RAZZLE DAZZLE

by Lisa Hendrix

  The waitress brought their plates, the cheap white platters piled high with the food that made breakfast at the diner worthwhile no matter who Karl hired to wait tables.

  Zoe poked at her eggs and dipped a corner of her toast in the yolk. “So, where did you go last night?”

  “His house.”

  “Well, that’s pretty cheesy.”

  Raine chuckled at her friend’s analysis. “He couldn’t very well aggravate his mother unless we were right there with her.”

  “Maybe. But he could have at least taken you to Canlis before he dragged you home to harass Mama.”

  “It wouldn’t have been as effective,” Raine said, recalling Mrs. Alexander’s pained expression as the butler or houseboy or whatever he’d been had served the tomato aspic.

  She speared a triangle of pancake. “You should see that place, Zoe. Servants. Quarter-sawn oak floors. Marble fireplaces. White peonies and pink roses all over the house, in these incredible crystal vases. Oriental rugs so old they’re almost threadbare, but the work’s incredible. It reminded me of some gorgeous old English country house, where they bought the very best but have held on to it for generations. You could open an antiques store with the dining room furniture alone. And the art—I had my nose this far from a real Monet. I could have counted the hair marks in the brush strokes.”

  “Wow.” Zoe sighed and leaned back in the booth, her eyes focused on some private vision. “Can I date Moneybags when you’re done with him?”

  “Stop calling him Moneybags. His name’s Mason. Mason Alexander.”

  “I don’t care if his name’s Donald Tr—” Zoe sat bolt upright, her round eyes wide. “Mason Alexander. You’re dating an Alexander?”

  “Yeah.” She really did look like Betty Boop when she did that with her eyes, Raine thought. “What about it?”

  Zoe scrabbled through the newspapers she’d laid aside. “Where is it, where is it. Ah.” She yanked one sheet of the newspaper out and quickly folded it down to a quarter page. “I forgot to read this part to you before. You know how you were hoping the reporters would find out who really owns MMT. Well, they did. ‘The Canal Place

  project is being developed by MMT Properties, a development firm quietly owned by Seattle manufacturing giant Alexander Enterprises.’”

  This was not the time for a headache, Raine thought numbly as a sharp pain stabbed just above her left eye. She stared at Zoe.

  “Rainey?”

  “It can’t be,” muttered Raine.

  “Maybe not,” said Zoe sympathetically. “I mean, Alexander is a fairly common name.”

  The clatter of dishes being cleared from the booth behind her shook Raine out of her fog.

  “Let me see that.” She snatched the paper away from Zoe and scanned down the column until his name jumped out at her. Surely not.

  She grabbed at her backpack and dug her black nylon wallet out of the bottom. She’d just stuck his card in last night without looking at it. Fishing deftly into the bill pocket, she retrieved Mason’s gray business card.

  The elegant raised lettering confirmed the worst: Mason Alexander, President and CEO, Alexander Enterprises, Inc.

  Raine handed the card to Zoe, who responded with an eloquent, “Son of a bitch.”

  “It’s a good thing he gave me his number,” Raine muttered to herself. She checked the coin purse in her wallet, but it only contained three pennies and a nickel. “Can I borrow a quarter?”

  “What for?”

  “We’re supposed to go out again tonight. I’ve got to cancel. I can’t fraternize with … with the enemy.”

  Zoe nodded. She pulled her tote onto her lap and started rooting around for her wallet, but froze with her arm buried up to her elbow. “You can’t cancel.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I should tell him to his face.”

  “No, no, no. You shouldn’t tell him at all.”

  “You’re right. He probably already knows.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Zoe’s face fell, and she extricated her arm from the bag. She sat glumly for a moment, then perked up. “What if he doesn’t? Your name wasn’t in the paper anyplace. They just referred to FUSE.”

  “Then I have to tell him, so give me the quarter.”

  “No, you don’t. Just keep your mouth shut and go out with him. You said it yourself, we need money. He’s got it.”

  “But it’s his building we’re protesting.”

  “So what? That’s completely separate from what he asked you to do. Besides, it’s justice. After all, he’s the one siccing attorneys on us.”

  “He hasn’t yet.”

  “You know he will. And then we’ll need some of our own, and it will only be fair to pay them with his money.”

  There was some twisted logic to Zoe’s suggestion, but Raine resisted. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Right, schmight. From where I sit, you can’t afford to worry about the moral niceties.” Zoe leaned across the table, her arms straddling her plate. “Besides, you’ve got the perfect opportunity to save Fremont.”

  “What?”

  “Teach Moneybags all about feng shui. Convert him.”

  *

  Mason slid the stack of papers into his top right-hand drawer, then punched the intercom button on his phone. “Send them in, Chris.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott Johnson, chief of Operations at MMT, walked in flanked by Jake Kreutzmiller, senior partner at the legal firm that represented Alexander Industries, and Ben Pratt, head of Community Relations. They wore the wary look of men on trial.

  Mason tossed a section of the morning paper down in the center of his desk and tapped the photo of graffiti-covered plywood which was featured midpage.

  “What the devil’s going on in Fremont, and why did I have to read about it in the P-I?”

  They all looked at each other and came to some sort of silent decision on who was the fall guy: Johnson spoke up. “Because it wasn’t worth bothering you. We’ve got it under control.”

  “The front page of the Local section looks like pretty lousy control.” Mason nailed Johnson with a steely stare. “You told me things were clear. You told me all the citizens groups had been placated.”

  “We thought they had.”

  Pratt jumped in. “FUSE is a new group. We’ve only had one prior communication with them, although arguments similar to theirs were raised at some of the meetings last year. Anyway, I doubt we’ll hear from them again.”

  “I wouldn’t lay odds on it,” Kreutzmiller said. “They have a cause. God save us from citizens with causes.”

  “I don’t know much about this feng shui myself,” Johnson began, “but I understand it has a lot of standing in the Far East. Large corporations often hire—”

  “It’s just more New Age crap,” snarled Mason, cutting him off. “I have demolition crews standing by for those final permits, and I am not stopping that building, no matter how many lunatics cast the I Ching or hang banners on light poles. Therefore the question becomes, What are you gentlemen doing about it?”

  “I’ll file for a restraining order this afternoon,” said Kreutzmiller.

  “Don’t,” said Pratt. “That will play right into their hands. We’ll look like Goliath trampling David’s First Amendment rights, and public opinion could swing fast and hard and come right down on their side.”

  “But we’ll also send a clear message,” Kreutzmiller said. “They’re too late. They had their chance to give public testimony, and now they need to stay off the property and out of the way.”

  “At least give it a few days,” Pratt argued. “The press interest will die down. And they may just go away on their own. Frankly, some of these New Age trends have the life expectancy of a gnat—even in Fremont.”

  Mason and Kreutzmiller exchanged significant looks. The attorney knew just how long some New Age trends lasted: he’d had to deal with the legal consequences of urban wolf ownership.

  “Ben’s got a
point,” said Mason. He turned to Kreutzmiller, who didn’t look at all happy. “Okay, Jake. Get the paperwork ready, but hold off filing until we see how this plays out.”

  “All right. But you need to step up security on the site. Fences were breached. There are liability issues here.” Kreutzmiller swung into full lawyer mode. “You can’t have people climbing around there in the middle of the night. That building is old. What if one of them falls through the roof?”

  Mason grimaced. “God, I hate tort law. Some idiot gets hurt trespassing, and I get to support him the rest of his life.” He drummed his fingers on the lacquered ebony desktop. “All right, security. Maybe getting arrested will discourage them.”

  “I don’t know, Mason,” said Pratt. “Groups like this enjoy martyrdom. Arrests seem to invigorate them.”

  “Only when they look good on camera,” said Kreutzmiller. “That’s the great thing about security guards: no one wants to admit they were busted by some overweight guy in a rented uniform.”

  Mason laughed and looked to his PR man. “Meantime, Ben, what are you doing other than shooting down the legal options?”

  “Well, you can look for another article about the economic and social benefits of the project in the P-I—Thursday, I believe.” Pratt opened the folio he was carrying and flipped a couple of pages. “MMT is now an official sponsor of the Fremont Almost Free Outdoor Cinema—we’re making it truly free for the month of July—and, ah, now that Alexander Industries is out of the closet on this, it opens a couple of windows. Human Resources just conveniently discovered they have room for a few more kids in the summer internship program—priority to go to Fremont residents, of course. And then there’s the Wilmott Foundation dinner dance on Saturday. We can use it as a—”

  “Scratch that one. Miss Wickersham’s out of town and I have other plans,” Mason said. “The rest of it sounds good, though. No aggressive action at this point, but we’ll nail them if they try anything else. Scott, you see to security.”

  “Right away.”

  Kreutzmiller shrugged and reached for his briefcase. “It’s your call. But I think I’ll have my people look into who these FUSE folks are. Maybe we can figure out how likely they are to go away on their own. Or even come up with something that will encourage them to disappear.”

  Mason rose and shook all three men’s hands. “All right. Stay on top of this, and I want to see anything you turn up before you take any action. Ben’s right, it’d be too easy to come off looking like the Gestapo.”

  As soon as the door closed behind them, his phone buzzed. He hit the speaker button. “What is it?”

  “Miss Wickersham on line three, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mason picked up the receiver. “Caroline. How was the flight?”

  “How are they ever? I made the mistake of watching some inane movie about a shipwreck. It put me right to sleep.”

  “And now there you are in Tokyo, wide awake at”—Mason glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation—“three A.M. You’re going to have a long day.”

  “Too bad you’re not here to keep me awake between meetings.”

  The calculated suggestiveness of the invitation raised no interest at all in Mason, but he gave the expected response. “Me, too. Maybe next time.”

  “One can hope. So, did you spend your evening pining away for me?”

  “No.” He could almost hear her back stiffen before he added, “Actually, I had dinner with your father. He and Mother ran into each other and she brought him home.”

  “Lovely. Daddy’s been after me to get all of us together for dinner, and the two clans really should get better acquainted, considering. Well, I know you’re in the middle of your day, so I’ll get off the line. Don’t forget, I’m at the Okura through Sunday.”

  “I have the number right here.”

  “Say hello to your mother and tell her again that I had a wonderful weekend. I’m bringing her some tea from those gardens in Kyoto she mentioned. You know the ones.”

  “Uji Gardens. The Gyokuro ‘Jewel Dew.’ She’ll love it.”

  “That’s it.” A moment of silence told Mason she was writing the name down. “Well, I’d better try to sleep before this first meeting, at least. ‘Bye, darling.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Mason hung up, wondering if the whole call had been about getting the name of the tea, or if Caroline had had some other agenda. Her comment about the two clans getting together “considering” was as close as she’d come so far to admitting they would get married. Maybe absence did make the heart grow fonder.

  Wait, this was Caroline Wickersham, not a mortal human. He shook off that particular flight of fancy and punched an extension on his phone. “Chris. Where are those reports from the product team?”

  *

  Convert him.

  It had sounded relatively simple over breakfast when Zoe had suggested the idea as a solution to all their problems. Now it didn’t seem simple at all, especially not with a tennis ball rocketing toward her at a hundred miles an hour.

  Raine charged across the court and missed yet another backhand. Convert him, indeed. She’d just like to convert a serve.

  She struggled valiantly, but Mason trounced her 6-1, 6-2, and if it hadn’t been so blasted hot, he probably wouldn’t even have broken a sweat.

  “I warned you,” she said, meeting him at the net.

  “You’re just out of practice.” He handed her a towel, then glanced at his watch as he mopped his own neck and forehead. “You’ve got a lot of power in your serve.”

  “Yeah. Now, if I could keep it in bounds occasionally.”

  “There is that,” he said, and she didn’t even resent the amusement in his voice. “We have just time for a shower and a couple of drinks before dinner. Are you up for tonight’s dog and pony show?”

  “Absolutely, O Love-of-My-Life.” She gave him her patented besotted smile and got an appreciative chuckle in return. “I imagine there will be a lot more opportunity to display our supposed affection this evening, without good old Angus around to chaperone.”

  “I’m counting on it,” he said as they gathered their gear and started toward the house. “I think Miranda was out in the garage last night when I got home, grilling Paul.”

  “Really?”

  “He was acting oddly. He told me that the cat was making the noises I heard, but Magus turned out to be in the house, shredding one of Mother’s plants. And I heard Miranda sneak in shortly after.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  He spun his racket end over end, like a gunfighter twirling a six-gun, and caught it without breaking stride. “I doubt he told her anything. He’s never given me much satisfaction when I’ve asked about Miranda’s men.”

  “You spy on your sister?”

  “Don’t look so appalled,” said Mason. “Miranda’s judgment in men is about as sound as her judgment in philosophy. She has already been married to one fortune hunter who cost us a pretty penny to dispose of. Someone has to protect her from herself.”

  “She’s probably using the same justification to spy on you,” said Raine.

  He laughed and spun the racket again. “You’re not getting much of a fortune.”

  “That, Mr. Alexander, depends on where you’re standing when you count the money.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Can I ask you something?” She interpreted his slight nod as a yes. “How did this whole thing get started? You told me what your mother and Miranda did, but you never really explained why they thought you needed a love potion in the first place. It seemed to me that you and Caroline were doing just fine on your own.”

  “What you saw was sex, not love. They’re not the same.”

  “They should be.” She meant it, too, and not just because her mother had tried to raise her that way. She’d strayed away from those ideals for a time, and the lessons had been hard on her heart. Now she was like a reformed smoker, Zoe said, always ready to help others see the er
ror of their ways. “You can’t separate them without losing part of your soul.”

  Mason raised one eyebrow. “For someone so young, you’re amazingly old-fashioned.”

  “Love isn’t old-fashioned. It’s the foundation of human life.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but in the real world, love’s bottom line doesn’t always live up to its prospectus. And love is certainly not the only—or best—basis for marriage.”

  “Marriage is not a business deal.”

  “In this case, it is.”

  “You make it sound like you’re marrying her for her money.”

  “I am,” he admitted with no sign of embarrassment.

  “Why? You’re rich.”

  He stopped in the middle of the path, and for a minute she thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business. Then he shrugged.

  “Actually, I’m broke.”

  “I know what broke looks like,” she said, scanning pointedly around the estate. “This isn’t it.”

  “There are several kinds of broke. My kind might be different from what you’re used to, but I assure you, it costs me just as much sleep. I need a capital infusion, and Caroline has the capital.

  “Oh, there’s that appalled look again,” he said, grinning. “Don’t feel sorry for Caro. She knows exactly what she’s getting into, and she’s more than happy to trade a few million dollars of investment capital—which she’ll get back many times over, by the way—for the Alexander name and address. In fact, I think she has it in her personal planner, under Goals. Caro and I see eye to eye on this. We’ll do fine—without Mother’s potions.” He turned toward the house.

  Raine glanced at his back with pity, then hustled to fall in beside him. A thousand responses ran through her brain, but she decided to keep them to herself. Nothing she could say would make any difference to a man who imagined you could base a marriage on anything other than love. And if he didn’t believe in something as obvious as love, how was she ever going to get him to believe in the subtleties of feng shui?

  If he weren’t paying her, she’d head straight for the front gate, abandoning him as a lost cause.

  But he was paying, so she’d stay and play out his game.