It was time to help her daughter along again.
“What worries you, sweetie? I know you’re not overworked at the post office these days, what with everyone writing emails and not letters, and fewer catalogues than last year going through the postal system. So that means things are slow, right?”
“Work is fine, Mama. But I did hear Mrs. Chamberlain tell Mr. Klem it was a good thing post office workers are all federal employees, so none of them could be fired. Mr. Klem says postal employees are like cowboys, they work until they ride off into the sunset. He laughed and said something like ‘Yep, unless one of the carriers screws a pooch in front of the post office. With fifty witnesses.’ ” She’d mimicked Mr. Klem perfectly.
“Mr. Klem said that?”
Gunny nodded. “Mr. Klem says all sorts of things. He’s teaching me his router system, you know, which packages go in this or that route hamper. He said it’d take a while, but I think I’m learning. And all the carriers are really nice. The parmigiana’s really good.”
Lulie stilled. “Thank you, Gunny. None of the men are bothering you, are they?” Since Gunny had turned fifteen, boys had swarmed around her. She was beautiful and kind and she was guileless. Lulie knew some of the boys and men meant well. But to others, once they realized Gunny was simple, eager to please, it made her an easy target. Gunny might have been an easy target once, but Lulie and Gunny’s godfather, Chief of Police Danny Masters, had made a point of teaching her what to do if a boy or a man behaved in a certain way around her. There’d been incidents over the years, sure, but Gunny hadn’t forgotten. Now, at thirty, she knew how to take care of herself.
But what about a husband? Kids? Lulie wanted to cry, had cried over the years alone in her bedroom so Gunny wouldn’t hear her and be worried. But there was little chance of a family for Gunny, and it broke Lulie’s heart.
Gunny said matter-of-factly, “No problems from men, Mama, not since Mr. Gibbs. I told him I was sorry his wife didn’t understand him, but if he didn’t leave me alone, I would kick him and then I’d call my godfather—Chief Masters.” Gunny snapped her fingers and gave Lulie a big grin. “Poof, he backed away like I’d shot him. He’s fine now. It always works when I say Uncle Danny is my godfather.”
Lulie was shocked and appalled. Mr. Gibbs was the owner of Providence B&B. Married forever, four grown kids. That paunchy idiot had harassed her daughter? “Well, I’m going to speak to him, you can count on that.”
“Please don’t, Mama. Mr. Gibbs has stayed away from me for a real long time now. Please don’t worry.”
Her daughter didn’t want her to worry? Was that why Gunny hadn’t told her? She felt a spurt of pride. Gunny had dealt with him, but even so, Lulie burned. Take the lecher to a dark alley and beat the crap out of him, or tell his wife, a sweet woman with no spine? Both had appeal.
Gunny said, “That press conference today over in Willicott, did you see it?”
Lulie shook her head. “I heard talk about it from Mrs. Tucker this afternoon. All those bones at the bottom of Lake Massey and that federal lawyer they found in the lake. It’s very hard to believe. You’re not scared, are you?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s about the belt buckle with the Star of David they found.” Gunny carefully cut another bite, eased it into her mouth, hummed while she chewed. Then, “Well, that’s what worries me, Mama, the Star of David belt buckle. They found it with all the bones, and I don’t see how that could be right.”
“Why couldn’t it be right, Gunny?”
More silence from Gunny. Move it along, come on, sweetie. Lulie drank some tea with its hint of mint and lemon, exactly as her mama had taught her to make it. She thought about the work she still had to do this evening as Gunny gathered her thoughts and ate her dinner. Patience, you had to have a bucketload of patience with Gunny or she’d get frustrated. Finally, Lulie said, “I could understand why all those bones would bother you, Gunny, but why do you care so much about a Star of David on a belt buckle? It sounds very strange.”
A light briefly shined in Gunny’s blue eyes, her father’s eyes, then dimmed.
30
* * *
Patience, patience.
“What about the belt buckle, Gunny?” Lulie asked again and watched her daughter delicately pat her mouth with her napkin, like Lulie had taught her, and scrunch her forehead, thinking hard.
Come on, Gunny, out with it.
“The Star of David belt buckle, Mama, the one they found with all those bones. I don’t see how it got there.”
“What? Oh, I see. Do you know whose belt buckle it was, Gunny?” Of course, if Gunny had seen it, dozens of other people had seen it as well. So what was the problem?
Gunny said, “It belonged to Mr. Henry.”
“Henry LaRoque? Goodness, what a memory you have. He’s been gone for what—five years? What a fine man he was, so friendly, so helpful. Do you know his bank gave me my first loan to remodel Heaven Sent? Gunny, wait, don’t you think the buckle only looked like Mr. Henry’s? I mean, how could it be his?”
Gunny shook her head, raised a hand, and lightly pulled on the long French braid her mother plaited for her every morning, a sure sign she was stewing about something.
“Gunny, if it was indeed Mr. Henry’s belt buckle, then dozens of other people must have seen him wear it, not just you.”
“That’s not true. I might be the only one who ever saw it.”
“But how could that be possible?”
“Mama, you know you always told me how important it is to keep a secret? Well, this is a secret. But maybe, since Mrs. Chamberlain and Mr. Henry were special friends, I could ask her about it. Maybe he showed her, too, maybe she can tell me what to do.”
Lulie nearly fell off her chair. Special friends? Half the town knew Henrietta Chamberlain, Gunny’s supervisor and the real power at the post office, had been Mr. Henry’s lover for years, until he’d died, and had chuckled at the pairing of the same names—Henry and Henrietta. She was floored Gunny knew about it, too. She could picture Gunny asking Mrs. Chamberlain about the belt buckle, picture Mrs. Chamberlain’s embarrassment focusing back on her daughter. But mostly she could picture Mrs. Chamberlain’s pain at being reminded of how horribly Mr. Henry had died. How could it even be true? She said in her firmest voice, “Now, don’t you go bothering your supervisor, Gunny, unless she brings it up, all right?”
Gunny frowned. She didn’t say anything more. Lulie watched her lovingly place the last bite of parmigiana in her mouth, heard her hum, and wondered, as she often did, what her daughter was thinking.
While she waited for her to figure out the words she needed, Lulie looked around her remodeled kitchen with its shiny appliances and the large granite island, made to her exact specifications, perfect for her daily baking. For the past three years, she hadn’t had to go into Heaven Sent at dawn every morning to work. No, she simply rolled out of bed, made herself a pot of coffee, and whipped up cinnamon buns and raisin muffins and the half dozen other pastries she served each day, right here in her own kitchen. It had cost her—well, it had cost Andrew—a buttload of money, but he’d been willing to pay it. After all, it was to his advantage she keep quiet about Gunny’s paternity, and of course she would. She didn’t hold it against him—in fact, she liked him, admired what he’d accomplished—but she knew he’d never be part of his daughter’s life. He couldn’t be, not without the very good chance his own life would be ruined. It was also true Andrew didn’t want her or Gunny to have any financial worries. He’d insisted on paying for her to remodel the 1960s two-story house set in the middle of a large lot covered with maple and oak trees on East Hilton Street Lulie had inherited from her parents seven years ago. But she was the one who paid Ray Lee, the big-eared teen down the street, to keep the lush grass mowed weekly. She’d filled the hanging flower baskets with petunias and impatiens bursting out now in the middle of the long hot summer.
Lulie sighed and thought again about her nightly bookkeeping r
itual, an endless stream of crap to do for a dozen different government agencies, and all the while the government buffoons preached how they loved small businesses. She wondered who looked at all the papers she churned out. She saw a faceless bureaucrat, probably yawning, balling up her work, banking it off the wall into a government wastebasket. No one cared, but it didn’t matter. One of them might, and who knew when or if that would ever happen. So she had to do it or risk paying huge fines, maybe lose her bakery, maybe even go to jail.
“All right, Mama.”
What was all right? She’d forgotten. Oh yes, Mr. Henry’s belt buckle. And a secret. What secret? Like many other citizens of Haggersville, Lulie felt indebted to Mr. Henry LaRoque, who’d founded the First National Bank of Haggersville. “Yes, that’s best, Gunny.”
Lulie left Gunny to wash the dishes, her nightly chore, while she went to her small study to toil on her computer, the part of owning a small business she hated. Every few minutes she cursed the government, couldn’t help it. She tried not to curse out loud because she knew Gunny had sharp ears and she didn’t want her to hear talk like that.
Gunny heard her, of course, and she smiled. Words she wasn’t allowed to say. She wondered if she’d ever be old enough to say what she wanted. She turned to survey the spotless kitchen, ready for her mama’s baking at dawn tomorrow. Perfect, everything was perfect. She turned off the light, went to her mama’s study, and kissed her good night. As she walked up the stairs to her room, she thought about the TV show that was waiting for her—Elementary. Her mother said the show had been on for too long and the plots were getting silly, but Gunny didn’t care. She couldn’t get enough of Jonny Lee Miller, even though he was bald now. When you loved someone, she’d heard Mrs. Chamberlain say, you overlooked small flaws.
Before Gunny fell asleep, she thought again about Mr. Henry’s Star of David belt buckle. She knew the one she’d seen on TV was his, not one that looked like his. She remembered when, years ago, she’d visited him with a cake for his seventy-fifth birthday. The housekeeper, Mrs. Boilou, had shown her into Mr. Henry’s study. He was polishing something. He looked up and smiled at her, considered, then beckoned her to him. That’s when he’d seen the cake, and they’d all had a slice. After Mrs. Boilou had left, Mr. Henry had shown her what he’d been looking at, his golden Star of David belt buckle, and asked her if she didn’t think it was very fine indeed. Of course she’d said yes. He’d told her there was no other belt buckle like it in the world. And then he’d told her she wasn’t to tell anyone else about seeing it. It would be their secret. Could she keep this secret? Of course she could, she knew all about keeping secrets.
Mr. Henry had always been kind to her, often given her a small packet of gummy bears when he saw her in the post office or at her mama’s bakery. Once he even came out of his office at his bank to say hello and give her gummy bears.
Mr. Henry was dead five years now, and still she’d kept his secret, until tonight, when she’d told her mama. But she’d seen his belt buckle on television, and how could that be? What should she do? Go to her godfather? He’d listen to her, but what could he do? No, she’d speak to Mrs. Chamberlain, Mr. Henry’s very special friend, even though her mama said she shouldn’t. Maybe Mr. Henry had shown her his belt buckle, too, and she’d kept it a secret, as Gunny had. Maybe Mrs. Chamberlain would know what to do.
31
* * *
PRINCE WILLIAM FOREST PARK
VIRGINIA
MONDAY EVENING
Victor was still shaking from what Lissy had done. He couldn’t believe she’d awakened him from a sound sleep in the shade of those thick oak trees down the block from that fried lobster place and claimed Savich and Sherlock were inside. He didn’t believe it, not until he saw Savich’s red Porsche. They were there, only fifty feet away from him. Someone had recognized him, someone had called Savich.
They’d waited until the agents left, and Lissy had followed, staying back until they were on a street with no cars coming in either direction. Lissy was screaming in his ear to shoot them, but he’d said no, no way. She’d pulled out his Glock—well, actually, the agent’s Glock—and let loose. And nearly gotten both of them killed.
So I didn’t get them. It was still fun, shot holes in that red Porsche of his, and he smashed in his front fender—bet he cried and wailed and carried on like a little girl. And he got himself a flat tire, too. That’ll slow them up some. Bet it’ll cost him a bundle to fix his baby.
Victor waited for the hammer to drop. It had been Lissy’s fault, the whole debacle, but he knew she’d turn it around on him.
If I hadn’t had to drive, I could have shot him and that redheaded bitch. Okay, I’ll admit it, I was surprised when he did that turn and came straight at us, Ms. FBI Agent shooting at us like that.
“She nearly got me. I got glass in my face, Lissy. Now they know for sure what car we drive. We’ve got bullet holes for the world to see. Someone will call us in.” He added more twigs and wadded-up papers to the embers in the fire pit.
Savich was fast, Victor, made that turn faster than Mama threw a hammer at the mailman for ogling her. If they’d been in our lame-butt car and we’d had the Porsche, I’d have got both of ’em. They’d be dead meat.
Victor groaned. “Fact is we were lucky, Lissy. If that old man hadn’t chased his mutt across the road in front of him, Savich wouldn’t have swerved and hit that fire hydrant. They’d have got us, Lissy, you know it. Why not admit it? We barely got out of there.” Victor laid his palm over his heart. “I still feel like I want to throw up. That was way too close. I hope we’re safe now, but if anyone saw us drive in here, they could tell everyone.”
Screw any loser who saw us. Doesn’t matter. We’re safe. I got us out of there fast, and you know something? It really was fun, got my blood pumping, made me forget those staples in my stomach.
Victor frowned into the small fire pit. The fire wasn’t hot enough yet to heat up the beef enchiladas he’d bought ready-made at a market in Lewiston that morning. On the other hand, he wasn’t really hungry, not after Sherlock had nearly shot his head off, so close he almost puked up the fried lobsters. His heart began pounding a mad tattoo again, and he rubbed his hand over his chest, hoping to slow it.
Got some heartburn, do you? That’s what you get, gorging yourself on all those lobsters. They weren’t bad, never had fried lobster before. And they didn’t make me queasy, not like you.
“Shut up, Lissy.”
Hey, you’re still shaking. You are such a wuss, Victor.
He wanted to slap her—not hard, because he knew those staples still hurt, only a little slap, to get her attention, make her realize she owed everything to him. Instead, Victor poked the burning twigs with a stick, stirred the embers, and tucked in some more balled-up newspaper. Sparks flew, the paper caught fire, and then the twigs, and warmth spewed out. He set the enchiladas on a bit of tinfoil on the grate. He leaned back on his elbows and sighed. “I really wish you hadn’t taken a chance like that, Lissy. We could be dead or back in Central. I hated all those crazies and those guards, always giving you the stink-eye.”
Wuss, wuss.
He ignored her, breathed in the smell of the enchiladas. “You said I didn’t think enough, went too fast at that book festival with the chocolate bar, but you did the same thing today. No thought at all. You roared ahead, didn’t pay any attention to anything I said. Didn’t think they’d turn on us, did you? You thought they’d try to run, but they didn’t.”
You gotta take your chances when they’re offered up, like Mama said, not cower and hide. But only when there’s a chance of it paying off, Victor, not like that stunt of yours at the book festival. You take chances when it’s smart, and this was smart.
“Would you shut up! I don’t care what your mama said. She’s dead, Lissy, long gone. There’s only you and me now, and yes, we’ve got to be smart. You don’t pick up a gun and start shooting. You know we’ve got to plan, and I’m good at it. No more h
otdogging, okay, by either of us.”
Like I said, if we’d had the Porsche and not this pitiful Kia, they’d be dead. And now the Kia has bullet holes all over it.
“I’ll buy another car tomorrow morning. It’s too dangerous now to drive the Kia around.”
You paid five thousand dollars for that old Kia, said you didn’t want to steal a car and always have to be looking over your shoulder. Now you’re going to buy another one? Where’d you get the money to buy it? It’s not from Mama’s stash back home, so where’d you get the money?
Victor gently lifted the tinfoil holding the two enchiladas with a fork, careful not to spill the juice, and laid it on a flat rock in front of him. “One for me, one for you, Lissy. Shut up about the money, okay? Why should I tell you where I got it? You never told me where your mama hid the money we took from those banks. Half a million bucks has to be buried at her house somewhere, and you wouldn’t tell me. Why not tell me now?”
She was silent, and then he heard laughter in her voice. You know, I’m thinking those fried lobsters weren’t very healthy, Victor. It’s a good thing we’re young, or we’d keel over of heart attacks. I want to pick where we eat next time.
“Yeah, sure. But you’ll order a bucket of french fries, so crispy they walk right into your mouth. That’s healthy?”
She laughed. Maybe. Victor, we heard on the radio today how Octavia Ryan’s going to be buried in that fancy Catholic cathedral in Falls Church tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a big to-do, lots of big muckety-mucks boohooing for her. My mama always told me you plan really good, then you go for surprise and shock and WHAM—the bugs freeze, can’t think straight, doesn’t matter if they’re big-assed important bugs, they’re terrified, scared out of their buggy wits.
“Lissy, you know I already have a plan, just looking for the right time and place to make a big splash. You know I’m smart. I know how to do stuff, know where to buy stuff to make it happen. First I was thinking the Savich house, I decided taking the little boy was better, it would really make them pay for what they took from me.” He ate a bite of enchilada. It was cold in the middle, but he didn’t care. “This cathedral? Now, I think it’s perfect. Don’t doubt me, Lissy, this time it’s going to be huge.”
Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22) Page 13
