“Yeah, and all the other changes the inspector wanted.”
“Okay. I guess I’d better get my checkbook.”
After walking Chico to the door and thanking him, I poured myself a second cup of coffee and sat down to balance the checkbook and look over the bills. It wasn’t pretty.
The biggest single item had been the exterior painting. If I could have done it myself I would have, but it was too big a job for me, and even if I’d had the skills to do it, I didn’t have the time. I had to get it done before the snow. Otherwise, especially if we had a rainy spring, it could have delayed my opening. Luckily, we’d had a week-long stretch of unseasonably warm weather. It gave us time enough, but only just, to get the painting done. Good thing Mr. Jorgensen had a big crew. And the end product really was beautiful.
The bright yellow siding looked a little flashy sitting among its more sedate neighbors, clad in the standard New England white clapboard with black shutters, but the brighter paint palette is historically fitting for the Victorian period and very pretty. It looks like the perfect spot for a romantic weekend in the country. Mr. Jorgensen did a good job, but the bill . . . ouch! It just about wiped me out.
Fortunately, the consignment shop had sold three more of my designer bags and two of my Chanel suits. If not for that, I wouldn’t have been able to pay Chico and the others.
The carpenter would want to be paid after he finished installing the two new cabinets in the bathroom; then Chico would be back to connect the water and drains to the sinks. Hopefully, we wouldn’t run into any more surprises.
Thankfully, the cabinets had cost me almost nothing. I’d salvaged two antique dressers from the attic and had the carpenter cut holes in the tops and install two ceramic sinks I’d bought for ten dollars at a barn sale. They looked good, too, very much in keeping with the age and style of the house. And the claw-foot tub we’d brought down from the attic was free. Once the new tile was in—a discontinued style I’d bought for fifty percent off at the tile shop; “discontinued” was becoming one of my favorite words—the bathrooms would look great. I hoped.
I’d checked a DVD out from the library, Tile Installation for the Do-It-Yourselfer. The video made it look easy; hopefully the video was right.
Jake had volunteered to install the tile for me, but I’d already let him do too much. He was certainly a handy man to have around. And surprisingly easy to talk to.
Another thing about Jake? He hasn’t made the slightest move on me. He hasn’t tried to fondle me, or kiss me, or even flirt with me. A few years ago, that would have bothered me, but now it’s a relief. I can be myself with Jake. And, as I said, he is a handy man to have around. If I so much as hinted that I wanted help tiling this floor, he’d be on my doorstep with a trowel and a bucket of grout before I could hang up the phone.
But I don’t want his help. I want to do it myself. There’s something nice about collapsing into bed at the end of the day, exhausted, knowing you’ve accomplished something. If not for all the bills (and my ever-shrinking bank balance) I might have said I was enjoying it.
If not for that.
Sighing, I flipped through my check register and looked at all the entries: checks written to the plumber, the electrician, the carpenter, the heating and air-conditioning company, the various supply companies—nearly all of them for more than I’d budgeted when I sat down to work out my original business plan.
Chico found me a deal on faucets and showerheads—fixtures his other customers had ordered before getting laid off and having to cancel their remodeling plans. That helped make up some of the cost of the shower pan, but there was still so much to be done. But my biggest worry was the roof.
Dwight Sparks, a white-haired man with a Santa Claus beard and smile to match, the owner of A-1 Affordable Roofing, had come to inspect the roof and give me an estimate the week before. The verdict? The whole thing needed to be replaced. It was going to cost thirty-three thousand dollars.
“Thirty-three thousand! Are you sure? Couldn’t we just patch the bad spots? Replace some of the shingles?”
His smile faded and he shook his head sorrowfully. “I know, Madelyn. It’s a lot of money, but that roof is shot. I’m gonna have my boys come over tomorrow and tack on some big blue tarps, real heavy-duty ones, that should keep the wet out of your attic for now, but come spring, you’ve got to replace that roof. One big storm and the whole darned thing could blow off. But you seem like a nice lady. I’ll tell you what; I’m going to give you a ten percent discount. I’ll do it for twenty-nine thousand seven hundred. That’s just the best I can do.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sparks. I appreciate it. I’ll call you as soon as I get the money together.”
Twenty-nine thousand seven hundred dollars. Where was I going to get that kind of money? How was I going to pull this off?
I penciled a reminder to myself to check out the cost difference between twenty-year and thirty-year shingles, then paused and scribbled one word—“Gene?”
His message was still on my voice mail. I’d first listened to it two days before, while deleting all but one of the several messages left by Sterling, some cajoling, some pleading, mostly angry, and always with the same aim—to get me to testify at his sentencing, now just days away.
Gene’s voice was a smooth contrast to Sterling’s desperate tone, but his request was the same, though he’d added a wrinkle that got my attention.
“I understand why you don’t want to do it, Madelyn. You’re safely out of the spotlight now and I’m sure you want to stay that way, but it’s just one day. Sterling tells me that you’re remodeling your grandmother’s house into an inn. That must be an expensive venture. The firm is prepared to help with any—well, shall we say expenses—within reason, of course, that might be required in association with your court appearance on Sterling’s behalf. If you’d like to discuss that further, please give me a call at the office. I’ll talk to you later, Madelyn.”
I saved the message and, in the last two days, had played it at least five times.
Why was Gene so interested in having me testify for Sterling anyway? Maybe it was some sort of desperate PR move on the law firm’s behalf, a last-ditch attempt to make it look like the people they represented weren’t complete crooks. Or maybe Gene hoped that I’d be a good diversion for the press, that a picture of me arriving at the courthouse to “stand by my man” would prove more interesting to the media than pictures of him taking the same route. Maybe that. Maybe Gene thought that keeping the name of Blackman, Janders, and Whipple out of any news reports about the notorious Sterling Baron was worth a grand, or five, or ten. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Ten thousand dollars. That would make a big dent in my roofing bill. Would that qualify as “expenses within reason”?
I hated Gene, hated the cool assurance in his voice, the certainty that I would return his call, as if he’d somehow managed to sneak a peak at my bank balance and knew how desperate I was.
Did Gene know how badly I needed more money? Or did he just assume that everyone needed more money? In Gene’s world, Sterling’s world—the world that had been my world—there was no such thing as enough, only more. More than enough.
I remember a cocktail party we threw years before, Sterling standing in a corner with a martini glass in his hand, surrounded by sycophants, including Gene, telling the story of the reporter who had asked John D. Rockefeller, the wealthy industrialist, how much money would be enough. Squinting and pinching the thumb and forefinger of his drink-free hand together until they were nearly touching, Sterling leaned toward his listeners and delivered the famous mogul’s response.
“Just a little bit more.”
The audience howled, partly because of the mischievous look on Sterling’s face and partly because they understood exactly what the old tycoon had been talking about.
That was what they wanted, wasn’t it? What Sterling wanted? What I’d wanted? A little bit more. Just a little bit more.
Look what it had gotten
us.
I sat there, staring at the paper, and then crossed out Gene’s name.
I rinsed my coffee cup and left it to dry on the counter, put on my jacket, then walked back to the table to collect the outgoing mail. At the bottom of the pile lay a large manila envelope containing the forms required for my do-it-yourself divorce. They were all filled out and ready to go. All I had to do was get them into Sterling’s hands to begin the proceedings. Easy. Since all of our assets were gone and we had no property or children or pets to fight over, divorcing Sterling required little more effort than filing these forms, paying some fees, and signing some papers.
There was one more message on my voice mail, from Sterling, the last of the dozens he’d left, and the only one I had saved.
“Madelyn, it’s me. I know you’re not coming to the hearing. It’s okay. I get it. Wouldn’t have helped anyway. I was kidding myself.” He expelled a single, sharp laugh. “I’m never going to see the outside of a prison again, I know that. But it would have been nice to see you again. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not trying to lay a guilt trip on you. I’m not. I’ve put you through enough already and . . . well, I just wanted you to . . .” His voice cracked, like he was trying to keep from crying. In all our years together, I had never seen Sterling cry, not once.
“I’m sorry, Madelyn. I know you won’t believe me, but I am. I wish I’d done things differently, but even if I had another chance, I don’t think I’d have known how. I’m not a good man. I never was. I know I used you, Madelyn. We used each other, didn’t we? But I didn’t want it to be like that. Everything that was supposed to make me happy never did—except you, for a while. In my entire life, you were the only thing that brought me any happiness, the only person I ever came close to loving.”
For a moment the line was quiet except for the sound of his breathing.
“Anyway,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that, while I still had the—”
That was the end of the message. An electronic beep cut him off, signaling his time was up. I don’t know why I saved it. I guess I felt sorry for him, for us. Guilty.
I hadn’t stolen anything from anybody and I hadn’t known that’s what Sterling was doing, but that didn’t make me innocent. Sterling was right, we had used each other.
We were not good people. I am not a good person.
I picked up the mail and my grocery list, stuffed them into my coat pocket, and went out to run my errands. I left the manila envelope on the table.
I’d heard that a mattress factory in Norwalk was going out of business and having a big liquidation sale, so, after finishing my errands in New Bern, I drove down. It was worth the drive.
I bought five brand-new mattresses for seven hundred and fifty dollars, delivery included. The truck will bring them tomorrow afternoon. I also bought a dozen excellent-quality pillows for seven dollars each. It was a really good deal—too good.
By this time next week, everyone at the factory will be out of a job. Will they be able to find another? That factory would close whether I bought mattresses or not, but I felt guilty, benefiting from the misfortune of others.
Impulsively, I shoved a twenty-dollar bill into the hand of the young man who helped me carry the pillows to the car. He took it, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I spent half the drive home debating whether I should have done that or not. Not because of the money. He needed it as much as I did, maybe more. Maybe he has a family. But I wish I’d handled it a little more subtly. I didn’t mean to embarrass him.
It was dark by the time I got back to New Bern. My gas tank was almost as empty as my stomach. The money I’d given to the man who loaded my car had been earmarked for a drive-through cheeseburger and a fill-up on the way home. Thankfully, I made it home with an eighth of a tank to spare.
I turned onto Oak Leaf Lane, considering the merits of apple-walnut muffins versus cheddar-jalapeño scones as an accompaniment to my dinner omelet, and saw a crowd of cars and people on the street.
No. Not cars, vans. News vans. And reporters, dozens of them, all crowded in front of Beecher Cottage.
What were they doing here? Obviously, it had something to do with Sterling, but his sentencing was a week off. Surely they weren’t on the story already. And even if they were, why would they be bothering with me? How had they found me?
I took my foot off the gas and pressed the brake, but gently, slowing the car gradually, considering my next move. My first thought was to turn around and drive away, but I’d dealt with the media before. One of them was bound to spot me and follow me, and when they did, the rest would follow. Besides, where would I go? I didn’t know anyone in New Bern, except for Jake, but I couldn’t go to his house trailing this horde of camera-wielding locusts. I considered going to a hotel but then remembered that I had no cash and had used my last check to buy the mattresses. My credit card wouldn’t do me any good; I’d maxed it out buying a new washing machine. My only refuge this night was Beecher Cottage.
As soon as I opened the car door, I was surrounded by a press of bodies, the flash of camera bulbs, and a barrage of shouted questions. The din was so loud I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I heard my name shouted over and over as the mob competed to get my attention, hoping that I’d look up just long enough for them to snap a shot of me looking scared, or guilty, or angry, or sad, any expression that would look good with a headline.
With my head down, face blank, and keys in hand, I ran for the back door, stopping only long enough to grab a big white shopping bag that was blocking my entrance, shove it inside, and slam the door behind me.
What did they want? Was there some new development in the case? It had to be something big. Charges dismissed on account of some legal technicality? A mistrial? But there hadn’t even been a trial. Sterling pled guilty. What could have happened?
I walked around the house, quickly closing the drapes, thankful for the sheers that obscured my features from the cameramen lurking outside, and double-checking the locks on the doors. In the kitchen, I saw the message light blinking on my phone. A quick check of the caller identification menu showed several calls from numbers I didn’t recognize and others listed as “private”—probably reporters—and three calls from the Metropolitan Correctional Center.
The phone rang before I could listen to the messages. The caller identification read “Eugene Janders, Atty.”
“Gene? What’s going on? There’s a swarm of reporters outside my house.”
“Madelyn, where the hell have you been?”
“Out. Buying mattresses. I just got home.”
“You went shopping? Now, of all times, you went shopping?”
Gene’s voice was shrill and loud. He reminded me of Sterling when he got angry. I screwed my eyes shut and silently counted to three, determined not to be sucked into a shouting match.
“Gene, I’m asking you again: What is going on? Was there a mistrial? Is there some new evidence? What?”
“No one from the prison called you?”
“They did, but I was out, I told you that. I haven’t listened to the messages yet. Tell me what happened.”
A pause. “Sterling is dead.”
My hand flew to cover my mouth. I didn’t want to believe it, but the tone of Gene’s voice told me it was true. I closed my eyes, trying to take it in, lowered my hand to my breast, feeling my heart beat through my blouse and sweater.
“How? Was it a heart attack? He’s been under so much stress, with the sentencing coming.” I pressed my lips together hard, thinking about that last phone message he’d left for me, the message I never returned.
“It wasn’t a heart attack.... Madelyn . . . Sterling hanged himself from the bars with his belt. He committed suicide.”
29
Madelyn
Why aren’t I crying?
My conversation with the warden of the prison was short and to the point. Sterling’s death was self-inflicted. He’d been a cooperative, even cheerful prisoner.
He hadn’t shown any suicidal tendencies, so there had been no reason to put him on a special watch. In fact, Sterling had checked out two library books just that morning.
The warden seemed to genuinely believe that Sterling had acted on impulse, but I knew better. Sterling never did anything without a plan. Checking out the library books, his cheerful and cooperative attitude, I was sure it was part of that plan, a ruse to keep the guards from suspecting anything. Deception was Sterling Baron’s stock in trade.
“We’ve transferred the remains to the morgue. Have you made any funeral arrangements?”
“Oh . . . yes. I mean, no. I haven’t had time. . . .”
“Let me give you the number for the morgue. I believe the office is closed, but you can call them directly in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh and, Mrs. Baron? I am sorry for your loss.”
My loss.
I sunk weakly into a kitchen chair. The pile of muffins I’d baked last night was still sitting on a plate on the table, covered by plastic wrap, but I wasn’t hungry now. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes.
Why wasn’t I crying? I didn’t love Sterling, but he was my husband. We were married, for better or worse, mostly worse, but we were married. For thirty years, I had been Mrs. Sterling Baron. Who was I now?
He couldn’t be dead. His voice was there on my saved messages. If I punched in a few numbers I could hear him, that deep bass voice. Talking. Breathing. Alive.
I wish I could have talked to you one more time, Madelyn.
Now I wished it too. He’d called to say good-bye. I wished I’d called him back. I wished I’d known what he was planning. I wished I could have talked him out of it. Sterling was cruel to me and faithless, but what we’d done, we’d done to each other.
I opened my eyes. Outside I heard voices, someone laughing, the throaty purr of the car engine that suddenly stopped as a late-arriving news crew joined the scrum.
He couldn’t be dead, but I knew he was.
That’s why they were here laying siege to my house, to me, lying in wait on my lawn, my sidewalk, my door, with microphones and cameras at the ready. I had to get out of here. But how? I couldn’t just get in the car and drive off. The reporters would only follow me. I needed someone to get me out of here, secretly, and a place to lie low until the frenzy died down.
Threading the Needle Page 19
