his sarcasm to the exclusion of the wit that laced it?

  “Kyra?”

  “Hmmm?” She blinked back to the present. To the smile on his face. For the first time she saw him without the scrim of baggage that had hidden so much of him from view.

  “So, I was saying that I guess I should get on the road. I had a great time. And I’m glad you came.” His tone and smile were sincere. She didn’t try to question or reframe them.

  “Thanks. For everything,” she said. “I haven’t seen Dustin that excited since the night Max arrived. And he didn’t ask to practice his lines. Or melt down. Not once.”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to be unhappy in the happiest place on earth,” Troy teased. “But I’m glad it made him forget about the movie for a while. I . . .” He seemed to think better of what he’d been about to say. “Was it good for you, too?” Two days ago she would have sworn Troy Matthews didn’t know how to blush, but his cheeks turned a color that closely resembled pink. “I mean, I can’t help wondering what you thought of the experience. You know, at the park. And, um, spending time together.”

  “Honestly?” she asked as they stepped away from Dustin.

  He nodded tentatively.

  “Well, this whole getting to know you all over again still feels kind of surreal. I keep expecting the Troy I thought I knew to reappear and tell me we’re starring in a revival of Punk’d. Or that we’re shooting an episode of Impractical Jokers.”

  “Wow. That’s not exactly what I was hoping for.” He sounded charmingly insecure. “And for what it’s worth, the network definitely pitted us against each other. I’m not sure either of us came across as our best selves.”

  Kyra smiled. Without the old baggage coloring her view, he was not only easy to be with, he was a great-looking guy. If you liked all-American blond-haired, blue-eyed types who made your child laugh with unbridled glee. As opposed to dark-haired movie stars of Armenian descent who had made you cry.

  The blue eyes darkened. Troy leaned closer, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. The thought wasn’t completely appalling.

  “I really appreciate you going to so much trouble,” she said. “And for making Dustin so happy. He had a really great time.”

  “And you?” Troy teased. “Because every once in a while when you thought I wasn’t looking I could have sworn you were enjoying yourself.”

  “Hmmm,” she teased back. As if she hadn’t thought about it before he asked. “It wasn’t anywhere near as awful as I expected it to be.”

  “So, you’re saying it didn’t suck?”

  “That’s right,” she agreed. “It definitely didn’t suck.”

  “Well then,” he said, putting a hand on the doorknob. “I’m pretty sure that means we’re making progress.”

  Twenty-four

  Maddie was pretty sure it was Wednesday. Or, possibly, Thursday. Which meant this had to be Chicago. Or St. Louis. Or . . . they weren’t even a full week in and already the hotels and cities had begun to blur into each other. She burrowed beneath the covers and felt Will’s warm body molded to hers. His chin rested on her shoulder, his breathing even.

  Another yawn and her eyes flickered open as she attempted to put the cities in order. After Dallas had been Birmingham, then Atlanta—an in and out so quick there’d been no time for nostalgia and only a couple of hours with her son, Andrew. Greenville had followed, then Nashville. That’s right, they’d flown into Indianapolis last night after a performance at Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena, and she’d been more than half asleep when they arrived at the hotel. Remembering the detail felt like a victory. The schedule called for greater gaps between performances as they moved west and the distances that the trucks carrying equipment had to cover grew longer.

  She yawned again and thought how easy it must be to get jaded. She was not yet immune to the awe of traveling by private plane, the limos that whisked them to and from wherever they went, or the attention lavished on Will and the band and his entourage, of which she was a member. It was a completely artificial existence. But an incredibly comfortable and luxurious one. If you didn’t mind living out of a suitcase, or sleeping in a different bed every night.

  The thought jarred another. They were in Indianapolis. And this penthouse suite had a fully equipped kitchen. Which meant . . .

  There was a soft knock on the front door. Easing out from under Will’s arm, she slid out of bed and shrugged into her robe, pulling the bedroom door shut behind her. Lori stood at the door. With her was a rolling kitchen cart piled high with grocery bags, extra cookware, and a blender.

  “Okay, so the kitchen staff loaned me the extra blender and casserole dishes and said they’d make room for baking the two extra soufflés down there. We can also place an order for anything you want to serve with them and they’ll send it all up with the extra soufflés.”

  “Perfect. I’m just going to wash my face and brush my teeth. Be right back.”

  When she returned, the ingredients she’d requested had been unpacked. Two blenders and four casserole dishes sat waiting. Lori handed her a steaming cup of coffee creamed and sugared exactly the way she liked it.

  “Wow. Thanks.” Maddie took a long sip of the coffee and realized that while she might be getting used to the private air travel and high-end accommodations, someone else serving her coffee in the morning—something she’d done so often for others—was really quite lovely.

  “Okay.” She set down the cup. “We melt the butter and cheese in the microwave. Each soufflé takes ten slices of white bread cubed.” Quickly she grouped together the ingredients for each of the four soufflés. “I’ll do the melting and blending. Can you do the cutting and cubing? Crusts come off first.”

  At Lori’s nod, she handed her the bread knife. “How many are we expecting?”

  “Ten. Eleven if you count Vicki.” Lori made a face when she mentioned the PR girl. “Except I think I may have forgotten to mention that we were having brunch to her. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t eat anyway.”

  Maddie looked at Lori. Despite the spiky blond hair, biker-chick clothes, and nose ring, she’d proven to be organized, efficient, resilient, loyal, and protective. She was a brilliant gatekeeper and did not suffer fools gladly. Or pushy blond bombshell types intent on climbing the record label ladder.

  “I know you told me she’s just doing her job,” Lori said before Maddie could comment. “But I don’t like the way she keeps pushing you into the background as if you’re too old to be seen with Will.” She winced. “Sorry. But she isn’t exactly subtle about it. And I don’t like the way she looks at Will. Or the way she started looking at Dean when Will didn’t look back. He’s got a wife and kids!”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Maddie poured milk and cracked six eggs into the blender then placed a bowl with cut-up butter, Velveeta, and cheddar into the microwave for melting. “But it seems pretty clear that a lot of things that happen on tour wouldn’t stand up to serious scrutiny. No matter how much you’d like to, you can’t tell other peop
le how to live their lives. And you’re going to have to come to terms with her at some point.”

  “Not necessarily.” Lori slid the first soufflé’s bread cubes over to Maddie. “I mean, we only have two more weeks on tour, and after that? It’s not like she’s going to be hanging out on Mermaid Point.” She mumbled something else that sounded a lot like, “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  Will arrived in the kitchen as they finished mixing the last soufflé. He was only half awake but already wearing bathing trunks and flip-flops, ready for his morning laps. He greeted Lori and placed a kiss on Maddie’s cheek.

  “You’ve got an hour and fifteen minutes,” she said. “They’re just about to go in the oven.”

  Which meant she had a whole hour to shower, dress, set the table, and make today’s suite feel like home.

  * * *

  • • •

  Kyra and Dustin had arrived on set Monday morning rested and relaxed, the “Disney effect” still very much in evidence. They’d spent the morning on the newly completed theme park grounds shooting under a sunlit blue sky that made Rodney Stanfield all but weep with joy.

  Kyra watched Dustin’s easy delivery as the fictional Roberts family, waiting in line just in front of Christian Sommersby, enacted their first casual encounter with the man who would ultimately kidnap Dustin.

  The first three takes went off without a hitch, yet Daniel continued to call for take after take until Tonja, who had watched the replay of and liked each take, finally convinced him to move on.

  On Tuesday the Disney effect weakened further, but the weather gods had continued to smile. They’d tackled another setup scene, this time with Derek Hanson, whose rookie security guard character would prove instrumental in finding the abducted child. Dustin delivered his lines perfectly and on cue, as did Derek Hanson. This time it took twelve takes to satisfy Daniel, whose own delivery had, in Kyra’s opinion, deteriorated with each take. Tonja had called for a twenty-minute break and then spent every minute of it convincing Daniel that the scene had been adequately covered, an argument that much of the cast and crew hung around pretending not to watch.