I stare at Arthur, trying to understand. Paid? Paid my husband? What is he talking about? For god’s sake, Rich was a bank president. Why would he have been involved in Arthur’s projects? And if he had, why wasn’t I ever told? “So you lied to me?”
“I didn’t lie . . .” He rubs his forehead. “I figured you knew about Rich’s side business, that the two of you were a team. When you showed me that file, I thought you might have an angle.”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
My thoughts swirl faster than a whirligig. I snatch at them. I need them to slow down. “The work you did with Rich . . . was it legal?”
“Sourcing investors? For a regular person, yes. I have a number of legitimate sources, from accountants to lawyers. But for a bank president to be involved with a client’s project? I always wondered about that. I mentioned my concerns to Rich, but he wasn’t interested in my opinion. He said it would be a problem only if the regulators found out, and they wouldn’t. Even if they did, he believed they were too busy and too dumb to investigate minor schemes.”
“Rich made good money at the bank. Why do something illegal and risk everything we own?”
“He made good money, but not enough to live the Montecito lifestyle. So he supplemented his income in other ways. You have to understand he thought the Casa Bella project was a sure thing. He’d make some fast cash for sending over a few investors. Then we ran across those Chumash bones, and the project imploded.”
“Chumash bones?” I search Arthur’s face. “That was your project I read about in the Times? You dug up the burial site?”
Arthur nods.
“My god.” Is it possible Arthur isn’t the man I think he is?
“You have to understand,” he says in a mournful tone. “My general contractor dug them up and tried to hide the discovery from me. I was shocked. Completely sideswiped. Couldn’t believe I had hired such an unethical man.” His shoulders sag. “You don’t know how difficult this has been. I’m not just talking about the money—and, believe me, I lost my shirt. But I’ve never seen myself as just a developer. I’m much too altruistic for that. I’ve thought of myself first as a housing advocate expanding homeownership for the working class. And then there’s Arthur the patriarch, taking care of his flock. No one had ever lost a penny on my watch. And then my project blows up.” His voice begins to tremble. “I’ve hurt so many people. And now, well, it seems I’ve hurt you too.”
I believe him. And I can’t help but feel sorry for him. He looks like a lost child. “Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, and his eyes fix on mine. “There’s something more.”
My stomach begins to churn. “What?”
“The problem I mentioned with the file?”
“Yes?”
“I found a receipt made out to an investor, Mabel McCarthy. It’s for a million dollars, and it’s signed by Rich. Problem is he only invested half of that in my project.”
I think back on the file and the $500,000 scrawled across the top. “So where’s the rest?”
“I was hoping you might know.”
“Me? Of course I don’t.”
Arthur stares at me sadly. “Then it’s possible the money was stolen.”
“Stolen?” I drop my napkin on the ground. “By whom?”
“By Rich.”
He’s talking about Rich. My Rich. My husband for close to thirty years. It’s one thing if he cut a few corners at the bank. But if he were the type of man to do something so disgusting, wouldn’t I have known? I shake my head. “Impossible.”
“Unfortunately, all of the evidence points to him. The thing is last week Mabel’s attorneys contacted my lawyers. They’ve asked that we provide the paperwork for the million-dollar investment, but of course our papers reflect half of that. They’re going to want to know what happened to the rest of the money. I’m afraid their questioning will lead them to you.”
“Me?” Beads of sweat form on my brow. “But I don’t know anything about that money.”
Arthur sighs. “I want to help you, Kathi. I really do. I think the answer is to find that missing half million and give it back.”
“How would I do that?”
“Did Rich ever mention anything about the investment? Indirectly, I mean. Maybe you overheard something he said on a phone call or at a party with friends.”
I rack my brain. “I don’t think so . . . except . . .”
“Except what?”
“The FBI found two hundred thousand dollars in our safe deposit box. I have no idea how it got there. They thought it came from our home equity loan.”
“Really?” Arthur slowly nods. “All right, then. That’s a starting point. If it’s Mabel’s money, we need to find the remaining three hundred thousand. Any ideas?”
“No. None at all.”
“I suggest you think hard on the subject. Let me know if you come up with any clues.”
I feel like I’ve been punched. Kicked while I’m down. My voice fades to nothing in my ears. “Maybe we should tell the police,” I try. “Maybe they could help.”
He leans back, arms folded. “Tell them what? That you lied about the Casa Bella file? That you forgot to tell them you gave it to me?” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid if you do that, they’ll arrest you, Kathi. And then they’ll arrest me as your accomplice. No. It’s best to wait until we find the missing money.”
“At least I should tell Leo about this.”
“Leo Silverstein?” He makes a face. “That’s your lawyer?”
I nod, thinking I really need another drink.
“You know he’s not a criminal attorney, right? He handles simple business transactions. I highly doubt he understands the complexities of Rich’s crimes.” He lowers his voice. “I’m not one to spread rumors, but I’ve heard he’s suffering from early-onset dementia. He totally screwed up a simple transaction for a friend of mine.”
I think back on our meetings. Leo never seemed distracted or confused, just irritable every now and then.
Arthur continues. “The best thing we can do is keep our search secret. In the meantime, I promise I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
“Thank you.” Tears spill from my eyes. “I just don’t understand how Rich could’ve done such a thing. My god! How could he betray that poor woman? How could he betray me?”
Arthur shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know what it’s like to be betrayed.”
“You do?” I scour his face. So handsome. So honest. So kind. Who would ever betray such a man?
“Unfortunately, yes. I wasn’t going to tell you, but since we’re sharing secrets . . . Eileen and I have separated.”
“Separated?” I glance at his ring finger. It seems shameful to feel elated, but I do.
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a long time coming.”
“But you seemed like the perfect couple.”
“Seemed is the operative word. We’ve been fighting nonstop about everything. Money. The children. And then I found out she’s been having an affair with the club tennis pro. It’s been going on for some time.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Honestly, it’s not her first. Over the years I’ve done everything to keep us together, but this latest indiscretion has forced my hand.” He leans forward, dropping his voice. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. It’s not yet public knowledge, and for my children’s sake, this secret has to stay between us.”
“I promise.”
Arthur gazes at me with the saddest of eyes. “I knew I could trust you. I could tell the first time I met you. We’re the same, you and me. We’re two of a kind. Maybe we can help each other through these difficult times.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His fingers are dry and rough to the touch. Manly hands. Worker hands. Rich’s were always soft and moist. “What do you think?” he
asks. “Can we be there for one another?”
What do I think? After all of the awful things that have happened to me, I think there’s finally a break in the clouds.
June 26, 1989
So I got the silent treatment all weekend. As Rich puts it, he’s “pissed.” He says it was a waste of time and money to get a babysitter and take me to dinner. A waste? It was our second anniversary, for goodness’ sake. He was the one who got grumpy when I couldn’t fit into his favorite black dress. Is it my fault that Jack cried the entire first year of his life? I could barely get dressed, let alone cook healthy meals or work out. And so what if I sneak a Twinkie every now and then? My treats are often the only sliver of happiness I can find in my dull and dreary life.
Of course I added fuel to the fire by having a little too much to drink. Then I brought up the baby subject again. That’s when Rich went ballistic. He was so mean I walked out of the restaurant and continued walking down the dark street. And the saddest thing? Rich just let me go! What kind of man does that? I could have walked all the way to Iowa, and he wouldn’t have lifted a finger. When I finally got scared and turned around, I found him sitting motionless in the car. He didn’t even look at me. Just started up the motor and drove us home without uttering a single word.
Crystal
February 4, 2016
A hush has fallen over the bank; a web of fear has spread wide. The FBI entourage that showed up last month doubled in size and then doubled again. They’ve taken over the executive conference room, where they keep the door shut day and night. They open it every now and then to bark out requests for files or food or for an employee to hustle to their quarters. They’ve grilled Kevin four times, Eric twice. Even Dipak spent an hour with them last week, although he refused to tell me anything about the meeting. Said he didn’t plan to spend the next ten years in jail, which is what they are threatening if anyone spews. I expect to be called, but it hasn’t happened yet. I’m carefully grooming my words to get ready for when it does.
This must be what it feels like when there’s a murder in a family and fingers are pointed all around. No one knows for sure what’s going on, but from the files being pulled and the questions asked, Rich and Vanessa must be wetting their pants. Rich looks pale and thin these days. He hurries through the bank with his shoulders slumped, less man than cowering dog. Vanessa has the same look, only worse, and spends most of her time with the investigators. I’m guessing she’s ready to crack.
I followed Rich after work one day and saw him duck into the Huntsman Pub. It’s one of those forever-twilight taverns where alcoholics occupy entire days. Vanessa followed not ten minutes later, teetering like a drunken sailor down the street. They must have been too scared or too smart to communicate by email, text, or phone. I wondered how much they would drink. Getting Rich arrested with a 911 call would tie a ribbon around my plans.
The phone rings and wakes me from my daydream. “I’m transferring a phone call to you,” a distant voice says.
“Who is it?” But the phone goes silent, and I wait the requisite ten seconds for the two beeps and a click. “Welcome to Pacific Ocean Bank,” I say, our required greeting. “This is Crystal Love. How may I help you?”
“You may help me by having a drink with me.”
“I can’t,” I choke. “I’m busy.”
“How about I stop by the bank?”
“No!”
Dipak lifts his head and glances at me with a questioning look. “It’s nothing,” I mouth.
“It’s one or the other,” Marco says in my ear.
I hesitate, but there’s no choice. “I’ll meet you at Oyster.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you at five thirty.”
“Today?”
The phone line goes dead.
“You got a date?” Dipak asks, smiling.
“None of your business,” I reply.
Marco sits at a corner table of the Oyster’s glassed-in courtyard studying the local paper. He’s dressed in casual clothes: jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt that exaggerates his broad chest. He jumps up when he sees me and even pulls out my chair. Several people glance our way, and their eyes linger. I know what they’re thinking: What’s the Italian stud doing with the Bakersfield blimp? I drop into the tiny metal chair, and it squeals. Marco acts like he doesn’t notice. He holds up the paper and chuckles.
“Guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Guess not.”
The feature story in the Times is on the Prince of Wales, with an oversized photo of the prince dressed in riding gear. He’s in town for the weekend to compete in an international polo tournament. “Never thought I’d live in a place like this. You?”
“Nope.”
“Is outside okay? Not too cold?”
“It’s fine. I can’t stay for long.”
“Busy?”
“Yes.” I don’t like Marco’s eyes searching my face, so I focus on the view.
Oyster sits at the foot of the Santa Barbara Harbor. Its courtyard looks out over a sea of blue and white yachts. The ease of parking and extended happy hour make it a draw to tourists and locals alike. The crisp winter day has warmed into a near-balmy evening. A few pinkish clouds hover in the darkening sky; a flock of pelicans soars through the air. There’s an amateur cluster of ukulele players huddled in a circle, strumming songs from the sixties. Their voices are terrible, but the music isn’t bad. They look like they’re having fun.
The waitress shimmies up and takes our order: two beers and a platter of fried calamari. Marco ordered the food, not me. “So how are you?” he asks once the drinks arrive.
I pick up my beer, my hand trembling. “Fine, I guess.”
“You guess?” He takes a long pull from his beer and continues to study me.
I won’t look at him. He knows too much about my past. I nibble on a chunk of deep-fried calamari and watch a mother stroll by with two kids. She’s pushing the little one in a stroller while the older one prances by her side. They’re laughing like the world is a blessing. Laughing and singing songs.
I take a second calamari. And then a third and a fourth. Marco frowns, so I keep it up.
“You ever hear from your grandma?” he asks.
“Never.”
“She pass on?”
“I don’t know.” My thoughts drift back through the years.
I didn’t mean to hurt Granny. I really didn’t. I came home from school that day more upset than ever before. A poem I’d written for my birth mom had slipped out of my folder during English—the only class I liked in eighth grade because Mrs. Montrose treated me nice. Then I came across rich-bitch Glenda in the cafeteria sharing my private words with her friends.
“I look for you in every face I see,” she shouted in a singong voice across the room.
“I look for your eyes, the way they shine;
Your smile so warm it melts my sorrows;
Your step so light and firm;
Your voice so sweet and . . .”
That’s when I hit her. Hit her hard on the mouth. I’m pretty sure I broke her tooth, because I cut my finger to the bone. Then I dropped my books, wrapped my hand, and lumbered the long and lonely mile home. I kept my eyes downcast when some high school boys yelled something nasty at me from their speeding car.
Granny wasn’t home when I got there. She worked as a bookkeeper and never made it back before five. So I circled the living room, the telephone ringing over and over until I finally took it off the hook. Then I inhaled a quart of ice cream and a pack of Oreo cookies while watching an episode of Lizzie McGuire. I usually liked Lizzie, but not on that day. She only pretended to be awkward, but it wasn’t the least bit true. She wasn’t fat. She wasn’t ugly. She had parents. She had friends. What is the worst? The very worst? Those words kept buzzing in my head.
I turned off the TV and started pacing again. Granny was going to kill me, for sure. Somewhere along the line I grabbed her secret stash of cigarettes and lit one up. I didn�
�t like cigarettes—not the taste or the smell—but they gave me a sense of power. At some point I snatched a stack of Granny’s favorite gossip magazines and got a small fire going in the sink. Once that was done, I began circling again, stopping at the flowery kitchen curtains Granny had hung a few days before.
I pressed the cigarette against the silky fabric, thinking I’d make one tiny little hole. But the flames blew up in front of me, and I fell back, not knowing what to do. I heard Granny’s screams before I saw her. She pushed me away and started whapping at the curtains. First the sleeve of her jacket caught fire, and then the flames ran up her arm and exploded in her hair.
“I didn’t mean it,” I cried to the men who loaded her into the ambulance and whisked her away. Granny survived the fire but was permanently disabled. She moved into a convalescent home. I never saw her again.
“What about your parents?” Marco asks. “You guys in touch?”
“No.”
Both Alan and Anna showed up at juvie that night. I saw them in the outer hallway. Anna glanced my way once, but Alan never looked back. And that was the last I ever heard from those losers. They pitched me from their lives just like my birth parents had.
“I lost track of you after you left Bakersfield,” Marco says.
“Lost track?” I focus on his face, on the arch of his brows, the wide brown eyes, the steel jaw. He was the probation officer assigned to me the first day following the fire, and he stayed by my side through the years of detention hell. “You’ve been checking up on me?”
“Not exactly.” He hasn’t touched a calamari—must’ve bought them just for me. “But you were one of my first cases. I’ve stayed interested. Was happy to hear you finished Bakersfield College and worked your way into a decent career.”
“There wasn’t much choice in the matter,” I say, using a napkin to wipe the grease from my fingers. “It’s not like I had family to support me.”
“You did get the short end of the stick with that adoptive family. I don’t think the judge would’ve put you in juvie for so long if you had somewhere else to go.”
“Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.” I take another bite.
What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1) Page 16
