by Debbie Burke
“His wife died.”
“Well, fine, then. You’re home free. Although you might google him and make sure he didn’t bump her off.”
Tawny stifled a laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“That’s why you hang around with me.”
Virgie was right, though. Tawny made a mental note to search out Kahlil online. “It just seems weird.” She blew out a sigh. “I mean, you’re used to dating but I haven’t gone out with a guy since high school.” She sipped coffee, now cold. “Sometimes I don’t know how to react but he always knows the right thing to do or say. Like last night, I asked him if he wanted to stay over. He said no, very nicely and gentlemanly, but it kind of hurt my feelings. Then later on, I realized I didn’t really want to wake up this morning with him in our house, Dwight’s and mine, in our bedroom. Somehow, he must have known I’d feel that way, even before I did.”
“Didn’t you say he’s a psychologist? He certainly ought to recognize the stages of grief and how uneven and unpredictable they are. He anticipated your very normal reaction, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that. He understands me, like he’s known me for a long time, almost like he’s inside my head. He keeps talking about fate and destiny meant for us to meet.”
“Oh, crap.” Virgie threw up her hands in mock despair. “He sounded pretty hot until he dragged out a pick-up line from the nineteen-eighties.” She slapped the table. “Look, sweetheart, just enjoy it while it lasts. Don’t try to build it up into something it’s not. You’re alone and horny, he’s charming and sexy. End of story.”
Dear Virgie, always earthy, never beating around the bush. “I guess you’re right. Besides, he’s only here temporarily. His work contract runs out in a month. He’ll probably be gone soon after that.”
“So have a fabulous lust-filled month. OK?”
Tawny chuckled. “You sure know how to reduce a big old kettle of soup down to a bouillon cube.”
“OK, now that we’ve solved that, back to serious matters. The bank mess and who’s setting you up. Listen, one of my patients is retired FBI. Let me talk to him and see if he can make some calls, find out what’s in the air.”
Tawny exhaled. “That would be terrific. Thank you.”
* * *
Too restless to go home after breakfast, Tawny drove around, as she and Dwight used to do on Sundays while he still had the strength. During the building boom, a subdivision had started up on the west side of town. They’d toyed with the idea of moving to a new house and walked through the models but decided to stay put. Their home was old but paid for.
When the 2008 crash hit, Tawny thanked God they didn’t have the burden of a big mortgage as Dwight’s medical bills mounted. Now she drove through the nearly deserted streets of that subdivision, past a scattering of houses abandoned in various stages of construction. Weathered studs of partly-framed shells poked at the sky like spindly fingers. Torn insulation wrap fluttered in the breeze.
She spotted a hand-lettered Moving Sale sign in front of a house ringed by bare dirt, out of money for landscaping. She slowed as she passed. An open garage door revealed a clutter of household goods and furniture. A silver-haired woman in a baggy pink sweatshirt and gray lounge pants stepped outside in the sunshine. She shaded her eyes with one hand, probably hoping to wave Tawny down, as the only possible customer in sight.
Tawny started to accelerate, not wanting to feel like a buzzard picking the bones of another family’s misfortune. Then she recognized the woman—Margaret, the friendly teller from the bank. Tawny parked and got out of the Jeep then couldn’t think of anything to say. The surroundings told the story.
Margaret’s normally cheerful face now sagged with fatigue and worry. “Hi, Tawny, how are you?”
“You’re moving?”
The woman tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Have to. The bank canned me. We’re upside down in this place. My husband’s disabled, can’t work anymore, even if there were any construction jobs to be had. Going to Wolf Point, live with our kids. Our son’s got a job over in the Bakken oil fields.”
Tawny shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I don’t know what to say.”
Margaret lifted one shoulder. “Got stuck in one of those damn adjustable rate mortgages. Back in oh-six, my husband figured he’d get the house built and sell it before the five-year balloon came due. Then the economy tanked. I went to Hyslop, see if he’d renegotiate the loan. You’d have thought I was asking for Buckingham Palace.” Her mouth drew into a tight hard line.
Tawny caught movement in the dimness of the garage. A stooped, balding man leaning on a cane hobbled toward them, a hopeful smile on his drawn face. “Margie, make this lady a good deal on whatever she wants to buy.”
The woman waved backwards at her husband. “I got it, hon, go back inside.”
Tawny’s heart broke for them.
Margaret pulled her sweatshirt, stretching it down over her thighs. “Wasn’t enough for that prick Hyslop to turn me down flat. Next, he says to me, it’s a new bank, moving in new directions, and I wasn’t keeping up.” In a sardonic sing-song, she flicked air quotes. “My services were no longer needed.” She hugged herself. “Just a crooked excuse to save them paying my retirement. Well, they’re getting their damn house back and I’ll gladly shove it up Hyslop’s ass.” Angry tears glinted behind her bifocals.
Tawny wanted to hug her but the woman’s pride threw up an invisible wall, warding off sympathy. “Well, I’m glad you’ll be with your kids. Good luck.” Tawny climbed in the Jeep, feeling guilty gratitude that, despite her problems, at least she wasn’t at risk of losing her home.
* * *
Neal’s text message continued to bother Tawny like an eyelash stuck under her lid. He’d always prided himself on his ability to solve problems. To admit trouble was like admitting failure. Whatever he now faced that caused him to reach out to her must go way beyond ordinary. How could she help?
Before his last deployment, because of his sensitive work, he’d asked her not to call unless it was urgent. After a sleepless night, she decided on Monday morning this was urgent. She tapped his number and counted to fifteen rings before the connection went dead. For heaven’s sake, Neal, why haven’t you set up voicemail?
Next, she scrolled to the Rear D number. Should she contact the family liaison? If his buddies kidded him about his worried mommy, dammit, he was a big boy, he’d just have to deal with it.
She tapped the number. A female voice answered on the second ring. “Rear Detachment, Sergeant Stuart speaking.” The woman had a husky voice with an accent Tawny couldn’t place. Not Scottish, so maybe Stuart was a married name.
Tawny recited Neal’s identifying information to her and explained about the text she’d received. “My son gave me your number in case I needed to get in touch with him. I was hoping you could help me.”
Stuart didn’t answer right away and, through the connection, Tawny heard sounds of typing on a keyboard. “Very well, Mrs. Lindholm, I’m trying to ascertain Sergeant Lindholm’s location at the moment but I don’t seem to be having much luck. It’s possible he’s on a mission and out of touch.”
Sounded like the standard non-answer the Army gave when they didn’t know or care. Tawny took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m concerned. He wouldn’t say he’s in trouble unless something very bad has happened to him.”
Stuart’s whiskey voice lost the official tone and sounded more sympathetic, calming. “I can understand why you’re disturbed. That must be a frightening message to receive. But I’m sure everything’s fine. Let me do some checking and I’ll get back to you, all right?”
Tawny felt herself being verbally patted on the head but said, “I appreciate your help,” and disconnected.
Would Sergeant Stuart get back to her? Tawny feared another empty promise.
* * *
Tawny called the Rear Detachment the next two days but received only repeated reassurances from Sergeant Stuart. She c
laimed to have been in touch with Neal’s unit commander who promised Neal would call soon.
To distract herself from worrying, Tawny followed Virgie’s suggestion to google “Kahlil Shahrivar.” Many pages referred to Kahlil Gibran and The Prophet. She learned “Shahrivar” was the sixth month of the Persian calendar. It meant “desirable power” and was the name of a god of metal and a protector of the weak.
His elegant formal website described him as a Consultant in Industrial/Occupational Psychology. Besides his PhD, long strings of additional credentials were listed, as well as universities where he’d done research, fellowships he’d been awarded, references from his clients, and links to publications in various scholarly journals. All impressive professional information but nothing personal.
She found several academic papers, studies he’d previously described to her as long and boring. After sampling part of a page, she had to agree. The drudgery of reading slowed her to a crawl. Too much jargon she didn’t understand, too many long, complicated sentences where the point got lost somewhere in a muddle of big words.
Confused, frustrated, and overwhelmed after fifteen minutes, she gave up, satisfied at least she hadn’t found any headlines about Virgie’s joking concern that he’d killed his wife. What a hoot.
Then she tried something she’d never done before: googling herself.
For someone who shied away from social media and kept her business private, the amount of personal information online stunned her. References to “Tawny Lindholm, Kalispell, Montana” filled several pages.
Dwight’s obituary listed her as his surviving spouse of thirty-two years. More documents included business licenses and permits for the diesel shop, registrations for their vehicles, including the commercial trucks Dwight used to drive, property tax filings, the reconveyance deed when they paid off their mortgage, contributions to political candidates, probate court filings for her parents’ estates including her signature as executor, a mention in Neal’s high school newsletter about baseball equipment their business had donated.
When she clicked on Images, a line of photos showed up, including older magazine shots from her modeling days. A picture of Dwight appeared in the hospital magazine as the first patient to receive treatment from a new linear accelerator, while Tawny stood by, holding his hand. An illustration on a travel agency website showed her bidding bon voyage to the Roths as they left on the Bible Comes Alive Tour to the Holy Land. The trip they never returned from.
Who put all this stuff online? It was visible to anyone who tapped in her name.
Then anger started to swell.
Where was her privacy? What gave total strangers the right to be peeping Toms into her life?
She didn’t have dark secrets to hide, yet she felt as if her home had been ransacked, her life strewn all over the front lawn for anyone passing by to stare at.
Queasiness merged with anger.
When Kahlil first called her, he’d admitted he looked her up online. How deeply had he dug? Probably down to the bedrock of her existence. Since he worked with computers all the time, he undoubtedly knew far more places to search than she could ever imagine.
The back of her neck prickled. She felt naked, exposed, vulnerable. Fingers of paranoia probed her thoughts, the cash deposits, the video of the imposter, someone setting her up.
But…no…she couldn’t imagine any reason for Kahlil to harm her. He’d always been a gentleman, unfailingly patient about her fumbles with the smartphone, tender with his understanding of her grief. His aching loneliness matched hers. They’d both lost their mates too soon. They’d both been cheated of the chance to grow old with their first love. They lived in totally different worlds yet had come together. The heaviness weighing down her heart had lightened since they met.
She’d watched plenty of crime shows about con men who preyed on widows. Predators always wanted something, a small investment that promised a ridiculous return, or a loan for their sick mother’s operation, or other phony nonsense.
Kahlil asked nothing from her. He’d been respectful of her reticence, stepping back to avoid pressuring her, understanding her need for space before she recognized it herself. Offering comfort, but never pushing.
Besides, he’d given her advice to save her from being scammed with Lucifer.
She felt ashamed to suspect him.
She didn’t quite trust his driving, though. He liked speed and took chances on narrow, winding Montana roads, treacherous with ice and suicidal deer. Fortunately, with spring coming, at least ice wouldn’t be a worry for much longer.
Dragging her concentration back to the laptop, Tawny suspected whoever caused her banking problems had also dug deep into her identity online.
Deep enough to know where she banked. What kind of car she drove. To find her signature.
Deep enough to set her up as a pawn for an illegal enterprise.
Too much about her life, habits, and finances was available to anyone with internet access. No wonder identity theft was rampant. Damn this miserable technology.
Mind whirling, Tawny headed to the gym, eager for the release of a workout. At the front desk, she ran her card through the check-in scanner. The clerk didn’t greet her with his usual grin. His mouth a stiff line, eyes downcast, he muttered, “Mrs. Lindholm, the accounting office needs to speak to you.”
Mrs. Lindholm? Everyone at the gym called her by her first name.
“What do they want?” she asked.
The man stared intently at the computer screen before him. His ears had turned red. “You’ll have to ask them.”
“OK, I’ll go after Zumba. The class is starting.” She headed toward the locker room.
He called to her, “They said they needed to see you as soon as you came in.”
What the hell?
Annoyed, Tawny walked down the hall to the admin offices. At the door, she glanced back at the front desk and caught the clerk staring after her like a mournful dog, before he whipped his head to focus on the computer again. She knocked and a bookkeeper let her in, closing the door behind her with a click that sounded like an automatic lock.
“Hi, what do you need?” Tawny gestured at the wall clock. “I’d like to make the ten o’clock Zumba class.”
The bookkeeper’s rolling chair squeaked. “Just a minute.” She tapped her keyboard and didn’t meet Tawny’s eyes either.
What was up? Everyone who worked there knew her. Why suddenly treat her like she had typhoid fever?
The bookkeeper rotated the screen for Tawny to see. “We’re having a problem with your check. It was returned. Insufficient funds.”
“What?” Tawny pulled her readers out of her gym bag. “That’s impossible.” She studied the monitor. An image of the check for her monthly dues showed on the screen, stamped NSF. “There’s plenty of money in the account. It’s a mistake.” She faced the bookkeeper. “That bank has been making all sorts of mistakes lately. Let me call them right now.” She yanked the phone from her pocket and tapped through the bank log-in sequence. And waited. Why was it taking so long? Other times, the connection had been instant.
The bookkeeper sucked in her cheeks. “Mrs. Lindholm, out of courtesy for your long-term membership, we put the check through a second time.” She gnawed on her lip, staring down at her desk. “It bounced again. There is a thirty-five dollar charge each time a check is returned.”
“That’s crazy. I’ll make it good, of course.” Why didn’t the log-on connect? Fuming, Tawny pulled her wallet out.
“Sorry, but I can’t accept any checks,” the bookkeeper said. “I’ll take a credit card for the dues and the returned check charges.”
A message appeared on Lucifer’s screen: Unable to verify.
Tawny handed the woman her MasterCard. As soon as she finished here, she’d go straight to that damned United Bankcorp, close the account, and find a different bank.
She paced the cramped room, impatient.
Mortified. That had been her mom’s f
avorite word when Tawny did something embarrassing in front of other people. Now she felt mortified even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. The bank’s incompetence had hurt her reputation. Employees at the gym, people she saw every day, thought she was a deadbeat. After this, she could kiss goodbye any chance of being hired as a substitute Zumba instructor.
“Declined.”
Tawny whirled to face the bookkeeper. “What?”
“Your card’s declined.” The woman’s mouth puckered.
Dammit! The accounts were tied together. The bank must have fouled up her credit card, too.
She unzipped the cash pocket of her wallet. “I only have sixty dollars on me.” She handed over three twenties.
The bookkeeper accepted the bills. “I need to give you a receipt. When do you think you can pay the balance?”
Dammit to hell! “As soon as I sell a kidney.” Tawny immediately felt bad for snapping at the bookkeeper. The bank was at fault, not this poor woman just trying to do her job. “Sorry,” she muttered. Chafing with impatience, she tugged on the door handle. Locked. She faced the bookkeeper who remained intent on typing. “Open the door, please.”
The woman finished her task then waited for the printer to spit out a receipt. She handed it to Tawny and released the lock from under her desk. “Have a good rest of your day.”
Yeah, right.
* * *
When Tawny banged through the bank’s entrance, she didn’t care if the security guard tackled her. She rushed up the stairs to the mezzanine and strode to the manager’s office, where emperor-of-the-branch Hyslop sat in conversation with Guadalupe Garza, the loan officer. Without knocking, Tawny pushed the door open.
“What is going on with my account?”
The bankers exchanged glances. Garza looked as if she’d like to slither under the desk. Hyslop, on the other hand, drew himself up to his full five-seven, chin lifted, nostrils flared.
“Mrs. Lindholm, your accounts are frozen, as you well know.”
“What? Frozen? What right do you have? That money is mine. I demand you give it to me now. I’ve had enough of this bank’s screw-ups.”
