Did Frank dwell on the fact that the young woman’s car slid into the truck at enough of an angle to thrust her into the passing lane, taking her life and seriously injuring the driver of an SUV? Not really. The mind protects its owner against intolerable information.
Instead Frank identified with how Darryl Sykes must feel about losing his civil suit against the Roitman Industries subsidiary that produced the part. He supposed it was the proportionate opposite of the relief and outright joy experienced by him, his family, and anybody else whose livelihood depended on Roitman Industries. Frank wouldn’t rank the victory higher than Marsha saying yes or the birth of his children, but neither would he admit to anyone but himself how close the judge’s verdict came. Factoring in the ramifications? Uncomfortably close.
Or maybe not. Maybe the girl had been too distracted, or hungry, or her nose itched at the wrong moment. Nobody could be sure, hence the judge’s decision. Deep down inside himself, in the place that ordinary honest people visited but a multi-millionaire with well-stretched bootstraps visited only during the occasional dark moment, Frank recognized that he would harbor Luanne’s tragic accident almost as long as that guy Darryl. In his own context, granted, but still…
Frank drank a slug of bourbon. Then he rattled the ice and threw back another.
As long as he was contemplating disasters, what about Gavin falling in love with Darryl’s remaining daughter? What the hell had Frank done to make himself a target for that much bad luck? Fate certainly had a twisted sense of humor. His horndog son spotting an attractive babe in the courthouse hallway. Really? The two of them getting serious was like the investigation that would never end, the jury staying out forever. With so much at stake it simply could not be allowed. Let Gavin think his dad was an asshole. Frank hadn’t made big bucks spilling his guts every time he made an unpopular decision. Sometimes “because I said so,” was all you got.
Which brought him to Toby Stoddard, and there Frank’s mind balked.
He switched the TV back on. Another reporter was taking another lame stab at analyzing a senseless disaster.
Welcome to the club, Frank thought. Welcome to the club.
Chapter 16
I had a lovely run on the beach during low tide. Wide swaths of differently colored lounges defined the territories of the resorts. Sunbathers cooling off chatted as they bobbed in the waves. Others walked or jogged back and forth along the water with me. Island music and multi-lingual announcements blaring from the beach bars’ sound systems urged lazy tourists off their butts into the surf for aerobics, onto the sand for volleyball. Parasails lifted one and two daring souls into the sky at a time. Lengthy empty lots lay in between resorts as well, populated with short palm bushes, trash, and the occasional vendor hoping to sell bright native crafts.
I regret to say that not even paradise was perfect. Guards wearing brown slacks, tan short-sleeved shirts, and pith helmets stood at various intervals, each looking both bored and vigilant. In a way, I’d been there, done that. I wished them cool drinks and shrimp cocktails and many boring days to come.
When Mike burst into our room at a quarter to four, I was showering in that miniscule glass-enclosed triangle. I heard Mike sit down hard on the bed.
When I was half dry and completely decent, I sat down beside him. He smelled like salt water and beer. His ginger hair was tightly curled and sandy, his skin pinkish brown in spite of the extra-strength suntan lotion he’d smeared all over before he went out.
He also looked a bit shell-shocked.
“You’ve seen the news?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he admitted, so I filled him in.
“Tragic,” he murmured, looking scarcely more stricken than before.
“They still don’t know the cause,” I added. Seven dead, though, and fifty-eight injured as of twenty minutes ago.
Already Mike had collected his cell phone from the charger and had begun to tap the screen.
“Wait.” I interrupted. “Before you get all involved, tell me what you learned from Gavin.”
Mike glanced at me with narrowed eyes. “Not much. We went windsurfing, remember?”
“Not for five hours you didn’t. Out with it. What did he say?” I crossed my terrycloth arms as if to stand my ground.
An impatient sigh. “Toby gave Gavin financial advice. Sometimes it was good. Sometimes it wasn’t.”
“Okeedookee, Batman. What else you got?”
Mike managed a smile. “He has a girlfriend, but his parents don’t like her. That’s one reason he lives forty minutes from them and thirty from work.”
“What’s work?”
“He’s president of some small company, I think. Maybe one that belongs to Roitman Industries.”
“What kind of company?”
“No idea. We mostly talked about sports.” The default language of men.
“Do you mind? There’s a text from Mary.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”
The message must have been short, because he immediately dropped the phone on the bed, fisted his hand in his hair, and closed his eyes. If possible, his neck and face glowed even redder than before.
“What?” I asked.
It took Mike a second to recognize me. Finally he said, “Mary’s had more cramps.”
“More cramps?” I wasn’t supposed to know about the first batch. “When did that start?”
“Yesterday. Her doctor called it false labor, ‘No big deal.’ Now it’s happening again.”
“She’s eight months, right?” I checked.
Mike just looked at me.
“…so even if the baby’s early, she should be okay, right?”
The stare took on intensity.
Okay, so I don’t know much about babies, but I do know when to get lost. I dressed in record time, then just before I excused myself, I informed Mike that dinner would be at seven in the resort restaurant right beside the boat. Yacht. Small ship. Whatever.
Blank stare. Or should I say glare.
“Dress nice,” I added, “and don’t forget—we’re in love.” I meant that as a joke, and Mike definitely took it that way. His snort could have been mistaken for a laugh anywhere.
The restaurant’s hostess smiled her greeting and counted out menus from a rack while clinking dishes, subtle music, and the patrons’ animated conversations drew us in. To the left wine bottles covered the wall floor-to-ceiling. The three dining rooms surrounded a lighted fountain, and waiters balancing trays on their fingertips wove between tightly clustered tables like graceful matadors.
Mike and I strolled behind the Roitmans with linked arms; and when we arrived at our long table for six, he graciously helped me into my chair. Although he had assured me that Mary and the baby were okay, another frightening message was always a possibility.
Also fearing that opportunities to watch the Roitmans interact might abruptly come to an end, while drinks were being ordered I began to catalog my impressions.
Whatever Chantal requested it was without enthusiasm, and her dress reflected her somber mood. It was a floaty thing in a hue so funereal that her body almost disappeared into the shadows. The bright note—her fingertips had been freshly painted pink.
Marsha consulted Frank and together they chose a bottle of red. Based on the effervescence in Marsha’s voice, it probably should have been champagne.
Check that. Champagne would have suggested that tonight was an occasion, so red was the right choice. Points for Marsha. The forehead swoop of her immoveable French twist remained perfect, her linen sheath as unwrinkled as linen allows. Her lips, always a focal point, were still that unflattering true red, and I wondered whether the color might be calculated to draw attention to her every word.
Frank struck me as tired and hungry, or perhaps dispirited by the disturbing news he watched off and on all day. Fortunately, the restaurant had no televisions, so his eyes flicked from table to person to menu and back. Being out with his family seemed to relax him somewhat, but be
ing relaxed was not his usual state.
Gavin was as animated as I’d seen him so far. He had begun narrating windsurfing stories as we collectively left the yacht and continued across the macadam path, up the walk and into the beautiful dining room. “…and then the wave slapped him on the ass again and flipped the board up over his head. It was a wonder he didn’t get decapitated, right Mike?”
“Right,” Mike grumbled, and I finally realized the stories were all at his expense.
“Oh, come on, boy. Cheer up. You had fun today. Admit it.”
“Yes, I had fun.” It pained Mike to say it, but only I knew why. Guilt, of course, for revisiting his college-age passion while his wife revisited the emergency room.
“Yes, I had fun,” were also the last words he cared to say.
The drinks arrived, the wine poured, and with a hand on his father’s shoulder Gavin proposed a toast. “To Calvin Graffam, Esquire,” he said in a hearty voice.
Frank’s eyes widened, but he met his son’s gaze and lifted his glass. We all did, but Chantal leaned toward me and whispered, “Company attorney. Just won a big case.”
After we all sealed that with a sip, she lifted her whatever-it-was and said, “To Toby,” which brought us down to earth again.
Dinner progressed slowly from beverages to the salad bar, which included sushi and an array of delectable choices I couldn’t begin to name. Mike opted out, preferring to brood into a second Presidente beer.
“Darling,” I said when his silence had been noted by everyone but him. “Here. Try a bite. It’s amazing.” I didn’t care whether the stuff on my fork tasted like marinated sole of shoe. Compared to him, even Chantal seemed downright giddy.
When he waved me off again with the rest of our party watching, the time seemed right. I threw down my napkin.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” I accused loudly enough to turn heads two tables away.
I stood up to emphasize my make-believe anger.
“Admit it, Mike. Go ahead. Be honest for once in your life. All you can think about is your wife.”
Mike’s shock was genuine, the ripple effect alarming. Conversations halted. Eyes swiveled my way. The closest waiter beamed with a cynical smile.
“I can’t believe you’re treating me like this,” I ranted with clenched fists. “After all these years…I’m done, Mike. Done.” Across from me a sixty-something woman smirked in triumph while her husband just plain stared.
I put my limp hand to my nose as if to staunch the sniffles then rushed for the door and out into the night.
It took Mike longer than it should have to follow me, a nerve-racking eternity, to tell the truth. I paced back and forth on the macadam at least three times—under a streetlight so he wouldn’t miss me.
When he finally caught up, I bapped him in the chest with my knuckles. If anyone were watching, a Roitman for example, I would still look angry, which I was a little.
“What took you so long?”
“I…uh…what the hell was that back there?” He looked stricken, scared, pissed.
“That was your out, you idiot. Now you can go home.”
“Wha…I thought you wanted me to buddy up with the Roitmans. You said you couldn’t do this without me. ‘We’re a team.’ That’s what you said.”
“Yes, and a great job you’ve done so far. You found out Gavin is president of a company, not which company, just a company. I could have found that out on the Internet.”
“Excuse me for trying. I suppose you’re doing better?”
“Better than you.” I found Marsha’s revelation that she thought Toby was excessively fond of money informative, especially coming from her.
“Wait. You said I can go home?”
“Yes, Mike. Go home. Please go home.”
He hugged me.
“Hey! We’re supposed to be fighting.”
“I don’t care.” He kissed me on the lips.
I slapped him.
He stepped back and rubbed his cheek. I couldn’t have scripted it better if I’d tried.
Mike waved his head and laughed. “And how do you suggest I get out of here?”
I folded my arms and probably looked a little smug. “You walk around there,” I indicated the entrance to the lobby of the resort. “You tell somebody you need a taxi, and you give them a tip. Then you take the first commercial flight back to DC. Go straight home. Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Act angry. Say horrible things about you. Same stuff any scorned woman would say.”
“You’re going back in there?”
“I sure am. Frank ordered me my first Lobster Thermador.” Also my purse was under my chair, and my Glock was still on the yacht hidden in my suitcase.
“You’ll keep in touch?”
“Oh, yeah. And you better, too. I want to know if Mary and your daughter are alright.”
“Not me?”
“You are alright, Mike Stoddard. That’s already been established.”
Chapter 17
So what if Mike Stoddard hadn’t really been here while he was here, our room felt hollow without him. Trying in vain to fall asleep, I reminded myself I should be relieved to have him gone. Sure, he was a thoroughly nice husband and almost father, an insurance salesman who danced like a fool at weddings. Nothing on his resume qualified him to probe the Roitmans’ private lives for murder motives. I should be glad he wasn’t here to accidentally give us away, super glad I was no longer responsible for his safety. We would keep in touch, at least during the rest of my stay—the “Guilt Trip,” I’d dubbed it in honor of our mutual objective—but when we were both satisfied that Toby’s demise was his own choice, our tenuous connection would expire. I convinced myself I was okay with that. I really was.
I fell asleep fingering the empty side of the bed anyhow.
In the morning, Father Frank left the three of us women to dawdle over our scrambled eggs and optional mimosas while he paced the rear deck and spoke into his phone. I heard the words “bicycle manufacturer” a couple of times. The man didn’t know the definition of the word “vacation.”
The rest of us didn’t talk much, probably because the air was ripe with my supposed embarrassment.
Then Gavin showed up, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Where’s Mike?”
Chantal shot her brother a glare of warning. His mother wriggled in her chair and affected disinterest.
“Gone,” I answered over my toast.
“Sonovabitch,” Gavin observed with a bark of laughter. Then he aimed an expression at his mother so fraught with private meaning that I made a mental note to quiz Chantal about Gavin’s love-life first chance I got. Discreetly, of course. It might not have a thing to do with Toby’s death, but then again it might.
I knew the socially correct thing for me to do would be to follow Mike’s example and go home, but what would I do about my Glock? Simply leaving it behind would be irresponsible, and anyway I couldn’t afford the airfare. All things considered, I thought it best to leave my fate in the Roitmans’ hands. If they wanted me gone, I felt certain they would arrange it. Bottom line, we wouldn’t be here that much longer anyway.
Apparently, I should have been paying attention because Marsha had departed and Chantal and Gavin were faced off like a pair of mountain goats about to smack heads.
“You’re such a bastard,” Chantal told her brother through clenched teeth. “You apologize, or, or…”
“Or what?” Gavin pressed. “All I did was ask a simple question—land breeze, or sea breeze? Maybe I’m planning to windsurf again, you ever think of that?”
“No you were not, Gavin Roitman. You just wanted to rub my nose in, in what happened yesterday. Admit it.” She rapped his shoulder with her knuckles.
Gavin grabbed her hand and lowered it to her side.
“You’re wrong. If I’d wanted to do that I’d have asked whether the scrambled eggs were clean enough to eat.
”
Chantal lashed out again, faster and harder.
Gavin caught her fist before it did any damage.
Talk about awkward. Chantal flounced into her seat and tapped her clawed fingers on the table. Gavin poked his scrambled eggs as if they were radioactive, then made a point of saying “ummm” after every bite.
Finally, he shoveled the rest of the eggs onto a triangle of toast, topped it with another triangle, snagged his coffee mug and headed up to the top deck.
“Maybe we should do lunch someplace different,” I suggested to Chantal. “Know any restaurants on the beach?”
She looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. Then she said, “Uh, sure,” as I set my empty mimosa glass aside. It was a tall plastic thing with the waistline of a woman and a purple paper umbrella resting on the lip. I’ve never understood the point of those frou frou things, and I’m glad to say my boss at the Pelican’s Perch didn’t either. Heck, Anthony didn’t even approve of crushed ice.
Travel half a mile in any direction and it’s a different world.
Chantal and I wore bathing suits, the pink with yellow polka dots for me plus Karen’s white cover-up, a one-piece job with flattering gathers for Chantal and a flimsy tie-dyed wrap, which she’d crossed up high in front and knotted behind her neck. Probably purchased down here on a previous trip.
We’d walked half a mile along the beach, carrying flip-flops and sneakers respectively, and pointing out interesting sights to each other—a big breasted woman sporting neon stripes, a swarthy man wearing a thong of strained black elastic, newbies who hadn’t applied strong enough sunburn protection. A pretty child with a red bucket.
Guilt Trip Page 7
