“Please. That’s what I rely on you for.”
“Good. Then it won’t surprise you that I’d prefer you stay away from Dr. Kristenson. Soloman-Schmitt needs you more now.”
Soloman-Schmitt.
“Aw, sweetie, aren’t you gonna drink that?” the maid interrupted.
Lydia squirmed. “I really don’t think I can.”
“Suit yourself. How ’bout a little wine, honey?”
Paula hid behind her hand.
“Wine’s fine. Let’s try that,” Lydia mumbled. This was divine retribution, she was thinking, for her prank on Helaine at the guest house.
“And you?” the woman asked Paula.
“Oh, yes, and then please go when you’re through. We need some privacy.”
(Why hadn’t I thought to say that?)
“Suit yourself,” the woman replied.
They sat in silence as the maid fumbled hopelessly with the bottle.
“Leave it,” Paula finally ordered. It was amusing, but only for a little while.
They waited till they heard the door close behind her and Lydia took the wine bottle and uncorked it.
“I really am sorry about that,” Paula offered. “I just thought perhaps–”
“I know what you thought. It became painfully obvious.”
“Well, what the fuck do I know about it? Shoot me in the head.”
“It’s just that I can’t concentrate,” Lydia said. “I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t want to discuss it, but I do need a private phone. Just to talk.”
“Look, I don’t want anything to jinx our operation here, Lydia. We’ve got a lot on our mind.”
“You have my word that I will stay put until you tell me the coast is clear. But…I…she will be very anxious about–”
“She should have been very anxious before this, what with that tarantula on the loose!”
Lydia swirled the wine and sighed. Okay. But too late now. “Nevertheless, I’m lonesome and not for Soloman-Schmitt.”
“I’m going to lose you, aren’t I?”
“You might. But not before we finish.”
Paula nodded and sipped her wine. “What about Vice President Beaumont? Doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?”
“Can’t. Don’t want to.”
“What do you want to do? Lie in bed all day?”
Lydia took a deep breath. “That, too.”
“Well, what else then?”
“I want to sit on some of those boards. As many as possible.”
Paula perked up. “Really? I can arrange that.”
“We’d be in opposite corners, Vice President Treadwell. Better consider that first.”
“Not necessarily. Besides, it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? The other way I’ll be completely deaf and blind until I find your replacement.”
“IF. I’ve seen what’s coming through the ranks, Paula. Good luck.”
“Isn’t there anyone out there? Another Lydia Beaumont?”
“Some, but you’ve got to grab them quickly and then watch them like a hawk.”
“Crap, Lydia. I know you’re busy right now, but get me a shopping list.”
“Okay. Get me a private line.”
_____
The summer gods were packing it in for now, leaving things in the capable hands of their icy associates.
The days shortened and the nights grew long again.
_____
Seven-point-three on the Richter scale and some pretty serious aftershocks. That’s what it feels like when an institution like Soloman-Schmitt catches cold and sneezes. It did have the beneficial effect of throwing The Chambers-Kristenson-Beaumont affair into the inside pages for awhile, although the press had a new excuse to assemble in front of Lydia’s building, so she still couldn’t show up for work there.
As a protective measure, Paula Treadwell had the entire contents of Lydia’s office shipped under supervision to her VIP’s ivory tower. She delayed as long as possible in furnishing her with a private line until the relentless e-mail requests for the same threatened to distract her from her own business, which these days consisted of a lot of hand-holding and arm-twisting and endlessly sincere public announcements about the promising health of her company. If she didn’t watch out she could find herself president of it one day.
_____
“Okay, Beaumont, you’ve got your private line.”
“Prove it.”
“How can I do that?”
“Tell me something you wouldn’t want anyone else to hear.”
“You know you got to start trusting people again. It’s not–”
“Spare me, Paula. Go on.”
“I cheated on my husband the other night. With the cable man.”
“Oh my gosh…thanks.”
“I’m under so much pressure and the guy was so sweet. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Okay, it’s all right. Thank you, Paula. Thanks.”
“You think I should tell Dickie?”
“Paula…no. I don’t think you should share this with Dickie.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I…I think you should reflect on it in silence and hang up so I can use my phone. Are you coming by this week?”
“Yes, but I don’t know when yet. You’re such a prude, you know. I’m still blown away that you’re Jane Doe.”
“Uh, me too. A prude? Why?”
“Because other than that thing way back in the Paleolithic era, you know with your Mr. Rios, I didn’t know you thought about sex.”
“Paula…I need to use the phone.”
“Right. I’ll see you at the end of the week then.”
Paleolithic Joe. Delilah had e-mailed Lydia the latest articles and it didn’t look good for him. Arraignment on ten counts of securities fraud, him and his gang of fourteen. That was just the beginning, she knew, the tip of only one iceberg in a great big ocean filled with them.
“You want me to hang that up for you, honey?”
Lydia clutched the phone possessively and shook her head. She had forgotten to mention to Paula that blonds were still littering her landscape. Outside the window, she swore she saw snowflakes fluttering by. She had missed the end of a spectacular Indian summer, a particularly long one this year. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Two thirty.”
“Thank you.” She waited for the maid to leave the room and dialed Helaine at her office.
“She’s with a patient right now. Can I take your name and number?”
“Oh…um…tell her, please, that Jane called.” She gave the secretary the number. “It’s a private number.”
“I understand, Ms. Beaumont. I’ll let her know as soon as she’s out of session.”
Lydia coughed, exposed so easily. “Thank you. You have a nice day.” She hung up and dialed Delilah at the bank, bypassing her secretary.
“Globe International, Del Lewiston. How may I help you?”
“Del, it’s me.”
“Hey! Commandant Treadwell let you off the leash?”
“Nah, but I finally got a private line. How’s things over your way?”
“I feel the earth move under my feet–not too bad really. Everybody sugaring me. Haven’t got time for any Soloman-Schmitt type mavericks in my house. You hear Arthur-Doolittle’s going belly-up? Just a matter of time.”
“A long time coming. How’s it look at the penthouse? I wanna go home.”
“Paula’s good, but not that good, I’m afraid. Still some stragglers.”
“Christ. I need my life back, Del.”
“Whowee though, you sure sound exciting these days. All this time I thought you were just this mild mannered financier.
Mmm, mmm, mmm, Lydia Beaumont, what they say about you. And I’ll bet you haven’t got laid in weeks because of it, have you?”
“Ain’t I something?”
“Sit tight. Things will quiet down soon, now that they’ve got this stuff to gnaw a
t. Treadwell taking good care of you?”
“Yeah. Bar no expense, if you get what I’m driving at. It’s embarrassing.”
“Hah! She’s a piece of work that one. Send my regards. This your number I’m seeing here?”
Lydia listened as she read it off. “That’s mine. Call me. I hate e-mail.” After that she loitered near the phone for another half hour before going back to work. Another hour flew by and the maid knocked at the door of the makeshift office.
“Telephone. Wouldn’t tell me her name, though.”
(Of course not.) “Thanks. This is confidential, please.”
The woman made herself scarce.
“Good afternoon?”
“Darling…who’s that?”
“Helaine! Um…the maid. I mean room service. I miss you.”
“Maid? Where are you? I’ve been sick to death worrying that you flew the coop on me.”
“Soloman-Schmitt’s holding me ransom.”
“How much are they asking? I’ll pay anything.”
“I need to see you, Lana.”
“I need you. When?”
“Tonight?”
“Where are you?”
Lydia gave her the address.
“Will they stop me at the desk? What do I say?”
“Just wear your hair down and duck your head. I don’t think anybody will stop you.”
“Okay…? And what else should I wear?”
“Lana…surprise me.”
_____
Stanley Kandinsky representing Defendant Beaumont? Oh, shit! He had never prevailed in a single case where that man was involved. The stars were simply aligned against Attorney Willard Hathaway.
_____
Racketeers, reconnoiters, raconteurs. Rrrrrrr. VP Treadwell fumed as she rode up the elevator, exiting five minutes later with her own little storm cloud in tow as she stomped gloomily down the hallway. It was a bad day. She rapped impatiently on Lydia’s door with a set of white knuckles and waited a few seconds. No answer. She turned the handle. It was unlocked. She let herself in without announcement.
Once inside, she immediately discovered a trail of women’s clothes leading from the couch to the bedroom and the excited cries emanating from that direction told her all she needed to know for the moment. She cursed inaudibly and fell into a chair to await the finale, reminding herself to speak to John again about putting an end to the dumb blond parade at the Beaumont pleasure palace.
She put her face in a newspaper for awhile, squinting in the dim light, kicking at the briefcase with her toe as she read. Nothing but bad news everywhere.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. And same with this Jane Doe Beaumont. And what a time for all of this. You could stand in the middle of town and feel the goddamned ground shaking. And now Rios and his cabal, making the whole firm look like a bunch of cowboys. Renegades running amok in the temple of Soloman-Schmitt. Ten securities violations. Felonies. Fraud. She had enough ass to kick without assisting a grand jury to kick his. They could indict him on the papers alone. The whole bunch of insiders and their Fortune Five Hundred members only clubs. Served them right! The good old boys stepping over the line, lining their pockets with the investors funds. Shit. She didn’t want any on her.
Treadwell paused and listened to the private party going on in the bedroom. She was pretty sure that was Beaumont calling the cows home. Atta girl! Plain old fucking. Why couldn’t people be content with that? No, a good roll in the sack’s too old fashioned. Fucking till you can’t walk, that’s old. Till you’re in love with the whole world, old. Smiling at it like you just dropped acid or something. No, just not thrilling enough today.
Gotta steal, gotta cheat, gotta lie. Got to fuck people over, because just plain fucking ain’t good enough. And look at this asshole Sharon Chambers. What in the hell are you smiling about, you fucking menace? I’ll bet you don’t even like sex, you big phony. Trying to mess with my top girl. My right-hand woman. My goddamned top executive. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!
She threw her glasses into her purse, rolled the newspaper into a ball and punted it. This was serious. She didn’t have all night to sit there. She stood up glanced at her watch and went back to the bedroom, cracking the bedroom door to check on the progress there. A blond on top. Fine, we’ll give that one a beeper, Treadwell said to herself, and terminate the rest. Look at all that hair. A regular living doll.
“There…yes…there,” she heard Lydia coax between breaths.
Paula couldn’t make out the blond’s response.
“Yes…yes…yes…yes…” Lydia moaned.
Goodness, Paula muttered, with no fear she would be overheard. She closed the door again. Plays as hard as she works–who the hell would have guessed it? She left the doorway and went back to the chair, waiting with growing irritation for another fifteen minutes before approaching the bedroom one last time.
“Okay honey,” she finally said, unceremoniously slapping the blond’s behind as she spoke, “you’re doing Soloman-Schmitt proud, let me tell you. Now go, wash up and make us some martinis.”
“Paula!” Lydia gasped. “Paula,” she gulped incredulously.
The blond buried her face in Lydia’s neck. Paula heard her whisper, “Are you all right?”
Lydia pulled the sheets over the woman and tried to sit up, but failed. “Paula! What are you doing–?”
“Beaumont! Go on, blondie, she’s fine. Something’s up, Beaumont. Get dressed.” She threw a towel and a bathrobe at them and the ladies climbed out of the bed without another word, the blond heading for the bathroom, concealing herself in the robe, her face hidden by her hair.
Lydia threw the towel to the floor and marched naked into the living room, VP Treadwell in pursuit.
“Paula, for Chrissake! You interrupted my–what is it? Why are you here?”
“Wow, look at those abs. You’re fit as a fiddle, Beaumont.”
Lydia swore under her breath. “You’re standing on my clothes, Treadwell. Those are my things you’re on.
Here…pass me that sweater, please. Thanks. And those, too. No, no, just the pants. Sit, please. Sit. Thank you.” She cast a look toward the bedroom and then back to Paula. “Now what’s wrong,” she muttered as she dressed. “I thought you weren’t coming until the end of the week?”
“Yeah, I see you thought that. And I thought you didn’t care for bimbos?”
“Paula’s, she’s not–”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look at this. A subpoena. Oh, here’s Goldilocks now,” she said, addressing the woman without looking at her. “Honey, you know how to make a martini?”
“Paula,” Lydia started to protest.
“Indeed I do. How would you like them? Dry? Or wet?”
Lydia looked askance and took the papers from Paula.
“Dry, if you can manage it. I got that this afternoon, Beaumont! In front of the grand jury no less. Are we ready for this? A fucking subpoena. CRAP.”
“I…I’ll make those,” Lydia called over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. Please.”
Paula reached out and fanned the documents with her hand. “You hear that? That’s the sound shit makes hitting a fan! This is what it looks like in black and white. You got the numbers yet on those accounts, the one your boyfriend fudged?”
“Okay, Paula. Okay. Please. Sit down. Listen to me. One, you’re embarrassing me right now and I’m more than a little overwhelmed by your being here. Two, as you know, he is not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”
“Here you go, ladies. Two dry martinis. Will that be all?”
Lydia stared at the rug and threw the papers onto the coffee table.
“Thanks, hon,” Paula cooed. “Now, if you don’t mind. We really need some privacy here. Ex-boyfriend, I meant, of course. What a rat!”
Lydia was silent.
“I’m going to have a breakdown without you, Beaumont. I’ve checked out your list. There’s no one like you and you know it.”
The blond retrieved her clothes from the
floor and headed for the bedroom. Lydia followed her movements with her eyes.
“Pay attention, Beaumont.”
“Paula. You’re in rare form tonight. Don’t worry about your testimony. I’m three quarters done with the numbers.”
“Perfect martini. She’s a keeper. I need your final report.”
“Final?” Lydia looked anxiously toward the bedroom. “Oh, right, final. I was thinking of something else.”
“What, I wonder?”
“Paula…everything is going to come out fine. You need to go home now and get some rest. I understand where we’re at and I won’t let you down.”
Paula saw the blond emerging once again from the bedroom, this time fully dressed. She kept one eye on her as she spoke to Lydia. “I don’t mind prepared statements, but sworn testimony? There ought to be a law against it, the end.” There was something unusual about that woman. For one she looked a little too upright to be from any of the agencies the corporation depended on. Two, she looked vaguely familiar, though the light could be playing tricks on old eyes. Treadwell felt for her glasses but they were no longer strung around her neck. “You like that one, Beaumont? Don’t answer, I know you do. Hey, leave your card before you go, honey, so we can get in touch with you. You know what I mean. You’re the first one she’s had any interest in.”
“Paula–”
“Oh, good. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that, Ms. Treadwell. How’s your martini?”
Was that a mocking tone in her voice? “Perfect,” Treadwell replied as she peered with an impending sense of doom at the blond approaching her. Doom? What an inexplicable feeling, Paula thought, reaching out to take the card the blond was offering. Completely inexplicable. Where the hell were her glasses?
Lydia took a huge, uncomfortable breath and threw her head back on the sofa. (I am a barbarian, Paula is definitely the head barbarian, Soloman-Schmitt, a tribe of barbarians, high-paid, overpaid corporate barbarians on the loose. Anybody can plainly see that.)
She could see Helaine was pissed. To laugh? To cry? Lydia couldn’t decide. Adding to her misery, there was a congestion building in her womb, the product of what Del called “coitus interruptus.” That’s what she was experiencing big time. That and an anxiety attack about the possibility that Helaine might be leaving, which she couldn’t blame her for doing. She avoided eye contact with her, and instead searched the ceiling for an escape hatch.
The Secret Keeping Page 29