He addressed the salesman.“What are you doing here?”
The question, fully directed at Chris, had the young man reaching for the knot of his tie again. “Standard policy, sir, they are…” he cleared his throat, “filling out the financial paperwork for the background.”
“You make all the customers fill out these forms?” Roman took the sheet from Sean with a pressed smile that communicated admiration and respect for him, and then he dropped the uncompleted form in front of Chris. “Do you have any idea who these people are?” Roman gestured to Sean and Sara with a wide sweep of his arms.
Chris’s face paled as he looked from Sean to Sara, back to Sean.
“I will take that as a no. These people get whatever they want, do you understand?” Roman turned pleasantly toward Sean. “What fine model garnered your attention?”
“He fell in love with the SLS AMG GT,” Sara chirped in.
“Let’s get you a set of keys, then, shall we?”
Chris bolted to his feet. “But, boss, company pol—”
“Rubbish. This is Sean and Sara McKinley. It might not hurt for you to listen to the news or read the papers.” He addressed Sean and Sara. “Please, forgive him for this misunderstanding.”
Sean glimpsed at Chris, who wouldn’t satisfy his desire for eye contact.
“McKinley.” The name slipped from Chris’s lips and then his eyes widened. He covered his mouth and dropped his hand nearly as quickly as it had made contact. “I am so sorry.”
“As you should be. We will discuss this matter later,” Roman said.
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind.” Sean hadn’t used the money to toy with people yet, but he realized he didn’t altogether hate the power that came with it.
“Changed your mind?” Panic draped across Roman’s features, followed by a flash of rage directed to his employee. “If there is anything we can do, please.”
“Well, there is, actually.” Sean casually placed his hands in his pockets again.
“Valentino.” The designer cut wasn’t missed by Roman.
“Correct.” Sean glimpsed at Chris, who had dropped back into his chair.
“Very nice. May I?” Roman asked, hand extended.
Sean nodded and Roman touched the sleeve, barely brushing the fabric with his fingertips. He lifted his head, leveling eyes with Sean.
“The test drive, please, let me arrange it for you. You can go right now.”
“No, I don’t think I’m in the mood for that anymore.”
“Please, Mr. McKinley.”
Sean went to Sara and wrapped his arm around her waist. He waited the beats of a few seconds and then said, “We’ll just take it. Actually,” he glanced at Sara, “we’ll take two.”
Settled In For The Night
A FEW HOURS LATER, THEY left the dealership with a new car in metallic gray. The second one was being ordered in as Sara requested it in Mars Red, a color they didn’t have in stock. They also ordered vanity plates—McKinley 1 and McKinley 2.
They drove past their future home and, even though the house sat back on the property, the sight of the gate and winding drive was enough to infuse them with electric energy. They were ready to move on and make a home together—somewhere fresh and new where they could put their stamp on it.
After they drove by it, they were lost in conversation about furniture arrangement and their personalized plans for the property. Even an hour later, when they had slipped by the post office to pick up Sara’s held mail, they were still talking about it.
“I really want to paint one room red,” Sara said as she shuffled through a pile of envelopes.
“You have a thing for red.” He took the mail from her with one hand while reaching to grasp hers with his other one, as they walked back to the car.
Sara gazed up at him. “It really is a beauty.”
“Yeah, not bad is it?”
“I thought that poor salesman was going to have a heart attack when his boss came in.”
“And did you see his face when I said we’d take two?”
They were both laughing.
“I know we shouldn’t take such pleasure in it, Sara, but—”
“Hey, it was fun. It’s not like we’ve always had money.”
“What do you say to a celebratory dinner?”
“For the money?”
Sean shrugged. “For the money, the car, the house.” A certain mischievousness lit his eyes. “Us.”
“Sounds like an excellent idea.”
They chose a small bistro and had a peaceful meal, dining by candlelight and sipping a glass of wine. Afterward, they headed home and that’s where they settled, on the sofa, at eight forty-five, getting ready to watch themselves on TV.
“Here you go, darling.” Sean handed her a glass of cognac, a habit that had recently entrenched the both of them. They had even invested in a set of crystal snifters, an odd contrast against the rest of the dishes filling Sean’s cupboards.
“Thank you.” Sara reached out from beneath the blanket she was nestled under. “I always hate seeing myself on television.”
“I’m not really sure why. You’re beautiful.” He snuggled beside her.
“Says the man who is extremely partial.” She smiled at him, a lazy one encouraged by the eventful day and the glass of wine earlier. After she drank the cognac, she would be melting into the sofa.
Their eyes drifted from each other and toward the TV. The volume was muted but the local news played out on screen. From the captions and expressions on people’s faces, along with picket signs, something had happened.
“Turn it up, please,” Sara said.
“I was just go—”
“Zoning bylaws are making it impossible for the local business owner. How are we supposed to carry on when taxes go sky high? We barely make enough to survive now.”
The concern came from an older woman, who stood in front of a man, about her age. He had his arm around her, his hand on her shoulder.
“This business has been in our family for generations and we are forced to close our doors.”
The reporter took the microphone from the woman’s face and put it back in her own. “It seems Mayor Davenport has some answering to do for the business people of Albany. When we tried to contact him, we were told that the mayor wasn’t fielding any investigative inquiries at this time. That’s another way of saying ‘no comment’ or ‘it’s not my problem.’ Abby Clark, reporting from downtown Albany.”
Sean took a draw of cognac and set the glass down on the table beside him. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t vote for the guy.”
Sara chuckled. “I didn’t realize you loved politics.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t vote.”
“You should see the look on your face right now.” She pointed at him. “Of course I do, but I don’t think it really matters who is in office.”
He shifted his body, angling toward her. “And…you are American?”
“Stop it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t think it matters?”
“Nope.” She took a sip, and opted for cradling the glass against her chest.
“Hmm.”
“I didn’t realize I married a political junkie.”
“Oh no, I’m not exactly that, but I think it does matter who is voted in.”
“Can we agree to disagree on this one?” The way she looked at him, the softness in her expression, the glint in her eyes, she could get away with murder right now.
He nodded.
She turned back toward the TV. “There we are.”
It was an introductory piece about what would be coming up next. It showcased Reanne Mable, with flashes of them, the caption reading Move over Donald Trump.
“We’re going to be larger than life on this thing.” She lowered her head, her chin tucking toward her chest.
“You don’t like my large screen TV?”
“Don’t you mean ours?”
He teased her. “I’m sharing my billions with you and you want to stake claim on the electronics too?”
“I figure, why not.” She laughed.
“You know, I bought this thing when you told me we’d just be friends.”
She reached out and touched his arm, resulting in her moving over and snuggling into his side. “Blanket?” She held it up, bracing to drape it over him, but he shook his head. “You were seeking retail therapy?”
“Yep.” He pointed to the media area. “Actually everything you see over there.”
She angled her head toward him. “It was all bought the day I said we’d remain friends?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her happy expression diluted into a somber one, extinguishing the light from her eyes for the trace of a second. “You know we had to make that decision, right?”
“Yes, but don’t worry your pretty little head about it anymore because it’s history.” He brushed back hair from her forehead and kissed her there.
“I’m so happy that it is,” she said.
“Me too.” He wrapped his arm around her and they watched themselves play out on the screen.
Wake-up Call
THE RINGING PHONE PIERCED THE darkness of the room, and wee morning hour, like an air raid siren. Sara jolted upward, and her eyes opened to an eerie blue glow casting from the call display.
She jabbed his shoulder. “Sean.”
The phone was on the stand beside him. She could reach it if she rolled over him, but she hated the timing. Good news never came at two a.m.
“Sean,” she repeated, nudging him again.
“Wh…what?” His voice came out like a moan and, through it, he seemed to wake up and stir to life. “Who could be calling now?”
“Please, Sean, answer it.”
One of his eyes opened, she could discern it in the blue glow, and the other followed shortly behind.
He rolled over and put an end to the noise. “Hello.”
Sara had pressed against Sean’s back and placed a hand on his arm. All she could tell was the caller sounded worked up about something, but she didn’t read anything dire in the energy coming from Sean. She let out a deep breath. No one had died, or was dying.
“Who is it?” she whispered into his ear.
He turned over his shoulder and mouthed the caller’s name, but without the glow contributing illumination, even this close to him, she couldn’t tell what he had said.
Sean spoke into the receiver. “Yes, I don’t see why we couldn’t meet you in the—”
Sara willed her senses to pick up the caller’s words, but it was fruitless.
“Bye, now. See you then.” Sean placed the receiver back on the cradle and rolled to his back.
Sara stayed tucked near to him, her chest lying halfway across his, her hand playing with his chest hair. “Who was it?”
“Re—” A large yawn encased his face, causing her to follow suit. “Reanne Mable.”
“Reanne? What did she want at this hour?”
“I don’t know exactly, but she wants to meet with us tomorrow morning, about something important.”
“Meet with us? Why?”
“We’ll find out, darling. Can we go back to sleep now?”
“Is everything all right? Is she okay?”
“She sounded okay, maybe a little stressed.” He placed a hand on her head and she read his message through his fingertips. He needed to sleep.
She found irony that it was him and not her craving more shut-eye. Normally, she was out and he was the light sleeper. She went back to her side of the bed, her mind awake, her eyes staring at the ceiling and, having adapted to the limited light, she was able to discern items around her in the room.
“Rise and shine.” Sean walked into their bedroom, carrying a tray with orange juice and coffee, and three slices of buttered toast with strawberry jam.
“Oh.” Sara let out an enormous, audible yawn.
“Sounds to me like someone could use a little more sleep.”
“You have no idea.” She maneuvered to a sitting position, but the moment she did, her eyes enlarged and she hopped out of bed. “Be right back.”
He smiled as he watched her race across the room, out the door, and heard her footsteps tap the hall flooring. A minute later, he heard the flush followed by her prancing feet coming toward him.
She ran a hand down her face and then took the coffee from the tray. She showed no interest in the toast. He set the tray on the nightstand and got back into bed with her—him with his glass of orange juice, her hugging her steaming coffee mug, both of them with their backs to the wall for support. They didn’t have the luxury of a headboard.
She blew on it and took a mouthful. “What was it Reanne wanted, anyhow, at two in the morning? I thought someone had died.”
“I could have killed someone.” He laughed.
“I do remember that coming off you, yes.” She glanced over at him, her hair a tousled bed of curls. “What did she want? Something about a meeting?”
“She wants to meet to discuss something.”
“Did she say what?”
“She just said it was really important and that we need to trust her.”
“Important and trust her? Seems like odd requirements.”
“That’s what I thought, even at two, but now I’m actually awake, I’m really intrigued.”
“What could a news reporter want of us?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The Past Comes Back
SEAN TURNED INTO THE RESIDENTIAL drive that belonged to the address provided to him. He was impressed that he remembered the directions, seeing as he’d received them at such an early hour. He stopped at the wrought-iron gate and intercom system.
Sara glanced over at him. “She does all right for herself, doesn’t she?”
“I’d say.” He lowered the window and announced their arrival to the guard.
“Come on up, Mr. McKinley.” The gates opened and the Mercedes drifted through, as a sole fishing boat would in a water lock built to accommodate yachts—with plenty of room to spare.
The estate was expansive, with a drive that wound in from the road, providing privacy to the residence.
Sean parked in the roundabout and went to get Sara’s door. She lifted out a slender leg, slipped her hand into his, and he helped her up the rest of the way. The Mercedes was a lower ride that his Chevy had been.
He tugged down on his blazer, straightening it out after bending over to reach for Sara.
The door opened before they had a chance to ring the bell, which Sean was certain would have sounded a beautiful chime throughout the home.
“This way.” A uniformed, middle-aged woman rushed them inside.
Inside, it resembled the house they bought. Curved staircases wrapped along both sides of the entry, rising to meet at an upper-level balcony that overlooked the space. The woman led them into a room on the right.
Reanne got up to greet them. “Sean and Sara, thank you for coming.”
“Certainly,” Sean said.
“Would you like anything to drink? Juice, water, tea, coffee?”
“I’m good. Darling?” Sean directed to Sara.
“I’ll take a coffee.” She smiled politely at their host, the expression waning when she met Sean’s eyes.
His wife was a walking coffee addict, like many residents of North America.
“Ida.”
The uniformed woman nodded, and left to fulfill the request, but Sean didn’t miss the curt reflection in the woman’s eyes before doing so.
“Please.” Reanne invited them to take a seat again.
The room had a large fireplace with a mantle. The furniture was suited to a modern taste, which gave the indication it was more for show than comfort. Framed political photographs were displayed on the end tables and showcased on the walls. Sean noticed they all had one thing in common—Mayor Davenport. And Sara considered him politically-minded—obviously, she had m
ade that conclusion before meeting Reanne.
Reanne slipped into a beige club chair and crossed her legs toward them. “I really do appreciate you two coming.”
“What can we do for you, Reanne?” Sean asked.
Her jittery movements culminated in her clasping her hands on her knee, but her one index finger kept tapping the other hand.
“Reanne, whatever it is.” Sara dipped her head in an effort to encourage dialogue.
She sat ramrod straight then, and Mayor Davenport entered the room.
The pictures clicked into focus. This wasn’t Reanne’s home, this was Davenport’s residence.
“What is this about?” Sean asked.
Another woman came in behind Davenport, a close image of Reanne. There was a definite family resemblance there. The main difference being the tax bracket the two women lived in. While Reanne was polished, this woman exuded an air around her. Her long, layered blond hair had a finer sheen.
She slipped her hand into Davenport’s as they came farther into the room.
Reanne gestured toward them. “This is Wayne Davenport. You are likely aware he’s the mayor.” A pause to lick her lips. “To me, he’s my brother-in-law. And, this is my sister, Randi. Our parents liked their R names.”
“Mr. McKinley.” Davenport shook hands with him and then with Sara. His wife followed behind.
Making contact with the couple, Sean sensed something had happened. What, of course, he didn’t know, but it had stabbed the Davenports at the heart and soul.
Davenport sat down on a couch that faced them, his wife beside him. “Would you like anything to dri—?”
“I already asked them,” Reanne began, but her response became mute when Ida entered with Sara’s coffee.
“Thank you,” Sara said.
“That will be all, Ida,” Davenport said. “And, please, close the doors behind you.”
He waited for her to latch the french doors.
Sean glanced to Sara and found she was looking at him as well. The same questions likely paraded in her head, what was all this about that it required closed doors?
Reanne leaned into the side of her chair. “I’m why you’re here, so I’ll begin with telling you that I know all about you two, what you’re capable of, what you did in Cancun.”
Carolyn Arnold - McKinley 04 - Politics is Murder Page 2
