Exchange

by CF Frizzell

  “Well, you can’t promote business as usual either,” he said, stopping at the doorway to his workroom, “not when it’s blood-and-guts warfare.”

  “I know. Go take pictures for me.”

  “Did you pick what you want yet? I put some for this week in the system hours ago.”

  She waved him away and opened the photography folder on the screen.

  An array of thumbnail shots popped up, and she sat back to check out the slide show. Angry faces, placards in motion, arms raised in protest, some defensively, several dozen shots. She chose six, showing the pros and the cons, some with Maclin’s acreage as backdrop, and one of the aftermath at the ambulance.

  She stopped the slideshow and blew that one up. She knew all the emergency personnel shown, but only two of the four injured individuals. One woman stood in profile, having her wrist taped. The other sat with head turned away and slightly dipped as dressing was applied to his scalp. She swiped through her tablet and found the list of those treated by the EMTs. According to her notes, Meredith Walker of Tremlett Road suffered a severely sprained wrist. The head wound victim was a Shay Maguire of Sunrise Trail.

  Mel looked back at the screen and enlarged Maguire’s image. She knew everyone in the four homes on Sunrise, including Misty Kincaid and Coby Palmer from the Exchange, but didn’t know this man. Then the long torso, the very short black hair, the slight curve of breasts struck her. Along with images of the bucket truck, the leather…

  “So it’s you.” She sat back and examined the photograph, the body, the pose. “Shay Maguire. Damn. Did Della send you to keep the peace, tough guy?”

  Mike stuck his head around the corner. “You say something?”

  Mel straightened quickly and minimized the shot on the screen. “What? No, just mumbling to myself.”

  “Still?” He ambled closer and leaned on his palms on her desk, looking at the thumbnails she’d selected on her computer. “Want me to print those out? Or do you have a layout in mind already?”

  “We’ll go with this one as the lead,” she said, thinking fast. “It shows everybody’s anger, you can read the placards, see the surveyors’ equipment, and Jed’s property, too. These other five…Let’s do something with them for page five, op-ed, say half page. I’ll write the cutline.”

  Mike nodded. “Got it. I’ll put them together now.” He left her alone with the photos and her thoughts.

  Mel went through all the thumbnails again, this time with a different objective. Near the end of the slideshow, she found a shot taken over the shoulder of a crouching firefighter. Shrouded by dark brows, narrowed hazel eyes seemed to search the responder’s face, glazed and lost, so compelling Mel found it difficult to look away. The stern nose and pained, tightly pressed lips barely held Mel’s concentration once she focused on the angular jaw smeared with blood.

  Welcome to Tomson, Shay Maguire. Mel’s professional instinct flared. She wondered what led to the injury, exactly how Shay came to be involved. The image spoke volumes and demanded to be published, but an oddly personal whisper drowned it out. Are you all right? God, there’s a lot of blood. Where are you right now, Shay Maguire? Where did you come from? Bet you were excited to be working for the Almighty Slattery Enterprises.

  Suddenly, Mel was helpless against a wave of empathy. Imagining herself a stranger to town and landing a job with the biggest name, she knew she’d have felt more than a bit disillusioned, disheartened to end up bloodied on the side of the road, even if she did have a harem of dancing girls to soothe her wounds.

  But honestly, this isn’t how Della works, not this rough stuff, unless this is your style…No, you wouldn’t have been on the short end of that stick if it were, would you? You’re too mature, too strong, too rugged. You’re too gorgeous, is what you are.

  Mel sighed toward the ceiling. “And you, Mel Baker, are pathetic.”

  She shut off the computer, knowing the editorial wouldn’t be written today, not with Shay Maguire imprinted on her brain, and grabbed a copy of the paper and headed across the street for coffee.

  With her back to the adjacent booth in Marie’s diner, Mel fine-tuned her eavesdropping skills. She never knew where local gossip would lead, and these two silver-haired ladies behind her, much like Nana, thrived on collecting every whisper, every rumor. Ann Turner’s husband Dick owned the venerable Tomson Hay & Grain, a mainstay in town with deep roots, while Ann’s lifelong cohort, Francine Morgan, owned the sewing shop at the old mercantile building. Faithful Chronicle advertisers, the popular businesses provided bottomless sources of “information.”

  “I drove Dickie out to Sonny’s this morning to pick up the Chevy,” Ann said in a hush, “and you’ll never guess who—or maybe I should say what—we found. Sonny has a woman there, a woman mechanic.”

  “No!” Franny was aghast.

  “Mmm-hmm. But get this—we had no idea—she looks just like a man. And she rides a motorcycle. My Dickie didn’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t say! Oh, poor Dickie.”

  “I know. Just like a man, I tell you. Shortest hair I ever saw on a woman, hand to God. And, well, she had a pretty smile, but, Lord help me, there she was, all filthy in her coveralls and talking to Dickie about the engine just like a man. No doubt in my mind, she’s a lesbian.”

  Mel grinned into her coffee cup at Ann’s whisper.

  “Bet you two couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “That’s the truth. I thought it a bit, well, creepy, if you ask me. I can’t imagine Sonny hiring someone like that, perverted and all. Lord Almighty.”

  “Thank heavens his father isn’t still with us,” Franny whispered back. “Dear old Leo is probably rolling in his grave, having the likes of that in his place.”

  “Dickie said Sonny hinted he’s thinking about selling, did you know?”

  “After all these years?”

  “Well, he’s awfully big now and I heard his heart’s giving him trouble. I just hope whoever buys the place brings in better help. Charlie Bailey has worked for Sonny for ages and he’s a lovely man but he could never afford to buy it. And now, this…this woman, well, she seemed to know her job all right, but…Imagine? We don’t need that kind settling in. Dickie said her name was Shay Maguire.”

  Mel choked and coffee dribbled down her chin. She quickly wiped it off.

  “I see,” Franny said on a sigh. “Please tell me Dickie gave his hand a good washin’ after that.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Oh, he wants to keep plenty far away from that kind, you know.”

  “They’ll convert you, Ann. Did you know that? Just last Sunday, Pastor spoke of places for curing sick ones like her. He said they haven’t been very successful, though, so we all have to be on our guard.”

  “I think the…the Exchange, that wireless place they claim is a café, I think that’s the culprit. That’s where they’re sneaking into town. You know it’s a barroom at night, don’t you? Have you ever passed by in the evening?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “We go by every time we drive home from Lily’s house and, let me tell you, Franny, there are cars everywhere and the music blares out through those old walls. Can’t imagine what goes on inside.”

  “Well, I hope Dickie learned a lesson and he’ll go elsewhere, next time the truck acts up.”

  “You bet your boots, we won’t be going back. I do feel sorry for Sonny, though, losing our business, but he needs to see the light soon, or all his customers will do the same. Last thing God-fearing folks of Tomson need is that element taking over. We have enough to worry about already.”

  Mel looked down at the half-page Tomson Hay & Grain ad in the Chronicle, a high-revenue fixture for years on page three. Would it be there if Dick Turner knew she was a lesbian? And the quarter-page ad for Franny’s Knit-n-Needles shop, also a regular on page seven, would that disappear?

  She kicked herself for not butting in, admitting to having overheard their conversation, and correcting their
ridiculously misguided statements. Despite what’s at stake, people need to know the facts. Bet Shay Maguire would ignite if she heard their crap. An intriguing vision… The women were leaving, and Mel’s internal debate heightened to a deafening roar.

  “Oh, Franny, look. It’s Melissa!” Ann set her fingertips on Mel’s shoulder. “We didn’t know you were here, dear. How are you? How’s Elsie?”

  Mel didn’t know where to begin after such a saccharine greeting. Aware she’d hesitated, Mel fumbled.

  “M-morning, ladies. You’re looking summery today.” Both women preened at her words. “And Nana is well, thank you.” Mel felt herself slip too easily into her business persona, heard meaningless words escape. “Did you hear that she won at bingo last Sunday? Four hundred dollars. There’s just no living with her now.”

  Ann patted Mel’s cheek. “You are such a darling granddaughter. She must be so proud.”

  Franny leaned closer. “We’re all proud of you, Melissa. And thankful we have the Chronicle on our side.”

  Ann nodded vigorously. “Well, enjoy your day, dear. We must run along.”

  The gingham curtains fluttered as the door closed on the continuing chatter.

  “Such a sweet young lady.”

  “Truly. I hope she brings a date to the ball this year.”

  Mel blew out a breath. She reached for her coffee, but the cup was empty.

  Chapter Five

  “Maguire!” The bone-jarring yell seemed to rattle every tool in the mechanics’ barn. Sorvini stomped toward the ten-wheel dump truck. “Where the hell you been? I’ve been looking all over the fucking ranch for you.”

  Knee-deep in the engine well, Shay set a hand on a fender and hopped to the floor to meet him. She straightened, bracing for war, and gestured at the truck. “I was giving the guys a hand. I think it’s all—”

  “You weren’t assigned that job this morning. Were you.”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  He stepped closer. Shay didn’t like it. Or him. And she didn’t appreciate his looming presence or his barrel chest getting any closer.

  He stabbed a finger in her direction. “You give me shit and I’ll throw your ass outa here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

  Shay raised both palms. “Not giving you anything, Angelo. Just asking. And no, I wasn’t assigned the ten-wheeler today. But I fixed the auger for the guys at Arena B and figured I’d help with the truck. They were pressed for time, and we couldn’t reach you on your cell, so—”

  “So you took it upon yourself when I could’ve made better use of your time elsewhere.” He rocked back on his heels.

  “Look, I said we tried—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you tried to do. I don’t have time to waste, hunting you down. Now clean your shit up and get your ass to the office. Della wants to see you.”

  “Della?”

  “What, are you fucking deaf now?”

  Shay grabbed a rag and did a fairly good job of removing the grease from her hands. Her mind raced. She stepped outside, hearing Sorvini mumble “fucking dyke,” as the door closed behind her, and wondered how anyone worked for the man. Then she wondered how much longer she would. Or should. As if what Slattery Enterprises wants to do to Tomson isn’t hard enough to swallow.

  Fourteen acres away, she cut the Softail’s engine and rolled silently up to the sprawling, finely landscaped ranch house that served as company headquarters. She’d never been inside and oddly found herself curious about the décor, the personnel she’d never met. Della. The Dragon Lady. She dismounted and brushed off her smudged shirt and jeans.

  A young receptionist stopped typing when Shay entered, and ran a presumptive look from the top of Shay’s frazzled hair to the tip of her dirty boots.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “I’m Shay Maguire. Angelo Sorvini said Ms. Slattery wanted to see me.”

  “Ah.” The receptionist waved toward a chair, an array of bangles clattering on her wrist. “I’ll let her know you’re here.” She disappeared around a corner.

  Shay conscientiously brushed off her ass before sitting on the antique love seat’s brocade cushion. She’d just settled down when the young woman plopped back into her chair.

  “She’ll only be a minute. You work here, don’t you?”

  “A couple weeks now. I guess I’m here as a Jack-of-all-trades.”

  “A Jill-of-all-trades. I’m Lisa and I have kinda the same title—for the office, though. Where’re you from? You have a cute accent.”

  “Yes, where are you from, Shay Maguire?”

  The seductive alto from the doorway surprised Shay so much she jumped to her feet and blurted out, “Chicago.”

  “Oh,” Lisa inserted on a breath. “Ms. Slattery, this is Shay Maguire. Shay, Ms. Slattery.”

  Shay enjoyed the view. Della Slattery was Madison Avenue stunning in silk blouse, designer jeans, and tall, high-heeled boots. With a gold pendant at her throat, matching hoop earrings, and flawless makeup, Della could have knocked Shay over with a flick of her French nails.

  “Chicago. Follow me.”

  Once in the posh, wood-paneled inner sanctum, Della pointed to one of the two leather wingback chairs in front of her ornate mahogany desk.

  “Have a seat. Excuse me one moment.” She snatched up a folder and left, only to return in seconds, sweeping into the room with a cell phone to her ear. “That’s not what we agreed, Angie. No, we can’t. Fine. We’ll go over it later this afternoon.” She hung up and clipped the phone to her waistband as she sat.

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  “Seriously? Are you allowed to ask that?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Or that?”

  “Are you single?”

  “We’ve only just met, Ms. Slattery. Are you asking me out?”

  Della stood and her stoic expression dissolved, replaced by one fit for Hollywood lights. Shay thought the transformation remarkable.

  Della offered a handshake. “How do you do, Chicago?”

  Shay stood and clasped the refined fingers firmly. “Well, thank you. Quite the unique introduction, Ms. Slattery.”

  “Forgive me. It’s not even one o’clock and it’s been a bitch of a day. I was just trying to lighten the mood. I apologize.”

  They both sat and Shay chuckled. “No apology necessary, but I have to admit, I’ve never met a woman so direct.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I’m too direct sometimes, and my intentions are often misconstrued.” Again, she rose, but this time crossed to the well-equipped bar at the back of the room. “I really shouldn’t offer because you’re on the job, but what the hell. May I offer you a drink?”

  “I’ll pass, thank you.”

  “Pardon me while I indulge.” She poured two fingers of Scotch into a leaded crystal glass and returned to her seat. “So. We finally meet. You’ve been performing magic for Angelo, I hear. They tell me you moonlight at Sonny’s as well.”

  “I don’t perform any magic. Just my job, Ms. Slattery. And all the work keeps me busy—and scrubbing my hands.”

  “Well, we’re lucky to have you, Chicago. Did you know that both Sonny’s father and grandfather helped out at the Five Star in their days? I find it reassuring that you come to us on his recommendation.”

  “Well, thank you. And no, I don’t know much about Sonny’s past. He’s an unusual guy, but I have all the respect in the world for someone running his own business.”

  “What did you do in Chicago? And what brings you here, to Tomson of all places?”

  “I had a motorcycle shop, quite successful after just eight years, actually. Built it from scratch, but it was torched one night and the dream ended. I’m here visiting friends, looking for a new start.”

  “You don’t say?” She sipped her drink and shook her head. “I’m impressed. No wonder you’re such a supporter of Sonny’s operation.”

  “I’ve worked my way up. Running a small business t
akes all your effort. You invest your heart and soul, and I appreciate that a great deal.”

  Della set her glass down and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Big business is much the same, Chicago.” Della opened the latest edition of the Chronicle to a five-picture arrangement of the altercation at Maclin’s ranch.

  “I believe that’s you,” she said, setting a glossy fingernail on the ambulance picture.

  Shay leaned forward. “Yes, it is. I hadn’t seen the paper yet. I’m surprised that was worth printing.”

  “Can you tell me why one of my employees had to be fended off by my surveyor?”

  Shay felt the small hairs at the back of her neck stand up. The slow-healing gash on her head throbbed as heat and irritation crawled up her spine. She leveled a stern look at Della.

  “I’d like to get a few things straight, right up front.”

  “Let’s.”

  “First and foremost, my opinions about the Heights, or anything else for that matter, are just that: mine. No one else’s for the taking. Secondly, what I do on my own time is my business. And third, I was assaulted by your surveyor when I happened to be driving by and stopped him from punching a woman.”

  Della sipped again, never looking away from Shay. “I see.”

  “Forgive me if I doubt that.”

  “Your story contradicts the information I received.”

  “I’m surprised your information source isn’t top-notch.”

  Della raised a sharply groomed eyebrow. “Apparently, that’s worth looking into. You’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Truth is, Ms. Slattery, if your surveyor had punched that woman, I would’ve knocked him into next week. But then he split my head open. Now, if you want to get your information source in here, I’d be glad to set him straight, too.”

  “You just happened to be at the Heights at that time?”

  Shay stared back, reminding herself that this haughty queen of Tomson controlled her paycheck. She cleared her throat, exhaled hard, and stood up, unwilling to break their eye contact.

  “I’m not sure what you intended to accomplish with this little meeting, but I think I’ve said all that’s necessary. I’d like to get back to work.”