This raised new questions about Lowry. She decided it might be worthwhile taking another look around the house. Maybe there was something she hadn’t noticed before, a clue about what was going on.
The bedroom closet, where Freddy and Muriel’s clothes were jammed in around the safe, seemed a good place to start. When she opened the closet door, she was hit by the musty smell of mothballs, cigarette smoke, and stale perfume. She pushed her way past the safe and tried to part the wall of hanging garments, but they were jammed in too tightly. So she began pulling armloads of clothing out of the closet and tossing them on the bed.
She found only a few items that belonged to Freddy — a worn navy blazer with dull brass buttons, a pair of mustard-colored pants with a sprung elastic waistband, and a plastic bag containing a dated-looking pin-striped suit with wide lapels. The pockets held nothing but a sprinkling of tobacco crumbs.
Most of the clothes seemed to be Muriel’s—sweaters and dresses, a few pairs of shoes lined up neatly in a built-in shoe rack. On the shelf was a box holding a hat and some handbags.
When it was all in a big pile on the bed, she began sorting through it, item by item, shaking out each piece before she put it back in the closet. At the top of the stack was a beige wool knit vest, apparently belonging to Muriel. It was in bad shape, stretched almost to dress length, its texture shaggy with pilling; next came a navy suit, baggy and covered with lint, but otherwise resembling a policewoman’s uniform. The suit, she noted, was about her own size, the vest large enough to accommodate two of her. No pockets in either.
Next came four shapeless rayon dresses, all in a similar granny-dress style. They ranged in sizes, she noticed, from one that would fit her to one that was size eighteen. Other than a few petrified Kleenexes, the pockets yielded nothing. She quickly made her way through the rest, an endless stack of separates — blouses, skirts, slacks — none of them matching. At the bottom of the pile was an oversized gray jogging suit that might have belonged to either Lowry.
The shoes were ancient and lifeless — a pair of cracked white plastic high-heeled boots, several pairs of caved-in black pumps. The purses were not only old, but covered with dust, as if they hadn’t been used in years. They were empty. She unfolded a black knit cap, and a small winged insect flew out. Sure enough, when she held the cap up to the light, it was dotted with tiny holes.
When the clothes had been inspected and returned to the closet, she felt more puzzled than before. True, Mrs. Lowry might be a thrift shop addict. But the items hanging in the closet didn’t appear to be a functioning wardrobe.
She went over to the bedroom’s second bureau, the one still filled with the Lowrys’ things, and started going through it. In the bottom drawer, she found a moth-eaten sweater vest, a faded blue nylon nightgown, and a couple of pairs of mismatched men’s socks. In the next drawer were two pairs of women’s underpants of the pre-bikini variety, and a hopelessly tangled ball of leggings and pantyhose. Another drawer contained a cache of junk jewelry — cheap beads, tarnished bangles, and snap-together pearls — all tangled together.
As she closed the last drawer, she realized she hadn’t yet come across any winter coats or jackets in the Lowrys’ wardrobe. This was strange, given London’s harsh winters. Except for a single pink poplin raincoat — lightweight and unlined — there were no coats at all, no boots, mufflers, or mittens. But surely they wouldn’t take their winter things to L.A., not in June. She dragged a stool into the hallway and poked her head through a trap door in the ceiling. The light shone through the side vents of the attic, revealing bare rafters but no provision for storing clothes. She pulled the door shut and climbed down.
Next, she worked her way through the rest of the closets and even braved a quick foray into the basement, but she found no winter attire.
Back in the Lowrys’ bedroom, she began to rummage through the drawers of the night table. Here, she found a pair of sunglasses with cream-colored plastic frames, a key ring, assorted small change, a packet of embroidery needles, and a plastic bag filled with a rainbow assortment of sewing thread. In a side storage compartment sat a phonebook. When she lifted it out, she discovered a stack of magazines, notable in being the first and only reading material she’d encountered among the Lowrys’ possessions. She set them down on the night table and flipped through them. They were travel magazines, well-worn and dog-eared.
She sat down on the bed to take a closer look. The top magazine was folded open to an article entitled, “Off the Beaten Track in South America.” The piece talked about the lonely beauty of the Guyanan highlands, the pristine beaches of French Guiana, the remote villages of the Peruvian Andes. Below that, several other magazines were dog-eared on articles about exotic and isolated places: Australia’s great outback, the New Zealand Bush, the vast savannas of South Africa, lost ashrams in the Himalayas, the stark landscape of India’s Malabar Coast, the surprising beauty of springtime in Siberia.
Next came some pamphlets offering real estate, in some cases whole islands, in Uruguay, Chile, Venezuela. A more elaborate brochure contained color photos of plantations for sale in Colombia, Honduras, and Nicaragua, although no specific crops were mentioned. At the bottom of the stack was a booklet with full-color spreads of estates in Ecuador. A paragraph in the introduction described Ecuador as a popular spot for foreign settlers because of the country’s very low taxes and “even more importantly, the privacy Ecuador offers as a nation beyond the reach of most extradition laws.” This passage was underlined in pen.
Nicole studied the page for a long time, digesting its implications. Clearly, this wasn’t describing a vacation spot, but a hideout for people with enough money to make sure they weren’t found by those who could launch a worldwide search — the law or the mob.
This suggested the Lowrys never intended to occupy her condo at all. Perhaps they planned the house swap as a diversion, a way to keep their house occupied so they could buy a few days’ time and disappear. “Gone to ground” was a phrase that occurred to her, like a spy who’s blown his cover or someone in the witness protection program.
A sudden banging on the front door brought her to her feet. Then the mailbox cover rattled and Brad’s voice called, “Hey, Nick, I forgot the key. Let me in!”
She glanced at her watch. It was 7:30 p.m. She hurried down to the front door and, after peeking out, opened it. Brad was standing there. The expression on his face infuriated her. After everything that had happened, he actually looked pleased with himself.
“My God,” he said, “do you realize how ferocious you look? Like some babe in one of those old comic strips, ready to hit the old man on the head with a rolling pin.”
At that moment, she came close to truly hating him. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, getting a glimpse of the real Brad.
In response to her stare, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to come clean about everything. I’m working on a special project for Coop.” His smile broadened, as if he thought she’d be happy to receive the news. “This is something really big, my first real chance to show what I can do.”
He took her hand, and before she could pull it free, steered her into the living room. “I was planning to tell you, but first I wanted to make sure things were working out.”
She took a seat on the couch and, against all reason, willed herself to keep an open mind. What if he was going to tell her the whole truth, she asked herself. What if he had dumped Brenda and was determined to be a better person? At the same time, she feared that nothing could save their marriage.
He sank into the blue wing chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s a new venture,” he said. “A firm that uses electronic trading to invest in currency futures. You know, of Third World countries.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “How could you be working on something for Bill Cooper if you were out of the office all afternoon?”
He was sile
nt, as if gathering his thoughts. “Look, this project I’m involved with — it’s top secret. Nobody at SoftPac is supposed to know. Coop doesn’t want me working on it down there. We’re, like, doing the whole thing through another company, out of their offices.” He paused and gave a smile, earnest and imploring. “Nick, I need to ask a favor.”
“A favor,” she repeated.
“Right,” he said. “I have to go back there tomorrow morning, so I told Bren’ I was bringing you in for more medical tests. And, well, I want to be sure you don’t call the office looking for me. You know, like you did this afternoon. If anyone calls here before noon, just don’t answer the phone. Got it?”
She stared at him, thinking what a liar he was. SoftPac had sent him to England to solve a serious management crisis at Britcomp, which was their first big investment abroad. While he was on this assignment, they’d never saddle him with a huge task like setting up a new business. Yet she knew how useless it was to confront him. He’d only embellish the lie, trying to make it sound more plausible, and she couldn’t bear to listen.
“Nick?” he said. “Can I count on you?”
“All right. I won’t answer the phone. That’s easy enough.” This said, she quickly moved on to tell him about the call from Stephanie, the news of the condo break-in, and the fact that the Lowrys still hadn’t showed up.
“Jesus,” he said. “What about our new sound system?”
“Stephanie checked. She says nothing’s missing.”
He put his hands over his face and was silent for a long moment before he looked at her again. “You know something?” he said, shaking his head. “This house swap was the stupidest idea …”
“Right,” she said crisply, cutting him off. “One more question. What exactly did you tell Brenda?”
“Pardon me?”
“How did you explain what happened this afternoon? You know, you’re supposed to be taking me to the doctor, and then I call the office, looking for you.”
He flushed slightly. “Promise you won’t be mad?”
She waited.
“I told her it was because you got knocked on the head when that car blew up,” he said. “You know, it sort of blitzed your short-term memory. I explained that I really had taken you in for your medical appointment. I brought you home and had just gone over to the pharmacy to get your prescriptions.”
As she stared at him, her anger — already simmering — erupted into a boiling rage closely resembling the fireball that had consumed the Lowrys’ car. “You told her I forgot that you’d just been here?” Her words came out in a low shout.
“Come on, Nick. You promised you wouldn’t get mad,” he said. “I mean, I told her it was temporary; the doc said you’d get over it.”
“How could you imagine I wouldn’t get mad,” she ranted, “when you portray me as some kind of amnesia case who loses hours at a time?”
“I swore her to secrecy,” he said. “Don’t worry. She’s good at keeping her mouth shut.”
“I’ll bet she is.” She gave him one last angry look and began leafing through the newspaper, pretending to read.
Brad was determined to finish describing his new project. As he launched into the details, she realized there was something familiar about the idea. Then she remembered. Brad had mentioned it before. It wasn’t Bill Cooper’s brainchild, but Brad’s own, one of the get-rich-quick schemes he was always hatching. At the time, Nicole had pointed out to him that Third World countries had laws against foreigners messing around with their currency. And to flaunt such laws was to risk being tossed into a filthy, toiletless cell in Africa or Central America.
“What a Cassandra you are!” Brad had scoffed. “Our government never allows foreign countries to extradite Americans for chicken shit like that.” He hadn’t denied that the scheme was illegal, she noticed, nor had he brought it up again, until now.
Rumor had it that Cooper was planning to make SoftPac a publicly traded corporation. If that were true, he couldn’t afford to be involved in anything even remotely shady. No, she decided, this was exactly the kind of thing Brad was always daydreaming about — the fortune that could be made if only he had the guts to take a few risks. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that this scheme had Brad’s name written all over it.
Sixteen
The next morning, when Brad called goodbye from the bottom of the stairs, Nicole was waiting in the bathroom, already dressed. As soon as the front door slammed, she hurried down the stairs. She reached the front window in time to catch a glimpse of his departing figure heading in the direction of the subway.
She was wearing the pink poplin raincoat she’d found in the Lowrys’ closet. It had a fake fur collar and matching rain hat. To give herself a slightly different shape, she’d padded her middle with an old sweater from the same source. Completing the ensemble were her white Reebok running shoes with cuffed white socks.
She’d also done some work on her face, using pancake makeup she’d found in the medicine cabinet. Pale pink lipstick created a monotone that helped blend her face into the shadow of her hat. The clunky-looking sunglasses from the Lowrys’ night table provided another good touch, although the lenses slightly distorted her vision.
Opening the hall closet, she glanced in the full-length mirror and gave a laugh of surprise when she saw the stranger looking back at her — short, pudgy, and rather dim. She looked like a woman of limited intelligence who, at thirty-two, would still be living with her parents. She’d be employed as a box girl at the market and have a hopeless crush on one of the checkers.
Taking stock of her appearance, she decided the disguise was convincing enough to fool Brad, which was the point. If she was going to find out what he was up to, she couldn’t risk being recognized.
She made a face at herself in the mirror and then, after closing the closet door, cut through the kitchen and left by the back door. She cracked the gate and peered into the front yard. No one in sight. On reaching the sidewalk, she ran for the subway.
At the station, she was relieved to find Brad still on the platform, waiting for the train. She kept her distance, stationing herself behind a wide, freestanding column covered with advertising posters. From here, she watched him pace up and down the platform. Once in a while, he would stop and peer into the distance for the train. He seemed oblivious to her presence.
Just then a young woman entered the station, and Brad turned to look. At the sight of her, his eyes widened, and his mouth went slack. Even Nicole had to admit the woman was stunning. Dressed in a black stretch minidress, she had a tiny waist, narrow hips, and a bosom that was out of proportion to her body. As her high heels clicked down the stairs, her breasts bounced. She didn’t look in Brad’s direction. But her lips were parted in a smile that indicated she was completely aware of the effect she was having on him.
Brad edged toward the woman and murmured something to her that Nicole was too far away to hear. In response, the woman smiled up at him. She had full, pouty lips, the sort achieved with the help of a dermatologist and repeated injections of collagen. Still, Nicole had to admit, they did the job, endowing her with an expression of smoldering sensuality. When Brad leaned forward to hear the woman’s reply, the expression on his face was something to behold.
Nicole’s throat constricted. Despite all the anger she’d been feeling toward Brad these last few days, her eyes now stung with the threat of tears. He’d never looked at her that way — not when they met, not on their wedding day, not ever.
The disguise she was wearing no longer seemed quite so outlandish. It was almost as if the persona she’d assumed that morning had become the real Nicole — unloved, unlovely, and completely pathetic.
At last a train rolled into the station, pulled to a stop. and opened its doors. The three of them boarded the same car. The woman was first. Her body seemed to glide along, the narrow pelvis thrust forward, leading the way. Brad was next. Nicole plodded along behind, unnoticed in her bubble-gum
coat and white tennis shoes.
The woman found an unoccupied pair of seats. When Brad slid in beside her and resumed the conversation, she smiled up from under her eyelashes, as if surprised to find him sitting next to her.
As she watched, Nicole couldn’t help remembering the Brad she’d first met. Outgoing and sunny, he possessed a certain charisma, and yet he was completely unconscious of his own attractiveness. Although Nicole sensed his interest, she had to make the first moves. Now, to her disgust, she saw that he was very smooth at picking up women. When and where had he acquired this skill? Another question presented itself: How many had there been besides Brenda?
After a few stops, the woman disembarked. As she walked toward the exit, she turned and waved at Brad. He nodded and raised his hand in a little salute. Gripped between his fingers was a business card.
As the train hurtled on, Nicole had an overwhelming urge to get off at the next stop, go back to the house, and book the next flight back to L.A. Not yet, she told herself; she was going to see this thing through.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute before they pulled into another station, and Brad got up. She stood up and followed him off the train.
He led her on a brisk walk five or six blocks, while attractive window displays gave way to open bins of cut-rate goods. Here, the side streets were occupied by lofts for clothing manufacturers. As they walked—Nicole half running to keep up—the area grew shabbier. Debris littered the gutters. Occasionally, a cluster of raggedy men stood smoking on the sidewalk. They appeared to be at that phase of economic decline where they’d given up any pretense of looking for work.
Brad turned down an alley, walked quickly up the steps of a run-down brick office building, and disappeared inside. After a moment’s hesitation, Nicole followed him in. A man was already waiting for the elevator. He and Brad exchanged nods; they stood two abreast in companionable silence while Nicole hovered behind them in the shadow of the entry hall.
The Swap Page 17
