Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  Very possibly their “unreliability” had to do with health problems stemming from the leak of those underground drums. But if we couldn’t locate the two, the point was moot.

  Badly discouraged and needing respite, we took to filling the time between calls by reading Mom’s journals. There were a remarkable number of them, going all the way back to the time when she gave up writing for shopkeeping, and it wasn’t that they held any major surprises, just that they were so…so Mom. There’s reason why she had wanted to be a writer—she was good. That came through when she wrote about her feelings for Daddy even years after his death, when she wrote about all that she wanted for us that she feared she couldn’t provide, when she wrote about Phoebe’s divorce (which pained her) and Sabina’s absorption in computers (which confounded her) and my leaving Middle River and never returning (which hurt her deeply).

  More than once, Sabina and I would sit back with tears in our eyes after one or the other of us read a passage aloud. I’m not sure I would have wanted to do this alone. It had more meaning being with her. There was certainly more comfort.

  But four o’clock approached. Setting the notebooks aside, we made a final round of calls, reminding all we spoke with of the meeting at the mill, and then Sabina went out on foot again to lobby for help, while I returned home to shower and dress. I put on a skirt, the only one I had brought with me. It was white and worked well with a red blouse and red sandals. I was definitely going for power. To that end, rather than letting my hair shout WOMAN, I swept it back and anchored it with a clasp. I put on makeup with care, then lined my lips with a pencil and applied lipstick with a brush. I straightened before the mirror and checked to make sure I approved.

  Feeling reasonably attractive and suitably professional, I set off—and only then did it occur to me that not once since I had been back in Middle River had I seen Sandy Meade in person, which means, of course, that you don’t know what he looks like.

  Picture a lion with a large head and a full mane of silver hair. Erect, he stands at the same height as Aidan, several inches shorter than James. Picture a barrel chest above slim hips, and legs that are strong and agile enough to allow for stalking, which he had always done, and which, I’m told, hadn’t slowed with age. Picture strong hands that like tapping a table with a pen, a mouth that is turned down, and eyes that drill whatever they see.

  Intimidating? Definitely. By the time I arrived at the executive offices, I was wondering if I was up to the task. It didn’t help that the last time I had faced Sandy Meade in a confrontational situation, I had lost badly.

  But I was here. And I wasn’t turning back. The lingering scent of the fire stiffened my resolve. Last time, the Meades had succeeded in sweeping truth under the carpet. This time, I had maturity, evidence, and James on my side.

  Since there were more cars than usual, I had to park a short distance down the drive. I was walking toward the redbrick Cape with its tall pediment, dormers, and white shutters, when a man emerged from a car immediately ahead. He was very much like James in appearance, though I realized afterward that it was only the height, the neatness, and the air of authority that corresponded.

  He put out his hand. “Ben Birmingham. I’m James’s friend.”

  In that instant, I recalled what TrueBlue had said. Adding that to what Sabina had learned hacking into the system e-mail, I said, “His college roommate, the lawyer from Des Moines.”

  Ben smiled. “That’s it. He described you well, too. I couldn’t have missed you.”

  “Cute. I’m the only woman around. This is still an all-male board.”

  “There’s Sandy’s secretary.”

  “She’s sixty.”

  “True.” He hitched his head toward the building and said more seriously, “The board members are all inside. They’ll be conducting business on their own for a while. While they do that, James wants us to wait outside the conference room. I’d be honored if you’d let me walk you there.”

  “Are you my lawyer?” I asked, only half in jest.

  “If you’re on James’s side, I believe I am.”

  Chapter 28

  THE CONFERENCE room was large and paneled in dark wood, with thick Persian rugs underfoot and weighty oil portraits on the walls. The oils were of Sandy Meade’s parents and grandparents, painted from timeworn photographs but depicting each subject doing the kind of aristocratic activity that, even James knew, was more fiction than fact. His great-great-grandfather hadn’t hunted for fox, any more than his great-great-grandmother had been a socialite. James believed that the dishonesty detracted from their memory, that it somehow said that who they really were wasn’t good enough. He had always felt that the truest things in this room were the open meadow, the scattered trees, and the river, pictured in all their glory in the wide wall of windows.

  He didn’t see those today; his back was to the glass. He did see the long mahogany conference table, with a glass of iced water for each attendee and, evenly spaced, a pair of paper cubes. Sandy was at the far end, with Aidan on his immediate right, and the non-Meade members of the board, five in all, randomly seated between those two and James. They included Lowell Bunker, the mill’s lawyer; Sandy’s longtime friend Cyrus Towle, president of the country club and another longtime friend; and Harry Montaine, vice president of a private college in nearby Plymouth and the token intellect. Brad Miller, a state senator and the newest member of the board, was a friend of Aidan’s and had been brought on the year before for that reason alone. And finally, at the far end of the table, was Sam Winchell. A sometime friend, sometime adversary of Sandy’s, he was on the board to show that Sandy wanted the town to know the truth about the state of the mill. Unfortunately, since meetings were carefully scripted, Sam had nothing to report to the town that Sandy didn’t want known.

  James wore a navy suit, not his everyday attire, but that didn’t keep him from resting easily in his seat with his elbows on the upholstered arms, while Sandy gave his opening. It always followed the same chatty format, more a personal update than business, and it seemed all the more outlandish to James today, given the fire the night before. Not that the lingering smell of it penetrated the conference room. The air here was as carefully controlled as the agenda of the meeting. If the board members hadn’t already learned of the fire, they might not have known it had happened at all.

  But that was how Sandy worked. A master at manipulating the opinions of others, he was saving the real purpose of the meeting for last, solely to minimize its importance.

  Setting a pair of slim reading glasses halfway down his nose, he began reading excerpts of papers pertaining to the financial health of the mill. He went on to discuss the newest paper being produced by the mill for digital-imaging processes, put due emphasis on the customization capability of its coatings and the resultant demand by hospitals, praised it as being the wave of the future—and he did all of this without once mentioning James, whose brainchild it was. He talked of other directions the mill hoped to take and presented more figures and charts, and by the time he was done, more than one pair of eyes had begun to glaze.

  But not James’s. He knew what his father was doing and had to work harder to swallow his fury as the minutes passed, had to work harder to keep his mind on his father’s words. And then, finally, there they were.

  “…really too bad,” Sandy was saying about the fire at last, “because the Children’s Center is a vital part of this community. But Aidan has already found temporary quarters for the day care center until it can be rebuilt here on our grounds. Aidan, please speak about that.”

  Aidan came to. He had been sitting in something of a trance with his fingers steepled and his eyes out the window. It was his rendition of the thinking man’s look.

  Thinking man’s look? James knew damn well what he was thinking about, and it wasn’t business. It was his Executive Assistant, who was giving him some kind of trouble, to judge from Aidan’s ranting that morning.

  More galling to James, though,
Aidan hadn’t found a thing with regard to the Children’s Center. Sandy was the one who had called the Catholic church and convinced Father William that it was in Our Lady’s best interest to shift CCD classes to the evening and offer the space to the Children’s Center during the day. Sandy knew about Father William and his housekeeper, and would have had no qualms in using that as leverage.

  No, Aidan hadn’t found a thing. Sandy had laid it all out for him an hour before the start of this meeting. Presenting it as Aidan’s idea was the typical spin. Aidan had to be established as being competent, active, and concerned.

  James might have laughed at that ruse, if it hadn’t been so pathetic. Putting Aidan in charge would be the beginning of the end for the mill. Aidan was a puppet. He neither knew nor cared about the nuts and bolts of the mill. Sandy wanted a tool for promulgating secrecy, bribery, and fraud even long after he was gone. Aidan would be that tool.

  James was angry, but not out of envy. He was angry because he cared about the mill, and because he cared about Middle River. Had either not been true, he would have left town and tried to salvage his relationship with April for the baby’s sake. Likewise, had either not been true, he would be thinking of leaving town to follow Annie Barnes. But that was a whole other can of worms.

  “So we’re on top of this,” Sandy assured the board, taking over again that quickly, because Aidan hadn’t had a whole lot to say. “Now,” setting one piece of paper aside, he cleared his throat and pulled up another, “there’s the matter of mercury. Rumors have been going ’round town that the mill has problems, so if you move on in your folders, you’ll see copies of the latest certification we received from the state.”

  James knew how this would go, too. By way of damage control, Sandy launched into a presentation of scientific facts and figures that were far too complex for the board to understand, but understanding wasn’t the point. Sandy didn’t understand them himself. He had admitted that to James more than once, back in the days when they talked, when he thought he was grooming James for his job and wanted to teach his son how to lead. The goal, he claimed, was simply to have the board believe that he knew what he was talking about, in this case that the state had truly declared that Northwood was mercury free.

  “Hold it,” James said now. They were the first words he had spoken, and they brought all eyes his way. “That’s only half the truth.”

  Sandy shot him an ingratiating smile. “Well, it’s the half we need to hear,” he said and turned to the others, prepared to go on.

  “No,” James insisted, straightening in his seat and thereby drawing attention. “That’s wrong. We need the whole truth.”

  “What’s the whole truth?” Sam Winchell asked.

  “Christ, Sam, don’t encourage him,” Sandy snapped.

  James held up a hand to appease Sam. The man had a natural curiosity, not to mention a few philosophical differences with Sandy, hence the question. But James knew what had to be said. “The whole truth is that there are potential hot spots scattered around the mill campus, where toxic waste was buried in drums. If those drums start to leak, the potential for causing harm to human health will spawn the kind of legal action against Northwood that will run us out of business and take the town down with us.”

  “James,” Sandy said with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re being dramatic. There is no such risk.”

  “It’s already happened twice,” James said.

  Apologetically, Sandy looked at his board. “I’m sorry. He simply doesn’t know the facts.”

  James was satisfied. Sandy was playing right into his hands. The more he said to discredit James, the more he cooked his own goose.

  Meanwhile, Aidan wasn’t saying anything. He wasn’t good on his feet. To his credit, though, he did look alarmed.

  James took his briefcase from where it had rested so innocuously on the floor by his chair. He stood, put the case on the table, undid the strap, pulled out papers of his own, and began passing them around—and still Sandy tried to act as though James were nothing more than a misguided son who didn’t know any better.

  He gave a long-suffering sigh. “What are you doing, James?” To the others, he said, “I wouldn’t bother yourselves with whatever it is that’s on those sheets. It’s misinformation.”

  James ignored him. He addressed the board members. “These are lists of people whom Northwood has been supporting through bad times. You’ll see that each has been unable to work because of the ailments listed, and you’ll see the dates when the problems began. You’ll also see the dates of the last two fires here at the mill. What you won’t see is that those fires, like the one last night, were deliberately set after mercury leaked from those underground drums and made people sick.”

  Sandy stood. “That’s enough.”

  James went on. “Mercury poisoning is typically mistaken for a dozen other diseases. That was what happened. Except we knew the truth.”

  “Bull shit,” Sandy roared, but James wasn’t done, not by a long shot. He was actually just getting going, just finding his rhythm. He half wished Annie were in the room, but it wasn’t time yet. She would be pleased, though. The board members were listening. If they didn’t believe yet, they would soon.

  “If you turn to page three,” he said, “you’ll find copies of the first of the internal memos sent at the time of each leak. They’re coded, so that there was no direct mention of words like mercury or illness. But if you turn to page six,” he waited through the rustle of pages, “you’ll see that Aidan says it all in one memo.”

  Sandy turned to Aidan. “What the hell?”

  Aidan seemed startled. “Not me. I didn’t send this. It’s a forgery.”

  James eyed his brother. “I have the originals in a safe place under lock and key. Your initials are right there in ink.”

  “I didn’t send any memo.”

  “Your initials, Aidan. In your hand, in ink,” James said with quiet confidence, and the tone served him well. Brad, who had held back, was paying close attention now. Same with Harry. Lowell, Sandy’s lawyer, had his glasses on and was closely reading the pages. And Sam was sitting back, hanging on James’s every word.

  So James gave him more. “After Aidan’s memos, you’ll find ones that deal with the men who helped with the cleanup. There are invoices detailing the gear that was purchased so that they wouldn’t be exposed themselves. They weren’t told about any leak, by the way. They were told that wearing the gear was a precaution in case something happened while they worked. They were told that since the Gazebo, in this case, had to be rebuilt, it just made sense to get rid of the drums.”

  “That was the truth,” Sandy charged. “There were no leaks.”

  James went on calmly, “The last two pages detail Sandy’s relationship with certain people at both the local and the state level, people who may have been in a position to question the toxicity at Northwood. As you can see, he’s treated them very nicely over the years. It’s not surprising that they looked the other way.”

  “This is slander,” Sandy growled in the direction of his lawyer. He took his seat, ceding responsibility for the fight.

  Lowell looked over his glasses at James and said with a Brahmin air, “Your father may be right, if all you have is paper.” He shook the papers, as though they weren’t worth a cent. “These things can be fabricated.”

  Before he had finished, James was on his way to the door. He hadn’t ever doubted that Ben and Annie would be there, but the sight of them warmed a cold spot in his gut. They were two of the people in his life that he most admired, albeit one for years and the other for only days. He gestured them in.

  Sandy didn’t like that. “This is a board meeting. They don’t belong here.”

  “We often have guests,” James said. He introduced Ben as his longtime friend and personal attorney, and Annie as the voice of the people.

  “Voice of the people?” Aidan cried, sounding outraged. “Oh, come on. She’s a woman wanting vengeance for something
that happened years ago.”

  James turned on him. “And she deserves it,” he said tightly, “only that’s not why she’s here. She’s here because she has proof—listen and hear—proof that her sister Phoebe had mercury poisoning.” His eyes returned to the group. “And don’t anyone try to suggest that she was exposed to mercury elsewhere in town, because the very last pages of the printout you have detail the years when the mill used mercury in its chlor-alkali plant, and acknowledgment of that by the state. We used mercury, and we produced mercury waste. Those facts are a matter of public record.” He drew up chairs for Annie and Ben.

  Sandy was on his feet, addressing the board. “What my son hasn’t told you is that Ben Birmingham is his buddy. They were roommates in college. Makes you wonder why James couldn’t go to a real lawyer, and as for Anne Barnes, she’s emotionally unstable. You’ll get people all over town testifying to what she did here years ago.”

  James was undaunted. He knew just how stable Annie was. He guessed that she had as level a head on her shoulders as anyone else here.

  Smiling, he looked around the room. He was his father’s son. He could match the old man for grit. “Tell you what,” he said with ironclad good nature, “if any of you feels that my guests have nothing valid to say and you want to leave now, go ahead. You’ll miss history being made in this town.” He extended a hand toward the door in invitation, raised his brows, looked from face to face.