It still brought tears to Toni’s eyes, thinking about Lincoln writhing on the cold ceramic tiles, his heart fibrillating wildly. If only someone had been there to administer CPR! If only she had been there! She’d been devastated to lose him, especially in such a pointless mishap. But then Lincoln had always been cutting edge, and everything about his work and his business had been the most modern. Why he thought stainless steel toilets were avant garde she had no idea. What an unusual buying choice. But his goofiness was just one more reason why she fell in love with him.
In the long, moist shadows of afternoon, Toni stepped out onto the grass in front of her colonial-style manse and threw out handfuls of birdseed mixed with corn.
“Miranda, sweetie!” she called as she dug into the Egyptian cotton grain bag. “It’s feeding time. All of the Bambis will be here soon!”
As she tossed out another handful, Toni Sinclair gazed up at the clear afternoon sky, the sun’s warmth on her face. Dressed in her Mephisto loafers, Donna Karan jeans, and open-necked Escada shirt, she felt so completely at home that she could never imagine living anywhere else. She was thirty-two years old, a willowy woman with auburn hair. Her only makeup was lipstick. Natural and unassuming, she reveled in all of the stately homes, the verdant grounds, and the lovely gardens of Gryphon Gate.
As white-tailed deer approached from neighboring properties up and down the winding street, she sang happily to herself. “Whistle while you work. Ohhhh, whistle while you work.”
Soon Miranda was at her side. “Look, Mommie! Thirty-four deer. More every day. Hurray!”
Toni’s daughter peered at the grazing animals, her plump little face shining with excitement. A streak of dirt creased her forehead, and twigs stuck to the back of her Sundance Festival T-shirt. She was eight years old, an earnest, freckle-faced, redheaded child who loved nature, M&M’s, and sneakers that lit up when she walked.
“Yes, sweetie. We’re popular,” her mother assured her proudly.
The deer—all females, many with fawns—circled the thick lawn, their velvet muzzles delicately vacuuming up the food. Toni Sinclair had begun feeding them just three days before, because, unfortunately, not everyone in Gryphon Gate had her tolerant attitude about life. Some time ago a noisy group of residents had formed to complain about the deer: They were a traffic hazard; they crapped on the golf greens; they ate the flowers and the very costly shrubbery.
Then last week, the group decided they should “harvest” the animals. That’s when Toni went into shock. They were planning to hire sharpshooters to kill the defenseless deer, which completely and irrevocably broke her live-and-let-live code.
She’d put her mind to the problem, finally deciding that all of the troubles arose because the deer were hungry. Which meant the solution was simple: She’d feed them, and they’d stay off the streets and quit rummaging for meals on other people’s estates.
Miranda chirped, “May I have some, Mommie? Please?”
“You bet.”
Toni opened the bag and Miranda dove in with both hands, her short, freckled arms disappearing. With a triumphant smile, she threw the seed and grain in a long arc.
As the deer moved to sweep it up, Toni heard a car on the quiet street. She stared. It was one of the official white-and-periwinkle blue BMWs that the Gryphon Gate police drove. On each side was painted a proud gryphon—half eagle and half lion. Beneath was written GRYPHON GATE POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Little Miranda gave a shiver. “We like the police, don’t we?” She slipped her hand inside Toni’s.
“You bet,” Toni Sinclair said again. But this time her voice was less assured.
The car stopped at the curb in front of her elegant colonial, and two grim-faced policemen in full riot gear jumped out and ran toward Toni and Miranda, their guns flopping against their pant legs until they clamped the grips to their belts.
Miranda stepped back, and so did Toni, feeling a moment of intimidation.
“Stop!” ordered the first policeman. He had a square jaw and a face shaved so smooth that the pink skin glowed. He turned his head, his reflecting sunglasses surveying the lawn and the deer as if they constituted a crime scene. On the collar of his flak vest was embroidered a name: Leland Ford.
“We’ve stopped moving, Officer Ford,” Toni told him. “See?”
“We’re not moving at all, are we, Mommie?” Miranda asked. She clutched Toni’s hand tighter.
Toni gave the small hand a reassuring squeeze. “What can we do for you officers?”
The second policeman also wore reflecting sunglasses. He was shorter, about Toni’s height, with thick shoulders and splayed feet. The name on his vest was John D. Carnegie.
Both men’s heads rotated like lighthouse beacons.
“I count thirty-four,” said Officer Carnegie. “Hell, she’s got a friggin’ zoo here.”
“We may have to arrest you, ma’am,” Officer Ford informed her. “You’re harboring deer. You’ll have to come down to the station house with us.”
“Shouldn’t we read her rights to her first?” asked Carnegie. He was the older of the two.
“We have to wait until we officially arrest her,” Ford informed him.
At that moment it seemed to Toni that her heart stopped beating. She gave a little gasp. “Arrest me? For harboring deer?” She gulped. “But how can I ‘harbor’ them? They’re wild animals. I can’t control them. No one can control them. That’s the problem!”
“Your yard’s full of ’em, ma’am,” Ford said loudly. “You’re feeding them,” he accused.
The deer had been watching the new human arrivals suspiciously. When Ford raised his voice, they began to move away.
“That’s just seed and corn!” Toni said indignantly. “I could tell the deer not to eat the birdseed, but you just can’t convince them. Besides, they’re hungry. Look at them. Would you deny a starving animal? The Nazis did that. Surely you’re not that heartless.”
“Mommie?” Miranda had been studying the policemen’s forbidding expressions. When she looked up at her mother, her petite face had gone white, and her freckles stood out like black polka dots. “If they take you to jail, will I ever see you again?”
“Shame on you,” she scolded the men. “Scaring a little girl. And you’re scaring the deer, too. Look, they’re leaving. They’re your only witnesses, and if they won’t talk to me, they certainly won’t talk to you.”
“Ma’am!” Carnegie exploded, exasperated. “Did you deliberately feed those deer?” He looked around quickly. All had vanished.
Toni lifted her chin stubbornly and put the grain bag behind her back. “I take the Fifth. You really should learn to be more flexible, you know.”
The officers exchanged a long look. Then they gazed up the brick driveway to where Bertha and Bill, Toni’s household help, had come out to watch. Up and down the leafy street other residents and their servants were beginning to appear, too.
All of this unsettled both policemen. Gryphon Gate was supposed to be an easy gig. Usually, the only arrest each month was of that wacko Roman Gervase, who was convinced he was a werewolf. When the moon was full, he’d rip off his tuxedo and howl, and all of the phone lines at the station would light up like a Christmas tree. Of course, there were drunken parties here and there celebrating deals and retirements and divorces. But a polite police visit was usually enough to send everyone indoors, where heavily insulated walls contained the disturbing good cheer. There were smaller problems, too, that required simple warnings—broken golf clubs that sailed through the air when a particularly easy putt was missed, the infrequent disagreement about reservation times at the bridge tournaments, that sort of thing.
However, arresting a mother on her front yard, with her minor daughter for a witness, on a charge of feeding “starving” animals that had already dispersed could explode into something far larger. Neither policeman wanted to be caught in the cross fire. Not in Gryphon Gate, where the residents had all the wealth, education, and savvy in
the world to back up any crazy notion.
“You know, ma’am,” Carnegie told her, mustering as much authority as he could considering the situation, “the new antifeeding ordinance is serious. Next time, we’ll definitely have to arrest you.” His expression was glum.
“We can’t let you off a second time,” Ford agreed. He shook his head, unhappy. “You look like a nice lady. Can’t you find some other hobby?”
Toni Sinclair was insulted. “Life isn’t a hobby! Come to the town meeting tomorrow night, and you’ll see how serious this is!” She looked down at her daughter. “Let’s go, Miranda. We’ll phone the other mommies.”
“What for?” Miranda wondered as she skipped along at her mother’s side. They were headed up the drive toward the house.
“A candlelight vigil,” Toni explained, thinking rapidly. “We’ll hold a candlelight vigil for the deer at the meeting. We’ll buy tall white candles and notify all the newspaper, radio, and TV newscasters. Would you like to be on TV, sweetie?”
“Ohhhh, Mommie!” Miranda said, excited. “We’ll be stars!”
Ahead of them Bertha waved a sheet of paper at Toni. She was a heavyset woman with a kind, soft face, who wore her usual black housedress with white apron and white lace collar. “Mrs. Sinclair,” she called. “You have a fax.”
Toni took the paper and sent Miranda into the house with Bertha and Bill, chuckling about the poor policemen, although she felt a wee bit sorry for them. They’d looked so dejected when they’d driven off.
As she strolled toward the side door she read the fax—and stopped cold in the driveway, horrified. It was impossible! No one knew. No one! Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her chest tightened with terror. She stared at the words in the middle of the page: I know about Salinger. Then she forced herself to read the rest of the message. 8:00 P.M., sixth hole, sand trap. Tonight. Come alone.
She gazed at the message longer, still not quite believing. Her breath emerged in panicked little pants. She looked at her Rolex wristwatch. It was after six o’clock. Thank God she didn’t have long to wait. She forced herself to walk calmly into the house, rending the fax into smaller and smaller pieces.
* * *
Jerrold “Jerry” Lynch lived in the rarified world of the DOW and the NASDAQ, of short calls and stock puts, of electronic trading that could break the heart or make a fortune in the flash of a keyboard stroke. For years he’d thrived. An investment banker during the go-go 1990s, he’d retired to Gryphon Gate to use his fat portfolio as a launching pad for even greater wealth. At first, all of his plans had succeeded.
His French Renaissance chalet was enormous, one of the largest properties in the township, with eight bedrooms and twelve baths, plus maids’ and nannies’ quarters, a media room, a two-lane bowling alley, and a swimming pool with a retractable roof. He and his wife, Renée, were the proud parents of their first baby, a green-eyed little charmer named Samantha. He was crazy about those unusual green eyes. He had all the accoutrements and toys of the genteel suburban fast lane: On one side of him lived a curvy German duchess (very blond; he wondered whether she was blonde all over), on the other side was the estate of the renowned U.S. ambassador to Great Britain, and across the street stood the mansion of one of the world’s most prominent rock stars—rich, drugged out, with gorgeous babes always in tow. No one missed the neighborhood barbecues, especially Jerry.
At one time he’d had it all. But now he was two months behind on his mortgage. Just a moment ago, he’d lost the final hundred thousand in his bank account. He’d borrowed on everything, and there was nowhere else to go. He was only fifty virile years old, but he was finished. It was enough to make a grown man shed a tear, and—as he sat there behind his top-of-the-line IBM computer staring at his flat screen that showed the commodity transaction that had finally wiped his portfolio clean—he considered it.
He remembered an old Wall Street joke: “Now I’m in real trouble. First the laundry called to say they’d lost my shirt, then my broker called to tell me the same thing.” With electronic trading made easy, he had managed financial ruin entirely on his own.
He swore loudly and picked up the telephone. There was that mysterious little click again. It was so quiet that he usually didn’t hear it, but right now, in his sensitive state, the sound rang loudly in his ear. He’d have Renée get the phone repair people in. He cursed again and punched the extension to the maid’s room.
“Hullo?” she answered.
His voice was husky and full of need. “Come down here, Anka.”
They made love on his massive desk. Right on the leather-trimmed, merlot red blotter. In the initial throes of her gratitude, Anka knocked the phone off its hook, but Jerry was busy and ignored it. He breathed heavily, devouring the sight of her beneath him. He liked her silky unblemished skin, her rounded thighs, her long, exposed throat, her lavish breasts, but most of all, he prized her sharp little cries of ecstasy. With a shudder he exploded, arching his head back.
He opened his eyes and looked down. Instantly she smiled.
“That’s better,” he decided.
He stood up, sweaty, his pants around his ankles. He pulled them up. Suddenly, he had a renewed fondness for life. He liked his dark walnut moldings, the Venetian crystal lamps, his handmade walnut desk, and his black leather sofa and two matching side chairs that formed a conversation grouping across the room. Right now his office seemed particularly masculine. He even liked the plantation shutters that lined the big bay window that overlooked his back acreage. He decided he must be feeling a sort of paternal acceptance of this wayward world.
“Would you like a cigarette?” Anka asked as she sat up and rearranged her clothes. She was a leggy brunette, with thick black eyelashes and pouty lips that he had to admit were a big turn-on.
“Smoking again, Anka?” Jerry tucked in his shirt and zipped up his pants. He might be fifty, but he could still perform as good as the next guy. Better, if Anka’s response was accurate evidence, and he was sure it was. “You’ve gotta quit hurting your lungs like that,” he advised. “Respect your body and your mind. That’s what I always say. Your individuality. Your importance as a person. You hear me, Anka? I’m just telling you this for your own good.”
“Yah,” she agreed. “Would you like a cigarette, too, Jerry?”
Just then his fax machine rang. He glanced at it. “Might as well. Leave me one. Scoot on out of here. You can smoke yours up in your room. Just keep the door closed. Otherwise, Renée’ll be pissed.” He gestured at the fax machine, where a sheet of paper was feeding into the tray. “Might be a big business opportunity.” He prized optimism. Next to money, optimism was the largest source of wealth.
“Right, Jerry. Thanks a lot. You’re the best.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You’re welcome. Where’s my cigarette?”
She produced it from a pocket in her skirt, slid out of the room, and the door closed quietly behind her.
He was alone again. He sighed with satisfaction. Smoothing back his hair, he hurried to the fax machine. The transmission had ended. But there was only one piece of paper, which was disturbing. Good faxes—the ones that meant potential deals—came with cover sheets. If this were just a cover sheet, what the hell use was that?
He snapped it up. As he read, his face turned tomato red, and he could feel his blood pressure shoot through his skull. For a moment he was paralyzed by terror. He read through a second time: I know about Roach. Then: 8:00 P.M., sixth hole, sand trap. Tonight. Come alone.
“Who in hell’s been digging into my past?” he complained aloud.
He was outraged and horrified and frightened all at the same time. He stared at the polished brass captain’s clock on his desk, which had cost five hundred dollars and kept perfect time. It was nearly six-thirty. He dropped the fax into his electric shredder and watched until its destruction was complete. That’s when he noticed that his phone was off the hook. He replaced it and ran for the door, lighting the cig
arette. He was going to get to that damn meeting early and case it all out.
* * *
At exactly 7:55 P.M. Toni Sinclair drove her champagne-colored Mercedes SUV toward Gryphon Gate’s championship golf course. As was her habit, she would be exactly on time. She was still dressed in her jeans and shirt, but she’d replaced her loafers with her Nike running shoes. They were just a precaution, she told herself soberly. She’d left little Miranda at home with Bertha, who was feeding her a nice meal of hot wings, arugula salad, and homemade, multigrain bread. Miranda was fond of hot wings, which she explained were among Britney Spears’s favorite foods.
As she drove into the golf club’s parking lot, Toni worried again about what awaited her at the sand pit near the sixth hole. Her throat tightened.
Pine trees and decorative granite boulders lined the parking area. Dusk was spreading, casting a gentle lavender light across the tree-dotted golf course, which rolled out in three directions. The hour was sufficiently late that even the most addicted duffers were leaving for stiff drinks and fine dinners at homes or in clubs. She passed several in their cars and on their bicycles, speeding out of the lot.
One was Vanessa Smart-Drysdale, who was in her usual red Corvette. Toni waved. Vanessa didn’t spend all that much time at Gryphon Gate these days, but then that wasn’t unexpected. Between her divorce from Henry Drysdale and that ambitious development she wanted to build next door, Vanessa didn’t have many friends left in the community.
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