Blackmore ran his fingers through his hair, then kept his hand there and pushed down, as though keeping his head from exploding.
“But if she took it or didn’t take it, it doesn’t explain where she is,” he said. “Where the hell did she go?”
“That’s the part that worries me,” Clive Duncomb said. “Maybe she has it, and now she’s deciding what to do with it.”
It took Blackmore a moment to take in what Clive was getting at. “She wouldn’t go to the police. She wouldn’t. That makes no sense at all. She’s my wife. She’d be ruining all of us, herself included. It’s absolutely impossible. It’s unthinkable.”
“I hope you’re right. Because the last thing any of us need is a video of us fucking the brains out of some girl who ended up dead.”
“We didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Olivia Fisher,” Blackmore said, searching Duncomb’s face. “Right?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But it’s not the sort of thing I’d want to have to prove.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE door to Felicia Chalmers’s bedroom opened. A lean, six-foot-tall man, arms adorned with dragon tattoos and dressed in nothing but a pair of airplane-themed boxers, stood there, scratching his right buttock. He blinked his eyes repeatedly, bringing Felicia, and the apartment, into focus.
“The Corbin rises,” Felicia said, having just shown out the detective, the nearly empty glass of red wine still in her hand.
“I heard talking,” Corbin said.
“You didn’t hear the music, but you could hear the talking?”
“The music I’m used to,” he said. “I can sleep through Metallica. But I heard you yakking with somebody and it woke me up. Something going on?”
“Adam’s dead.”
“Uh,” Corbin said, “who’s Adam again?”
Felicia frowned. “My ex.”
That brought him fully awake. “Shit! What happened?” Felicia filled him in. “Sorry, babe. You need a hug?” He opened his arms.
“No, I do not need a hug,” she said, and went into the kitchen. She set down her wineglass and rooted around in a drawer until she found an address book.
“Whatcha looking for?”
“The number for the guy who handled my divorce. Arthur Clement, his name was. In Albany.”
Corbin’s face scrunched up. “What do you need him for? You already divorced the dude. And now he’s dead.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And he’s not the only one.”
“I’m not following.”
She found the number, used her index finger as a bookmark, turned to look at the nearly naked man standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I’m sure you aren’t.”
“Come on, help me out here.”
“His wife died, too,” Felicia explained. “And his first wife died years ago. So maybe I’m entitled to something.”
“Didn’t you say he’s got a daughter? Like, all grown-up?”
“Lucy,” Felicia said. “Yeah. But everything shouldn’t all go to her.”
“Was the guy that loaded?”
Felicia shrugged. “Maybe not. But there’ll be something. There’s the house. He probably had investments and stuff like that. As his only surviving ex-wife, I must be entitled to something. Who knows? Maybe he mentioned me in his will.”
“Did he tell you he had?”
Felicia bit her lip. “Not exactly.”
“I think you’re pissing up a rope here, Felish,” Corbin said. “Whatever he’s got will probably go to his kid. I’m not a lawyer, but—”
“No, you’re a bartender.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not a lawyer, but that’s how it looks to me.”
“It won’t bother you if I get a more professional opinion?”
Corbin leaned into the doorframe, ran his tongue over his teeth. “You know, Felish, I’m not sure this is working out.”
She had the address book open again and was reaching for the phone.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“I don’t think you respect me for who I am.”
She had the receiver in her hand, was entering a number. “Respect you? Of course I do. I respect you for exactly what you are. You’re—hello?” Felicia turned her back to Corbin. “I need to talk to Arthur. No, I need to speak to him right this second. This is an emergency. That’s right. This is Felicia Chalmers. You tell him there’s been a death—tell him that. Yes, I’ll hold.”
Felicia spun around, wanting to say something to Corbin, but he’d disappeared. She heard a toilet flush.
Then, “Yes? Is this Mr. Clement? You handled my divorce from Adam Chalmers? That’s right, that’s right. Well, there was a big accident here in Promise Falls last night and—yes, the drive-in. My ex and his new wife, Miriam? They were killed. Which means I’m his only surviving ex-wife. Yes, yes, there’s a daughter, but shouldn’t there be something for me? What if I could prove that I’ve been a source of moral support all this time? I have e-mails. Lots of e-mails and texts that would prove that. And there was more than that going on. We still maintained a physical relationship, wifely duties basically. That would have to mean something and—”
She listened. “Uh-huh.” Listened some more. “Uh-huh.”
Then, “Well, I don’t care if that’s your opinion off the top of your head. The opinion I’m getting from my gut is that I might be entitled to something, especially with Miriam dead. When can I come in to see you? Next week? I can pull together all my paperwork by then, yes. And I can find out what the house might be worth. Okay. Good, thank you. I’ll see you then.”
Felicia hung up the phone. When she turned around, Corbin was back, a towel wrapped around his waist.
Felicia said, “Good thing I didn’t listen to the bartender.”
TWENTY-THREE
SAMANTHA Worthington, in the middle of restocking the vending machines with small packages of detergent, jumped when the cell phone tucked into the front pocket of her jeans went off. She’d been on edge ever since Ed had come to visit her at the Laundromat that morning, and it didn’t take much to give her a heart attack.
She dug out the phone, looked at the caller ID.
David Harwood.
Jesus, the guy just didn’t give up. She supposed one had to give him points for trying. She let it ring. She had her voice mail set to cut in after six rings. So she didn’t have to wait long for the phone to shut up. But she held on to it for another minute, wondering if he would leave her a message.
A red dot with a 1 inside it appeared on her phone. Did she want to listen to anything else this guy had to say?
She tapped the dot, put the phone to her ear.
“Sam, it’s David. Look, I get why you don’t want to take my calls. You think I set you up for something, and I swear I didn’t. Maybe, shit, I don’t know, but if we could talk about it . . . Maybe dinner? Something simple. We could even—if you’re okay with this—Carl could come over to my place and hang out with Ethan. My parents would be there. Or—I don’t know. Look, I won’t call again. I don’t want to be some stalker asshole. It’s just, the thing is . . . I like you. We’ve both got a shitload of problems, and maybe you don’t need any more, but I just . . . I gotta go. If you’re up for dinner, or anything, call me. Bye.”
Sam was offered the choice of pressing seven to delete the message, or nine to save it. She had her thumb over the nine, then hit the seven.
David Harwood was right. She had enough problems right now.
Starting with Ed. The war with her in-laws over her son, Carl, was heating up.
Of course, it was already well under way. They’d been trying to get Carl away from her ever since their son, Brandon—Sam’s ex-husband—was sentenced to six years for holding up a branch of the Revere Federal Bank. The court had tacked on an extra two years because Brandon had waved a gun around.
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The stupid bastard. At least he hadn’t shot anyone.
His parents—especially Yolanda—had always hated Sam, particularly when she filed for divorce before Brandon turned to bank robbery. But that hatred multiplied exponentially after she and Carl left Boston. That meant Brandon’s parents didn’t get to see their grandson nearly as often—it had been difficult to cut them off completely when they all lived in the same town—and they were the kind of people who were used to getting what they wanted. Garnet was the manager of one of Revere’s other branches—the ironies abounded—and Yolanda behaved as though she were married to the secretary of finance.
Sam hadn’t even told them she planned to move. She liked to imagine the surprise on their faces the first time they dropped by unannounced and found someone else living in her apartment. How that must have pissed them off.
It was such an embarrassment, particularly for Garnet, that Brandon had robbed not just a bank but a Revere bank, that he and his wife were desperate to pin the blame on Sam.
Their theory, and the one they shared with everyone they talked to, including a reporter for the Boston Globe, was that Brandon had turned to robbing banks as a way to win Sam back. Garnet and Yolanda Worthington said their son believed he could buy back Sam’s affections if he had the money to get her anything she wanted.
It was a version of temporary insanity, they argued. Brandon’s lawyer argued it, too, in court, but failed to win over a jury. Despite that, her ex-husband’s parents stuck to the story.
It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t Brandon’s.
It was hers.
One hundred percent total bullshit.
Sam wanted to put a few hundred miles between Brandon’s parents, and Carl and her. If she’d had the means, she’d have moved to Australia, but Promise Falls was as far as she could afford to go. An aunt used to live here, and she’d spent three summers in the town as a teenager. Even though her aunt had passed away, she believed she could make a new home here for Carl and herself.
She had underestimated her former in-laws’ resolve.
They’d had lawyers send her threatening letters demanding custody. Sam had ignored them—torn them up and thrown them in the trash. There was no way, she convinced herself, that they had any legal right to take her own child away from her.
But then they upped their game.
They’d sent someone to spy on her, try to catch her in any kind of compromising position.
They’d gone so far as to put a camera up to her window when she had a quick hookup with David Harwood, whose son, Ethan, was in her son’s class at Clinton Public School. It was an impulsive, reckless thing to do, having sex with the man. And not even in the bedroom, but right there in the kitchen, like they were acting out some tawdry scene in The Postman Always Rings Twice, for God’s sake.
She wondered if it had been Ed who took the picture. If he’d been the one peering through her window. Probably just one hand on the camera, his other one busy.
She still harbored suspicions that Harwood was in on it. That he’d set her up somehow.
And yet . . .
Hadn’t she been the one who’d initiated it? When she asked him, “How long has it been?” A reference to the last time he’d been with anyone.
A long time, for both of them, as it turned out.
Whoever had been peering through the window with a camera had clearly been in touch with Garnet and Yolanda soon after. Within a day, an e-mail arrived from Yolanda, with an attached photo.
Sam couldn’t believe it when she saw it.
And there was Yolanda’s message: “So this is how Carl’s mother spends her time at home. What kind of mother behaves this way?”
Then, this morning, her ex-husband’s longtime buddy Ed strolled into her work to intimidate her. This was how they planned to do it, she told herself. Scare her into turning Carl over.
No fucking way.
Carl was only nine, but he understood what was going on. She’d warned him to be on the lookout for his grandparents or any of his father’s old friends. Sam worried that one day they’d go too far, that they’d cross the line, and just try to grab Carl and take him back to Boston.
Many days, she drove him to school and picked him up at the end of the day.
You couldn’t be too careful.
She held the card that nice, but sad-looking, man had given her after he’d thrown soap powder in Ed’s face. She was used to seeing him once a week when he came in with his laundry, and had smiled at him the odd time, even talked to him about the book he was reading when he’d come earlier today, but she hadn’t known his name, and she certainly hadn’t known what he did for a living.
But there it was, on the card: Cal Weaver: Private Investigations. And a phone number. At first, she was inclined to throw it into the trash. She didn’t want to drag strangers into her personal business. But a private detective might be someone worth knowing. Not because she was planning to hire him or anything. But a man in that line of work might know people who could be helpful to her. A lawyer specializing in custody issues, for example.
So she’d hung on to the card, left it tucked in the front pocket of her jeans, next to her phone.
The place had been busy around the noon hour, but things had slowed down by midafternoon. No one was there, none of the machines running. Which was why Sam had taken this time to restock the dispenser with small boxes of soap. She glanced at the clock and realized it was almost the end of Carl’s school day. This was a good time to slip away and pick him up.
And then they walked in.
Garnet and Yolanda.
Sam froze. She was stunned that they would actually confront her. Travel all the way from Boston for a face-to-face.
Garnet looking distinguished in a suit, like he was dressed for a day at the bank, even though he’d have had to take the entire day off to come here. Yolanda all in black, save for the strand of pearls at her neck. Fancy silk blouse, slacks, three-inch heels, silver hair all poufed out.
Sam stared but said nothing. It was Garnet who spoke first.
“Samantha, how are you?” Speaking in a soft, nonthreatening tone. His bank voice.
Yolanda flashed a smile that looked remarkably lifelike. “It’s good to see you, Samantha. You’re looking well.”
Sam knew, after seven hours of working in this overheated hellhole, she looked like a drowning victim pulled from the river, and probably smelled like one, too.
“This . . . is a surprise,” Sam said.
“Yolanda and I’ve been talking, and we, well, we thought it was time to try to make peace,” Garnet said. “Stop with all this bickering and backstabbing. It’s not good for any of us, and it’s certainly not good for Carl, and he’s the one that really matters here.” He pointed to three plastic chairs. “Would it be okay if we sat down?”
Sam, dumbstruck, nodded. Garnet turned the chairs around into a Y so they could all face one another. Before sitting, Yolanda took a long look at the chair and swept it with the back of her hand. If there’d been anything on it, Sam couldn’t see it.
“We know we’ve kind of been playing hardball lately,” Garnet said. “We’ve employed tactics which, in retrospect, have gone too far.”
“You mean taking pictures of me through a window?” Sam asked, starting to feel her way. “When I was with someone?”
“With,” Yolanda said under her breath.
Garnet reached out a hand and touched his wife on the knee. “Now, dear, we promised to be good.”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon’s mother said. “And I’m sorry for sending that photo to you. That was . . . uncalled for.”
“You think?” Sam said. “Would it be okay with you if I hired someone to spy on you? I’m sure you and Garnet still get it on once in a while. Does that make you bad people?”
Yolanda flinched. She l
ooked ready to bite back, but then composed herself. “You make an excellent point, Samantha.”
“And what about today? Sending that thug Ed in here? What the hell was that about?”
Garnet’s face contorted. “What are you talking about? Ed was here?”
“Are you saying you don’t know?”
He shook his head sorrowfully. “He goes off half-cocked sometimes. Thinks he knows what we want, but really, he shouldn’t have bothered you. We’re very sorry about that, aren’t we, Yolanda?”
“We sure are,” she said.
“We just want everyone to be happy or, if that’s too much to ask, to understand one another,” Garnet said. “And before I forget, Brandon asked me to say hello and pass along his best wishes to you and Carl.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“We go every week,” Garnet said.
“He forgives you,” Yolanda said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“He forgives you for leading him down a reckless path.”
Sam swallowed hard, made a fist that she managed to keep pointed at the floor. “What that man did was his choice and his choice alone and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. He could have stolen the crown jewels for me and I still wouldn’t have gone back to him. Do you know what he did to me? He kept me living in a constant state of fear. He was capable of violence, and sooner or later I knew I’d be on the receiving end.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Yolanda said. “Not my son. He was always a very gentle child and—”
Garnet grabbed her knee and pinched it hard enough to make her shut up. “We’re getting a little off topic here, love. Let’s not lose sight of why we came here to see Samantha.”
Sam glanced at the clock. It was time for her to leave to get Carl.
“I don’t know why you’ve driven all this way, but I really have to go,” she told them.
“Just another minute,” Garnet said. “I know you don’t trust us. I know that if I were to extend an invitation to our grandson to come stay with us for a week or two in the summer, at our beach house on the Cape, you’d be suspicious. I get that. So what we wondered was, would you be our guest, too? You and Carl could both come down. You could stay in the guest room. Would you feel comfortable with that? You’d love it there. I know we invited you and Brandon, and you were never able to find the time, but it’s quite beautiful and relaxing. We could take the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. Go to Edgartown.”
Far From True Page 14
