by Smith, Julie
“Well, they move her around so much I don’t recollect it, exactly. She work in Property, though; Property and something else. Acquisitions! I’m pretty sure it’s Acquisitions.”
“Okay, Ms. Wallis. I sure thank you.” Sounds like a nice lady, Jane thought. Last thing she needed was that asshole at Charity.
She called back, got Acquisitions and Property, asked for Sandra Wallis, and once again ran up against a blank wall. She was about to find some nails to chew when the receptionist said, “We have a Talba Wallis.”
“Ah. That’s her.”
There were clicks and then The Baroness’s butterscotch voice. Jane said, “I didn’t know Baronesses had nicknames.”
“Who’s this?”
“Jane Storey from the Picayune.“
“I know which Jane Storey you are. How many Jane Storeys do you think I know? You want to do that story?”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh.” The voice deflated. “I had a real bad feeling it wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I finally figured out the Russell Fortier connection.”
If butterscotch could be haughty, the voice was. “I really can’t talk about that now.”
“I’m coming right over.”
“No!” The Baroness was practically shouting. Definitely losing her cool.
“Okay, then talk.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Still want me to do a story about you?”
“After work? Please?”
She sounded so pathetic Jane took pity on her. “Okay. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Definitely not here. If someone saw us … uh-uh. No way.”
“Okay, what’s near there? How about the Fairmont? Say, the Sazerac Bar.”
“Not the bar. I haven’t got long.”
“The lobby, then.”
Jane spent the rest of the day going over and over the clips on United Oil. She got a yellow legal pad and her lists and rethought things:
Let’s postulate that this is about United Oil. Either Russell disappeared voluntarily for some reason having to do with the company or he was banished or he was killed for some reason having to do with the company. Once you bring United into it, all this stuff about cheating spouses looks like so much smoke.
No. Not smoke—a nasty, mean, manipulative way to keep the Fortier disappearance before the public eye.
So suppose it’s that. Any way you slice it, it looks like corporate chicanery.
She looked at the clips some more, but all they really told her was that United was buying up a lot of oil leases. Well, suppose it had to do with that?
She kind of liked it.
When The Baroness arrived somewhat out of breath and dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl, Jane barely recognized her.
“Baroness. You’re not yourself.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t know the half of it. You got to promise you won’t tell my adoring public about this.” She indicated her outfit.
“We’ve got to have ‘before and after’ photos.”
“It’s my disguise.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t even want to be seen with you, much less overheard.” When she was satisfied they were alone, she said, “Okay, ask.”
Jane thought, Oh, well. Might as well start at the top. She said, “What happened to Russell Fortier?”
The Baroness laughed aloud. “You’re asking me? A lowly temp?”
“There’s a reason I was at your poetry reading—along with Skip Langdon and Cindy Lou Wootten.”
“I thought you were my fans.” Once more, The Baroness glanced around. Finally she said, “Look. I don’t want to blow my story, but this is, like, a pretty serious thing. I don’t really think I should talk about it.”
“I’m damn sure you should talk to Langdon about it.”
“Oh, I have. You know how the cops are—they never want you to talk to reporters.”
“Okay, let’s start slow. How long have you worked for United?”
“Off and on for a couple of months.”
“Were you working there when Russell Fortier disappeared?”
“No. I was there for a while and now I’m back.”
“What departments have you worked in?”
“Only one. Acquisitions and Property.”
“Do you happen to know what department Fortier was in?”
“Uh-huh. That one.”
At last, Jane thought. We’re getting somewhere.
“Who else is in that department?”
“You mean everybody?”
“Oh, name a few.” Jane was fishing.
The Baroness shrugged. “Well, the big cheese is someone called Douglas Seaberry. Guy I report to’s Edward Favret.” She shrugged again. “That’s about it for executives. Secretaries, though. I’ve got plenty of those. What am I bid for secretaries?”
“Hit me with a few names.”
“Well, there’s Sharon and Mary Louise, Susan (there’s always one of those), Rochelle, Keisha (and always one of these), Melissa, Wanda…”
She was starting to sound like one of her poems. “Hold it,” Jane said. “Last names?”
“Haven’t got ’em.” She looked at her watch and stood up. “Listen, I’ve got a date.”
“Five minutes.” Jane didn’t give her time to answer. “What’s the office gossip about Russell Fortier?”
“You won’t believe this, but I haven’t heard a peep.”
“Come on.”
“Hey, I’m a temp and a computer nerd. I only hang around with the other nerds, and they talk about hardware and software.”
“You sure don’t look like a nerd.”
The Baroness flared. “Well, maybe that isn’t such a big compliment. Women don’t get taken seriously because we don’t look the way people expect in some role or other.”
Jane certainly wasn’t going to rise to that one. “We’re getting off the subject here. Have you seen anything suspicious or unusual at United?”
Jane held her breath. If Langdon had really told The Baroness not to talk about something, it was probably this.
But The Baroness only looked thoughtful. She said, “No. I can honestly say I never have.” She looked at her watch again. “I’ve really got to go. When do you want to do the story?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Forget that shit. I’ll call you.” And she left.
Jane felt let down. She sat there in the lobby for a few minutes, more or less gazing into space. She felt more than let down—she was depressed.
Get a grip, she told herself. Come on. What do you want here?
The answer came fast and brought with it a rush of energy:
To get out of that asshole’s control.
She found the phone booths and looked up Douglas Seaberry and Edward Favret. They were both listed, addresses and all. A little flush of delight warmed her: Come to Mama, little chickens.
She’d spoken to Seaberry before, in connection with Russell’s disappearance. She tried him first, and was rewarded with a male voice on the line.
“May I speak to Danny Seaberry, please?”
“This is Douglas Seaberry. You must have the wrong number.”
“Oh, gosh. Sorry.” Nothing should be that easy. Let’s try Favret.
But this time a woman answered and said her husband wasn’t in.
Douglas Seaberry lived on Walnut, a gorgeous street near Audubon Park. A lovely place to visit. But on what pretext?
A diabolical plan began to form in her mind. The tipster would be proud, she thought, to know what he inspired.
The man came to the door himself, with all the commanding air of a big cheese, though at the moment he was dressed not for success but speed. He wore a white T-shirt and tiny, tiny royal blue running shorts, and he was all but running in place. Jane had a sense of contained energy, somewhat like that of a cat in a cage.
“Douglas Seaberry?” she said, and took him in. The man was a miracle of engineering
.
“Yes,” he said. She almost mentioned how happy she was not to have caught him at the office, thus missing the spectacle of legs that would make a lesbian weep.
But she caught herself, and said she was Jane Storey, on a story.
He raised one eyebrow, giving an irresistibly asymmetrical look to a face that, under other conditions, might have caused her to hyperventilate.
“It’s about Russell Fortier.”
His demeanor was instantly grave, as if he expected the worst. “They’ve found him?” he said, and it was clear from his tone that he was really asking if they’d found his body.
In spite of herself, she felt guilty. “No, I’m sorry to give you a start. So far as I know, they haven’t.” She decided to keep going. “I know you really care about him; that’s why I’m here.”
For all she knew, Fortier and Seaberry were bitter enemies, but what was he going to do—deny it?
He nodded, as if a reporter on the porch was a perfectly normal occurrence right before a nice jog, but she thought she saw his jaw work slightly before he said, “Won’t you come in?”
“Thanks. I won’t take much of your time.”
He led her into a living room of period perfection. Even Jane, on a reporter’s salary, knew that serious bucks had been spent here, on heavy draperies, eighteenth-century everything, magnificent antique rugs. She could see the dining room as well, with its gleaming table, silver candelabra, and more silver on the buffet. Seaberry caught her looking. “My wife and I collect silver.”
“Lovely.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Storey?” He put his right foot on his left knee, in casual fashion, but it was also, to Jane’s way of thinking, incredibly sexy.
As if on cue, any incipient fantasies were quickly nipped in the bud by a female voice: “Doug? Who is it?”
She was already at the door, barefoot and wearing a bathing suit, wet hair dripping, though unmistakably colored a luscious and expensive blond. Her limbs were tan and toned, her body impossibly perfect. “Oh,” she said, in a hushed little voice, as if she’d caught Jane and her husband in bed.
Seaberry said, “This is Jane Storey from the Times-Picayune. My wife, Megan.”
Megan might look like a movie star, but she was never going to win an Academy Award. She was clearly a woman whose home had been invaded. “I just got out of the pool,” she said, in lieu of hello.
Jane was at a bit of a loss. She thought of apologizing for her presence, but caught herself, thinking of The Baroness’s parakeet poem: I’m not going to be pushed around by this little bird.
She smiled: “Nice swim?”
Megan looked utterly amazed, as if she’d ordered Jane off the premises and she’d failed to obey.
“Ms. Storey’s here about Russell,” Seaberry said.
“Oh. What does she want to know? “
Jane was starting to loathe this woman. She smiled again, putting so much effort into it she’d probably have to go lie down in a minute. “We haven’t talked yet.” She glanced over at Seaberry, who was adjusting his glasses.
Megan said, “Oh,” and continued to stand there.
Finally, Seaberry said, “She says it’ll just take a few minutes. Why don’t you get dressed and join us?”
Megan only nodded, evidently not wanting to waste precious words on so lowly a creature as Jane Storey, and padded off on feet that looked so pampered they probably felt like little silk pillows. Jane wondered, and not for the first time, how smart men with pouty little pets for wives made it through the day. You couldn’t screw for twenty-four hours. You had to work eight and sleep eight; that still left eight to get through. You could play tennis, you could work out, you had to get dressed—that took care of another three. And you could have sex for one, say. So four hours a day of making conversation with a ninny. She personally would rather live on Rikers Island. Or was she just being snotty because she was attracted to the parakeet’s feeder?
He said, “Megan’s a little out of it—hard day in court.”
“I beg your pardon? “
“She’s a civil rights lawyer. Plus, the kid’s sick—we’ve got a seven-year-old.”
Jane took a moment to feel slightly silly and then got to the business at hand. She didn’t mind apologizing in aid of her own agenda. “I’m sorry to invade your home,” she said. “I wanted to see you here to protect your privacy.” Once again, she thought she saw a little jaw action—some almost indefinable sign of discomfort.
But you had to be fast to catch it. He smiled like he showed teeth for a living, and nodded.
She said, “I’m trying to get some background. Everything we say will be off the record.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s difficult to know how to say this. Let me ask you first—have you any idea what happened to Russell Fortier?”
He shrugged and waved his hands a bit, perfectly friendly. “Are you kidding? The guy’s one of my best friends. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”
“Was he in some sort of trouble at United?”
“No.”
“Embezzling, maybe? Something like that?” She didn’t expect an honest answer; she was just hoping for a reaction.
She got one. Seaberry did a virtual double take. “Embezzling—Russell? That’s the last thing I can imagine.”
“I was thinking that if he did something criminal that was about to come to light, he might simply have found it a good time to disappear.”
Seaberry’s face clouded up. “Ms. Storey, do you want me to confirm something? I can’t understand what’s going on here.”
“We’re developing a story on United that isn’t going to thrill you over there.” She told herself it wasn’t exactly a lie—the Money section was always writing about United; surely some stories didn’t thrill them.
“May I ask what it’s about?”
“We think Russell Fortier’s involved.”
“Yes?” he said.
Jane said nothing, just kept staring at him—partly because he was such an eyeful. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t get mad—he just seemed to make a decision that she was wasting his time. “I wish I could help you, but I really can’t if you don’t ask me any questions.”
Jane was deeply embarrassed. What she was doing was unprofessional as hell, and she couldn’t imagine what had ever made her think it would be productive. “We have information that Fortier was involved in some problems with the company. I was wondering if you’d like to tell me about them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” For the first time, his voice sounded irritated.
Jane remembered what department he ran. “Were there any problems with acquisitions?”
“I’m really at quite a loss here.” His voice came out of a soon-to-be-active volcano, and Jane had to admit she’d given him provocation. The thing to do was get out fast.
She produced a card, stood, and handed it to him.
“Well, as I said, the investigation is at a very delicate stage. If you should need a sympathetic ear, I’m here.”
“Thanks for coming by.” He tried a smile, but he hadn’t quite recovered his composure.
Driving home, she chastised herself. Brilliant, Jane, brilliant. Sure, some oil exec is going to spill the beans just because you asked him. Say, Mr. Executive, know of any recent criminal activity at your company? I need a story for my high school paper.
She hoped he wouldn’t report this visit to David Bacardi, and gasped as David’s face came up on her mental movie screen. He and Douglas Seaberry were cut from the same cloth.
They were both superior specimens; in fact they looked rather alike. They were smooth as K-Y jelly, confident as Marlboro men; and there was something else. What was that quality she hated so much in David?
She let her mind go blank. Oh, yes—an unhesitating willingness to swat any fly that landed on his lunch. How had she escaped Seaberry’s wrath? Probably she hadn’t—he might very well call David, and they�
��d probably hit it off so well they’d go to lunch and think up whole new ways to torture her. Maybe these corporate guys were all like that.
Maybe she should go out with her neighbor, the unemployed actor.
Eighteen
TALBA TOOK THE bus to work on the days her mama worked. She never boarded the 82 Desire without going into some flight of the imagination. Just the sight of the name on the front got her revved up. It had to be the most poetic damn bus in the world. Sometimes she reflected on how lucky she was actually to live on the Desire line; sometimes she thought about the poem she was going to write about it one day, trying out phrases and half-formed ideas. One day it occurred to her that it would make a round, resonant name for her first volume of poetry. Eighty-two Desire. Now that had a ring to it.
And some days, when real life overwhelmed poetry, it still kicked off a tangent—usually an obsessive, angry focus on her own desires. Today was like that.
She had awakened in a cold sweat, dogged by guilt. She really should have solved this disk thing yesterday. She shouldn’t have agreed to go out with Darryl when she didn’t yet have the files. She shouldn’t have gone out with Darryl at all, no matter how happy it made her mama. She certainly shouldn’t have lied to Lamar.
She went and splashed cold water on her face, but that only worked for a minute. The same obsessive thoughts kept circling in her head, wouldn’t leave even when Miz Clara came in and asked about her date, something she’d never done before in her life. Talba felt like crying and she didn’t really know why.
Riding the 82 Desire was clarifying. What I want, she thought, is never to have heard of Gene Allred and his stupid client. What I want is out of this. I just want to go home and pull the covers over my head.
What I don’t want is the damn fifteen hundred dollars.
And yet she did.
But that wasn’t the worst of it—she was in it now, whether she wanted the money or not.
The passenger across the aisle was having a coughing fit that shouldn’t have been allowed outside a hospital. She got up and moved toward the back. She was feeling too vulnerable to do battle with germs today. She had to save her energy for her own psyche.
The truth was, she was a little afraid. Life had become uncertain. She was afraid she couldn’t handle all the effort and hassle and—frankly—the fear that came with a new man. She was afraid to break up with Lamar. She was afraid Darryl wouldn’t call again.
