Van Meter shrugs. “Two weeks, maybe three.”
I nod, considering. There’s not much time to come up with an idea that will blow this project apart. Not much time at all.
Kathi
July 7, 2016
Dear Harlequin Editor,
It’s been weeks since I first contacted you about my proposed novel Honest Love, and I am deeply disappointed that I have yet to receive a response. I realize your staff must lead very busy lives, but I am also busy, and I would like to know as soon as possible about your interest in my novel.
I sit back and wipe the sweat from my eyes. By noon it’s supposed to be well over one hundred, so I’m enjoying the garden while I can. Not that my house won’t be as hot as a furnace, but it’ll be even worse out here on the terrace. The sun has fried the life from our garden. The cacti curl at the edges, turning brown from the inside out. The succulents have morphed into a crispy shade of tan. The oak tree looks sad and ragged. Dead weeds poke from between the bricks. An ugly scum covers a pond even the birds don’t dare to drink from. Such a horribly hot summer. The heat seems to get worse every year.
If I don’t hear from you soon, I’m afraid I will have to go to a rival publishing house. Or I might choose to self-publish. Either way, I would hate for you to lose out on what I believe will be a bestselling novel. My terms are negotiable, and I am now willing to accept an advance in the $5,000 range. This offer is only available if you respond within the next two weeks. Please let me know as soon as possible if my offer will work for you.
Yours kindly,
Kathi Wright, a.k.a. Crystal Love
I set down my pen and nod off on the garden bench only to be slapped awake by the rumble of a train winding its way up the coast. I don’t feel right. My mouth is dry, and I’m dripping with sweat. A dip in a pool or a stroll through the cool ocean surf sounds heavenly. If only I lived close enough to walk to the beach, instead of having to get in my car and use up my final gallons of gas to make the three-mile trip.
I never wanted to live so far up the Montecito hillsides, but Rich insisted on the 93108 zip code and an imposing ocean view. Early on, he decided Mountain Drive was where the right kind of people lived. That was important to Rich. He thought it would boost his career. And there is no way on earth I can argue he was anything but right. He became one of the youngest presidents ever to lead a California bank. But did his success make us any happier? I don’t know the answer to that.
Gnats buzz in my ears, and I swat them away. Mr. Calico, who’s been curled at my feet all morning, looks up and yawns. We’re growing to be the best of friends. In fact, he may be the only friend I have. I know Jane’s been out of the country for weeks, but couldn’t she respond to an email now and then? And Laurie? After the fiasco at Tammy’s, I doubt I’ll ever speak to her again.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Someone leaves a message. A bill collector, I bet. Nowadays they call nonstop. I have to face the fact that I can’t stay here. I’ve got to sell the house sooner than later. There’s no way I can come up with the $45,000 to keep the banks at bay. George has left messages I haven’t returned and sent letters I haven’t opened. He sounds nice enough, but his last message said something about his hands being tied. It’s not like I blame him for the mess I’m in. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s Rich. The truth is we could never afford this home. Why had he thought we could?
The heat is unrelenting, so I get up and wander inside. I sink onto the living room couch and flip through TV channels looking for something to cheer me up. Click. Click. Click. I pause at Pawnshop Party and picture Rich laughing by my side. He used to love that show. Liked to make fun of the wretched people who had to sell their family heirlooms for cash. Would slowly sip his Pinot and comment on their accents and their clothes.
It seems strange he could be so judgmental when his own mother had cleaned homes for a living. I’ll bet after his dad abandoned the family, his mom sold a thing or two. I’m wondering if that’s where Rich’s harshness came from.
A commercial pops on for the local pawnshop. An idea blooms in my head.
I hurry upstairs and rummage through the safe until I locate his treasured box. It holds his eighteen-karat Rolex Yacht-Master—the pride of his working life. He bought it with his very first bonus and only wore it to the most exclusive events.
“Where did you find such a wonderful watch?” people would ask.
“It’s a gift from my grandfather,” he’d reply.
As if his long-dead grandfather—a humble almond farmer—had had the money for such an extravagant gift. I stare at his watch, wondering. Would Rich mind if I sold his precious possession? I don’t think so. Not with the mess I’m in.
I can’t go downtown without pulling myself together—what if I come across someone I know? So I shower and blow-dry my hair in such a way that my gray roots don’t show. Then I file my nails, apply my makeup, and slip on my Versace pantsuit. Stepping into a pair of Michael Kors, I do a quick twirl in front of the full-length mirror. Being thin certainly helps.
I take the back roads that lead to Santa Barbara and park my Volvo in an obscure downtown lot. Once out of the car and clattering my way to the pawnshop, I’m melting inside my clothes. The air is still and hot, and the sweat pools under my arms and runs down the length of my back. It was stupid to wear the Versace. Everyone I pass is dressed in shorts.
Still, as I’m tottering along in my too-tall heels, I can’t help but get excited. I picture my hair nicely cut and colored. A full mani-pedi—not at Tammy’s, of course. Add to that a stocked refrigerator, a full tank of gas, and a clean house. The garden weeded. The windows washed. Maybe a bit of Botox to clear the frown lines from my face. My dreams propel me forward until I reach the shop.
The arched window is stuffed full of musical instruments, fur coats, and jewelry, the word LOAN splashed across its face in big red letters. Loan? I don’t want a loan. I just want cash. I continue past the shop, feigning a lack of interest. Reaching the end of the block, I turn and totter back, passing the doors a second time. And then a third. And a fourth. On my fifth pass a man steps out with an e-cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Quieres algo?” he asks.
His shaved head accentuates his sloped forehead, and sleeves of tattoos conceal his arms. He’s tight and wiry like a bantam rooster. He breathes out a massive cloud of smoke, and I wave at the smog in the air.
“Can I help you?” he tries again, this time in accented English. He pulls off his sunglasses and smiles. He doesn’t look mean, just interested.
“Why, no. I’m just . . .”
“Puedes entrar.” He holds the door open, and a bell tinkles from above. He signals that I should follow. I hesitate but shuffle forward, panic flaring in my head.
The store is built long and narrow. Jewelry lines the glass cases to my left. Electronics fill the shelves to my right. Guitars hang neatly on the wall, while bikes and surfboards dangle overhead. The glass shelving that covers the back wall contains piles of handguns, rifles, and knives.
“Abuelita,” he calls to a tiny, silver-haired woman hidden behind an antique cash register. “Puede ayudar?”
Her hair is pulled tight in a bun. A green-and-yellow parrot perches on her shoulder and nips at a shiny gold earring that sags from her ear. “Sí. Sí.” The woman offers me a sweet smile and holds out a surprisingly youthful hand. Heavy rings weigh down each finger. Her wrists are layered in gold.
“Quiere sell?”
I nod. The parrot stares at me with its beady black eyes. It opens and shuts its beak.
“Quiero ver,” she insists.
I tug the Rolex from my purse and set it on the counter. She takes it from the box and looks at me in surprise. “Que hermoso.” She closes her eyes and gently rubs the gold band between her fingers. “Bueno,” she says. Opening her eyes, she becomes quite businesslike. “Yours?” she asks.
“No . . .”
Her eyes narrow.
; “I mean, yes.” My face grows warm. I never asked Leo if “frozen assets” also meant “frozen possessions.” Could I be breaking the law?
“No es tuyo?” She points at me so I get what she’s saying.
“It belonged to my husband. He loved it very much. But he’s gone now.” I look at her to see if she understands. “He’s gone,” I repeat.
“Gone,” she says slowly. She sets down the watch and pushes it my way. “Divorcio?”
“No. No divorce. My husband passed away not very long ago.”
She folds her arms, and I sense my jackpot slipping away.
“He’s dead!” I blurt out with the power of a bullhorn. The parrot flutters into the air. “My husband died.”
“Oh, muerto,” she says, the smile returning to her face. She grabs hold of her parrot.
“Yes. Muerto.”
She gives her bird a kiss and settles it back on her shoulder.
“Es bueno.” She reaches for the watch and slides off her stool. “Esperate. Wait.”
Weaving her way through a maze of boxes, she slips through a near-hidden back door. She argues with someone in Spanish and after a few long minutes returns to her stool and makes an offer.
“Tres mil. No mas.”
“What?”
“Three thousand. No more.”
Three thousand? I almost faint.
Thirty minutes later I step outside with a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills tucked in my purse, my smile so wide it could split my face. I’m floating on air. The upside to selling Rich’s Rolex is money. And what’s the harm in that?
“Kathi?”
I spin around, and the smile gets sucked from my face.
July 29, 1988
To top it off, the doctor said it wasn’t unusual for a six-month-old to have colic. Really? I don’t believe him. Every book I’ve read says the crying should’ve stopped by now. There’s something wrong with Jack. I’m sure of it. Of course Rich doesn’t agree, but he’s hardly ever home, so how would he know? I’m so exhausted I can barely think. My head feels like it’s spinning. There he goes again! Noooooooooo! Stop it! Please! I just put you down. Why can’t you sleep for hours like other babies? If only Rich would let me take the happy pills. I know I shouldn’t need a crutch to pull myself together, but would it hurt for just a month or two?
Crystal
December 12, 2015
I return to the library to research ideas for blowing up Van Meter’s project. Saturday is the library’s busiest computer day. Even though I get there an hour before opening, a crowd has already formed outside the doors—mostly homeless, with a few van dwellers, college students, and backpackers thrown in. I line up next to the homeless girl who’s pestered me before. She’s skinny, mouse faced, and weirdly missing one pinky. She drags a filthy green duffel bag behind her like Linus drags his blanket.
“Remember me?” she asks in her squeaky voice. “I’m Mimi.” Her eyes are the palest blue; her hair billows out like a dandelion gone to seed. Her stink is part urine, part sweat. A sparkly pink top hangs from her scrawny frame, and a rope cinches her baggy blue jeans to her waist. I’m guessing she’s been homeless for years.
“I’ve seen you here a lot,” she says. “And you always stay a long time. Don’t you have a computer at home?”
I don’t need attention. I don’t need a new friend. I want to swat her away like some bothersome fly. I focus on my bloodred copy of Helter Skelter and pretend I’m immersed in the pages.
“Is that a good book?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“What’s it about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really. What’s it about?”
I stare at her long and hard. “It’s about a crazy man and his wacked-out girlfriends who kill a bunch of people and chop them up and make them into human soup.” That last part’s a lie, but I’m hoping to scare the girl away.
“Sounds interesting. Maybe I’ll read it. What’s your name?”
That’s enough. I dig through my purse and pull out a five and hand it to the girl. She’ll think I’m a sucker, but at least it’ll get rid of her for now.
“Thank you,” she says, dancing away. “I’m going to buy two sausage biscuits and a coffee. Want anything?”
“Nope.” I return to my book.
The library doors open, and we all file in. Some of the craftier patrons have already reserved their times. The rest of us line up and input our information one by one. The earliest I can reserve a spot is eleven o’clock, and I can’t schedule my second hour until I’m done with my first.
When I finally get my hands on a computer, I rush to begin my search. I try various words and phrases. Construction stalled. Project halted. California condo building stopped. All sorts of stories pop up, from the silly to the murderous, yet nothing I can use. And then? I hit pay dirt.
It’s an old article from the Los Angeles Times about a project that imploded in the nearby town of Ojai. A worker there came across a stash of Chumash bones that shut the project down.
I do some further sleuthing. Turns out it’s not so unusual to dig up a load of Indian bones. The Chumash hung around this part of California for many thousands of years. In fact, it’s so common to dig up a burial site that the state has developed rules for construction-site finds. First and foremost? Construction must stop. Then building officials get notified and the coroner shows up, followed by an archeologist and the head honcho from some Indian commission. That guy has the power to stall out the project for months or even years.
What a find. The perfect fit. I return to the original article. Back in the nineties, an Ojai grading contractor dug up a pile of tools, bowls, and bone fragments from what turned out to be a Chumash burial site. The developer knew the find would screw his project, so he bribed the worker to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, a disgruntled employee outed his scheme. The grading contractor turned state’s evidence and received six months’ probation in exchange for his testimony. The developer ended up with a dead project, a million-dollar fine, and six months in jail.
In addition to the developer’s losses, his investors lost millions. The community bank that extended the construction loan almost had to close its doors. To top it off, there were enough lawsuits to paper Ojai’s narrow streets. Perfect, I think. So very perfect. Almost better than the SAR because of the domino effect.
Rich will lose his job, then his mistress, then his home. In the midst of that, I’ll send a note to his son that should prompt an interesting chat. In the end, all he’ll have left is his simpering wife. I picture them playing house in a Fresno trailer park, where summer temperatures top triple digits and the nearest body of water is the public pool. To be poor, without a job, and living with his wife? That’s got to be Rich’s highway to hell. I shiver with excitement just thinking about his fate.
Looking up, I catch sight of Mimi. She blows me a kiss, followed by a wave. I drop my gaze to the computer screen and get back to work.
So how will I pull this off? How will I nail the critical details without giving myself away? I start to rub my hands together, but then a voice chirps from behind.
“Time’s up. My turn.”
Mimi again. I get up and reserve my next spot at the computer, which is just after two o’clock. Then I head outside to an empty bench to relax and eat my lunch. I’m gnawing on a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich when I jump at a screechy voice.
“Hi there,” Mimi says, creeping up from behind.
Damn it.
“Mind if I join you?”
“I thought you were using the computer.”
“I got bored.” She skulks past me like a stinky skunk and sidles onto the far side of the bench. “I wanted to thank you for the five dollars,” she says. “Usually library people aren’t so nice.”
Mimi’s eyes are rimmed in red, her fingernails lined with dirt. She eyes my sandwich with interest. Why can’t she leave m
e alone? She sighs and leans back on the bench, swinging her feet like a little girl. “Isn’t the sun nice today?”
I flash my book. “I’m trying to read.”
“Go ahead,” she says. “I understand. I should get back to the computer soon, anyway. I’m looking for a job. Maybe I’ll be a nanny or something like that.”
Nanny?
“You have any more food?”
I’m not sure why I tolerate the girl. I could squish her like a bug. Instead I dig into my purse and hand her a bag of tortilla chips.
“Thanks.” Tearing open the bag, she inhales a fistful of chips. She chews with her mouth wide open, making me feel a little sick.
“Can’t you eat somewhere else?”
“Sure. Have a dollar so I can buy a Coke?”
I pull my last dollar from my wallet and dangle it before her eyes. “If I give you this, will you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the day?”
Her eyes sparkle. “I promise. I’ll do anything you want.”
I wave the bill in front of her eyes. “What I want is for you to get lost. Understand?”
“Of course.” She snatches the bill from my hand. “Thank you!” With that she skitters down the street, her duffel bag thumping behind her feet.
Setting down my book, I take a quick bite of my sandwich and feel a poke to my upper back. I look over my shoulder into the drug-slit eyes of a twentysomething homeless man. His dirty-blond dreadlocks nearly reach his knees.
“Give me a dollar, and I’ll leave you alone.” He laughs. He’s missing his two front teeth.
“Get lost,” I say, hunkering down.
“Come on. Please? Help a veteran out?”
“I’m out of money. Go away.”
“Fat bitch,” he mutters, staggering off.
My anger flares, and I play a round of my favorite game. What’s the worst? The very worst? It doesn’t take long to imagine. How about an office job—something horribly dull. Add to that a nagging wife, snotty children, and a degenerative disease. The perfect recipe for a miserable life.
I polish off my sandwich and a can of warm soda. Right before the courthouse clock strikes two, I head back inside to finish my research.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 14
