Inked Up

by Terri Thayer

  “The Foundation money.”

  “Is that smart?” April cried. “How are you going to finish digging the well? They can’t move in without water.”

  He put out his hand and she took it. He squeezed it, giving her a wan smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. I’ve got options.”

  Whatever money sources he’d been relying on had to have dried up. People had to be scared off by Xenia’s death, the graffiti and the protests. April knew that the supply house needed to be paid. The well drilling wasn’t going as planned. Every extra foot costs another couple of hundred dollars.

  April couldn’t keep the worry out her voice. “Is Hector Valdez helping you?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Look at that,” he said, smiling as Erika screeched happily. Her little cheeks had bloomed with color. Greg had Jonathan in a gentle headlock and was rubbing his head gleefully. Vanesa had moved to her father’s side, nestling under his arm, her face in his neck. He kissed her hair. Tomas was talking to his father, the words lost across the room. His eyes wouldn’t leave his father’s face.

  Mitch said, “I couldn’t let him be stuck in jail while they look for Xenia’s killer. He needs to be out and working and taking care of his kids.”

  April was proud of Mitch. He did have his priorities straight. Earlier in the week, she’d worried that he’d forgotten about Xenia and Pedro. Now she could see he was trying to keep all the balls in the air.

  A germ of an idea snaked into April’s mind. Mitch needed to raise money fast. Scott Ferguson was having a telethon this week. What if she could persuade him to donate even more than he originally promised to the Homes for Hope? Mitch could raise some capital without risking his principles.

  Mitch straightened and gave April a peck on the cheek. “Pedro wants to take the kids to the house and do some painting. I’m going to go with him,” he said.

  April hugged him. She felt him relax, but only for a moment. There was work to be done. She couldn’t wait for the day when they could spend some time in each other’s arms.

  Maybe she could hurry that scenario along. Raising money would help.

  “Vanesa, let’s go make those deliveries,” April said. “We’ve got one stop to make first.”

  CHAPTER 17

  April and Vanesa drove silently up the mountain to Lynwood. She passed the small mall that served the area. Boscov’s, the local department store, was the anchor. The other twenty stores changed with the vagaries of the local economy. Right now a Halloween Superstore occupied the space left vacant by a drugstore chain.

  For a more extensive shopping experience, most of the residents drove thirty miles to Wilkes-Barre or sixty miles south to Allentown. At Christmas, many drove a hundred miles to King of Prussia. Of course, the country club set went to Philadelphia or New York. Or Paris.

  The regular folk had to make do with the local shops, which made services like Trish’s even more valuable. Ordering products from your home had special appeal.

  April explained to Vanesa what she needed her to do. She told Vanesa about the box she’d found on the porch and the starter kits that were inside. Vanesa said nothing. They would deliver the remaining Bella orders, and Vanesa would determine which of these baronesses were going to be part of Xenia’s new business venture.

  At the first stop, Vanesa spoke to the woman of the house. She handed over the box of Bella Beauty, but nothing else.

  “What did she say?” April asked.

  Vanesa shook her head. “She didn’t know anything about the new line.”

  April worried that Vanesa wasn’t asking the right questions, but she had no choice but to trust her.

  At the second stop, they had better luck. Vanesa and a young mother talked in rapid Spanish. She not only accepted her starter kit, but wanted three more. April asked Vanesa to ask her what she knew about Bonita, but after a torrent of words from the other woman, Vanesa’s answer was short and curt.

  “Not much. My mother only told her something new was on the way.”

  It was the same with each of the deliveries. Many of the women were enthusiastic about the new line of cosmetics aimed at the Hispanic market, but no one knew anything.

  Disheartened, April started back to Bonnie’s. Vanesa was silent. April reminded herself that Vanesa’s mother had just died, and the kid was bound to have moments of disquiet.

  Passing a billboard advertising Ferguson Enterprises, April remembered the second part of her errands. Talk to Scott Ferguson.

  Ferguson had a store on Route 309 outside of town where he sold Scottish imports, woolens and jewelry. She found it easily thanks to the large rolling sign with removable letters out front that read, “Ferguson Enterprises. Day trip to Atlantic City every Tuesday. Sign up inside.” It looked like the signs churches used for the homily of the week. This was a different kind of devotion.

  April pulled into the large parking lot. Bright black and shiny, the asphalt appeared freshly sealed for the winter. Several buses emblazoned with “Ferguson Enterprises” spelled out in plaid letters were parked next to a concrete block building at the back of the property.

  She peered out of her windshield, looking for an indication that his office was here, too. Two storefront windows took up about two-thirds of the building, with two glass-fronted doors located midway between them. One window displayed a plaid-dressed mannequin family, two parents and three kids of varying sizes. A motorcycle with plaid saddlebags was in the other window.

  The other third of the building had no windows in the front, but several small windows around the side. Ferguson’s office could be housed there.

  “Stay in the car, Vanesa, okay? I’ll leave you the keys. You can listen to my radio.”

  Vanesa shrugged and set to work changing the stations. April winced when the girl switched one of her preset buttons to the hip-hop station.

  “I won’t be long,” she said.

  She approached the building. A chime sounded as April stepped on the black mat going inside. A cheery woman greeted her from behind a counter that ran across the back of the room. She laid a paperback best seller on the counter, facedown.

  “Welcome. Need some help?” she trilled. Her middle-aged face was layered with wrinkles, but she didn’t seem to mind. She smiled with the enthusiasm of someone who knew she had a place in heaven.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Ferguson.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. The clerk’s eyes trailed to a door at the far end of the counter. April looked that way. The door was unmarked.

  “He’s not in,” the receptionist said. She looked April up and down.

  April looked closer at the woman’s name tag. Olivia Ferguson. Must be his wife. Why was she so protective? He hadn’t struck April as a guy who needed his wife to run interference for him.

  Unless it was just women she had a problem with.

  “I have something to deliver to him. From my father, Ed Buchert of Retro Reproductions?” April asked, letting her voice rise up at the end.

  Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes strayed back to the closed door. Her shoulders twitched as though she heard a sudden noise. April heard it, too. A door had opened and closed in the back. April walked quickly to the front. She saw a figure hurrying to a Porsche parked on the side. His remote key lock beeped twice. She looked back at Mrs. Ferguson, who sank back down onto the stool behind her, pulling her paperback out again. He’d made a clean getaway as far as she was concerned.

  By the time April got to his car, he was seated in it, looking at something in his lap. She grabbed the door handle as he was about to turn the ignition key.

  He turned toward her, startled. She looked in the window and was surprised by a view of hairy knees. Scott Ferguson was in another kilt, this one a solid red wool. The leather sporran laid in his lap like a fancy fanny pack. The screen on his phone glowed from the passenger seat.

  April tore her eyes off his bare knees and met his gaze. “Mr. Ferguson, a word, please,” April said.

&n
bsp; “Look,” he said. “I know who you are. A lawyer with that MAC outfit, right? I told the Campbells not to worry. They will be paid back, I assure you.”

  April was confused before she realized he must have seen her on TV with Valdez. “I’m not a lawyer,” she said. “I’m an interior designer. I have a business proposal.”

  He got out of his car, suddenly much more cordial. “Why didn’t you say so? Come into my office,” he said.

  His ever-present snakish smile deepened into something more human. He moved in to shake her hand. Up close, she could see his appeal. He put her hand in his and rubbed the top familiarly. His eyes never left her face. He made her feel special. She looked down, breaking the contact first.

  “I was just about to go out, but it can wait. I always have a few minutes for a lovely lady. Follow me,” he said. He acted as though he hadn’t been trying to run from her a few minutes earlier. This was a man who liked to be in control. And who was comfortable creating his own reality.

  They walked back, passing a large concrete block building. It was painted dark green and had no identifying signage.

  He led her to a door on the side of the store. It was nearly invisible, painted the same mustardy gold color as the brick side of the building. The door led directly into his office. “After you,” he said, touching April gently on the elbow. “Have a seat.”

  “I have a proposition,” she said.

  “So you said,” he said. “I’m always up for a new idea.”

  He closed the door firmly behind her. She stopped, several feet inside the door, confused. She couldn’t find the couch. The entire room was decorated in tartan. The same red plaid was in the rug, the wallpaper, the curtains. It was like being inside of an antique lunch box.

  April’s eyes shimmered, trying to take it all in. She closed her eyes against the assault. When she opened them again, she headed to the long wall opposite his large mahogany desk. She led with her foot like a blind person and bumped into an umbrella stand that held a collection of walking sticks. The rattling was loud, and as she grabbed them in an effort to stop the whole collection from falling on the floor, she wondered if Ferguson’s wife would come back here to see what was going on.

  She perched on the edge of the couch, unwilling to sink into the cushion and risk being obliterated by the plaid. She was glad she was wearing black. Maybe he could see her.

  April blew out a breath. “I’ll get straight to the point. Winchester Homes for Hope needs a cash influx. Your offer the other day when you cut the ribbon at Suzi’s A.maz.ing Maze to donate one percent of the telethon profits was quite generous.”

  Ferguson leaned forward, arms on his desk. His desk was completely clear, the glass top protecting the antique finish from fingerprints. He must do his work elsewhere. There wasn’t even a laptop in sight. On the credenza were pictures of him with the pope, Bill and Hillary Clinton and Mike Murphy.

  Now that her eyes were starting to adjust, April saw the walls were covered with photos. Bus trips to Atlantic City with smiling seniors. There were pictures of groups standing with piles of luggage in front of Vatican City, the Eiffel Tower and the London Bridge. The buses behind them were emblazoned with the Ferguson Enterprises logo, the same plaid lettering and bagpipe.

  She focused her attention on him. “I was hoping I could convince you to increase your end just a bit.”

  Ferguson blew out a breath and sat back in his chair, obviously reluctant to continue the conversation. But April had had many clients balk at the price of her work or at the length of time it would take her to implement their visions. She knew she was good at bringing people around.

  “That money is meant for the AIDS widows and orphans of Scotland,” he began.

  April hadn’t known AIDS was a problem in Scotland. She leaned forward. “Hear me out. What if I can raise the total amount of the donations? Bigger totals means more money all around, right?”

  She saw the idea of raising more cash spark his interest.

  She leaned in farther, smiling at him. He’d used his charm on her. Now it was her chance to turn hers on. She reminded herself of Xenia’s children, how happy they’d be when they moved into their new bedrooms. She thought of Vanesa, outside in her car, with a place to do her homework. Mitch, his money woes behind him, visiting her again at night.

  She said, “That way you could give away a bigger piece of the pie without hurting your bottom line.”

  Ferguson stroked his chin as though impressed with the size of his mandible. “And how do you propose to increase donations?”

  “I can get Clive Pierce, lead singer of the Kickapoos, on stage. Singing.”

  Ferguson hesitated. April was afraid maybe she’d overplayed her hand. Maybe Clive wasn’t enough.

  Ferguson tapped his veneers. “He doesn’t perform anymore. I heard he suffers from stage fright.”

  “Exactly. He hasn’t performed anywhere in years.” In fact, the last time might have been when she’d gone to his concert in the early eighties. “But I will deliver him. To you. On your stage,” she said, hoping that was true. She knew she’d have to convince Clive, too.

  Ferguson was shaking his head. “The telethon is only two days away.”

  He pushed back, making a show of pulling on his knee socks and rearranging his sporran. April knew he had taken the bait. She just had to reel him in.

  The former lead of the Kickapoos was a moneymaker, and Ferguson knew it.

  He straightened. “I’ll need more volunteers to handle the phones.”

  Yes! She had him now. She’d prevail on the stamping group to do this.

  “Got it covered. Deal?” she asked.

  Ferguson stood. April got up from the couch, hand extended.

  The door to the parking lot opened suddenly. “April?”

  Ferguson turned quickly, surprised to see another visitor. His sporran bounced.

  Vanesa stood in the doorway. “I got worried.” Her eyes were hooded, her expression unreadable. April figured she was more likely bored.

  “Who’s this lovely lady?” he said, the words purring out of him.

  Vanesa smiled and tossed her hair once. Now she didn’t look distressed at all.

  April said. “Wait for me in the car, Vanesa. I’m just about done here.”

  Vanesa was not deterred. Ferguson’s charm was drawing her in. She reached her skinny arm out to shake his hand. “Vanesa Villarreal,” she said.

  Ferguson’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said softly. Behind his gentleness, though, April could see wheels turning.

  “Vanesa,” April said again, nodding her head toward the parking lot.

  “Wait. I have a question for you. I don’t know what music the kids today like to listen to,” Ferguson said, without taking his eyes off her face. “Do you think Clive Pierce is a good addition to my telethon?”

  Vanesa had started toward the door. She stopped and looked at April. “Is Clive going to sing on TV?”

  Ferguson continued. “Do kids your age know who he is?”

  Vanesa nodded. “I sing with him,” she said.

  Ferguson’s gaze shifted from Vanesa to April. She saw a spark of triumph there. Vanesa was backlit in the doorway. From where April stood, Vanesa looked like a beautiful woman, not a young girl. She glanced at Ferguson, knowing what he saw.

  April cringed. “Vanesa, I’m finished here. Let’s go.”

  Ferguson steepled his fingers under his chin. “Sing? Do you now?”

  Vanesa nodded.

  April moved to the door, shielding Vanesa with her body.

  Ferguson said smoothly, “How would you like to sing on my telethon?”

  April’s heart sank. There was no way she’d let Ferguson exploit this kid on television. “No, no, no,” she said. She opened the door, trying to push Vanesa through it and out into the parking lot, into the car where she belonged. Where April could get her back to her father.

  “Not going to happen,” April said.
r />   “I want to do it,” Vanesa said. “I want to be on TV.”

  “Vanesa, hold on,” April said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Ferguson ignored her. “How many songs would you like to do?” he said.

  “Two,” she said with the aplomb of a kid who’d been booking her own act for years.

  “Done,” Ferguson said. He stood, shook her hand, patting her on the upper arm as he did.

  “We’ll see about that,” April said.

  Vanesa turned to her, her eyes flashing with anger. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mother.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Vanesa, you really shouldn’t talk to strangers,” April said, at a loss for what to say to this teenager. It was bad enough that she had to go back and tell Clive that he was singing on the telethon. Now she had to deal with Vanesa as well.

  Vanessa was only fourteen, for crying out loud. Ferguson would need parental permission. Pedro wouldn’t let her appear on the show . . . would he?

  April relaxed a little, enough to stop squeezing the steering wheel. She sat back in the seat.

  “He’s not a stranger,” Vanesa said. “I’ve been there before, with my mother. He just didn’t remember me.”

  “Vanesa, what am I going to tell your father?”

  “My father will let me do whatever I want. And I want to sing.”

  April took her hands off the wheel at the light and pushed on her temples. She felt her blood pulsing and her brain hurt. How had Bonnie gotten through her teenage years? April knew she’d been just as intractable and stubborn as Vanesa.

  At Bonnie’s, Pedro and she were cooking in the kitchen. The heat of peppers pricked April’s nose and made her eyes water. The kitchen smelled heavenly.

  “Hey,” Bonnie said, putting out her cheek for a kiss as she cut up baked tortillas into chips. “Pedro’s making chili.”

  Pedro shrugged shyly. “The kids like it,” he said.

  April said to Bonnie, “I thought you were going to work.”