The Method

by Ralston, Duncan

  “Oh no, we wouldn’t want that.” Her tone said she might find it amusing. “Nobody’s watching, Frank. They’d have to have binoculars to see us out here.”

  Thinking of the binoculars on the desk in his room, he wondered if she’d seen that too. Ignoring the tweak of paranoia, he tugged the baggie out of his pocket and dumped its contents into the lake.

  “Oh, look at that.” She grinned, watching small fish dart to the surface to nibble on the flakes of weed like fish food. “You’ve got the little fishies hooked on drugs.”

  Frank thought about the statement on his assessment, the one about wounded animals, and wondered if it meant something to feel no empathy for the fish gobbling up his drugs.

  He pinched out his cigarillo. “I’m heading in.”

  “See you at dinner.” Another half-smile. “Again.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked as he headed up the hill.

  “Mrs. Lumley,” was all she said.

  Linda put the contract away and stepped out into the hall, hoping to ask Alex about the office computer. She’d needed to respond to a vaguely important work email, and it couldn’t wait until after the weekend.

  Looking up from her thoughts, she almost ran into the Goose Killer. For some reason, it seemed like he’d been waiting near the door for her to step out as his cue to start walking, but she told herself she was being paranoid.

  “Oh, excuse me!” He reeled back with a bemused grin, a hand against his heart. “I didn’t see you coming out.”

  “That’s okay.” She flashed a brief smile. “Cramped hallway.”

  “Tell me about it, sister.” His voice had a deep, familiar rumble to it. His face seemed familiar too, but she couldn’t put a finger on where she might have met him. He scratched his temple in curiosity. “Say, did they make you get rid of your phone too? I’m going nutsoid without it.”

  “Nutsoid, huh? That’s a really good way to describe it.”

  She took a moment to look him over in glances. Square jaw, peppered with half a day’s worth of gray and black stubble. He was taller than Frank by a good half a foot, and broader in the chest and shoulders. His shirt and tie coordinated nicely, as if he and his wife might be heading out on the town, without a single rumple in either shirt or pants.

  His dazzling green eyes twinkled as he grinned. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t live without that damn thing.”

  “Between you and me,” she said, catching a whiff of his clean-scented cologne as she leaned into him, “I know where they’re keeping them.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “I do.”

  He pulled back, studying her. “So you’re not going to tell me.”

  Linda laughed. “They’re in a safe under the desk. No chance getting in there, but I think I’ve figured out the first few numbers in the code.”

  A big smile spread across his face. “You’re a bad girl!”

  “I was just going downstairs to ask about using the office computer.”

  “No kidding. I was too!”

  “For non-naughty reasons, of course.”

  He laughed heartily. “Naturally!”

  A dress strap slipped off her left shoulder. She let his eyes linger there a moment before putting it back.

  “You’re stunning.” His admission seemed to startle himself. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “No, it’s . . .” She felt herself blushing. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

  “Shall we walk down together?”

  “Sure.” She gave him a small smile and stuck out a hand. “I’m Linda.”

  He shook it. “Neville. Neville Lumley.” He grinned as they fell into step side by side on their way to the stairs. “Say, didn’t they do a duet together?”

  “Who?”

  “Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt.” He sang, “‘I don’t know much . . .’“

  They sang the rest together and laughed. His falsetto wasn’t great, but pleasant enough. They took the stairs.

  “I saw your wife. She’s gorgeous.”

  He smiled wistfully. “Lovely to look at.”

  “How long have you two . . . ?”

  “Served?” He chuckled. “Eight years, with time off for good behavior. You?”

  “Nine years. Married for three.”

  Alex wasn’t behind the desk when they stepped off the stairs together.

  “Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves.” Neville made a show of peering around. “I’ll keep a lookout if you wanna dip around the desk.”

  She peeked into the office and saw the computer turned on. The sound of utensils clattering and metal clanging from the kitchen wouldn’t make it easy to hear anyone coming around the corner, not to mention the two cameras pointed toward the desk from the high corners of the lobby.

  “Nah, too risky. Cameras everywhere.”

  Neville’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, definitely not worth it. Not with what it cost to be here. Friends of ours—Teri’s friends, really—took out a second mortgage on their home for a single weekend, but they came back raving about how it saved their marriage, so when Teri suggested it, I thought, why not?”

  “Wow. Our friends raved about it too. Frank called them recidivists for all the times they’ve broken up and gotten back together.”

  “Repeat offenders.” Neville grinned. “I like that.”

  High heels clacked down the hall toward them. Neville stepped back from her and pretended to be admiring the desk, running his hand over the bark. “What is it you call this style? With the bark still on?”

  “Live edge.” Linda offered his wife a cheerful smile as the woman approached with an obvious twinge of jealousy. She extended a hand. “You must be Teri. Your husband’s told me all about you.”

  “Pleasure.” Teri Lumley shook her hand daintily, garishly overdressed in a gown that would have been better at a red carpet gala. “Your husband didn’t tell me your name.”

  Neville caught the jab and gave Linda a brief look of sympathy.

  She tried not to grit her teeth as she told the woman.

  “Linda. Like the song, right, Neville? ‘I don’t know much . . .’“ she sang, but no one joined her. She looked them both over and plastered on a smile.

  “Well, I’m going to freshen up. Why don’t you two . . .” Teri waved dismissively. “ . . . continue whatever it is you’re doing and I’ll meet you down here in a mo.”

  “You do that, sweetheart.”

  Teri’s hips swayed generously as she sashayed toward the stairs like some femme fatale out of an old movie, clearly playing it up.

  “Don’t worry.” He leaned in close once she was out of earshot. “Teri thrives on drama.”

  “I know the type,” Linda said, though she didn’t feel good about bashing the woman behind her back.

  Neville seemed to sense it and touched her arm. “I shouldn’t be talking like that about her, I know. It just gets to me, that’s all, and I’ve really got no one else to talk to about it.” His hand lingered a moment longer before he returned it to his side.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Guess that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We tried marriage counseling. Gestalt. Hypnotism. Nothing worked. Maybe we’re just broken.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think there was a chance.”

  “No? Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Repeating the same thing over and over again, hoping for different results?”

  “If that’s insane, the lunatics are running the asylum.”

  Neville chuckled. “You’re an interesting woman.”

  “I know.” She smiled as Frank emerged from the hall, a cloud of cherry tobacco preceding him.

  “This must be your fella.” Neville stuck out a hand.

  Frank’s gaze lobbed from Neville to her to Neville again before he put on a friendly smile and stuck out a hand of his own. They shook vigorously, the sort of handshake that seemed more like a pissing contest, neither wanting to be the
first to break it.

  “Frank Moffat,” he said, holding the taller man’s gaze.

  “Neville Lumley. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same.” Frank retracted his hand, although it seemed for a moment as if Neville might not release it. “I met your wife . . .”

  “Teri.”

  “Teri, right. She’s nice.”

  “Don’t tell her that, she’ll claw your eyes out.” Neville laughed uproariously.

  “Ha! Good one,” Frank said and turned his ingratiating smile toward Linda, who gritted her teeth in annoyance.

  6 — Polite Dinner Conversation

  Dinner was served on the hour.

  The four of them sat across from each other at the large dining table, all other chairs and place settings removed except for one at the head of the table, where Linda supposed Dr. Kaspar might soon join them. The small Hispanic woman who seemed to perform multiple duties at the lodge circled the table, serving Consommé Olga and a glass of sherry from an ancient sterling silver tray.

  Polite dinner conversation followed, interspersed with light slurps. Careers were briefly spoken of, their respective hometowns, and their mutual appreciation of basketball, and although everyone had their own favorite, they all seemed to agree that Frank’s Raptors were open to disdain.

  The woman cleared their plates and returned with a main course of Chicken Lyonnaise accompanied by a red Bordeaux. Linda sniffed her glass appreciatively, rich cherry and tart lemon.

  “Is this Dr. Kaspar’s homemade wine?”

  The maid gave a bemused shrug. “No English.” She continued around the table.

  “You know,” Teri began, daintily cutting up her chicken, “I think this is the same meal they served on the Titanic.”

  “Ha!” Frank said with his mouth full. “You think it’s a metaphor?”

  “Maybe a double entendre,” Teri muttered.

  Neville greeted this with a smirk. “Well, here’s to one or more of us going down tonight.” He raised his glass in a toast.

  Linda nearly spat out a mouthful of wine laughing.

  “What? Nobody?” He lowered the glass with a cheeky grin.

  “Hell, I’ll drink to that,” Frank said.

  They clinked glasses. Teri joined their toast. Linda thought, Fuck it, although it would take a hell of a lot of wine to put her in that mood. She clinked her glass against theirs.

  Neville locked eyes with her, a sly grin still on his lips. She felt her cheeks flush.

  “I keep getting the feeling we’ve met before,” she said, desperate to change the subject. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  Teri popped her eyes in Neville’s direction. He daubed his lips on his napkin and swallowed. “I suppose it’s possible. Maybe you’ve seen me on the news.”

  “Why were you on the news?”

  Teri smiled awkwardly.

  “I was accused of insider trading. Totally fabricated, around the time of the financial crisis, the banking scandals, Bernie Madoff. They dropped the charges before it went to trial, but it stuck in the craw of public consciousness. That’s likely where you remember me from.”

  Teri’s smile widened as if he’d dodged a conversational bullet. He returned the smile briefly, taking her hand.

  “That must be it,” Linda said. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Good thing they acquitted you though,” Frank added. “A thing like that gets to trial and it’s in the news all the time. I mean, look at Martha Stewart.”

  “There but for the grace of God.” Neville widened his eyes dramatically over a sip of wine.

  “How is everything?”

  Everyone turned to the doorway to see Alex had stepped in with his characteristic smile.

  “Simply to die for,” Teri said.

  Linda ignored Frank’s smirk in her direction. “It’s delicious, thank you, Alex.”

  “Just terrific,” Frank said. “Is this Dr. Kaspar’s wine?”

  “Yes, actually. One of several dozen bottles in the cellar. Isn’t it lovely?”

  They all agreed it was lovely.

  “Will Dr. Kaspar be joining us tonight?” Neville asked, with a glance toward Frank as if he’d wanted to beat him to the punch.

  “Oh, no. Unfortunately, he’s been called to Switzerland for an emergency.”

  “What sort of emergency?” Frank asked.

  “Some dilettante must have come down with a case of bourgeois malaise,” Teri muttered.

  “Isn’t that why we’re here, sweetheart?”

  Teri gave her husband a sidelong glance and sipped her wine without comment.

  “He should arrive tomorrow afternoon in time for your individual sessions. I am so sorry for your inconvenience.”

  Those sympathetic smiles of his were starting to grate on Linda. Judging by the looks of mild annoyance from the other dinner guests, she assumed they felt the same.

  “I suppose we should be thankful it’s a long weekend,” Neville said. “Do you people work on Memorial Day?”

  “We’ll work when Dr. Kaspar needs us to,” Alex said, and backed out of the room.

  Neville watched the man leave. “That’s just great. I could have been at the office today.”

  “You were there in the morning.”

  “I can’t just skip out on a Friday without sticking my head in the office. I am a VP, sweetheart.”

  Teri rolled her eyes.

  “What about you two? You must be pissed. This is chump change for me, but a hundred grand means a lot to people like you.”

  Frank choked on his wine.

  “It’s definitely not chump change,” Linda said, eager to steer the conversation away from the amount of money they’d spent to be here. “Do either of you know anything about Dr. Kaspar?”

  The Lumleys shared a look. With raised eyebrows and a wave of her fork, Teri urged her husband to speak.

  Neville broke a chunk off the French stick and began to butter it as he spoke. “Well, there’s not much known about his early life, aside from emigrating from Vienna a year or so before the Occupation, when Kaspar was three. His father was a colleague of Freud’s. His mother was a barmaid. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  He bit off a piece of bread and chewed before continuing.

  “In his twenties, Kaspar worked with the CIA. In the ’60s, he wrote a few famous diet books, some quit-drinking and self-actualization books, but his most famous was one of those key-to-wealth things, and that book really solidified him in the public consciousness.” Neville sopped up some sauce with the bread and took another generous bite. “I like to attribute my first million to my own sweat and blood, but I owe a lot to Kaspar’s Rewire Your Brain for Success. It really was my bible in the early 2000s. I was pulling in cash money hand over fist, Frank. I’m telling you. And when all the other dotcoms started dropping like flies, I rode that tech bubble like a motherfucking mechanical bull into software development, real estate, finance. You name it.”

  He finished the last bite and dusted crumbs from his fingers. “Linda, you’d appreciate this. Actually, you should take my card once the weekend’s over. I might have some business for you.”

  Teri rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Thank you, that’s kind,” Linda said, ignoring the woman.

  “Long story short, Kaspar pulled a Chappelle and went into hiding at his family castle in France. He only recently came back into the public eye with The Method, though it’s so exclusive even celebrities haven’t heard of it yet. I doubt it’s the sort of thing that would make a New York Times bestseller if he ever did write it all down. Not exactly a ten-step program, from what I hear.”

  “What have you heard?” Frank asked.

  “Not much. But my lawyer said the nondisclosure agreements have their own nondisclosure agreements.” He grinned. “It’s like Fight Club. You do not—”

  The men finished the quote in unison, grinning amiably.

  Teri rolled her eyes again.


  “We saw that,” Linda said. “Our friends were pretty secretive about it too.”

  “Exactly. We thought Teri’s friends might have joined a cult at first.”

  Teri chuckled along with him.

  “So did we,” Frank said.

  “The funny thing was,” Teri added, “I’d just seen Celia for coffee and she was fine, but when we met the week following their Method weekend, they were all banged up and bruised. Rick said they’d been in a car accident.”

  Neville nodded. “That was a bit odd. Their car looked fine. A shitbox, but fine.”

  “Maybe it was their other car?” Frank said.

  Teri shook her head. “They only have the one.”

  “That’s weird.” Linda turned to Frank. “Because our friends were all banged up when we saw them too. They said they’d gotten in a motorcycle accident.”

  “That is odd,” Neville said, wiping his hands on his napkin.

  Frank sipped his wine, seemingly in deep thought. “What are the chances of that?” he asked. “Two couples in separate accidents right after they’ve been here for the weekend?”

  A silence fell over the table, not even an audible clink of cutlery.

  “It would be even more odd if it was the same accident. Wouldn’t it?”

  “Neville,” Teri said. “What happened to polite dinner conversation?”

  “I’m just saying. Hey, we’re all in this to win this, right?” He picked up his knife, red with caramelized onion and wine sauce, and studied it.

  “Our friends were here three weekends ago,” Linda said. “When were yours?”

  The Lumleys gave each other a look. “Same,” they said in unison.

  “Are any of you getting the idea they’re gonna pit us against each other in some kind of battle royale situation?” Frank half joked, raising his glass to look at the claret liquid.

  Teri popped her heavily mascaraed eyes at him.

  Neville laid his knife down on the plate. “Beats me. But if there is something nefarious going down here, I think it would be wise to know about it ahead of time.”

  “Agreed.” Frank downed the glass in one gulp.

  7 — Mixed Signals