There’s a ten-minute wait, so I head to the back of the salon to pick out a nail color. I take my time and finally settle on Wicked Red. I’m returning to my seat when I look right into the eyes of my good friend Laurie Lux. Laurie’s married to one of Santa Barbara’s leading plastic surgeons. She’s tiny and cute, with a flip of brown hair and twinkling gray eyes.
“Hi, Laurie.” I’m surprised to find her here. I thought she must be traveling. She hasn’t returned my calls for weeks.
“Hello.” She holds a newspaper in her hands, which she quickly folds and sets on her lap. “Good to see you.”
“You too.”
There’s not a speck of friendliness in her tone. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but something tells me to keep moving.
“Lunch soon?” I ask.
“Sure.” She closes her eyes and taps the chair’s massage button. Her body begins to vibrate. I nod and wave my fingers as if she isn’t acting strange and head straight to the magazine rack in search of the latest People.
I scan the rack, and my breathing slows at the headline on the front page of the Santa Barbara Times: DECEASED BANK PRESIDENT AND WIFE UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR ELDER ABUSE AND FRAUD. Beneath that is an unflattering photo of Rich and me taken at some long-ago benefit gala.
I watch the nail polish slip through my fingers as if it’s happening to someone else. It hits the floor and shatters, and the red polish explodes across the room. No one says a word. Everyone stares. Then a worker runs over, drops to the ground, and runs a rag around my feet.
“You pay,” she hisses.
Fumbling for my wallet, I drop my sixty-five dollars on the counter and hurry out the front door. It hasn’t even shut behind me before the chattering starts up.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Where to go. What to do. I spin around and run smack into a muscle-bound chest. Arthur Van Meter takes hold of my arms.
“Kathi?” he says. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” I burst into tears.
“You poor thing. How can I help you?”
“No one can help me,” I sob.
“I saw the paper this morning,” he says. “Is it true the police raided your home?”
I nod in shame.
“My god. You weren’t arrested?”
“No.”
“Interrogated?”
“Just a few questions.”
“Then the police were just on a scavenger hunt. They don’t know anything for sure. The Times should be ashamed to publish such trash. I’m going to call the publisher this afternoon and give him a piece of my mind.”
“You’d do that for me?” I ask, snuffling.
“Of course. I know the owner. I have a little pull.”
“Thank you.” I grab a tissue from my purse and wipe my nose, taking comfort in the warmth in Arthur’s eyes.
“A thank-you isn’t necessary. I will always stand up for a friend in need.” The door to the salon swings open, and Laurie steps out. She begins to turn away but pauses when she spies Arthur.
“Why, Arthur Van Meter,” she says in her sweetest voice, her eyes fixed on his. “It’s been way too long. It’s so nice to see you. And I’m so very glad you and Eileen will be attending the Summit House benefit.” She smiles brightly. “Hope you plan to spend big.”
Arthur turns to me. “Kathi, you’ve met Laurie before, haven’t you?”
I drop my gaze. “Of course. We’re old friends.”
“So you must be attending the benefit.”
“Ummm. No.” My cheeks grow warm. “I don’t believe I received an invite.”
“Of course you did,” Laurie says in a syrupy voice. “Unless it got lost in the mail.”
Arthur looks from Laurie to me and back again. “Remind me,” he says. “When is the big event?”
“Next Saturday,” she replies, beaming. “I’m the chair, and I promise it’ll be the most exciting fund-raiser of the year.” She lowers her voice and winks. “We have a few special surprises planned.”
“Saturday?” Arthur seems to consider. “Well, that’s too bad. Eileen and I will be traveling that day.”
Laurie’s hand grasps her neck. “But you sent your RSVP.”
“Maybe next year.” Arthur turns to me. “You ready?” Taking me by the arm, he leads me away.
I glance back at Laurie. She looks like she’s been slapped. “I can’t believe you just did that,” I say, swallowing a giggle.
“She got what she deserved. Now, let me give you a ride home.”
“That’s so very sweet, but I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Not so busy I can’t help a friend.”
“But my car . . .”
“We’ll take your car. I’ll Uber back.”
Arthur puts his arm around me and guides me to my car. It feels so good to be treated with kindness. I really can’t thank him enough.
October 16, 1987
Pregnancy is so much harder than I thought it would be. I’ve gotten slow and sluggish and as big as a house. And I’m horribly bored. I know the rent’s cheaper, but I wish we hadn’t moved to the outskirts of Reno where everyone and their mother is older than time. We can’t afford a second car, so I’m stuck here alone for hours on end. I hate this ugly tract home with its yellow walls and orange carpet. And there’s only so many soap operas a girl can watch. I could start my novel. I really should. I pinky promise I’ll start it tomorrow. Maybe a good idea will pop into my head overnight. How did Tolstoy get his ideas? Or Dickens or Flaubert? I bet things will change once the baby is born. They have to. I love Rich to death, but I need something more.
Crystal
September 14, 2015
“Morning,” Dipak says cheerfully. He’s seated at his desk, surrounded by towering piles of loan files.
“Morning.”
“Want to take a coffee run?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“I mean, what happened to your hand?” He’s staring at the bandages.
“Nothing.” My fall at Ted’s landed me in urgent care, but I’m not in the mood to share. Eric glances my way and opens his mouth and then closes it just as quickly. Don’t you dare, I think. Don’t you goddamn dare, or you’ll be playing a round of my favorite game. I gather up a stack of files. “I’ll be back in a while. I have a meeting.”
“With George?”
I walk out the door without answering. Not that I should be mad at Dipak, but I am. I didn’t hear from him once over the weekend. Not even a measly little text. And I’m tired. After hours of waiting in an overcrowded urgent care to have my hand stitched up, I spent the rest of the weekend at the library reading up on Arthur Van Meter. The guy has a long history in Santa Barbara—some of it good, much of it bad. Hit the home run on several development projects and rode a few others into the ground. There are multiple accusations of fraud but no indication he’s ever been convicted. So what’s the connection between him and Rich? I’m betting it’s more than golf and lunch. Stepping into George’s office, I avoid looking into his warped mirror.
“Ready for the meeting?” George asks, not getting up.
I nod. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’ve been told to stay away.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Apparently I upset Arthur at our last get-together.”
“But you were only asking for details on the project. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Let’s just say Arthur and I have a history. The bank has worked with him a few times before.”
“And it didn’t go well?”
He taps his pencil against his desk. “No. It didn’t go well.”
“So why would we extend him another loan?”
“Banks have short memories when there’s money to be made.”
“But there will be another recession one day.”
“Of course. But I’ve been told I’m old and out of touch and wa
y too cynical. Apparently, times have changed. The economy is booming, and Arthur has become a new man.”
“Do you believe that?”
His bad eye twitches. “Just be careful.”
“Of . . . ?”
“Of yourself. The only thing you own in this business is your integrity. Don’t let anyone talk you into giving it away. Once you cross the proverbial line in the sand, it’s all downhill from there. People will have certain expectations of you. And to be honest, that type of employee may have a job during the boom years, but they’re the first to lose it in a bust. Then the hunt is on for ethical analysts and loan officers to staff the ranks. So don’t do anything you don’t believe in. Don’t let anyone sway your analysis.”
I think about Eric and how he rubber-stamps bad loans. And then I think about who I really am. For a moment I feel ashamed. “Kevin’s the loan officer on the Van Meter credit. Aren’t I supposed to just do what I’m told?”
“You don’t work for Kevin. You work for me. You work for the board. You work for the shareholder.”
“And I work for Rich?”
George makes a face. “That goes without saying. Just remember: your job is to be honest and ethical. Let the rest take care of itself.”
“I appreciate the advice. Thank you.”
“No need for thanks. You’re good at this. You’ve got the analysis skills and cynicism to separate the good loans from the bad. One of the best analysts I’ve seen in my career.”
A flicker of warmth begins to melt my heart, and I try to slap it down. I don’t want to owe anything to anyone. I turn and head to the door. My hand is resting on the doorknob when George says one last thing.
“By the way, that Eileen Fisher ensemble looks nice on you. Very professional. Good choice.”
“Eileen Fisher? Is that what I’m wearing?”
“Yes.”
I straighten my shoulders and try to say thank you, but my throat has grown too tight. I hurry out the door, confused. George is a manipulator, I tell myself. He doesn’t give a damn about me. And as for that boring ethics speech? If he is so very high and mighty, why hasn’t he turned this place in? I mean, let’s be honest here. George has sold his soul.
I’m the first to arrive at the executive conference room, so I take a seat and wait. And I wait. And I wait. What the hell? I can hear raised voices in a nearby office. What? A family fight? A door slams, and Kevin hurries in, his ear stuck tight to his phone.
“Yes, sir. Of course. I understand. It’s just that . . . no. You’re right. We’ll have the documents ready later today. Yes. I know. Of course. I apologize for that, but it wasn’t my fault. You see, my assistant forgot to . . .” He stops talking and stares at his phone, his face swollen and red. Plopping into a chair, he shakes his head and mutters swear words under his breath. He’s dressed in a bulky gray suit and wrinkled blue tie and stinks like he’s bathed in cheap cologne. There’s some kind of bird poop or baby barf on his shoulder. I should mention the muck, but why help out a guy who blames his assistant for his own mistakes?
Kevin opens a file and then frowns at me and signals I should move close. I heave myself up and take the chair next to his, trying not to breathe.
“Did I get the time wrong?” I ask. There’s a photo on his phone of two pasty-white children scowling at the camera.
“No, you didn’t,” he says, flipping through the file. “Arthur is running late.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
He glares at me with a question in his eyes. Was I daring to rebuke him? Of course not. I make with my most innocent eyes to tell him I know my place. Kevin’s quiet for a while, and then he seems to buy it.
“About Friday night,” he says.
I slide my bandaged hand behind my back. “What about it?” Maybe he heard about my crash and burn. Maybe he thinks it’s a joke.
“You’re good at your job, so . . .”
“So?”
“I’ll be blunt. You shouldn’t hang out with Eric. Dipak shouldn’t either. He’ll only hurt your careers.”
“He was drunk.”
“That’s no excuse. He said some things that could get him fired. I’d be careful if I were you.”
His warning seems almost sincere. Maybe he’s getting tired of his whipping boy role. Wouldn’t hurt to have him on my side.
“I appreciate the advice,” I say, batting my baby-blue eyes.
“You’re welcome. Now, let’s get down to business.” He opens the file and flips through a few pages.
“So what’s this meeting about?” I ask.
Kevin screws up his face. “Well, it was supposed to be about the financing structure. But now I’m told we’ll be discussing the appraisal.”
“There a problem?”
He shrugs. “It came in a little low. I brought a few copies so we can discuss.”
I’m about to ask another question when Van Meter hurries in. “Good morning,” he says with a smile. His gaze slides from Kevin to me. “Sorry I’m late. I was one of the featured speakers at the Women’s Economic Ventures’ fund-raiser, and the event ran longer than I expected.”
We get to our feet, and Kevin extends his hand. “No problem.”
Van Meter shakes Kevin’s hand and then takes hold of mine. “We’ve met before,” he says with a smile. “Your name’s Crystal, right?”
“Crystal Love.” It’s hard to not be taken in by his haunting good looks. Until I remind myself I’m being played.
“That’s a fantastic name. It belongs in a movie or in a play. Anywhere but in a bank.” We all laugh at his little joke. “Anyway,” he continues, “I’m guessing you’re the brains of the operation.”
“You’re guessing right.”
He chuckles a little more. “I like a woman with spunk.” He turns his attention to Kevin. “I hate to embarrass you, but there’s something on your shoulder.”
Kevin glances down and begins to flail his hands. “I’ll be right back,” he says. He dashes from the room, leaving his minty stench behind.
Van Meter studies me. “You didn’t notice his little problem?”
“Actually, I did.”
“But you didn’t care to intervene?”
“He has a baby at home,” I reply, as if that excuses my inaction.
“Ah, yes. New parenthood. Not the easiest time of life.” Van Meter retrieves some papers from his leather satchel and lays them on the table in two even piles. The second one is slightly misaligned, and my hands itch to set it right.
“Shall we get started?” he asks, settling back.
“It might be better if we wait for Kevin.”
“I’m afraid I have back-to-back appointments this morning.”
“I’m sure he won’t be long.”
“I’m running out of time.”
I glance at the door. Where the hell is he? “All right,” I say after a moment. “Go ahead.”
“Do you have the appraisal with you?”
“I do.” I take one of the bound appraisals from the file and slide it his way. Van Meter flips through the hundred-page booklet, pausing somewhere near the end.
“I don’t get this,” he says. “The comps are way off.” He looks at me expectantly, as if I could change the outcome. “Have you reviewed it?”
“I have.”
“Then maybe you can explain why they used comps from Goleta and Carpinteria.” His nice-guy demeanor has disappeared, and his friendly eyes have turned cold.
“Maybe they were the only ones available.”
“That’s impossible.” He shuts the appraisal and studies me again. Despite myself, I grow uneasy. “There are three similar projects within a one-mile radius,” he says. “Why didn’t they use any of those?”
“I’m not sure.”
He tilts his head and his eyes narrow. “Are you new at this?”
“No.”
“Even a novice analyst would question these comps.”
Now my eyes narrow. “I suggest you
discuss this matter with Kevin.”
“I would, but he’s not here, is he? But you are welcome to pass along the following message. I spent ten thousand dollars on these worthless pages, and I have no plans to spend ten thousand more. I’d like to appeal the outcome.”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
“Of course he can.” Rich steps through the doorway with an annoyed look. He glances from Van Meter to me and back again. “Where’s Kevin?”
“Who knows,” Van Meter replies.
“In the bathroom,” I add.
Rich shakes his head. “You are not in a position to argue with a customer.”
“I wasn’t arguing.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll take this up later with George. And yes, Arthur, you are correct. It is possible to contest the outcome of an appraisal if the basis of the analysis is flawed. I read the appraisal over the weekend, and I believe you have a very good case.”
“I knew you would see things my way. Flexibility is why I bank here.”
“Flexibility is my middle name. Now, gather your papers, and let’s finish this discussion in my office.” Rich turns to me. “Tell Kevin to meet us there.”
I pick up the file and begin to follow.
“Not you,” Rich says over his shoulder. “Just Kevin. He can fill you in later.” Rich puts his arm around Van Meter’s shoulder and leads him through the door. “That was a great speech you gave this morning. I was impressed.”
“And I was impressed by the size of your donation.”
I stand still for a few moments, seething. Then I take the file, step into the hallway, and lurk outside Rich’s door. I overhear the two men laughing. “If your analyst has got to be dumb, why can’t she be good-looking?”
“I’ve warned George about hiring the fat ones, but of course his attention is on the boys.” More laughter.
I’m about to kick open the door and get myself fired when Kevin taps me on the back. “I’m sorry,” he babbles, his face beet red. “My wife called, and the baby’s sick again.”
I don’t say a word. Just shove the file into his gut and jam my way back to my office. Dipak glances up when I storm through the door.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
“Where’s the SARs manual?”
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 11
