"Now? No, I can't. Karen expects me at four o'clock. Talk about what?"
"I need a favor. You're the only person I know who could help me out."
Already she sensed herself drawing away. "A favor. As long as it doesn't involve time or money, I'll be glad to."
"This is serious, Gail. I need a loan till Monday. No risk to you. None."
She stared at him. "I can't give you money, Dave."
He was squeezing her hand, holding it to his chest. "Please listen. My deal with Marriott is going down the tubes if I can't borrow some money fast."
"Go to the bank." She pulled her hand away.
"I can't. Would you listen? Five minutes. Please."
Gail unhooked her arm from his grasp and walked farther along the sidewalk. A banyan tree grew on the corner, and she moved into its deep shade. Dave followed closely. Twigs and dried leaves crunched underfoot.
"I'm not lending you any money," she said. "Let's get that straight before you say one more word."
He tapped his clenched fists together, then took a breath as if he were going to dive off the ten-meter platform. "I told you about the Old Island Club—the one on St. Thomas. How I bought the name—the right to use the name. The owner is Armand Dubois, a Frenchman from Guadeloupe. He bought the Club about ten years ago, and when I was in St. Thomas, he needed money, but he didn't want to sell. I offered him a deal. He'd let me use the corporate name in the States and copy his menu, his decor, everything, for two hundred grand."
"Good Lord."
"Gail, that's nothing. It was a steal. I sold the boat for seventy thousand, scraped up another five, and said I'd pay him the rest in six months. I gave him my interest in the Old Island Club in Miami as security. The last payment is due Friday."
She held up both hands, palms out. "Let me guess. You can't pay him, he knows about your deal with Marriott, and he's going to step in."
Dave nodded. "Armand was here over the weekend. He said if I don't get the money to him by Friday, he's going to take the Club away. He can do it. We signed an agreement."
"Didn't you have a lawyer in St. Thomas?"
"No, we used his."
She closed her eyes. "Idiot."
"Gail, I have to pay him." Dave walked around her when she turned away. "The deal with Marriott was supposed to go through today, but somebody at the resort in Key West didn't fax them the restaurant lease, and they need a couple of days to review it. The closing is reset for Monday, but by then it will be too late, if I don't get the money to Armand."
"Stop. Just stop for a minute." Gail stared at the twisted air roots of the banyan tree, then at Dave. "Your bank will understand. Do you want me to call them? I will. You can show them the contract with Marriott."
"I'm at my limit already."
"It doesn't matter. Just show them the contract. You said no risk, didn't you? They would be happy to lend you the money."
"They'll want to see my books." Dave shook his head.
"I see. You've been playing around with the accounts."
"Gail, I had to. The liquor distributors made me pay cash. And the salaries, the insurance—"
"One set of books for the IRS, showing you don't make anything, and one for your creditors, to show them that you're making so much money, they can lend up to the maximum—which now you have exceeded."
"Gail, please—"
"Do you owe employment taxes too?" The anger pounding in her head felt sickeningly familiar. Gail said calmly, "And you bought yourself a new truck. A big-screen TV."
"The deal with Marriott is going to pay for all that."
"Oh, my God. Déjà-vu."
"This wasn't supposed to happen! Jesus Christ. If the closing had been today, like it was supposed to be, I wouldn't be here begging you on my knees. I could pay off everything and have money in the bank. People do it all the time! It's how business works." His face was red. "I saw the opportunity, I went with it, and it's going to pay off—if I can just get past Friday."
Years in commercial litigation had showed Gail that people would operate on air, on hope, on good expectations, knowing that it would all work out. They could trust the other guy, trust the market, trust fate. They would sell an empty box, intending to fill it before the other guy flipped up the lid.
Sweat shone on Dave's upper lip. "If this deal doesn't go through, I could go to jail. Do you realize that? Prison. For tax evasion. How would that be for Karen?"
"They wouldn't send you to prison. You would have a tax lien for as long as it took you to pay it off."
"They'd take everything I have, Gail. Everything." He moistened his lips. "I told Karen we'd take a trip over Christmas. That's off. She's going to see her father with nothing. No money, no house, nothing, if you don't help me."
"Don't you lay this on me!"
"Okay. I screwed up. I should've put the money aside, but I didn't. I spent it on upgrading the restaurant. Now what? For lack of a hundred and twenty-five grand, which is fucking peanuts in this business, I'm going to miss the biggest chance of my life because somebody at Marriott forgot to fax one lousy piece of paper" Dave sucked in a breath. He was shaking. "I'm not asking you to give me the money. It's a loan till Monday."
"No."
"I need the cash by Friday at noon. You'd get it back Monday. The closing is at two o'clock. Look." He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a business card. "This is the lawyer for Marriott. His name is Jeffrey Barlow."
Gail read the card. Barlow worked for Davis & Seitz, one of Miami's biggest law firms. "I know Jeff Barlow," Gail reluctantly admitted. "We co-counseled a case last winter."
"Then call him. Tell him to give you the money, not me. I'm supposed to get a hundred-fifty up front, more as the franchises come on line. They already gave me twenty, so I've got one-thirty coming, less some expenses. You want all of it? I don't care, I'll give it to you. Make five thousand. I'll sign an agreement, whatever you want."
Gail laughed, finally biting her lip to stop.
"What's so funny?"
"I don't have the money. This is true, Dave. I have a personal-injury case settling this week, and I'll make money from that, but not a hundred and twenty-five! It is funny. I thought you were doing well. You thought I was doing well." She extended the card. "Take it back."
"What about your mother? Could you borrow it from her for a few days? Irene and I always liked each other. I bet she would help."
"I'm not going to involve my mother in this."
"Don't you have stocks? Retirement?" He gripped her arm. "Gail, you've got to help me out. Call him."
Gail studied the card.
"Please. It's for Karen too. It's for Karen."
"Leave her out of it." She looked back along the sidewalk, hearing engines starting, the happy shrieks of children in the play yard.
"Honey. Don't let me down. Don't kill me like this." He put his forehead on the point of her shoulder. "One banking day. One day. Please."
"All right. I'll call him."
Dave embraced her. "Thank God. I knew you'd come through." His lips pressed against her cheek. "You've always been there for me. I love you so much, Gail. Thank you."
"Stop it." She extricated herself. "Do you want to take Karen today?"
He wiped under his eyes. "I've got to get back to work. I'll say hello to her, though. She's a super kid." Dave put his arm around Gail's waist. "We're going to take good care of her, Gail. We're going to do all right."
They started walking back toward the school.
Gail slowed her steps. "Dave, there's something I have to tell you about. I got a nasty bouquet at my office today."
SIXTEEN
Gail stood under the shower massage, and the cool water came out with a low, pulsating buzz. She dug her fingers into tense muscles and rotated her head.
Karen was in her room, allegedly cleaning it, and chicken cordon bleu was marinating in the refrigerator. Seven-fifty a pound at the gourmet market. Coming home, Gail had che
cked the mailbox. No envelopes from Bozo. Perhaps he thought that flowers would be enough for one day.
With sympathy on the loss of your daughter.
"You son of a bitch. If I knew who you were . . ."
With a moan Gail leaned her forehead against the tiles and told herself to shut up. They would have a nice dinner. She might watch some TV with Karen. Dawson's Creek or that angel show. A couple of hours on her files, then to bed with Anthony. Or to bed with Anthony, then the files.
With sympathy—
"Shut up." Gail spun the knobs, and the water went off. Pipes clanked in the wall. Wrapped in a towel, she went into her bedroom. She put on her bra, then opened another drawer and pawed through the panties, looking for red satin bordered in lace. Anthony had given them to her in his office. He'd pulled them slowly out of his briefcase and told her to try them on. And she had.
Tonight they would have a nice dinner, some wine, watch a little TV like normal people, then go to bed. Read Karen a story first, then go to bed. Get up early, do the files in the morning.
She went back to the bathroom to blow-dry her hair.
A minute later she thought she heard a noise. Hair dryers do that, she had noticed. Turn one on, you hear a phone ringing. A doorbell. Music.
Gail clicked it off. The whine went silent. She listened for a moment, then set the hair dryer quietly on the vanity. She unhooked her short cotton robe from the back of the door.
No mistake—there had been a series of metallic taps. An odd noise, nothing she had ever heard before. She crossed the hall and looked into Karen's room. Karen was not there.
The noise was coming from downstairs. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet in the hall or down the steps to the landing. She heard a scraping noise, then a man's voice, humming a tune.
She looked over the railing. Someone was half inside the air-conditioning closet. The wood creaked, and the man below slowly backed out of the closet. A face with a close-trimmed black beard looked up at her. Charlie Jenkins. Gail let out an audible breath.
"Hi. Didn't mean to scare you. Your daughter let me in. She recognized me from last time."
Gail said, "I forgot you'd be coming. Is Karen down there?"
"She went out." Jenkins pointed with a thumb toward the rear of the house. His eyes moved over Gail's legs, then back up. He smiled. "The air handler is clogged, nothing major."
"That's good to know." Holding her robe closed, Gail went upstairs to get dressed. Karen had not asked to go out, she had just gone. Her room was passably clean, and she would argue, when confronted, that her mother was being unreasonable. Gail thought Karen was probably right. A sunny afternoon, a quiet neighborhood. But she could not quell her unease. She threw on shorts and a T-shirt, stepped into her sandals, and hurried back downstairs.
"If you see her, tell her to stay indoors."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes, I'm sure it is."
She opened the back door. "Karen!" The swing set was empty, and there was no movement in the gazebo. "Damn." She circled the house, stopping to peer up into the ficus tree.
At the street she looked both ways. A car passed, then Gail ran across, going through the twin columns of coral rock, then up the gentle, curving slope of the Cunninghams' property, a colonial-style house with a weather vane on top. An American flag waved from its holder on one of the four columns across the slate porch. Miniature boxwoods bordered the old brick walkway. Gail lifted the brass knocker, and after a minute, Peggy Cunningham appeared.
"Have you seen Karen?"
"Yes, she's up in Lindsay's room." Peggy's blue eyes widened. "My goodness, what's the matter?"
Gail was shaking with relief. "I guess I should tell you."
"Come in."
The house was spotless, everything in its place, glowing with furniture polish. White-painted woodwork accented polished oak floors and oriental rugs. Cranberry glass sparkled in a window. There were Limoges porcelain boxes on the mantel, silk shades on the lamps, fresh flowers on the mahogany sideboard, and needlepoint seat covers on the dining room chairs. Everything had that slightly worn look achieved by inheritance.
Peggy Cunningham, in a flowered lilac jumper and Keds with little white socks, led Gail through the kitchen, where the smell of roast beef curled from the oven. A pie sat cooling on the tiled countertop. Gail's mouth watered. A golden retriever followed them, tail swishing, nails tapping on the floor.
They reached the back porch, which was glassed in and cool, furnished with old white wicker and flowered cushions.
Another woman sat at a card table strewn with papers and index cards.
"You know Ana, don't you?"
Gail said she did. Ana Cabrera was Jennifer's mother. Jennifer was upstairs with the other girls. Quickly moving aside some file boxes, Peggy explained that they had been working on the Fourth of July benefit for Gulliver Academy, which her children attended, but that Gail's visit was no bother at all. Peggy told Gail to sit down, then brought her some iced tea with a sprig of mint. Gail could see the herb garden from where she sat, a sunny spot with a bird bath and trellis of ivy.
Peggy Cunningham told Ana Cabrera that Gail had come over white as a sheet, and that something had happened.
The women were staring at her. She said, "It started about two weeks ago with a phone call. Peggy, I am so sorry. I know now that Payton could never have made such a call." She told them about the paint thrown on her car, then the photographs of Karen, which she described only briefly. The women's mouths fell open. Ana Cabrera whispered, "Why is he doing this?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea who?” Peggy asked.
"The police said to make a list of clients who might have it in for me. Not that I don't get along with my clients," she added quickly.
"What about the gardener?" Ana asked. "Or one of the workmen? You've had lots of men over there working at your house."
"We don't have a gardener," Gail said, "only somebody who comes by and cuts the grass when he feels like it. Nobody else is working for us right now. Except Charlie Jenkins." She said to Ana, "You know him. He's done work for you."
She frowned. "I don't think so."
"He's about thirty, black hair, a beard, sort of chubby? He drives an old green van. He gave you as a reference."
"Oh, yes. About a month ago he came by, but I didn't hire him. I don't hire people who just drop by. He didn't tell you the truth. You should have called me.
If she had not been so distant from her neighbors, Gail thought. If she had not been embarrassed that her roofers had thrown trash in the street and she had yelled at a kid for smoking in her backyard. She had imagined that they saw her as a negligent mother, a pushy bitch lawyer, a woman whose behavior with her lover was shocking to adolescent sensibilities. Maybe they did think this after all, and here she was, laying out her life to these women who appeared so sympathetic. Sympathy or curiosity? Gail saw the greedy fascination on their shocked faces and knew that this would be all over the neighborhood before dark. People would ask each other. Who is Gail Connor that she has brought this to our safe, respectable block?
She smiled and said, "Well. I need to go start dinner."
At the bottom of the stairs Peggy called up for Lindsay, whose face peeked over the railing. "Tell Karen her mother is here, and it's time to go home." A minute later three girls came clattering down the stairs, three pairs of eyes looking at Gail. Karen said to the others, "Bye! See you tomorrow." The girls waved.
At the door, Peggy came out too. When Karen was out of earshot, Peggy said quietly to Gail, "You're going to be careful, aren't you?" Gail assured her that she was. Peggy nodded, then said, "Gail, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I think it would be better if Lindsay and Karen didn't play together for a while—till this is over, I mean."
Gail hesitated, then asked, "At my house? Or . . . what?"
"Not here either," Peggy said. "I'm sorry, but I just don't feel right exposing Lindsay to a ri
sk like that."
"Well, she doesn't have a contagious disease."
A bluejay hopped across the porch, then fluttered away. Peggy was staring at the ground. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Gail. I just can't." The door closed, and the brass knocker made a soft clunk.
Gail looked over at Karen. She was not in the mood to chastise her for disappearing. "Come on. Let's go home." She could have added, Your mom has just screwed up every friendship you had in this neighborhood.
Halfway down the driveway, Karen said, "You lied. I asked Jennifer and Lindsay if they ever heard of that stalker, and they said they didn't. You made it up. You don't want me to go out because you're afraid I'll do something with Payton. That's what Lindsay says." Her eyes were narrowed, and her mouth was a thin line—like her father's when he was angry.
"We'll talk about it later."
"Your red bra is showing right through your T-shirt! That is so embarrassing." She walked past Gail.
Gail touched her hair and found it still damp. "I— I ran out of the house so fast."
"You always embarrass me."
"I didn't know where you were." Gail's throat ached. "I couldn't find you." She leaned against the rock column.
Karen stared at her. "What's the matter? Mom? Don't cry!" She put thin arms around Gail's waist and held on. "Mommy, I didn't mean it. Please stop!"
"It's okay." Gail held Karen's face tightly and kissed her on both cheeks, then once on the lips. "I love you more than anything. Never, ever forget that."
Karen's chin wobbled. "I love you too, Mommy. I swear."
Arms around each other, they crossed the street. Gail decided that tonight, between dinner and story, she would tell Karen about the photographs. It would be even harder to explain why she couldn't go to Lindsay Cunningham's house anymore.
The green van was still in their driveway. Passing it, Gail made a mental note of the license plate, aware of how ridiculous it was to do so. She peered inside through the dirt-grimed side window. Tool chests. A broken chair. An old tire. Paint cans. Putting Karen behind her, she opened the front door. The house was cold as a wine cellar. Charlie Jenkins sat on a wooden chair by the arched entryway to the hall, hands on his thighs, feet spread.
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 23
