I marched into the bank to make my transaction. Near the end of the line, I caught sight of Norah. She was unfolding the creases from a piece of paper. “Making a deposit?” I said.
“My last paycheck. My boss finally found the will to fork it over.” Norah shook the check. “All it took was seventeen phone messages and a bit of screaming.” She grimaced. “I’m so tired of automatic voice-answering thingies. You know the kind. Press one to hear a menu. Press two to go back. Press three to reach a real person, but then a real person never materializes, only another prompt.” She altered her voice to sound like a machine: “If you feel you’ve reached this recording in error . . .” She laughed.
So did I. A companionable silence fell between us. I broke it. “I heard that Willie died earlier than first believed. Probably around nine o’clock.”
“Really? I thought he called you at ten.”
“The police have determined that the killer might have made that call.” Okay, my vow never to lie just flew out the window. It was a white lie and, therefore, acceptable, right? “Your alibi covered from eight-thirty on.” I went silent, hoping she would elaborate.
“Yes, it did.”
I remained quiet.
Norah frowned. She regarded the tellers and returned her attention to me. “You don’t trust me. I get that. You want to know every detail? Fine. Bebe was hungry.”
“You said she felt ill.”
“That was after we went to a drive-through coffee place. You know, the one that specializes in strawberry frappes. Bebe loves them. I got her a kid’s-size drink and, right after, she felt icky. We went to the hospital straight from there.”
“Next customer,” a teller said.
“That’s me,” Norah said and strode away.
Guilty or not? I couldn’t tell.
I scanned the other teller windows. I didn’t see Manga Girl. Rats. When I approached a teller, I asked about her and was informed that she and her boyfriend had fled to Reno to elope. Her parents were distraught, but what could they do when it came to true love?
So much for that lead. I handed over the twenties and requested change.
As I was leaving the bank, I heard someone say, “Jenna.” I surveyed the line of customers and saw Tito, chest puffed, twirling his keys around his index finger. What was it with those keys? Had he seen some macho guy in a movie doing it? He wasn’t the one who had called my name; he was chatting up the frothy blonde next to him while lapping her up with his eyes.
Good luck with that, I thought.
So who had called out to me? I glanced toward the far end of the bank and spotted Rhett sitting in a chair beside the new-accounts desk. He waved.
I joined him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m bringing in a partner for Bait and Switch, which means I have to make my personal accounts separate. Corporate transparency and all that.”
“Why do you need a partner?” I asked, concerned.
“I don’t. I simply don’t want to work so hard. One of my regulars, a trust-fund baby, wants in. He’s a good guy. Taking on a partner means I’ll have time to go on a vacation now and then. How about you?”
“Vacations? Not for a year, I’m afraid.”
“No, I meant what are you doing here?”
I waggled the money bag. “Small denominations.”
“I know the drill.”
“Hey, chica,” Tito said, interrupting us. He paused at the far end of the new-accounts table. He nodded to Rhett. “Hey, bro.”
“Congratulations on making it to the final round in the Grill Fest,” Rhett said.
“That’s something, huh?” Tito jammed his keys into his jeans pocket. “Let’s hear it for cuisine à la mexicana.” If he weren’t always flexing his muscles and acting like a braggadocio, I would probably like Tito. His journalist pieces were funny—in writing, he had a Comedy Central–style of humor—and, like me, he enjoyed food, cookbooks, reading, and exercise. How did I know? Bailey had stumbled across Tito’s computer-dating personal page. Too funny. “Hey, chica—”
And then there was that.
“Tito, call me Jenna, please. Not girl.”
“Sí, sí. Lo siento . . . Sorry. Jenna,” he said, the J soft. “I was wondering, what do you think about a triple-layer grilled cheese with jalapeños and bacon?”
“Sounds good. What if you added pico de gallo and avocado?” Those were two items I had wanted to add to my comfort food breakfast, but I hadn’t had them on hand.
“Good idea.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I think I’ll head to the gym. A workout always helps me rev up my creative juices. Adios.” He paused and faced Rhett. “Hey, bro, it’s okay if I speak of my creations in front of you even though you are a judge, isn’t it?”
Rhett nodded. “I can’t stop you.”
As Tito sauntered out of the bank, ogling women to see if they were checking him out, I thought about what he’d just said. He was going to the gym. To work out. I flashed on the clue on the bottom of the Lucky Cat: Everything will work out. Was it possible that the key David had given me—the key to his heart—belonged to a gym locker? He had been an exercise fiend—mornings before work and evenings after work. He liked the adrenaline boost, and he wanted to be heart healthy. Following his death, I hadn’t cleaned out his gym locker. His mother had begged for the chance. She’d said doing some of the final chores would give her closure. Though I’d assigned her a number of duties, she hadn’t reported back on any of them. I had no idea what she had or hadn’t accomplished. I’d let so much slide back then.
Quickly I bid Rhett good-bye and raced outside. In private I dialed David’s mother on my cell phone. It was early for her—the woman could sleep more than an invalid—but I didn’t care.
“Jenna,” she said, apparently seeing my name or number on her phone. “How are you, dear heart?” She called everyone dear heart, her pet phrase.
I greeted her, my voice tight. How could I simply blurt out my question? I couldn’t. I had to make small talk. I asked about her cat and her garden and her daughter. David’s sister was an eminent endocrinologist. His mother loved to go on about her accomplishments. Five minutes into the conversation, she said, “Why have you really called, Jenna?” She wasn’t naïve, just sluggish.
“David’s locker at the gym,” I began. I didn’t want to tell her about the gold I’d found within the Lucky Cat because, well, I wasn’t sure about its source. “Did you ever clean it out?”
Silence. I heard her hum and lick her lips. “No, I don’t think I did. I didn’t even cancel the membership. I’m so sorry. Have you been receiving bills? I’ll be glad to compensate—”
“No,” I cut in. “That’s fine. I simply wondered if you would mind if I emptied the locker myself.”
“Of course.” She coughed, but I knew she was covering a whimper. “I miss seeing you, dear heart. Will you stop by when you’re up in the city?”
“I’ll visit soon. Promise.” I wasn’t sure I would. I didn’t think I could bear seeing pictures of David everywhere. Lying to his mother to protect her feelings, I reasoned, was an acceptable custom.
I bicycled back to the shop and told Aunt Vera my plan. She was more than supportive.
Chapter 26
IN MY VW bug, I sped to the city in record time. I entered the upscale gym, well known for its state-of-the-art weight machines, basketball court, cycle spinning rooms, personal trainers, and spa. The acrid scent of chlorine mixed with the pungent odor of sweat made my nose flinch. I approached the front desk, one hand clenching the strap of my purse, the other holding my key chain in a death grip.
“Good morning,” I said. It was close to noon but still legitimately morning.
“Hey there.” A perky blonde assistant with pigtails pushed aside her People magazine. “Sign in and show me your ID card.”
“I’m not a member.”
“Want to join? Would you like a tour?”
“No. My husband . . .” Words wouldn
’t come. My mouth felt as dry as a sauna.
“. . . is a member and you want a family membership.”
“No. He . . .”
Miss Perky peeked at her magazine. I didn’t blame her. She couldn’t wait to get back to the article about Justin Bieber. I would lay odds she had designs on him becoming her lover.
Speak, Jenna. “My husband died,” I blurted out.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Two years ago.”
The assistant didn’t look half as sorry as before. Two years was an eon to her. She pursed her lips. I heard her tennis shoe tap-tapping the floor. How dare I keep her from learning Justin’s innermost secrets?
“My husband was a member here. We never closed his account. He had a locker. I’d like to empty it, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll need to see your license.”
I showed her.
“And, like, wow, this is going to sound weird, but do you have a death certificate?”
I gagged. “Not on me.”
“Well, shoot.”
Shoot, indeed. “Is your supervisor here?” I asked. Maybe he or she would be more merciful.
Miss Perky looked relieved that I would think of such a brilliant suggestion. “I’ll be right back.”
As she disappeared down a corridor of windowed cubicles, each space filled with a salesperson, I waited. How was I going to get around the death-certificate requirement? I needed answers. Now.
I glanced at the men’s locker room door. I could slip in, pretend I had mistaken it for the ladies’, but which locker was David’s? The key didn’t have a number on it. I couldn’t insert it into every keyhole. And was it even a gym-locker key? For all I knew, my visit to the fitness center was a wild-goose chase.
Miss Perky reappeared. A man followed her. I recognized him. Shane something. He had worked at Taylor & Squibb in the sales department. Always tall, at one time Shane had been, um, hefty. He must have lost forty to fifty pounds. He looked as fit as an Olympic athlete. A striking streak of gray ran along the right side of his hair. A roguish dimple cut up his right cheek.
“Hello, Jenna.”
“What are you doing here, Shane?”
“T&S downsized. I had to find something in this economy. Lo and behold, I was able to purchase a partnership in this venture.”
“You’re an owner?”
“We have eight clubs. Fewer hours. Easier on the heart.” Shane wasn’t much older than I was. His eyes twinkled with humor. “How are you?”
“Fine. I moved back to Crystal Cove.”
“We have a club in Santa Cruz. You should check it out. Not that you need a gym. You look great.”
I recalled a number of mixers thrown by our former boss. Shane, third-generation Irish-American and one of our premier salesmen, had the gift of gab. He could tell stories that made people hang on his every word.
“Do you like living on the shore?” he said.
“Love it.”
“But you’re here about . . . What was your husband’s name?”
“David.” I inhaled then exhaled slowly. “He had a locker here. Would this key fit it?” I opened my palm. The key had nearly made an imprint in my flesh.
“Yep, that’s one of ours. Let’s check out David’s file.”
Miss Perky said, “Doesn’t she need—”
“I’ll vouch for her,” Shane said. “She’s one of the most honorable ladies I’ve ever met.” He hit the space bar on the gym’s computer keyboard; the dormant screen came to life. “Last name Hart?”
“No. Harris. David Harris. Hart’s my maiden name. I—”
“Got it,” Shane said, sparing me from an explanation. He typed in a stream of letters and nodded. “Unit one eighty-eight. Let me clear the men’s locker room, and I’ll usher you in.”
A minute passed before Shane returned and beckoned me. I followed him into the space, which was larger than I would have believed. Many lockers were day lockers with keys already hanging from the keyholes. An entire bank of lockers was reserved for members who paid a fee. David had never liked the idea of putting his gear into a locker where someone else’s dirty clothes might have been. He wasn’t fussy, just cautious.
I approached locker 188 tentatively. What would I find inside? I slotted the key into the keyhole and twisted. My hands shook as I opened the door. A navy blue gym bag sat inside. Nothing else. No towels. No shoes. No sign saying X Marks the Spot. Not wanting to open David’s bag in front of Shane, I pulled it out—it was heavy—and hoisted the carry strap over my shoulder.
Shane said, “You’ll want to close the account, I presume.”
We completed that transaction in a matter of minutes, then Shane wished me well, and I returned to my VW.
In the dim light of the parking garage, sitting in the driver’s seat, my lungs feeling like they were bound with Rocktape, I set the gym bag on the passenger seat and unzipped it. The zipper rasped from disuse. I pried open the bag and inhaled sharply. Inside were gold coins, similar to the ones that had spilled out of the Lucky Cat. Hordes of them. I ran my fingers through them. They were so cold. Beneath, I saw paper. I dug in and withdrew a slug of laser-printed financial sheets, each with a client’s name in the header to the right and David’s name, as investor, to the left. I didn’t know what I was looking at except each account appeared to have lost money. What had happened?
I dug into the bag again and found an envelope with my name written on it in David’s handwriting. My insides snagged. The envelope wasn’t sealed. I removed the sheet of yellow lined paper, torn from a legal pad. It was dated the day he died.
Dear Jenna,
There are no words I can write to explain how I feel. I love you so much, and I am ashamed to admit my wrongdoing, but I borrowed money from my clients.
My hands shook. He had bilked his clients. How many? For how long? I continued to read:
I gambled on risky investments. The investments went south. I meant to pay back every dime, but I couldn’t seem to get ahead of the trend. I am so sorry. I never thought something like this could happen to me. I tried to tell you so many times. On the vacation to Las Vegas. Over dinner at the Top of the Mark. The words wouldn’t come. I love you, Jenna. I’m sorry that life didn’t work out for us as I’d planned. I purchased the Lucky Cat and sealed the last of my wealth inside. For you, Jenna. The coins were purchased with the first money I ever made as an adult, so it’s clean.
The imaginary Rocktape around my lungs grew tighter. What could David have been thinking? The money wasn’t clean. The moment he borrowed his clients’ funds, his earnings, all of them, were soiled.
If my crime is discovered, I will have to go to jail for a very long time. I can’t let you live that life. What I am choosing to do is the right choice. For everyone. I love you so much, but you are better off without me. I hope you understand and will forgive me.
Love always,
David
“No,” I said. I tossed the letter aside and pushed open the car door. I lunged out of the car. Emotions caught in my throat. I couldn’t swallow. I remembered David calling me from the gym saying he was ready. I thought he meant he was fit to sail. What he meant was that he was ready to take his life. He committed suicide. He expected me to find this directly after the accident. I was in charge of his estate and effects. The letter went unfound because I had given his mother the task.
I wrapped my arms around me and keened like a wounded animal.
A woman exiting the elevator hurried to me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m—” I paused. What was I? Hurt that David wouldn’t trust me with his secret. Sad that he hadn’t found the strength to reform. Mad at myself for being blind to my husband’s troubles. “I’m fine,” I lied. “I received some bad news.”
“I know an excellent grief counselor,” she said.
I gazed at the woman, her concern touching me. Who was she? She had never met me and owed me nothing. My throat grew thick.
“If you want her number, e-mail me.” The woman pulled a business card from her purse and pressed it into my hands.
Tears streaked my cheeks. “Thank you.”
As I climbed back into the VW, I felt calmer. I would rise above this . . . betrayal. That was what it was. I believed I had known David, but I hadn’t. Not fully. How could he have done what he had done? I recalled a line from As You Like It: “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
Somewhere along the 280 freeway, I realized I would not be fiscally responsible to David’s clients because our assets weren’t community property. We had earned separately and had always kept our accounts distinct—David’s rules. But I couldn’t endorse that legal right. People had been hurt. Even if the courts didn’t press me to pay David’s debt, I intended to cash out the gold coins and allocate the money to David’s clients. Would the gold cover the entire debt? I didn’t know; I didn’t care. I needed an exorcism. I wondered whether I should tell David’s mother what had happened. I didn’t want to cause her pain. It would crush her to learn her son had lied, cheated, and committed suicide. But perhaps she would find comfort in making things right. She had endless cash.
And then there was the matter of my broken heart. After my mother died, my father was prone to quote Rollo May, an existentialist who was popular in the sixties: “Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair.”
No matter what my plan of action was in regard to David’s misdeeds, I would move ahead with my life. From this moment on, my eyes would remain wide open. Always.
Inherit the Word (The Cookbook Nook Series) Page 24