The House Guests

by Emilie Richards

  “Today fallen soldiers have their own webpages or Facebook pages put up by their families or friends to honor them. They have good photos, and tributes and stuff. But not back then. And I guess nobody’s thought to add all that, because Roger Hart’s been dead as long as I’ve been alive. Longer.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s just one bad photo online, in his uniform, and a small notice. But I do know where he was from. It’s a small town north of here, Blayney, Georgia, just over the Florida border.”

  “Could you tell anything from the photo?”

  “Not much. He’s in uniform, wearing a hat and frowning. It’s not a good photo. From his expression...”

  “What?”

  “I’d guess he didn’t want to go.”

  She felt awful, and she wished she’d just stayed out of this. Maybe Will was better off not knowing and not wondering all his life how his father had felt right before he was blown to pieces.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “When my father died, as awful as it was, I got to say goodbye. Not you. Even your hello is kind of messed up.”

  “I can’t go back and talk to his family. I want to know more, like what he was like as a kid, and if I look like him, but I’ll never be able to. I’ll never even stand by his grave. He’s buried in Blayney. It said so online. One of the only things it said.”

  She thought about that. “How much better would you feel, if you got to do that? Say goodbye at the grave? What do they call that?”

  “Closure.” He grimaced. “It doesn’t matter because it’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?” She was thinking faster. “Will, we have a day off coming up in a couple of weeks, and it’s right before a weekend. We could take off for Georgia then, or, if we have to wait, at spring break. It can’t be that far, right? Like no more than eight hours? We could see Blayney and the cemetery, maybe do a little research, but not enough to alert anybody. We could be super careful.”

  “How would we even get there?”

  She tapped the steering wheel with both hands. “We can take my car. We can tell Cassie and Amber we’re doing something else, and then go there. If we plan carefully...”

  “You don’t think Roxanne will notice the car’s gone?”

  “She’s flying to Europe soon to visit her son. If we’re lucky, she won’t be here to know it’s gone.”

  “And if the dates are different?”

  “I don’t know. Then maybe I’ll tell her it’s time to have the car serviced and you’re going to take it to the garage and leave it there.”

  “And you don’t think she’ll mention this to Cassie?”

  “I don’t know! Would you stop throwing up roadblocks? One thing at a time. First we see if the dates coordinate, and if they do, we can stop worrying about that and start planning what we’re going to tell our mothers—” She realized what she’d said. “Your mother, my stepmother.”

  “I know who you meant.” Sarcasm again.

  “Do you want to go or not? Is it worth maybe stretching the truth a little?”

  “A little? Stretching it as far as Australia.”

  This time she slapped the steering wheel with her palms. “Fine, Will-the-Pill. Don’t do it.” She opened her door and swung her legs to the ground. “I’ve got a test to study for.”

  Will was still sitting in the car when she went into the house. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but she’d done all she could and probably more than she should. Now it was up to him.

  25

  CASSIE WAS BAKING, A sure sign she was trying not to sink into a sea of depression. She only turned on the oven for a handful of reasons. Either she baked to celebrate, the way she did during holidays, or she baked to make sure Savannah ate something moderately healthy before she left for school. Finally, like today, she baked when she had to keep busy or dissolve into wrenching sobs. During prolonged episodes of drinking, her mother had sobbed over hangnails and wet newspapers, and as an adult, along with renouncing alcohol, Cassie had made a conscious decision to renounce tears, as well.

  In the past hour she’d mixed up batter for zucchini muffins and whole wheat oatmeal cookies. Now the muffins were cooling on a wire rack, and the first batch of cookies was in the oven while the rest waited their turn on shiny aluminum sheet pans. Since she felt only marginally better, she was pondering whether to start on chocolate chip scones or attempt mini quiches. Before long she’d have to leave baskets at midnight on neighbors’ doorsteps.

  Instead she made a pot of coffee, and when Amber came into the kitchen dressed in her Kouzina pants and shirt, Cassie automatically held out a mug. “Time before you leave?”

  “Just a few sips. I’m going to need it. Roxanne just called. Yiayia mistakenly booked two events at the same time today. A bridal lingerie shower and a men’s club luncheon—which wouldn’t have happened if we had a reliable management system.”

  As she filled the mug, Cassie tried to picture the upcoming nightmare at the Kouzina. “Are they small groups?”

  “The men alone would take up most of the room. Then top that with twenty-five women. Can you imagine how much fun the guys are going to have when the bride starts opening gifts and pulling out babydolls and G-strings?”

  Cassie whistled softly. “Hold the corsets and push up bras.”

  “Yiayia’s insisting it’s not her fault, and Roxanne is recruiting everybody to help. She’s trying to put the men in the front and on the porch. And if she can rent folding screens, she’ll sequester the women in the back. But this is going to take a lot of cooks in the kitchen and servers on the floor.”

  Cassie looked away, but not quickly enough. Amber set her mug down with a thump. “Didn’t you work at the Kouzina when you were in high school?”

  Cassie was still examining nothing. “Maybe I hosted a little.”

  “No maybe. You could do it again today. We need somebody to seat and greet and make nice with everyone. Come with me. Do you have something you can’t cancel?”

  “I’d love to help, but, you know, I have to—” Cassie couldn’t think of a single word to finish the sentence.

  Amber’s smile could trap honeybees. “Hey, no problem. I’ll just tell Yiayia I tried to get you to help during her hour of need, but you were busy doing something you couldn’t remember.”

  “Use my sweet little yiayia against me?”

  “Say you’ll come.” Amber walked around to stand in front of her so she couldn’t look away.

  “I’m baking cookies,” Cassie said.

  “Then come when they’re finished. You have blue pants and a white blouse, right?”

  Cassie gave up. “If they’re clean, I’ll come as soon as I pull the last batch of cookies out of the oven. Will that suit you?”

  “I won’t have to tattle to Yiayia.”

  “You wouldn’t have anyway.”

  “You’ll never know.” Amber checked the clock, finished two gulps of coffee before she plopped her mug in the dishwasher and headed for the garage.

  “I’m supposed to pick up the kids after school,” Cassie called after her.

  “One of us can swing by and bring them to the Kouzina.”

  The door closed, and Cassie was left alone. The timer sounded and she took out the first batch of cookies, sliding in the next two trays before she closed the oven door. As much as she hated to admit it, working at the Kouzina sounded more promising than baking scones, cleaning the pool—she’d let the pool guy go—and especially more promising than making phone calls.

  In the past weeks she’d been on the phone so much she was considering a career in telemarketing. She’d spent hours following up on job leads, broadening her search to office management. Now she was looking into getting a certificate in web development at the local community college. When she wasn’t scouting jobs, she’d made at least a doz
en phone calls to reach out to Sim Barcroft. As one of the contacts had said—with unmistakable arrogance—nobody as overwhelmingly successful as Sim was available for just anybody. Cassie had explained that her husband and Sim had been roommates at Farum Hall, a prestigious New England prep school, but the man’s snort had been unmistakable.

  The calls weren’t finished. One woman had hinted Sim was living in Asia. At least Cassie had narrowed his location to the largest, most populated continent on the globe.

  Unfortunately, her other phone calls had been equally frustrating. Two evenings ago she’d checked the Riverbend Community website, hoping that the roster of staff in the behavioral health unit might turn up more people willing to share information with her. A nurse named Zoey Charles had also worked hand in hand with Mark, but Zoey was no longer listed. More disconcerting, neither was Ivy.

  So Ivy had been on her call list, too, and so far with no results.

  While the last batch of cookies baked, she headed for her bedroom to change. She was half-undressed when the phone rang. She almost didn’t recognize the sound. She grabbed it with one hand, and the waistband of her pants with the other. She succeeded in pulling them past her hips so she could perch on the edge of the bed as she answered.

  “Cassie? It’s good to hear your voice. It’s Sim. Sim Barcroft.”

  The call was so unexpected, she was at a loss for words, but that didn’t stop Sim. “First, I am so, so sorry I couldn’t come to Mark’s funeral. I really wanted to be there, but I’m working in Hong Kong now, and by the time I learned what had, well, happened to him, it was too late to book a flight in time for the service. Can you forgive me?”

  She was still too disoriented to say what she really thought, that she wasn’t surprised that Sim, who had cost their family an untold amount of money, had stayed on the other side of the world. “Of course,” she said automatically, while she tried to pull together a more pointed response.

  “Dave gave me your phone number. I’m so glad he did. I wanted you to know I gave a donation in Mark’s name to Farum Hall. They’re going to use it to fund a new chemistry lab. Chemistry was Mark’s favorite class. I’m surprised he didn’t go into medical research instead of psychiatry.”

  Apparently Dave had stopped snorting long enough to dial Sim. “That was very kind of you,” she said.

  “You probably don’t know I talked to Mark before he died. We had one of our knock-down, drag-out fights about the economy. I wanted him to get his financial guy to invest twenty-five thou in a new IT startup that I knew was going to be a huge success. I told him if he invested even more, he could retire young and sail around the world, the way he always said he wanted to. But you know Mark...”

  “Apparently not as well as I thought.”

  Sim didn’t seem to find Cassie’s response odd. “Well, I wish he were still around to gloat. I really do, even though it would be at my expense. Mark wasn’t one to take chances or spend needlessly. Honestly, I think he got that from his father. The Westmores used to invite me to come to Connecticut for holidays if my parents were abroad. Mr. Westmore would make us rake their yard—and trust me, it was some yard—to earn money to buy gas so we could use the family car.”

  She had never heard that story, because Mark had only rarely spoken about his childhood.

  “Mark internalized those lessons, I guess,” Sim went on. “So he refused to invest, and you know what? This time he was right. My sure thing went south two months ago. Luckily I saw the signs and pulled most of my money out in time, so I didn’t lose my shirt. But if the company had tanked when he was still alive, Mark would never have let me forget it. What a guy. I’m sure going to miss him.”

  Cassie cleared her throat. “Sim, you’re saying you suggested this investment to Mark, and he turned you down?”

  “Yeah. You know the bit about a prophet having no honor in his own country? Well that was me and Mark. I guess when two guys spend their teens in the same dorm room, they know every wart and pimple on the other one’s—well, you know. Trust me, he was the last person I’d have gone to for analysis, too. I understood.”

  “Sim, did you invest any money for Mark? Especially in the past few years?” She scurried for an excuse for asking. “I’m still trying to make sense of his portfolio, and what’s what.”

  “Never a penny. His financial advisor was good. Greg something, right? I checked him out. He was a good fit for somebody like Mark who was risk adverse. Through the years I looked over a few things when he asked, but that was it. I never saw a need to suggest he and Greg make any big changes—except for that IT company. He was happy, and if I thought the growth was too slow, that was just the difference between us.”

  With her mind whirling, she could only pull together a one-word answer. “Thanks.”

  “I would be happy to look at what you have, Cassie, and help you understand whatever you need to. But Greg should be able to do that, and he’s a hell of a lot closer. I’m surprised he hasn’t.”

  Sim didn’t need to know that Mark had blamed him for the destruction of their retirement portfolio. She could imagine how upset he would be. “Don’t worry. Apparently Mark mentioned you and the IT thing, so Greg just wondered whether Mark had put some money into it that he didn’t know about. That’s all. Otherwise I think I’m set.”

  They chatted for a minute about Savannah and the move to Florida, and then Sim wrapped up the call. “Well, it’s midnight here, and I’m falling asleep at my desk. But this is my direct number. You can call me anytime. Anything I can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  She thanked him and hung up, but if the kitchen timer hadn’t gone off just then, she might not have gotten up. She zipped her pants and grabbed the shirt, buttoning it as she walked down the hall, but once the cookies were out and the oven was off, she stood in the middle of the kitchen for a long time, staring at nothing.

  Mark had unfairly blamed Sim for a bad investment and the resulting loss of almost everything they had saved so carefully. Nick had suggested she hire a forensic accountant to be sure that Greg Gleason was on the up and up. There was no question she had to do just that and confirm that Sim was being honest, too. But she already knew what even the most scrupulous investigator would eventually tell her. Greg and Sim were telling the truth, and Mark was the liar.

  Not only had he lied about the money, it was possible the same person who was sending Cassie letters might know where it had gone. No huge leap of logic to postulate a theory. The money that was missing may well have gone into the blackmailer’s pockets.

  There were still so many questions, but the two most important? What had Mark done that he’d needed to hide? And who knew his secret?

  The garage shelves were stacked with boxes of financial records dating back to the beginning of Mark’s career. Now Cassie was glad she hadn’t been foolish enough to discard them. The day she’d learned how much moving so many boxes to Florida would cost, she’d briefly considered dumping the whole lot. Instead, in the next weeks, she needed to take down each one and conduct a thorough search. She needed answers, and she was the only person dogged enough to find them.

  Maybe the fact she hadn’t yet found a job was a good thing. It looked as if she had one after all, unpaid and tedious beyond measure. But by the time she finished, hopefully she would have the answers she needed to finally move on with her life.

  26

  HOURS LATER CASSIE WAS exhausted. She had been on her feet since arriving at the Kouzina, and now that the lunch guests were finally gone, she estimated in addition to standing for hours, she’d probably walked the equivalent of home and back performing her hostessing duties. Luckily, she’d had fun, largely due to Roxanne and Amber, who had pulled off the dual luncheons with no hard feelings and gales of laughter. The high point for both men and women was when Buck came out of the kitchen with his bouzouki to sing a naughty song in Greek wearing one of the b
ride’s new red bras as a headband. Buck was the hit of the afternoon.

  Amber was a star, too. There was no other way to describe her. Cassie had watched as her housemate did complicated math in her head to tell Roxanne how much she should charge for a special that night—all while making up mezze platters for each table. She had rearranged seating and headed off myriad problems before they developed, including gracefully fending off the advances of one of the older members of the men’s club while signaling the bartender to substantially water down the old guy’s drinks. When Cassie hadn’t been able to figure out a difficult check, Amber had swept in and fixed it. Best of all, early on she had convinced Yiayia to go home and sleep off the headache that had developed when she realized what a big mistake she had made.

  “I still say it’s something of a miracle she got Mama to leave,” Roxanne told Cassie. “But she does things for Amber she won’t do for the rest of us. Like those aprons. Do you know how many times I suggested we buy new, prettier ones? And did you notice that the tables now have fresh flowers? Amber started washing the plastic flowers every time she came in.”

  “Washing them?”

  “She told Mama they might harbor germs. Next thing I knew, we had these pretty little vases she found for practically nothing and fresh daisies every morning. The florist gave her a deal, too.”

  Cassie finished counting the contents of the cash register drawer and made notes before she closed it. “Do you mind?”

  “Mind? I want to clone her. I love this old place. I want it to stand long enough to become the new Yiayia someday.”

  “Won’t you need a grandchild to be a yiayia?”

  Roxanne winked. “Gary Jr. says he and Patricia are going to the town hall to tie the knot when I get there next week. I think they want children sooner than later.”

  Cassie held up her hands and they slapped palms. “No big fat Greek wedding?”

  “They want a small, skinny wedding. Just them, me and Patricia’s parents and her sister. I’m heading over the end of next week.”