by Iris Kincaid
Gillian smiled at the nickname. As much as she preached self-reliance, it really did feel good to have some kind of family.
“If you don’t mind, could you go home without me? Walking around at night really does help rest my eyes, and it helps me to relax.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll just wrap my dessert up, go home, pop on a little HBO, and tomorrow, we’ll get the house ready for some lucky new owner.”
“Thanks. Sounds great.”
*****
Even though her last late-night stroll had left her in hot water with the police, Gillian felt the lure of the night, promising peace and restoration. The range of her sight was still vast but it felt controllable. The layers of images were easier to edit, as it were. Just as Delphine had promised, she could actually pull back from seeing so much confusing incoming information.
She was tempted to go back to the woods. What a delightful, refreshing place. But today was a special day, and she had to seek the closure that it deserved. She needed to say her final goodbyes to Byron. Not in front of the police or Simone or his loyal friends or his weeping mother. She needed to stand at his grave and have a heart-to-heart with the man she had shared her life with for such a long time.
It was a long walk. The cat had disappeared for a few hours, but now he was softly padding after her, yet again. Was he there for his own welfare or for hers? He certainly had leapt to her defense in the forest. It was almost as good as having a bodyguard.
They hadn’t quite arrived at the cemetery when the cat started growling. Was his sight as good as hers, or was he capable of premonition? Gillian’s eyes were keen enough to take in a rather shocking event, even though she was so far away the perpetrator couldn’t possibly have been aware of her presence. Someone was digging up Byron’s grave.
*****
Her call to the police got immediate action. Within ten minutes, there were four squad cars and a half-dozen cops surrounding the grave robber. His name was Ezra Yates. He had a long, sharp knife on the ground beside him, but he made no move toward it as the police approached. In fact, he just kept digging.
“His heart! I’m gonna cut out his heart!” he shouted as he was forcibly taken into custody.
Gillian watched as he was put into the police car, and Officer Cochran walked over to her.
“Is he the killer?” she asked.
Finn Cochran cocked his head. “Well, he’s crazy, which makes him a contender.” He looked at Gillian thoughtfully, as if for the first time, he might be ruling her out as the murderer. “We’ll keep in touch.”
Cut out Byron’s heart? Who does that?
CHAPTER EIGHT
So, Byron had been killed by a psychopath. Just a random case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least it was an answer. At least it was some kind of closure. Gillian could now move forward and not have the police hovering over her.
Now that the killer was behind bars, she needed to devote her energy to selling the house and figuring out where her life was headed.
She headed back to the library to return the FSBO book. As she stepped inside and glanced at the ceiling, it might as well have been made of glass. She could see the layout of the second floor perfectly, the rows of books, the tables and desks, the magazine displays, and of course, the people, every single one of them. Studying, writing, tutoring, listening to music, and buried in computer games. Fortunately, the one person she had hoped to see was among them.
She had come up with an unlikely plan to help her get the best price in selling her house. A realtor could take up to twenty percent of her paltry remaining equity. Perhaps she could talk this young man into helping her at a much smaller cost. And a deferred fee of course – she was broke.
Her intriguing new acquaintance was staring intently at the computer screen, which should have been hidden to Gillian. Nevertheless, she could see right through the back of the monitor and peruse what he was looking at. From her days as a graphic designer, she recognized the format immediately. He was looking at a selection of book covers, no doubt sent to him from his publisher. So, he was an author! But, geez, they were really awful covers. Well, not that awful, but unforgettably bland.
She circled him so that she could come up from behind. A new and better plan was developing.
“Hi,” she said, trying not to startle him.
“Hi. It’s the reluctant babysitter.” He looked surprised to see her, but in a good way.
“Yeah, I’m thinking about giving up that babysitter gig. It doesn’t pay very well. But I see that you’re an author. Did your publisher send you these?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they did. Maybe you could give me a hand. Which one of them do you like better?”
“Neither of them. I mean, the title is intriguing—The Bottom Line Formula. And the author name is good—Vaughn Monroe.”
“Thank you for knowing that Vaughn rhymes with yawn. You don’t know how many people who see my name written down first insist on catching that hard G.” They both chuckled. “So, what’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t say anything. There’s nothing to catch the eye. There’s nothing to ignite the imagination. I suppose I’m a bit harsh on these things, but I was a graphic designer. Used to be. Retired now.”
“Retired? You don’t really look like you’re ready for the Early Bird Special.”
“I have a proposition for you. I’m selling my house. FSBO. Have you heard of FSBO?”
“Sure. That is exactly how I should have sold my condo. My realtor was so irritating.”
“Well, I can make a great cover for you. Really. I’ll show you my gallery of work. Normally, those things can cost up to $500 for a really good professional cover. But I’m thinking we can work out sort of a barter of labor.”
She held out the FSBO book. “Apparently, when women sell houses by themselves, they really get lowballed on the offers. If there’s a man present, preferably one who could pass himself off as her significant other, the offers tend to go up by approximately twenty percent. Isn’t that awful? But that’s the reality I’m working with. I need someone to attend an open house, and maybe up to . . . half a dozen individual appointments pretending to be, you know, my husband, fiancé, whatever. And in return, you would get a cover that will sell ten times as many books as that lame selection they sent you.”
Gillian could see that he was stunned by the eccentricity of the offer. “And if you have some kind of website—you probably do, right? I can completely revamp it. I’ve got some jobs I’ve done I could show you. Okay, I know it’s pretty unusual. But it would save us both a lot of money. What do you think?”
What did Vaughn think? He thought that Gillian was the most attractive young woman he’d spoken to in a long, long time. Not that he would even seriously consider a romantic entanglement. He’d had his heart tossed in the meat grinder recently enough that he had no intention of ever exposing his heart to that kind of devastation again.
But . . . he was pretty dissatisfied with the cover selection. What the heck?
“So . . . how would we get started?”
“I need to know exactly what the book is about so that I have a feel for how to represent it.”
“Ah. Long, long story. Kind of a downer.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world. But, we should probably go outside so we don’t disturb anyone in here. We’re pretty close to the boardwalk. Why don’t we have a walk and talk there?”
“Let me just pack my stuff,” Vaughn responded. Long walk on the beach. But this is not a date. It’s a business meeting. With a contractor—sort of—who’s going to need me to pretend to be her husband at some point. Perfectly normal.
*****
It was an early August day but not too hot, considering. The weekday beach was sprinkled with children and mothers. The ocean’s gentle crashing waves had a mesmerizing effect on most people. But for Gillian, they were particularly entrancing. She had spent the last several years thinking that she would never see t
he ocean again. There it was, a dancing, living, glorious thing. But she had to refrain from waxing too rhapsodic on it. To her new partner, she knew it must be a very mundane everyday sight. And besides, he was about to tell a story that would capture her full attention.
“I was in advertising. Like yourself, I guess you could call me retired. But I was in advertising for many years. And I was pretty good at it. I was considered a rising star at my firm. And one day, I landed the biggest account, a dream account for a major auto firm.”
“So, you were going to produce commercials and new slogans for them?”
“Yup, the whole campaign. And if everything went as planned, I was probably going to be offered a partnership in the firm. It was a real pivotal point in my career.”
“What happened?”
“I spent a lot of time over at the auto company. I toured their plant many times. I thought there might be some kind of angle in focusing on the quality, the care, the dedication of the workers. Instead, I found a place where the most important employees were lawyers and accountants who were there to deal with the implications of the mechanical faults of their most popular car.”
“Lawyers? Didn’t they need engineers to fix mechanical faults?”
“What they needed was a recall. A complete recall of about five years’ worth of that car’s issue. It would have been an enormous financial blow the company. A huge stain on their reputation. So, accidents happened. Fatalities happened. Twenty-three of them. Does that sound like a big number to you? I think it felt like a small number to most people. But after you talk to a surviving family, and definitely after you talk to all the families, twenty-three is not a small number. It’s a disgrace. All of those deaths came after the design flaw was discovered. Those cars never should’ve been on the market. Those deaths never should’ve happened.”
Vaughn’s mood had turned dark, and so had the energy pulsing out of him. He was a very sensitive man, Gillian noted, no matter how cavalier or cynical his banter. These deaths had really affected him.
“So, I told the auto company and I told my company that they’ve got to stop selling this car. They had to do a recall. And they had to stop putting lives in jeopardy. I got kicked off the account, of course, and I got fired for embarrassing the company. I thought I could recover. I had a great resume, lots of experience, and a good reputation in the industry. But I got blackballed. I couldn’t even get an interview. I was the guy who couldn’t be relied on to put profit first and to keep his mouth shut.”
“That’s . . . that’s awful. You’d think someone would admire what you were trying to do. You were trying to make sure that no one else died.”
“I was trying to make sure that no one else died. I wrote an article about the whole debacle that got a lot of national attention. And it forced a recall and so many lawsuits for the company. And so, I became a whistleblower. As far as professions go, it doesn’t pay much more than a reluctant babysitter.”
“Did you ever think about starting your own business? Not having to rely on other people. Not being punished by your own boss for doing the right thing.”
“As a matter of fact, I did think of it. And I did attempt it. But guess what? No customers. No companies were interested in working with someone who might look too closely into their affairs and cause them any trouble. So, The Vaughn Monroe Agency was a very short-lived operation.”
Gillian so admired what he did that she thought it best not to point out that calling his company The Vaughn Monroe Agency had been a terrible mistake. After all, he was a public liability, and a generic name would have been a lot easier to hide behind.
“But after the article came out, I did get this offer for a book deal. The Bottom Line Formula. That’s the calculation that the company made that determined it was a lot more cost-effective to pay a settlement for each fatality they caused than to conduct the recall.”
“What horrible people. What a terrible thing to happen to your career. But it was the right thing, and you know that. Your family and friends must be really proud of you.”
The smile on his face wasn’t really a smile. It was more like a grimace. “The first one I confided in was my partner. We were part of a creative team at work. We worked on so many projects together. He went straight to his boss to warn him that I was about to mess things up. When I went to tell them, they were ready for me. Ready with my walking papers. I had so many friends there. Colleagues. Guys I celebrated with, hung out with. Afterward, none of them would return my email messages. Almost every single one of them unfriended me, you know, on Facebook. It’s silly, right? But it did sting, I’m afraid to admit.”
They were complete strangers, but Gillian felt the strangest urge to give him a hug. But that would be wrong.
“And then there was my fiancée who no longer wanted to be my fiancée after it became clear that my career was not going to get back on track. And of course, that was a bigger sting. Because you just assume . . . unconditional loyalty and all that nonsense. But even family members and relatives stop calling, and whenever you go to see them, you feel like you’re the black sheep of the family that just got out of prison who they don’t quite know how to explain to the neighbors.”
He noticed how intensely Gillian was listening and ducked his head in embarrassment. “Of course, all that has nothing to do with the book or what you need to know for the cover. That was definitely TMI. Just part of the lessons that life sends your way. Let’s just say that my faith in humanity was . . .”
“Shaken?”
“Misplaced.”
Gillian nodded in agreement. Her mind flashed back on her false childhood friend Sophie, and her “grandmother” who didn’t really want to be her grandmother. “The thing is, the more you understand exactly how the world works, the less it can hurt you.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise. Those were his sentiments exactly. This partnership was off to a promising start, founded on a mutual lack of trust. Perfect.
*****
Most of Gillian’s graphic design work was done on the computer. But she found that her imagination flowed much more fluidly when she started off with a sketch by hand. It had been a long time since she’d opened up her art materials, her sketchpad, watercolors, oil paints, her easel, and her favorite brush. It was like a family reunion surrounded by loved ones. She would probably be embarrassed to have to admit to anyone how much she cherished these little items.
The picture she was going to make for Vaughn Monroe would not only serve its bartering purpose, but it was also a way of reentering her old life. She could reopen her graphic design business, and this was a terrific way to ease back into it. As well as a good challenge. It was one of the most compelling and meaningful assignments she’d ever worked on.
She took her sketchpad and charcoals out to the back porch to sit in her favorite pine green Adirondack chair and to meditate on the story, to see what images came out of it. Such a sad and enraging story. That’s what people should feel looking at that cover. Sad. Enraged. And ultimately, grateful that someone had the courage to step in and do the right thing. Vaughn Monroe. Good name.
*****
Gillian had received a message immediately after the funeral requesting that she attend the reading of the will. Byron had never mentioned a will. Although he’d urged her to make one shortly after he had moved in. Of course, they agreed that he should be the primary beneficiary. She shuddered to think what a fool she had been.
The reading took place in a large conference room, at one of the area’s major legal firms. Gillian recognized several familiar faces—Byron’s mother and stepfather, Keith Nettle, who performed the eulogy, that horrible Simone, and most puzzling of all, standing at a distance from the proceedings, were Good Cop and Bad Cop, a.k.a. Officers Riley and Cochran. Abby had also come along for support.
Byron’s mother broke away from her husband when she saw Gillian and approached her. “I’m his mother. Someone said that you were his girlfriend, for a long time.
No one has anything good to say about my boy. And I get that. I get that. Maybe I saw the worst of him too. I just wondered—you knew him so well—what you might have to say about him.”
Gillian felt so sorry for the woman. Now that she knew that Byron’s affections, compliments, and concern were all a scam, no, she didn’t really have anything good to say about him. But that’s not what should ever be said to a heartbroken mother.
“I wish . . . that he had lived long enough to become a better person.”
Byron’s mother nodded tearfully. She gave Gillian a quick hug and then hurried back to her husband.
The lawyer, Mr. Samson, asked them to all be seated. “Thank you all for coming. I know this is always such a difficult time for friends and family. But I wanted to catch all of you while you are still in town. I know not all of you live here. Your presence here does not mean that you are a beneficiary of the will, however. I hope I didn’t give that impression. But there is the possibility that some of you may want to contest the will, and if that is the case, I did want to be apprised.”
Byron stepfather bristled and pointed toward his wife. “You know this is his mother. That son of hers, well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he put her in the poor house. Cleaned out every bit of her savings. She ain’t ever going to be able to retire. So, whatever he had, she’s got better claim than anyone here.”
Mr. Samson looked away uncomfortably. “I know this feels like it ought to be about justice. It’s not. It’s about the law. And we have to abide by what is laid down here in black and white. There is, in point of fact, only one beneficiary.
Gillian felt Abby’s hands clutch her arm hopefully. Simone leaned forward in her seat, breathless.
Mr. Samson continued, “The liquid estate of Mr. Byron Curtiss amounts to approximately one quarter-million dollars. The sole beneficiary of his estate . . . is Mr. Keith Nettle.”
A minor pandemonium erupted. There was a multitude of casual creditors there whom Byron had owed money to that had been guaranteed with a gentlemen’s agreement. In other words, they didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Simone was fuming. Byron’s mother was crying and her husband looked like he wanted to throttle someone. The exception, of course, was Keith Nettle, whose mouth first dropped open in surprise and then quickly transitioned to a very happy resignation.
