Let it drop, Butler. You don't need this. Lie low just a little while longer.
"You're right," he said, "it isn't any of my business but what would you say if I told you I might be able to help."
"You?" She looked like she'd be surprised to find out he could count without using his fingers and toes.
He repeated the dollar figure she'd quoted and waited a moment for its magnitude to sink in. "You're already in about as deep as it gets. Will it hurt to listen to what I have to say?"
#
Sam Butler insisted on driving behind Claudia all the way home. She pulled into her driveway and gave him her best Queen Elizabeth wave then let herself into the house. He didn't leave until she switched on her lights and even then he waited a minute or two just to be sure. If one of her sons had shown such good manners she would have been insufferably proud but this was the man who was trying to take Kevin's place and she was not about to grant him any quarter.
He didn't have to help you, Claudia. He could have left you to figure your own way out of this mess.
"What nonsense," she muttered as she hung up her jacket in the hall closet then slipped out of her shoes. So what if he wrote down some names and phone numbers for her. That was hardly putting himself out, was it?
You're turning into a bitter old woman. He isn't the one who signed away your life savings.
No, she did that herself. Even now, with the evidence spread across the kitchen table, she couldn't quite believe she had done such a thing. Roberta was usually the one who leaped before she looked. Claudia couldn't count the number of crazy schemes her friend had been involved in but this time Roberta had folded up her certified check and slipped it back into her purse before Adam had finished his presentation.
But not Claudia. Roberta's prudence had seemed more like cowardice to her at the time. Adam Winters's speech had been rousing and prophetic. He had promised them freedom from HMOs and greedy children. Who wouldn't want to be independently wealthy, able to call their own shots without worrying about co-payments or becoming a burden later in life. Adam understood their needs without being told. It was hard to believe he was only thirty years old; he was as mature as a man twice his age. He had seemed so interested in her. He had answered her questions, almost anticipating them – or so it had seemed. He had opened her eyes to the precarious nature of her financial existence. Best of all, he had provided answers, a sensible way to invest her money and double it within the first two years.
"Of course, the larger the investment, the more spectacular the payoff," he had said. "Why put a limit on your dreams?"
Claudia couldn't answer that. The thought of being dependent upon her children for the basic necessities of life terrified her. She couldn't imagine relying on Susan for groceries or Eileen to pay the property taxes. And what if she lost the car and was reduced to asking Annie for a lift to the flower shop every day. She had read once about old people in Greenland or some other cold and lonely place. When a man or woman was too old to be of value any longer, the old person would crawl onto an ice floe and just drift away. The first time she'd heard that story she had been horrified, grateful to be living in the modern world with its enlightened views on growing older. But with every year that passed, and there had been many of them, she found herself understanding the ice floe mentality just a little bit better.
Adam Winters had a chart for everything. He diagrammed the Dow and NASDAQ over the last five years. He pinpointed the growth areas of communications and pharmaceuticals. He projected earnings off a sum of money close to what Claudia had ultimately signed over and the totals were awe-inspiring. How could she resist?
You fool, she thought bitterly. You know that's what this is all about. He paid attention to you. He remembered your name. He touched you on the shoulder each time he walked by. He looked at you, really looked at you, when he talked.
Now she was getting down to the real story. She was a fool. A lonely old woman whose head had been turned by a man who was almost young enough to be her grandson. It was pathetic, that's what it was. Downright pathetic. Even Roberta, who made a hobby of having her head turned, had been smart enough to put her checkbook away when it was time to sign on the dotted line.
But not Claudia. The old demons had reared their ugly heads, whispering for her to go ahead and take a chance. Spin the wheel. Throw the dice. This wasn't really gambling, was it? Not when such a nice and educated young man told her it was the right thing to do. After all, what did she have to lose but everything she owned?
Sam Butler told her to stop payment on the check first thing in the morning. As if she needed him to suggest the obvious. Would she be so upset if she could do that? Adam Winters had wanted certified checks only, bank checks that guaranteed payment. "Then call my friends," he said, wasting no time on recriminations. He would let them know they'd be hearing from her. She didn't have to worry about cold-calling.
"Why should I call one of your friends?" she had asked.
"Because they're the best in the business," he said. One of the men was a Wall Street lawyer. The other was a consumer affairs specialist.
"And how would you happen to know them?" After all, he wasn't the kind of man who went to work in a suit and tie the way her John and Kevin had. He was working class. All he had to do was open his mouth and you knew that for a fact.
She would never forget the look in his eyes when he said, "Because they used to work for me."
She had laughed out loud. She couldn't help it. The thought of that scruffy man telling a lawyer or analyst what to do was absurd. But Sam Butler didn't laugh with her. He launched into a rapid-fire barrage of growth funds, low risk/high yield ventures, the pros and cons of banking your monies or investing them, why you should never hand over the financial reins to anyone any time for any reason short of physical and mental incompetence. He told her she had every right to her money and that she should make that clear to everyone from Adam Winters on down.
If he had started spouting Shakespearean sonnets, she couldn't have been more surprised and it didn't take long for her to realize there was much more to Sam Butler than met the eye. How he must be laughing now at the foolish old woman who had been swayed by a nice young man's smile.
She would rather be on that ice floe.
Chapter Seventeen
Sam wasn't at all convinced he'd managed to get through to Claudia Galloway. She'd folded the piece of paper with Arnold Gillingham's and William Fenestra's phone numbers on it and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. He doubted if she would use it. She was too deep into despair and self-pity right now to recognize a life line when she saw it and he didn't dare spell it out any more plainly. He had already said more than he should have but there was no way he could stand there and watch the woman lose everything to a shark like Winters.
Too bad the guy was already halfway to his next gig in Arizona or Sam would have been tempted to show up at the hotel and demand Claudia's money back.
It had all hit too close to home this time. How many of his former clients were in Claudia's position now, scared shitless and wondering how to salvage a once-bright retirement. He wondered how many cursed him each night before they went to sleep. That was why he'd pulled off the road halfway between Claudia's house and his borrowed cottage and phoned Arnold Gillingham. It was a small potatoes deal, the kind Arnold had left behind when he went national, but Sam called in a longstanding marker and Arnold was honorbound to act on it. Besides, the reason Arnold had gone into consumer affairs was because he genuinely hated seeing people taken advantage of by scam artists and con men.
He'd been living in a dream world these last few weeks with Annie. He'd allowed himself to forget the shadows that loomed large on the horizon, shadows that could change his life forever. The sight of the formidable Claudia huddled in despair at Warren's kitchen table had affected him deeply. In some ways he was no better than that scum Adam Winters who preyed on fears of loneliness and old age. The only difference was that he had
had the full weight of Mason, Marx, and Daniels behind him, lending him the high gloss of credibility.
He wanted to go home and tell Annie everything, spill his guts to her and let hers be the only judgment that mattered but he couldn't. Telling Annie would be tantamount to dragging her into the middle of the mess. If she didn't know, they couldn't touch her. The moment he let her into the truth of his life, she would be open to public and judicial scrutiny of the harshest kind. What he felt for her was too deep, too important to sacrifice on the altar of his own loneliness. If he did nothing else right in his life, he would keep her safe from harm.
#
Annie heard Sam's truck crunch its way toward home around seven o'clock. Although they spent every night in each other's arms, they had no set expectations of each other when it came to things like taking meals together. She cooked sometimes and so did he and every now and then they splurged and drove over to Cappy's for lobster rolls or the Friday fish fry. The last time they were there an overbearing Yankee matron had unwittingly entertained the other patrons with a series of cell phone conversations, each of which ended with a Down East "ciao" that almost put Sam and Annie under the table with laughter.
Tonight she had been inspired by the cool early autumn weather and had whipped up a pot of homemade minestrone to go with the crispy loaf of French bread she'd picked up earlier at Yankee Shopper. More and more they were falling into an easy domesticity that seemed to have future written all over it.
Not that they talked about the future. Or the past, for that matter. They were anchored firmly in the here and now, draining every ounce of joy from the moment because they both knew how quickly it could disappear.
But the future was out there waiting, and Annie knew it wouldn't be long before they talked about sharing it together. Everything was so easy with Sam, so right. Because they shared a similar background, they understood each other's soul in a way few others ever could. She didn't have to tell him how much she valued family. He didn't have to tell her that he would put his life on the line to protect those he loved. To find Sam now that she had finally reassembled the wreckage of her life with Kevin was like discovering the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
A late bloomer, that's what she was. One of those women who didn't come into their own until they were in their thirties or forties and then watch out. Even her body seemed different to her lately, more womanly and responsive. Her breasts were fuller, no doubt about it, definitely more sensitive to every whisper of attention. She no longer came alive at only Sam's touch. No, it seemed like somebody had flipped a switch, sending an erotic current flowing through her body morning, noon, and night and that current sent shock waves through every part of her life.
The flower shop was flourishing. Her work on the pieces for the museum engaged her heart and soul. And being with Sam, whether it was making love or making breakfast, felt like coming home. Each part of her existence fed the whole in a deep and meaningful way and she felt blessed to be given this gift at a time when she least expected it.
Next week she was giving a seminar called "Expanding Your Horizons" at the annual meeting of the Maine Floral Professionals down in York Harbor. Sam was going with her and they planned to spend the night at the Inn overlooking the harbor itself. She couldn't wait to see the surprised looks on the faces of her colleagues when she showed up with Sam by her side.
If there was a dark cloud on her sunny horizon it was the annoying fatigue she'd been experiencing the last few weeks. She knew she was burning the candle at both ends and in the middle, too, but there was no way around it. She was alive with ideas and excitement and joy; sleeping seemed like a waste of glorious time. Sweeney had suggested she try taking a catnap in the middle of the workday but Annie had just laughed. The thought of trying to explain a siesta to Claudia would be tougher than explaining Sam.
She glanced at the clock. Any minute she'd hear Sam's footsteps on the path.
She smoothed her hair, checked her reflection in the side of the toaster. Five minutes went by, ten minutes, fifteen. She peered out the kitchen window and saw the answering glow of lamplight in his living room window. Usually Max would be waiting impatiently on her front porch by now, eager to see what special something she had for him today.
After twenty minutes she decided something must be wrong. She turned the flame off under the soup then headed up the road to his house. Max gave one of his who's-out-there barks when she knocked on the front door.
"It's Annie," she called out and was greatly relieved when Sam, cell phone pressed to his ear, swung open the door and motioned her inside.
Max stood up on his hind legs and placed his big paws against her chest as he yipped a greeting. Max's owner, however, looked distracted and more than a little worried.
"Annie from across the road," he said into the receiver. "None of your business . . . just call the locksmith, Marie . . . yeah, I'll be here . . . tell Geo the Jets are going to trash the Raiders on Sunday. . . you too . . . talk to you later." He tossed the phone on the sofa then turned to Annie. "I missed you today."
"I missed you too." She moved into his embrace. "Is something wrong?"
"That was my sister Marie. She said my place in Manhattan was broken into."
Annie shuddered. "Thank God you weren't there. Did they take much?"
"There wasn't much to take. Marie said they trashed what was there then left."
That had happened once to her and Kevin early in their marriage. They had come home from work one day to find their place turned inside out. Bookcases overturned. Mattresses tossed. Dishes smashed on the floor. A subtle warning from a man who was tired of waiting for his money. Only thing was, Annie didn't know anyone was waiting for money, especially not for their money. She had wanted to call the police but Kevin had been dead set against it. She couldn't understand why he refused to report a break in and entry and she had argued her point loudly. She'd never forget the look in Kevin's eyes when he said, "There's something I have to tell you, Annie Rose." Words she hoped she'd never hear again.
She tried to shake off the feeling of unease. Manhattan apartments were broken into every day of the week. It was as common as a head cold down there. Not like Shelter Rock Cove where the police department had nothing to do but keep the two squad cars well-polished and gassed up.
She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. "Do you have to go back down there to file a report?"
"My sister took care of everything," he said. "Nothing to worry about."
He still sounded worried. That made them even because she still felt uneasy.
"I made soup," she said. "You and Max are invited."
"Great." He kissed her and the world began to right itself one more time. "I'll be there in five with a bottle of wine."
#
The phone rang again less than a minute after Annie and Max left.
"She'll get her money back," Arnie Gillingham said by way of hello. "No problem."
Arnie was consumer affairs reporter for a national cable station and he knew where the bodies were buried. Adam Winters was just this side of being legal and he wanted to stay that way. In order to do that, he needed happy investors and Mrs. Claudia Galloway of Shelter Rock Cove, Maine didn't qualify. Her monies, including the two thousand dollar seminar fee, would be returned to her by courier within twenty-four hours.
"I owe you one," Sam said as the image of a distraught Claudia – so like his mother years ago – began to lose some of its power.
"So you're up in Maine," Arnie said. "I would've figured Aruba or maybe the Costa del Sol."
Shit. What the hell had he done? "Can't tell much from a cell phone number," he said with what he hoped was a who-gives-a-damn tone of voice.
"Don't sweat it," Arnie said. "I'd lie low these days too what with all that shit coming down at Mason Marx." Arnie laughed. "You always did have the best timing in town. Leave it to Butler to grab his golden parachute and get out while the getting was still good."
Sam closed the connection a few minutes later with the sense that jackbooted thugs were goosestepping inside his gut. What the hell had he been thinking when he called Arnie from the car. What difference would another day or week, for that matter, make in the scheme of things? One way or another he had been determined to see that Claudia got her money back. But the sight of her despair had somehow become linked with his mother at the kitchen table back in Queens, wondering how they were going to pay the bills, and with Mrs. Ruggiero's steadfast belief that Mary's son Sam would never steer her wrong. That vision had morphed into himself at nineteen and at twenty-three, faced with an even higher mountain of bills, sitting at the same kitchen table and wishing he had the guts to run away. It had taken him years to understand that sometimes it took more guts to stick around.
He had this fantasy about grabbing Annie by the hand and driving off with her. In his dreams they'd load Max and the two cats into the back of the Trooper and just go but he somehow he couldn't push past from fantasy to reality when he was awake. Some people ran when the going got tough. Some people dug in their heels and stayed. He knew which type they were.
Leave it to Butler to grab his golden parachute and get out while the getting was still good.
He had let Arnie's statement slide by without remark but there was no denying the fact that things were in motion down in New York. He didn't say as much to Marie but he would bet his Trooper that the break-in at his New York apartment wasn't random. They were looking for something and they knew he was the one man who could blow them out of the water.
It also occurred to him that they probably knew he was living in Shelter Rock Cove. A photo in a small town newspaper could have the half-life of uranium these days and cause just as much damage. His contact had ripped him a new butt when he found out. "What the hell are you trying to do, Butler, undermine every goddamn thing we've been doing down here?" The point to his exile in Shelter Rock Cove had been to fade into the scenery while they set the machinery into motion that might bring down Mason, Marx, and Daniel and, not incidentally, keep Sam out of prison.
A Soft Place to Fall (Shelter Rock Cove) Page 24
