by Julie Kenner
(And if you’re worried that Stuart would be suspicious, the answer is no. The man is entirely clueless as to the cost of women’s clothing. I could tell him that a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals costs $49.99, and he’d not only believe me, he’d be shocked by the expense. Men.)
I glanced at the clock. One-fifteen. Our bank closes at three on Saturday, so I assumed most of the others in town did, too. If I hurried, I thought I would be able to check a few places before they locked up for the weekend. (I hoped the key would open a safe-deposit box at my own bank, but I couldn’t imagine being so lucky.) After that, I was heading to Nordstrom.
I shoved my to-do list into my purse, tucked the key into my wallet, grabbed my car keys, then headed into the living room to say good-bye to my brood.
I found Eddie asleep in the recliner, the Herald’s real-estate section open on his lap, and a stubby pencil loose in his hand. The television was still blaring, but Timmy wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“Tim!”
Beside me, Eddie snorted and shifted, but he didn’t wake up. From upstairs, I heard Allie call down, “Did you say something?”
“I’m looking for Timmy,” I said.
“Not here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Duh. I’m in the bathroom. Scrubbing the stupid toilet, remember?” She didn’t sound happy about it, but at least she was doing it. “Hold on, I’ll check his room.”
I could hear her steps in the hallway as she moved in that direction. Meanwhile, I checked the den and Stuart’s study. Nothing. I also checked all the doors. Everything was locked up tight. So where was my kid?
Honestly, I wasn’t too worried. It’s a big house, and we’d taken down the baby gate a few weeks ago, so Tim had the run of the place. Still, the whole demon-on-the-prowl thing made me a little nervous. I wanted to know where my boy was, and I wanted to know now.
“Timmy!” I yelled, this time making Eddie jump.
“What? Who? What!”
“I’m looking for Tim,” I said.
“Right there in front of the—oh.” He dropped his outstretched finger. “That little one’s a pistol.”
“Mmm.” I tried again. “Timmy! You answer me right now, or no television for the rest of the day!”
That worked. Which probably says something about bad habits and my parenting skills, but I wasn’t inclined to think about that.
“But I want TV!” The little voice came from upstairs, followed by the patter of footsteps and then a much more concerned yelp of “Mommy! I WANT TV!”
“He’s here,” Allie shouted unnecessarily. I heard her make shooshing noises, and then, “Oh, man. You’re in for it, squirt.”
Since I didn’t like the sound of that, I took the stairs two at a time and met them in the hallway, just outside of the master bedroom. Sure enough, Mom was not a happy camper. There my little boy stood—his mouth completely rimmed in bright red lipstick and his eyes so encircled by purple eyeshadow that he looked like a raccoon on an acid trip.
“Timmy,” I wailed. I checked my watch. I really didn’t need this.
“Pretty!” he said.
“I thought Eddie was watching him,” Allie said. “It’s not my fault! I was cleaning.” She held up her rubber-encased hand as if to demonstrate the point.
I just sighed. “Come on,” I said, holding out a hand to Timmy.
“The Wiggles?” he asked.
“Don’t push your luck, sport. We need to get you cleaned up, and then we have to go run some errands.”
Honestly, I’d rather shove bamboo under my fingernails than take Timmy clothes shopping with me, but I didn’t see any other choice. Allie was going to be gone before I could get back, Laura was tethered to her garage until we passed the demon off to Father Ben, and Eddie was no longer on my list of approved babysitters.
I told myself it would be okay. I’d pretty much saved the world just a few months ago. Surely I could manage to buy one little dress despite having a two-year-old attached to my hip.
Couldn’t I?
I didn’t let myself think too much about that, though, since I was a little bit afraid of the answer. Instead, I focused on wiping the makeup off Timmy’s face and hoped the smell of cold cream wouldn’t warp his masculine sensibilities.
“Funny!” he said, looking at his Ponds-slathered mug in the mirror.
“Hysterical,” I acknowledged as I quickly wiped the bulk of the makeup away. I gave him a washcloth and let him help (“help” being a relative term). In the end, I had a sweet-smelling little boy with very smooth skin, and a slight hint of blue around the eyes. His lips looked like they might have been sunburned (when Maybelline says long-lasting, they mean it), and I feared he might randomly strike a CoverGirl pose.
Still, it was good enough, especially since we didn’t have time for a full-blown bath. I hoisted him up on my hip and hurried down the stairs, calling out to Allie that we were leaving and that she should lock up behind her.
She grunted in reply, and I figured that was about the best I could do. At least I was getting clean toilets out of the deal.
Five minutes later we’d said good-bye to Eddie, Timmy was strapped into his car seat, and I was back in the living room desperately trying to find Boo Bear. I managed to locate him under the sofa, then returned to the van in triumph.
Timmy, who’d been whimpering softly, immediately changed his attitude, looking at me with complete adoration. God, but I love that kid.
“We ready?” I asked, buckling myself in.
“Ready!” he howled, shoving a little fist in the air. “To infinity, and beyond!” he added, which made our errands sound a whole lot more exciting than I anticipated. Frankly, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
Stuart And l have a joint checking and savings account at First Mutual on California Avenue. We also have a safe-deposit box there for the kids’ birth certificates, the house deed, life insurance policies. The usual. And since I’m the one who usually goes to the box, I also knew that our shiny gold key didn’t look a thing like the silver one that had mysteriously appeared on my doorstep.
Even so, I decided to try there first. The tellers know me and, for all I knew, maybe gold keys signified the better boxes. Or maybe the bank had access to some sort of booklet that identifies safe-deposit box keys. I wasn’t completely optimistic about this plan, but I figured it was worth ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, I wasn’t so sure. My favorite teller, Nancy, had no clue, and even the manager on duty couldn’t help. “I could make some calls,” she offered.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t want to be any trouble.” Mostly, I just didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. Not that I was doing anything illegal, untoward, or even strange. But there was still something very cloak and dagger about the whole situation.
Nancy handed Timmy a watermelon-flavored Dum-Dum, and we went back the way we came, my little boy happily sucking on the lollipop. I was trying to remember what other banks were in the area when I heard a familiar voice call my name.
I turned around, searching the lobby, and finally saw Cutter rising from a couch near a sign that read Loans. Cutter— actually Sean Tyler—is my sensei. That is, he’s my martial-arts instructor, training partner, and friend. He doesn’t know my secrets, but he’s astute enough to know I have them.
He’s also training Allie, Mindy, and Laura, all of whom I want in fighting shape. To my infinite pride, Allie’s definitely at the front of that pack. Even more, she’s kept up with the training despite the addition of cheerleading and a bunch of other extracurriculars to her schedule.
I like to think it’s because she’s good and wants to stay fit. More realistically, I think it’s because Cutter is a particularly fine-looking male specimen. And my daughter is fourteen and boy crazy.
I am nothing if not a realist.
As soon as he saw Cutter, Timmy jerked free of my hand and trotted over, holding out his candy for Cutter to inspect.
“Looks good,” Cutter said.
“You can have some,” said my son, displaying just how much he liked my martial-arts instructor. For Timmy, the sharing of candy marks the absolute highest level of affection.
“Thanks, kiddo, but I’ll pass.”
Timmy looked confused—how could anyone say no to a Dum-Dum?—then popped the thing back into his mouth, apparently realizing that since the invitation was turned down, there was more candy left for him. He sucked hard, his slurping noises underscoring my conversation.
“What are you doing here on a Saturday?” I asked. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”
“Lunch break. My landlord wants to sell, so I either have to buy the dojo or find a new location.” He waved, indicating the loan department. “So here I am, wasting another lunch hour filling out small-business loan applications.”
I made sympathetic—and sincere—noises. If Cutter moved, I was going to be severely inconvenienced. His studio was located in a strip mall right at the entrance to our subdivision, less than five minutes away from my house. Even better, there was a 7-Eleven right next door, which meant that I could bone up on kip ups and jump kicks, pick up milk and bread, and be back home in less than the time it took for Allie to get dressed for school in the morning.
“Anyway,” he said, “it’s a pain in the butt—sorry, rear,” he said, looking at Timmy, who happily yelled out “Baby butt!” just to embarrass me.
Cutter mouthed an apology, then took Timmy’s hand. On the sidewalk, Timmy kept up with the “Baby Butt” song, but eventually lost interest, and started pulling leaves off a decorative shrub instead.
“I hope you get your loan,” I said.
“I will. I just have to find the right bank.” He looked at me sideways. “Sort of like you.”
I reached out and grabbed the back of Timmy’s shirt before he could launch himself off the sidewalk. “Not following you,” I said to Cutter.
He took Tim from me and hoisted him up to his shoulders. Timmy yelped and squealed and pulled at Cutter’s hair. No pain registered on Cutter’s face, proving once again that the military training he listed on his bio was absolutely true.
“I overheard you in there,” he said, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket before Timmy destroyed them. “What’s the deal? You’re trying to find a bank to match your safe-deposit box key?”
“Something like that,” I admitted.
“Because people are always trying to match up mysterious keys,” he said.
“Cutter . . .”
He held his hands out, surrender-style. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Actually, I can,” I said, but with a grin. The truth is I trust Cutter. Not enough to tell him about my secret identity, of course, but I do trust the man. For one thing, he’s known from the first day I showed up in his dojo—and pretty much beat the pants off of him—that I wasn’t what I seemed. He’d questioned, but he’d never pushed. And, honestly, that had meant as much to me as the training he’d given me over the past few months.
He flashed a trademark Cutter grin, then leaned in close to my ear. “One day, Kate Connor,” he whispered, his voice flowing over me like warm honey. “One day you’re going to tell me your secrets.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, lowering my voice to match his. “But today’s not the day.”
I stepped back, and looked at him. Our eyes locked, and for just a second, I thought that he was going to push the point. Then he blinked. The moment faded, and I let out a sigh of relief. I’d meant what I said. Someday, yes. But not now.
“So I’ll see you at practice?” he asked.
“I think so. But a few things have come up lately, and my schedule is crazy.” That, at least, was the absolute truth.
“Fair enough, but are you still interested in finding another sparring partner?” A few weeks ago, we’d talked about finding me someone else to spar with. Someone whose moves I hadn’t started to anticipate.
“Of course I am. Why?”
“I may have someone. New guy. Seems pretty competent. I’ll give him the once-over, and if he passes muster, I’ll give you a call.”
“All right.” I held my arms up, signaling for him to pass me my kid. “We need to get going. I’m late for my secret mission.”
“You’re a riot, Kate. You know that, right?” He swung Timmy to the ground, then held out his hand. “Let me just see the damn thing.”
“Damn’s a bad word,” said Timmy helpfully, as I reached my free hand into my back pocket and pulled the key out. I passed it to him, and he studied it, then passed it back.
“What do I get if I can tell you what bank it’s from?”
“Can you tell me what bank it’s from?”
“Maybe.”
“You’d get my deep admiration and devotion.”
“I already have that.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Okay, how about a blind date with a single PTA mom?” I could think of three or four who’d leapfrog over each other for the chance to go out with Cutter.
He considered for a moment, then shook his head, his eyes hard on me. “No.”
“Fresh out of ideas, Sean,” I said, using his given name just to tick him off. I hoisted Tim up onto my hip. “Either help me or don’t, but I’ve got to go. The banks close at three on Saturday, and I’ve barely started.”
“Try County Mutual,” he said. “And they’re open until four.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because that’s where I bank.”
I studied him, hating the suspicions that filled my head. Was this a convenient coincidence, or was Cutter my secret deliveryman?
As hard as I looked, though, I couldn’t find anything suspicious on his face. For that matter, maybe the key led to something completely innocuous. That, however, I really didn’t believe.
Timmy squirmed on my hip, drawing my attention away from Cutter. I slid him down to the ground, then held tight to his hand as he tugged hard, trying to get away and making me list to the left as I finished up with Cutter.
“The bank’s at Pacific and Amber Glen, right?”
He nodded. “Right. There’s a McDonald’s across the street.”
At that, Timmy stopped pulling, every other thought in his head pushed out by one compelling demand: “Happy Meal!” he wailed. “Want a Happy Meal!”
Cutter chuckled. “Sorry.”
“You owe me big time,” I said. To Timmy, I promised a Happy Meal if he stopped trying to pull me down the sidewalk, and if he behaved at the next bank, and if he agreed to eat applesauce with his Happy Meal instead of French fries. Since Happy Meals are really all about the toys, he smiled and saluted. “Aye-aye, Mommy!”
Cutter raised a brow.
“SpongeBob,” I said, by way of explanation. I may not be able to tell you the top-ten prime-time television shows or the number-one box-office hit, but Nickelodeon I’ve got down.
Once Timmy and I reached County Mutual, my little boy amused himself by running the length of the lobby, touching the wall, and then running back again. I probably should have told him to stop—another Happy Meal threat would probably have done the trick—but I was in a mood, too. Running hard and fast sounded like a damn good idea, actually. And if I couldn’t burn off my excess energy and thoughts that way, at least my little boy could.
We were there about five minutes before the bank officer who handled the safe-deposit boxes called me to her desk.
I took a minute to get Timmy settled with one of the little tubs of Play-Doh I keep in my purse, then handed over the key. “I need to get into this box.”
I’d decided to be vague on the whole question of whose box it was. Not hard, since I was clueless on the point. I was hoping that she’d look the information up on her computer and then she’d tell me.
I know enough about how banks work to be dangerous, but in the movies, you can never access a box with just the key. Your name has to be on the
account, too. So I doubted I’d be getting any final answers today. But with any luck, I’d have the name of the box owner. And that, I figured, was a baby step in the right direction.
The bank officer—Ms. Sellers, according to her name tag—tap-tapped at her keyboard. “Here it is,” she said. She looked at me. “You must be Katherine Crowe?”
The room shifted, and I held on tight to my chair just so I wouldn’t slide off. I forced myself to nod. More, I forced myself not to cry.
Apparently I wasn’t doing a good job of looking normal, because her brow creased and she leaned toward me. “Ms. Crowe? Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m sorry.” I wiped my eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. And yes, I’m Katherine Crowe. Or, I was. My husband passed away five years ago. I’m remarried. It’s Katherine Connor now.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said, automatically, but still unsteadily.
I’m not sure what I’d expected here, but certainly not my name in that computer. I also wasn’t entirely sure how to handle the situation.
I took a deep breath, then leaped into the deep end. “Um, obviously it’s been a long time,” I said. “I don’t remember getting this box.”
Her brows lifted. “Oh? Then why are you here?”
A good question. “I found the key,” I said. “In my jewelry box,” I added, because I’d learned that the more specific a lie the more convincing the lie. “So when did we, um, rent the box?” The “we” was a guess.
She looked at me, and I saw compassion, but something else, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I think I should probably see some identification.”
“Right. Sure. No problem.” I took out my driver’s license and handed it to her.
“Do you have anything that shows you as Katherine Crowe?”
I did, actually. My old license. I don’t really know why I keep it, but I do, tucked into the back of my wallet under the pictures of my kids. You’re supposed to turn the old one in when you get a new license, but I claimed that I’d lost the thing. No one even asked twice.
