by Helen Hanson
She slid out of the car. Looking for a job sucked. The effort seemed like a supreme waste of time. Either they had an opening, or they didn’t.
Bad attitude. Not a good start. Time to jettison the surliness.
For practice, she smiled at a seagull windsurfing overhead. That wasn’t so hard. The gull squawked. Something white splattered on her purse. Apparently, her smile needed work. She found a tissue in a side pocket on the purse and wiped off the seagull’s insult.
She followed a saltillo-tiled pathway lined with heavenly bamboo, bougainvillea, and hummingbird sage around the corner of the building to the entrance. She pushed through heavy, wooden doors to reach the foyer.
“Welcome to The Happy Pearl.”
Maggie turned to meet a dark woman about her age with a smile that put hers to shame.
“How many in your party today?”
Maggie shook off the bad vibes. “Hi. I’m Maggie Fender. I’d like to speak with the manager if that’s possible. I’m here to apply for a job.”
The greeter’s 1000-watt smile dimmed. “I’ll see if she’s busy.”
“Thank you.”
Maggie peeked in the main part of the restaurant to enjoy the view. With the ocean as a backdrop, it was tough to compete, but The Happy Pearl made a decent run at it. The ceilings arched to a center, reaching nearly twenty feet. Murals graced the walls with brilliant depictions of coastal sea life—brown pelicans overhead, otters in the kelp bed, and starfish basking in the tide pools.
A woman with short gray hair entered the foyer. “Hi. I’m the manager. May I help you?”
“Yes. Maggie Fender.” She shook the manager’s hand. “I’m an experienced waitress, and I’m looking for work.”
“Great.” The manager didn’t bother to hide her enthusiasm. One of our waiters just quit. How soon—” The manager shook her head as if she had water in her ears. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
Why would her name matter? “Maggie Fender.”
“Excuse me a moment.”
Maggie’s confidence vanished before the woman returned.
“I’m sorry. My partner is out of town until the end of next week. Why don’t you leave your résumé?”
Both of them feigned continued interest, but clearly Maggie’s name was a problem for the woman. The kiss-off wasn’t even polite.
Maggie shuffled back toward her car. The old beater better start this time. All the way out here, she didn’t know how she’d get back if—
“Maggie.” A voice called from the screen door.
She walked closer to peer inside. “Benito?”
He called to someone in the kitchen, “Uno momento,” and stepped out with a bag of trash.
“Wow. I’m glad to see you got a job so quickly. I was trying to get one myself.”
“Peter. He’s the reason she won’t hire you.”
“What’s Peter got to do with it?”
Benito motioned her to follow. “My cousin is a waiter. He overheard a phone call to the manager warning about you. It was Peter.” He tossed the bag in the dumpster. “I’m sorry, Maggie. He told her you are trouble.”
Chapter Twenty
It was widely known that SEC prosecutor Samantha Merrick chose the members of her investigative team for their technical expertise, candor, and relentless pursuit of the truth. She didn’t care if ivy clung to the hallowed walls of their alma mater, whether their family tree sprouted any distinguished branches, or which horse’s ass they supported come November. The job was her priority.
Samantha had shared an apartment with Kurt Meyers’ sister when she attended Vassar. After graduation, Samantha earned the reputation of a Wall Street prophetess before joining the SEC. The sudden death of a colleague landed her the job, and ultimately, the Patty O’Mara case. She and Kurt had dated but never shared a zip code long enough for anything serious. Now they shared a serious interest in O’Mara. After Kurt’s message to Samantha the day before, she promised to call him.
Kurt read the latest documents in the perpetual stack on his desk. He insisted upon reviewing every unique page. His staff culled the redundant information—such as the 500th copy of O’Mara’s bogus prospectus—and highlighted anything they thought would interest him. If a white truffle hid within the pile, he didn’t want it dismissed as fungus.
The investigation weighed little on what he obtained from O’Mara’s clients. O’Mara revealed only what he wanted them to see. Like a proficient Las Vegas magician, misdirection decoyed the real action.
Kurt managed Spencer Thornton the same way. He kept Thornton informed enough to give him talking points for the press—Thornton loved the microphone. Kurt never revealed all his sources for an investigation because useful information often came from people who preferred to remain anonymous. Kurt’s job was to find the money. Holding Thornton’s hand was an obligatory nuisance.
His private number finally rang. “Kurt Meyers.”
“So how is Thunder Man?
He’d forgotten about that nickname—hoped Samantha had too. His attempts at drumming his way to rock stardom were short-lived. Apparently, not short enough.
“They only let me talk on stage nowadays and absolutely never in spandex.”
“Now that is a shame. The lightning bolt striking your crotch was all class.” Eventually, her laughter trailed off. “So, what do you want that I can’t give you?”
“Now that could be a really long list.” He pushed the files toward the middle of his desk. “I’m proposing an unofficial partnership.”
“If you mean marriage, you’ve got a shot. But if you mean information on this investigation, forget it.”
“Several other fund managers and a dozen or so investors asked the SEC to investigate O’Mara before this fuse lit.” Kurt leaned back in his chair.
Actually, he knew that investigator Daryl Betts had opened a file on O’Mara without the consent of the SEC Chairman, Catherine Boson. Boson was another friend of O’Mara’s. While, Betts’ reputation as a tenacious rogue produced results, he earned few friends at the agency. After Daryl Betts died in a motorcycle accident, Boson quietly closed the file and hired Samantha Merrick. So far, this story hadn’t leaked to the public.
“We both want the money located and returned to the investors. While I’m working for Thornton, I may come across bits of information that you don’t—”
“If you’re withholding evidence—”
“You know me better than that.” He took a moment to cool from the insult. “I’m working the case either way. You might want to hear me out.”
Samantha exhaled. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t have any affiliation with the class-action lawsuit against O’Mara. Spencer Thornton hired me strictly as an independent investigator in this case and not as an attorney. Sure, I’m talking to the same people. But they’re already working with the legal team and the SEC. I just get extra copies of the information. My job is to look under all the rocks.” Kurt rested his feet upon the desk. “Hell, Samantha, I don’t know if this money even exists, let alone if I can find it. But Thornton is paying me a ridiculous amount of money to try. Okay?”
“Still listening.”
“So they cry on my shoulder. I empathize. Maybe I find out things nobody else thinks to ask. Is it a lead, or a waste of time? Here’s my point. I’m willing to share this information provided you let me know whether it’s significant. Bona fide or bogus. I don’t want to waste my time if you already know it’s a bust.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah. Keep me updated on anything I initiate, and I promise to give you whatever I find.”
“Let’s say I agree. What about the money? What if you find it first?”
He punched the air. She was hooked. “If I find any money, you take the credit with your boss and the press. But, I get the finder’s fee. You can’t claim it anyway. What do you say? Is it a deal?”
A sailboat slipped behind a column supporting the Bay
Bridge on its travels eastward. It reappeared on the other side before Samantha answered.
“Have you got something? Or do you just want to look up my skirt?”
“I’ll assume the latter question was rhetorical.” Kurt pushed the papers around on his desk—had to feed her something—Patty O’Mara’s card to Vonda Creevy lay on top. “The Rockstag Group. It’s a local company. The name came up in conversation with one of our clients. What do you know about them?”
“Nothing, yet. But I’ll call you when I do.”
“Thanks, Samantha.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You play this straight with me, and we can work. You cross me, Kurt, and I’ll throw the switch on that lightning bolt, baby. Ciao.”
She always was a tough broad.
“Ciao.” He hung up the phone. He’d have more information for her, eventually. But for now, she was in the game.
His direct line rang again. He’d given the number to few people. Maybe Samantha forgot something. Hopefully it was her and not Spencer Thornton. He’d eroded enough of Kurt’s time this week.
He swung his feet to the floor as he answered, “Kurt Meyers.”
“Mr. Meyers. This is Patty O’Mara.”
Kurt’s breath caught in his throat. O’Mara was never going to call him. Who the hell was this guy? “Is that so? And what can I do for you?” Kurt swiveled in his chair. “And please, call me Kurt.”
“Yes, Kurt. Thank you. Your reputation precedes you. I understand Spencer Thornton has arranged for your services on behalf of my former investors.”
Wow. This guy was good. Must be a Method actor.
“So, Patty. May I call you Patty?”
“I wish you would. All my friends call me Patty.”
He might be surprised at some of the names they used lately. “Patty. I’m not sure how you got the number to my direct line, but what exactly can I do for you?”
“I’d rather not discuss the details over the phone, Kurt. I called to arrange a meeting with you if you could spare the time.”
Men under house arrest generally didn’t call for appointments. “Okay, you’ve had your fun, but I’m a busy man. Now who is this?”
Kurt heard a soft cough through the receiver. “Kurt. Mr. Meyers. I can understand that a call from me might be surprising. But I assure you that I am Patty O’Mara.”
“Patty O’Mara also assured hundreds of clients that he was investing their money for their future.”
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
Kurt’s neck felt warm. He loosened his tie. “If you are Patty O’Mara then prove it.”
“You need convincing. How shall I go about it?”
Good question. Lately, O’Mara’s life was a dog-eared book. All the details floated in the public forum. Kurt looked at his desk. “I want the name of one of your investors, a lady attorney from Sausalito. She—”
“Vonda. Vonda Creevy. A delightful woman.”
His chair rocked forward. “Patty O’Mara. I’ll be damned.”
“I should hope not on my account.”
“Hell, yes, I’ll meet you. When? Where?”
“The sooner the better, but I must insist on a few rules.”
Rules? He’d sign away rights to multiple internal organs. “Name it.”
“My situation requires that you come to my home.”
“Yes. It does. Done. What else?”
“I don’t want anyone to know you’re meeting with me. Not Spencer Thornton, not the press, not anyone. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” Kurt paced the floor, one hand on the phone while the other combed back his hair. It wasn’t a promise he could make. “The minute I arrive at your house, every news service in the country will have this story.”
“I’m aware of the buzz this will cause.”
“So, why do you want to meet? I mean, I’m flattered, but why me?”
“As I said, I won’t discuss my concerns over the phone. I think your independent position might be an advantage. Can you come to my house tomorrow? Say, noontime?”
Walk. Run. Or, fly. “Yes. Noon. I’ll be there.”
“Do you know how to get here?”
Follow the TV vans. They’d had it under surveillance since O’Mara made bail. The judge infuriated everyone with that move. “I know how to get there. But, I have to ask one question first.” There was only one question that mattered. Where’s the money?
“My attorneys prefer that I don’t make any comments. I’m afraid any further discussion will have to wait until tomorrow. You understand.”
Kurt knew the moment was slipping. “Okay, then just answer the question you think I was going to ask.”
Even O’Mara’s soft cough couldn’t obscure his answer. “Safe.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Maggie applied to three other restaurants before heading home along the coast. The specter of Peter the Punk loomed at each location. She couldn’t be certain, but when the respective managers acknowledged her name, there was an attenuation of any original enthusiasm.
She lowered all the windows in her car and cranked up Would I Lie to You? by the Eurythmics. Low tide scents of salt, desiccating kelp, urchin, and rotting fish accompanied her ride home. These smells stoked her memories. Rockfishing for lingcod, finding specimens for Travis’ tide-pool zoo, combing the strand for shells, the Fender annual clambake—the memories simmered her ache.
When she reached home, Travis met her in the foyer with Bailey and Belli underfoot, something in his hand, and a smile that smacked of trouble.
“I’ve got some news.” His excitement was a little contagious but so were most diseases.
Maggie kept walking until she reached the kitchen. She dropped her purse on the counter. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s in the living room.”
She opened the fridge to find the iced tea. “What’s your news?”
“I think I know where to find the key.” He hoisted himself up backwards to a seat on the cabinet.
“Key to what?”
“The safe deposit box.” He handed her a glass from the cupboard.
She’d forgotten the diversionary mission she assigned him. “Right. So where do you think it is?”
“In the guitar rack. When Dad made the rack, he hollowed out a section and covered it with a sliding metal door. I asked him what it was for, he told me ‘picks’, and then he winked at me.”
“I don’t remember a sliding metal piece anywhere on that rack.”
“That’s because it’s on the back, against the wall.” Travis’ bare feet bounced off the cabinet. “When he hung it, I told him it was a stupid place to put the picks because you can’t get to them. He said that’s what kept them safe, and he winked again.”
“Weird. Did you look?”
“No. I need your help. It’s too big to take off by myself.”
“Did you ask Dad if he put a key in it?”
The excitement in Travis’ face dissipated. He hopped down from the counter. “No. I—I didn’t even think about asking him.”
Maggie touched his wrist. “I know. Sometimes—” She groped for more delicate words. “Sometimes, it’s like he’s already gone.”
His glossy, black hair bounced with each nod.
“Let’s ask him.”
Their father sat on the couch with an Alembic 6-string bass on his lap. He stared at the instrument as if unsure how it had gotten there. Bailey and Belli tugged on a rope, each trying to yank the other over Dad’s shoes.
“Daddy. Do you have a safe deposit box key anywhere?”
He didn’t show any recognition of a key or them but contemplated who-knew-what.
“I guess he’s not talking today.”
Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. They never knew.
Maggie bent and kissed his cheek. “I love you.” She whacked Travis’ shoulder with the back of her hand. “C’mon.”
He followed her down the hall to the guitar room.
Dad’
s first guitar dated back to his purchase of a 1927 Martin OO from a garage sale when he was a kid. He mowed lawns all summer to repay the seventeen dollars he borrowed to buy it. At one time, he had over a dozen rare and exotic guitars in his collection. This year, Maggie sold the 1954 Oxblood-finish Les Paul, and a double neck Ibanez. They still had the Alembic bass and a1965 Stratocaster ready for sacrifice.
Maggie never learned to play the guitar. But Travis loved jamming with Dad, cranking the amps, pretending he was Joe Satriani live at the Fillmore. Friends used to come over and play with them. But the jam sessions stopped when Trisha’s symptoms became pronounced. Lately, no one was making any music.
The guitar room had a special door and lock. They rarely used the lock, but their father wanted extra protection for his ax collection. Two-part guitar racks stretched across both side walls. The lower half cradled the bodies in cherry wood and velvet while the upper section supported the necks. Refrigerator sized amps hulked along the back wall.
“It was in the back of one of the lower sections. They weigh a ton. Where do you want to start?” Travis said.
Maggie stared at the huge chunk of wood. It was about eight inches tall, eight inches deep, and well over ten feet long. “How do we get this beast down?”
“It’s resting on a notched ledge attached to the wall. We need to lift it straight up, then put it on the floor.”
Maggie positioned both hands at the end of the beam.
“On three. Ready?”
“I guess.”
“One, two, three.”
They hoisted the wood chunk high enough to free it from the ledge. Setting it down gently on the floor took nearly as much effort.
Travis inspected the back. “This is it. “ He stepped toward the middle of the beam. Maggie heard a metallic scrape as he stooped. He returned with a gold-tone key on a cheap, wire ring lying on his palm. “It has a number on it, 1196.”
He threaded a finger through the ring and twirled it in the air. “Let’s check this baby out.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
