by T. L. Hart
“When it concerns me, they are. What are you going to say when I remember? Are you going to tell me it’s none of my business then?”
“I’m far from convinced that situation is going to happen.” She stared at me intently, as if trying to see right into my brain. “Let’s just say no matter what the setting, situational ethics are not something I find particularly admirable. But I can understand that sometimes a person has to do whatever is necessary to protect their own interests, even if they have to bend the rules somewhat.”
“So I’m an opportunist, a cheat?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You always acted as if it was so important to keep your opinions out of our sessions. Aren’t you being a hypocrite to blast me this way?”
“You aren’t Cotton!” Dr. Carey was adamant. “I can’t continue to foster this delusion.”
“And how do you explain this, Dr. Carey? I’m not making up these memories. No one, not even you, could make that make sense.”
“I am sorry.” She looked truly miserable. “I have no answers and it’s difficult for me to keep a clear and unbiased distance. Maybe you should consider another therapist.”
“Right,” I said, not hiding my disdain. “You know what would happen if I tried telling this to anyone else. Like it or not, the three of us are too involved to consider such an idiotic idea as a new shrink. You guys are all I have.”
“That being said, let’s stop all this and get back to the business at hand.” After sitting and listening in silence, Andrew pulled the plug on the little tempest by acting as if it were totally irrelevant. “Any new memory breakthroughs?” Andrew studied me as he spoke. “Something’s changed since we saw you last. I can see it in your face and in the way you move.”
“I’ve had a few breakthroughs this week. I got a job. I met an old friend I recognized. I found who Jo is. And…” I paused for effect; I admit it. “I think I found who murdered me.”
The next hour was a blur of who and why and when, followed by gentle admonishments and dire warnings of danger. When I told them of my plan to meet Max Sealy, they both lost their professional cool and started lecturing me like I was their not-too-bright teenage daughter who was dating the neighborhood sex offender. I felt lucky when I got out of there without being grounded for the whole week.
* * *
Max Sealy Motors was visible for a mile as drivers approached it on LBJ Freeway. An American flag half the size of a football field whipped in the stiffening breeze. Hundreds of luxury cars filled the lot, waxed until they gleamed and lined up like a phalanx of parade tanks in Red Square.
As soon as I pulled up to the showroom/sales office, I was welcomed by a salesman who opened my door the instant I turned off the engine. He appeared so quickly it was like having your own magic genie materialize to be at your service. Like that, except you needed to buy a car to keep the genie happy.
“Where would I find Max Sealy? Is he here today?”
“Why don’t you and I look around and see if we can make you a deal?” The car genie wore a plastic badge identifying him as Tony. “Mr. Sealy doesn’t handle direct sales on the lot.”
“Good, because I’m not interested in buying a car off the lot.”
“You don’t want to buy a car?” The light in Tony’s eyes went to power-saver mode. I could see I had lost him. “Check with the receptionist. She’ll know if he’s here or not.” And the genie melted away into the multicolored maze of cars—poof—without giving me even one wish.
The receptionist was more helpful. Nelda—this according to the name tag on her more-than-ample, impossibly round left breast—was obviously a member of the Big Hair faith. Former Governor Ann Richards had summed it up saying in Texas we believed the bigger the hair, the closer to God. Nelda was knocking on heaven’s door. She paged Mr. Sealy and announced that he had a guest waiting for him at the front desk.
Two minutes passed. I spent the time watching two cars spinning on giant lazy Susans. How did they get them in here? I wondered. I looked around, but didn’t see a doorway large enough to get a car through. Maybe they had the cars first and built the showroom around them. Before I could decipher the secrets of the automotive universe, I saw someone who could only be Max Sealy striding toward me.
He was handsome or had been forty pounds and ten years ago. He had that athlete gone to fat look that came from too many rib eye dinners at Del Frisco’s and too few days in the gym. Blond hair, now shot through with gray, was offset by a tan that was an announcement of hours spent on the golf course.
He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like someone’s favorite rich, middle-aged uncle. It was hard to imagine jovial Uncle Max in the kind of bloody rage it would have taken to beat an unarmed woman to death.
“Max Sealy. Just call me Max.” All run together and obviously practiced. “And you are?” His hand was outstretched ten seconds before he got close enough to shake mine.
“Jennifer Strickland.” I shook hands and gave him the name that would have the most clout in his world. It was convenient to have the use of the name to grease the wheels of commerce.
“Any relation to Gregory Strickland?” Max was a schmoozer, expert at filing away names and making connections. Any good salesman likes to make his patsy feel a sense of connection—harder to say no that way. “Played golf with Gregory at the club a few weeks ago. Nice guy.”
“My soon-to-be-ex-husband,” I said pleasantly. “Not that nice.”
“Might not have been the same fellow,” he covered. “Now that I think about it, I think this guy’s name was Reggie, not Gregory. Kind of a strange coincidence, thinking it was Gregory and that’s your ex’s name.”
“Yeah isn’t it strange?”
“Right. Now what kind of car can we help you with?”
“I don’t know much about cars.” I said, not needing to play dumb. Either I really don’t know much about cars or that memory hadn’t resurfaced yet.
“Well, lucky day for you.” He laughed, sounding amused even if he was buttering up a potential client. “I know almost everything about cars. How can I help you?”
“I need to buy two pickups and two vans. Top of the line. Could you have them ready to deliver by this afternoon?”
“No problem, Ms. Strickland. Let’s go into my office and we’ll get the financing paperwork out of the way.”
“I don’t want to finance them. I’ll have my banker call and set up the funds transfer.”
He was more than surprised. He was openly delighted. No bargain hunting, no haggling. I could imagine him in his weekly staff meeting, explaining that this was why he owned the dealership instead of working for commission like the rest of them.
Now it was time to find out what I came here for.
“It’s been so easy working with you, Max.” I made a show of finding my banker’s business card in my wallet. “By the way, speaking of strange coincidences, how is your lovely wife, Jo?” The lie flowed easily from my lips. I think I have a real knack for deception.
“We worked together on a volunteer project last year to raise money for the pediatric wing at the hospital,” I continued. “She was fabulous to deal with. I have another fundraiser coming up next spring. I’d love to have her help us out again this year.”
“We’re divorced,” he said bluntly, then put his anything-for-a-four-car-sale face back on. “But Jo loves to be of help as long as the project ends up getting her picture in the society pages. Just kidding.” He obviously wasn’t. “She’s always willing to help if the price is right. She lives in Las Colinas now.” He didn’t look happy chatting with a stranger about his estranged wife, but cash sales softened the pain. “Keesling Consulting. She went back to her old name. She’s listed in the Yellow Pages.”
“Thank you. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”
I was ready to get out of his little world. The longer I was around him, the more I had a vague sense of foreboding or perhaps a flashback of a night not that long ago when I was powerless aga
inst his rage. I had no memory of it, but Aggie was convinced. Whatever it was, there was something about him that made me sure we had met before. Of course, he was a celebrity who had been on television all the time. Maybe I was projecting my fear onto his famous face.
“I would like these cars delivered anonymously, with the title made out to the recipient. I don’t want my identity revealed under any circumstances. Is that clear and acceptable?”
“Absolutely.”
“Please have them delivered to Outreach Oaklawn.” He didn’t make a sound, but there was a change in him, maybe only in the rhythm of his breathing. “Is that a problem?”
“No problem.”
I smiled at him, imagining how it would make him feel to see his automobiles given to a place founded by someone he hated so much.
“No problem at all.”
I liked seeing him lying through his teeth. Lying and murder and greed, oh my. He was racking up hard time in the world of what goes around comes around.
No matter how much I wanted him to get what he deserved, I felt a little dishonest. Ultimately, I decided to enjoy the situation. After all, Max’s bad karma was not my fault. At least not directly. At least I don’t think it was.
Chapter Eighteen
“Gregory Strickland is waiting for me to join him.”
The young waiter checked his seating chart and asked me to follow him. We threaded our way through the crowded restaurant, past the fake Italian frescos and stenciled exposed brick to a linen-draped table in a corner that didn’t require outright screaming to be heard.
It was the first time I’d seen Gregory since I moved out of the house in North Dallas, and I found myself looking forward to it in a strange and perverse sort of way. He had always been so smug and superior while I was scarcely able to feed myself. The mental battle now was a bit more evenly matched than he was expecting. This was going to be a lot more fun for me than it was for him.
Gregory was dressed in a pearl-gray summer-weight suit, hair freshly barbered, shoes polished to a gloss. His grooming was as impeccable as that of a model in an ad in GQ. He was studying the lunch menu when I walked up, giving me a perfect chance to see his face when he got a look at the new, radically improved Jennifer.
His patronizing expression became one of abject horror as he gave me the once-over, starting at my messy platinum hair and dropping to my Rolling Stones T-shirt, tight jeans and pointy-toed leather boots. In my defense, I did know how to dress—I was wearing a nice, appropriate jacket in spite of the heat. Its taxicab yellow color was a bonus.
I know the term “apoplexy” is somewhat old-fashioned, but it did come to mind.
“Hello Greg.” He hated to be called Greg. “Did you order me a glass of wine?” He was still not able to form words, so I looked up at the waiter as he pulled out my chair and said, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
I knew whatever Gregory was drinking would be good. Despite his shortcomings, he was an excellent judge of wine. If the Market ever tanked again, with his refined palate and good looks he could work as a sommelier at any number of great restaurants. The job required a certain degree of supercilious snobbery. He also had his own tux.
“My God, Jennifer. What in the world have you done?” I don’t think he meant it as a compliment. “You look absolutely…you look nothing like yourself.” No, definitely not meant as flattery. “My God,” he repeated. “What have you done to yourself?”
“My hair cutter, my colorist and my makeup artist would be horrified to hear that question.” I laughed, loving this moment more than anything in recent memory, although that didn’t cover a very long time. “It takes nearly a whole village to do a makeover like this.”
I stood and did a pirouette, arms on my hips to conserve space in the narrow aisle between the tables. Gregory scarcely glanced at me. He was much more interested in how the other diners were handling my little modeling turn.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Please sit down,” he hissed. “People are watching you.”
“Sort of the point of dressing up and going out.”
“You’re making a spectacle of us both.”
“Oh, I am sorry.” I gave my observers a jaunty wave as I sat. “I really only intended to make a spectacle of myself.”
“This is more than an image change. This is a travesty. You look…” He was obviously at a loss for a word bad enough to describe my new look. “This is loud and obvious. You don’t look elegant anymore.”
“I’m sorry, but I recently found out I’m allergic to beige. And taupe. And cream too. Had to get a whole new wardrobe.”
“I’m worried about you. You move out, you do something outlandish to your hair and—”
He stopped suddenly as he caught sight of my newly pierced earlobes. I swear he did a double take just like people do in B movies, dropping his jaw in open-mouthed surprise.
“Your ears. Jesus Christ.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “The next thing I know, you’ll be getting a tattoo.”
“It’s very small,” I said with a smile. “And it’s not where many people will ever see it.” I had been considering a tattoo. Now it seemed like a necessity.
“I think we need more wine.”
He caught the waiter’s eye and tapped the wine bottle with one finger. Miraculously a second bottle appeared almost instantly. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, guzzling the expensive red like a couple of sidewalk winos with a bottle of Boone’s Farm.
“I have an idea, Gregory. I don’t think either of us is really in the mood to have a polite meal together. Let’s skip the food and settle what we came here for and get us both back home.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He nodded his agreement. “You called the meeting. What is it you want from me?”
“I need some information about my cousin, Dewayne.”
“Good God, has that loser turned up again?”
“Do you know anything about him and money?”
“I know he’s a deadbeat and the only money he has is whatever he’s managed to scam. He’s not known for working for his living.”
“He’s been calling me for weeks now, claiming to be concerned about me—”
“That’ll be one for the record books. Dewayne Winters caring for anyone except himself.” Gregory rolled his eyes. “My advice is stop returning his calls. He’s cooking up another of his illegal schemes. Probably end up back in jail.”
“Jail? As in really in jail?”
“Oh yes,” Gregory sneered. “For the past couple of years. His petty crimes get more serious each time. Probably end up killing someone one of these days.”
“Were we close enough that I might have promised him a large—” I hated to ask Gregory, but there was no other option. “Before the accident, did I mention giving him a very large chunk of money? Would I have wanted to do that?”
“Of course not.” He was emphatic. “Your cousin has been in prison three times in the past fifteen years, mostly for kiting checks, but this last spell involved attempted extortion, with an assault charge to boot. I didn’t even know he had been released.”
“I see.” So my instincts were better than Jennifer’s or else dear Dewayne was fabricating the whole story. “That makes my decision clearer.”
“You weren’t thinking of giving him money, I hope.” Gregory acted as if it were coming out of his own pocket. “I’d think you might consider a restraining order if he keeps bothering you. As a matter of fact, in the state your memory is in, perhaps I need to handle this for you.”
“I can handle my own affairs. Thanks all the same.” It stung to know he might have a point about my memory getting me in trouble. Even if I started handing out money on the street corner, he was the last person I’d want to handle things. “I can take care of this. It was only a question.”
“Now I have a question for you. Have you come to your senses about a divorce? Are you ready to come back home and stop all this nonsense?”
“I think we can safely check ‘no’ on both counts.”
“I don’t know how to put this nicely, so I’m going to be brutally honest,” he said.
“Why would you change now?”
“Jennifer, please listen to me.” He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You are in danger of making a laughingstock of yourself.”
“In what respect?” I was cautiously polite, thinking perhaps I’d committed some grievous social faux pas due to my still unreliable brain. “Did I forget to write a thank you note or cancel my Pilates classes before I left?”
“This isn’t a joking matter.”
“I’m not laughing,” I snapped. “Okay, what have I done to bring you out of the house without your laptop?”
“You’ve been seen in some very questionable company and in some rather awkward situations lately.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You were seen out at dinner the other night by Jerry and Fay Hanson. I don’t think you are aware that some of your new…friends are causing some concern and speculative talk in our circle of acquaintances.”
“What is it you’re trying to slither around saying? I want you to be very clear.” What a snake! What an underhanded, mealy-mouthed snake. “Exactly what’s being said about my friends?”
“You’ve been hanging out with those bleeding hearts at that women’s shelter. It’s one thing to raise money and help a charitable cause, but there is a point where you have to draw the line.”
“And people like us don’t socialize with the needy?” I wanted to smack him, but that would have involved having to actually physically touch him. I wasn’t prepared to do that without a ten-foot pole and there wasn’t one within arms’ reach. “Or with the hired help, is that what you’re trying to get at?”
“It’s not that simple. Even before your accident, you’ve always been so naïve.” He swirled his wine and took a sip before continuing. “According to my investigator, there is a certain element—”
