by Caryl McAdoo
“That so?”
“Yeah, but from what I hear, everyone’s giving her bad instructions.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t do for the second richest man in Van Zandt County to be entertaining any unwanted visitors.”
Preston formed his finger into a gun then shot the sheriff. “Yeah, but my money’s more liquid than Henry’s.”
“That it is.” He tipped his hat again at Marge, rolled up his window, and pulled away.
She held her peace until he rounded the corner. “Now, what was that all about?”
“Stephanie, I’m guessing, is claiming that I’ve brainwashed you into my new religious cult.”
“No, tell me that is not so.”
“If not your daughter, then who?”
“But I just saw her in Dallas. She had questions, of course. Wanted me to go home with her then and there. That girl…”
He nodded toward the house. “Doesn’t matter. Guess I can understand her concern, except you can sure handle yourself. I like the way you handled James T.”
From the heat growing in her cheeks, they must be flame red, but hopefully the pre-dawn darkness hid the crimson shade. “I appreciate that. And your confidence.” She stopped short of the light and grinned, but didn’t let go of his hand. “So are you really the second richest man in Van Zandt County?”
He turned framed in the pale glow of the kitchen light. “Actually, I’m the richest.”
“Oh? You are?”
He nodded. “Yeah. May not have Gates’ kind of money, but I could buy several small countries.”
“I always wanted a small country.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Wait a minute here. Then why did - ?”
“Old joke. James T. and I’ve been knowing each other since second grade.” He pulled her gently into the light. “Forget about that. We need to figure out how to handle this reporter. But first, let’s get a refill.” He let her hand go then took her mug. “Be right back.”
She loved the way he performed small courtesies for her—and the others. Well, truth be known, she really didn’t like it when he paid the other ladies any attention at all, but what right did she have not to like it? So she tried her hardest not to be resentful, especially over him calling Vicki darling all the time.
And forget all the ladies, how could Marge know for certain if she really cared for him or only wanted to win the game? The question drove her crazy. He returned with the coffee before she could decide, and suddenly, it no longer mattered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Journal entry - May 31st
In principle, I like the idea of the free press, but sure wish having money didn’t put you in the public domain.
Preston and Marge looked at the reporter problem like two kids poking a horned toad with a stick. Before the two bloodied the thing, Audrey joined them, got caught up then pulled out her own prod. A few minutes later, Natalie slid into her seat with a fresh cup of coffee, heard enough to figure out the gist of the predicament and took a so-what attitude. Not until Vicki joined the assembly did a possible solution present itself.
Marge raised an eyebrow then nodded. “Might work, but why take the chance?”
Vicki slung her hands skyward. “What if this woman doesn’t give up? I still say we’ve got to give her something.”
“Hold it.” Preston eased her forearm back to the table. “No where is it written that we have to talk to the press.” He smiled even though he didn’t relish seeing his name or that ugly file photo they’d use splashed across the front page of the paper. Never mind the TV or internet. “Without confirmation, no one’s going to print anything if they’re worth their salt.”
Natalie twirled the end of her ponytail and yawned. “They may already have it. Surely you’ve heard that old cliché hell hath no fury…”
Her words ended, but he knew where she was going. “Please don’t call me Shirley.” He smiled. “And I don’t think it was Charlotte.”
A puzzled look came over Natalie. She had to think a minute, but slapped at him when she finally got it.
He looked at Marge who lifted her shoulders once. “Couldn’t have been Dot.”
Vicki stood and stretched before making her way to the fridge. “Well, it couldn’t be Holly. She just left.” She refilled her stemmed goblet with orange juice.
“What about Virginia?” He glanced at Audrey, and she looked away. Why did she have such a vendetta against Virginia?
“No, don’t think so. I talked with her last week, and she didn’t sound like someone who’d been talking to a reporter.”
The name of each lady who’d left their clutch got trotted around the kitchen table several laps before Marge jumped off the merry-go-round. “But don’t you all see that it doesn’t have to be one of them at all?”
Vicki took the bait. “Then who?”
She stared at the table top a minute then looked around and grimaced. “My silly daughter, that’s who.”
“Why would you think that? Did she say something when you had dinner with her?”
“No, but she went to the law and even filled out a formal complaint. She’s head strong and doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on out here.”
Preston sat back while Marge told about James T.’s early morning visit then lost interest as the ladies worked this new angle. He’d already made up his mind. He liked Vicki’s idea, and it didn’t really matter who had tipped the press. The reporter needed handling.
He stood. “Okay, enough of this. I’ve got a new topic.” The women all stopped talking mid-sentence. “Four weeks from last Saturday is the Mid-Summer Night’s Literary Ball put on by the Friends of the Carnegie Library in Jefferson.” He smiled. “Later today, another thousand dollars of credit will be added to your cards. Before the sun goes down, a nice young man who looks twelve, but is really nine, will install your new computers so you can shop the net. I suggest you get to work on your ball gowns, ladies. You’ll go as your favorite character in a book.”
“So this is our new contest?” The fire in Marge’s eyes could have fried his soul crisp had he been younger or less worldly, but it only hurt his heart a little. So feisty. Maybe someday, she’d trust him more.
“Sort of. But in this scenario, everyone can win. If they do, no one goes home.”
Vicki tugged on his sleeve. “So tell us. Tell us. How do we win?”
“Always the questions from you darlin’.” He looked to the other ladies. “Make yourself—and I stress make, no ready-made designs allowed—the best, most outstanding costume at the ball. They have a contest with a couple of categories. And that’s all you need to know for now.”
Even so, for the next ten or fifteen minutes, he fielded questions, but other than confirming it was the Jefferson in East Texas—the quaint town of antiquing fame with a bed and breakfast on almost every corner—he didn’t divulge any new information. Finally, he tired of their feminine chatter, snatched Vicki by the wrist, and retreated to his office.
He deposited her in the guest wingback then took his own seat. “So you think you can pull off the whole deal without the reporter catching on?”
“Do you really want to know?”
He leaned back. “Your past is colorful, but I don’t recall any confidence work.”
“True, but fooling folks is what I do best.” She tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it and ended up looking girlish. “Even if I couldn’t fool you.”
He liked it. Brought out the daddy in him, or was it the sugar-daddy? Could he help it if he loved buying the ladies things or rather letting them shop until they dropped? Isn’t that what females loved to do? “Okay, then get to it. Go tell Jorje to give you the keys to the truck.”
She stood. “Cool, and what do you want me to find out exactly?”
* *
Marge had stationed herself in the far corner of the patio and pretended to read a book, but in reality, she watched for Vicki to come out of Preston’s office. Audrey sat across the ornate wrought iron table and read a
cookbook as though it was a novel.
Finally, she just couldn’t stand it another minute, Marge marked her place in the book and faced the cook. “How long’s it been?”
She looked up. “How long has what been?”
Marge leaned toward her, but didn’t take her eyes off Preston’s door. “Vicki. How long has she been in there with him?”
Audrey glanced at her watch. “Ten—twelve minutes max.”
The door opened, and the young beauty moved through the odd little entry then disappeared toward her room.
“See? You didn’t have anything to worry about.”
“Of course I do. You’ve seen it. The way she follows him around like she’s his new puppy or something.”
Audrey marked her place with a slip of paper, closed her book then sat it on the table. “Big deal. So she’s his gofer. What counts is how he looks at her, and he doesn’t look at her—or me, or Natalie either—the way he looks at you.”
Even though Marge loved what her friend said, she didn’t believe it. If he really cared for her, he wouldn’t risk losing her with his silly games. “Nice of you to say, but I don’t think so. I can’t see it.”
“You’re blind as a bat then, worse than blind. Why even a sightless man could see he’s smitten.”
“Then why does he spend so much time with Vicki?”
Audrey made an exasperated face and shook her head. “So? He still talks to Virginia on the phone, but he doesn’t love her either.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he doesn’t love me.” She pouted. “As much as I’d like for him to, he just doesn’t.” She wiggled her eyebrows and lowered her voice as though she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I do think he loves my chicken cordon bleu, though.”
“You’d marry him if he asked?”
“Well, sure I would. He’s the catch of the century. But so? What that’s got to do with anything?”
“Well, you don’t think Vicki would, too? And you know good and well Natalie or Virginia would, so you can’t say he loves me. Maybe he’s just in love with the idea of having a wife again. So, it isn’t love you see in his eyes when he looks at me. Can’t be. We don’t even really know each other.”
“Oh, okay, blind bat.” Audrey giggled. “Now didn’t that tirade make a lot of sense? Of course he knows you. How many times does he have to ask you to inspect his apples before it sinks in he’s got a thing for you?”
Marge waved her off. “Don’t give me that. We’re still playing his stupid games, aren’t we? I could lose in Jefferson, and don’t you think for one minute he wouldn’t want to see me in his office for his exit speech and to sign his silly legal documents.”
“I know, I know. But a costume ball. Doesn’t it just sound like so much fun? Who are you going as?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t given it much thought yet.” Marge leaned back in her chair. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help but be excited about what Audrey had said and the ball, too. She wanted to believe with all her heart, but she couldn’t take any chances in Jefferson. She had to think of someone really special.
* *
Neither had Vicki decided who she would be though she thought about going as Dick Tracey since comic books were about as literary as she got. A long yellow rain coat and yellow fedora would make a great costume.
She noticed Marge and Audrey sitting on the patio coming out of Preston’s office, then again as she sped by on her way to the warehouse, but really didn’t pay any attention. Protecting Preston consumed her. And he liked her idea. Now she had to make it work. At that moment, she wanted an ‘at-a-girl’ from him more than anything.
It took her exactly eighteen minutes to trot to the warehouse, explain to Jorje what was afoot then speed off the property. In another eighteen, she sat in James T.’s office asking the man himself a favor in Preston’s name.
“Not a problem, Miss Vicki. W. G. already called. The deputies tell me she’s in her room at the Travel Lodge. Number Twenty-four.” The sheriff rotated a site map to face her. A red arrow pinpointed the reporter’s room. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” He scooted it toward her. “You can take that.”
She studied the piece of paper a second, found north, then recalled the one-story, flat-roofed, fifties style motel that sat next to the gas station where the taxi had stopped that first day.
“Got it. Thanks.” She grabbed the paper, folded it twice then stuck it in her jeans’ pocket. From the office to the truck, her heart rate quickened with each step. By the time she reached the motel, her cheeks burned, but she made herself focus.
If she was really doing what she pretended to do, then it would only be normal for her to be shook up. The thought calmed her some, but she decided she’d better act nervous. No. Forget nervous. She’d never practiced nervous. Sound reasoning looped back on her. She filled her lungs, blanked her mind, then tapped on the woman’s door.
“Yeah. Be right there.” Footsteps rattled the glass in the picture window. The door popped open a chain length’s worth. “You the pizza girl?”
Vicki shook her head. “No. I understand you’re interested in a mister Winston Grant Preston. That right?”
The door slammed shut. The chain clattered on the inside. In point three seconds or better, a woman stood in the open door inviting Vicki’s entrance with a grand wave of her arm.
She stepped inside then eased the door closed, but kept her hand on the knob. “You are the reporter who’s been asking questions around town, right?”
The woman stuck out her hand. “Susie Waters. Guess I’d be the one.”
Vicki threw her a nod, but ignored the hand offered. “I don’t take checks. I want cash. Nothing larger than a fifty. When can you have the money?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Journal entry - June 2nd
Dick Tracey only wished he had such guts. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall.
“Excuse me?”
Vicki rubbed her thumb over her fingers. “Money? You know, show me the dough and all that.”
“What are you talking about, Miss, Miss…”
“No need.” Vicki tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “So are you paying for information or not? I haven’t got all day.” She moved the curtain an inch, peeked out, then turned back and stared at the woman.
Waters retrieved the remote and muted the TV. “Look. I only need directions to his ranch.” She smiled. “I’ve already got the angle. Just need a few minutes of his time.”
“Not a chance.”
“Why not?”
Vicki glanced out the curtain again. “No one who knows will tell, and even if you stumbled onto Preston’s place, you couldn’t get to the man.”
“Miss…” Waters motioned for Vicki to help her.
Vicki smirked a ‘no-thank-you’.
The reporter flipped her a catty ‘whatever’ smile. “So he’s still in seclusion?”
“Afraid so.” Again, she rubbed her thumb over her fingers. “So back to little ol’ me, that is, if you want answers to your questions.”
Waters threw her hands up and retreated a step. “Hey, I’m not the one with all the money. I can’t afford to pay. Something maybe, but certainly not much.”
“How much?”
The reporter heaved a sigh then tapped her finger across her lips obviously thinking. “I’d have to talk with the editor. I’m doing this piece on speculation almost. Friend of a friend type deal.” She ran her fingers through her hair from the front then rubbed the back of her head. “Look, I think maybe I can get a couple of hundred if you know what I’m after.”
“No way would I betray my employer for a couple of hundred dollars. What are you? Crazy?”
“So you work for him. You’re not betraying anyone.”
“Oh sure, right. Me just being here would totally be seen as an act of disloyalty.”
“No, not the man I’ve been reading about. Nancy said he was a big old teddy bear.”
“Okay, then, you heard it from the dead wife herself.” She turned the door knob. “Guess you don’t need me.”
“Wait a minute.”
“I want five hundred minimum.”
“But I haven’t got that much… Not on me.”
Vicki cracked the door. “See you around.”
“Wait, I can get it.”
She eased the door back closed. “How soon?”
“Where’s the nearest ATM?”
Vicki slipped into the imitation leather desk chair next to the door. “Don’t use the things myself, but I seemed to remember seeing one across the street.”
Waters grabbed her purse then stopped. “Don’t go away.”
“I’ll be here.” Vicki waited to fill her lungs until the reporter slipped out. She’d done it. She held out her hands. “Solid as a rock,” she said aloud then immediately chastised herself for being too cocky. Some gloating could be expected, but her ruse dictated she walk a fine line.
Besides, something was missing. Either this gal did coy well or didn’t really know about the choose-a-wife game Preston played out at his Apple Orchard Bed and Breakfast. Except, could anyone truly call it a game? She remembered telling everyone early on that he wasn’t a Harvard type who had all this figured out. But she was no longer so sure.
After getting to know him, she’d choose Preston for her team over any egghead on about any topic. His knowledge and the way he thought—his brain’s methods—fascinated her. Had he done all this knowing how she and the others would react? She let her mind sniff around the deep hole she dug for Winston Grant Preston.
“You that smart, Dub?” Before she could answer herself, the key turned, and the door opened. “Get the money?”
“Most of it. I only had three hundred left on my card, and I’ve got another fifty I can give you.”
Vicki stood. “Sorry, no way. If what I know isn’t worth five hundred then –” She stepped toward the door.
