The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (7 page)

“Immediately upon my graduation from Cornell University, I accepted a position at Franjipur Hotels International in New York.” He looked around the table, making eye contact with each of them. “I was reared in Alabama, where my family has lived since the 1700s. I was brought up to respect the importance of the social aspects of life, so I learned all I could about the habits, preferences, and reporting relationships among the corporation’s senior and middle management.” He hesitated a moment and exchanged a look with Jack, who nodded for him to proceed.

“All companies have their idiosyncrasies, and I ascertained a few along the way, some of which came to me by way of confidences and others I learned independently. This knowledge was a contributing factor to my progress within the company.”

“What sort of knowledge?” asked Darrel, stroking his beard.

Rand cleared his throat. “Personal information relating to individuals in positions of authority, but not related to finance or business or matters of that nature.”

Darrel’s index finger covered his lips and his brow furrowed.

“I was the youngest person ever in the history of the company to be given a position on the Quality Control Team. My duties there were to ensure that Franjipur’s rigorous standards of customer service were consistently maintained throughout the chain.

“I was eventually assigned to the western region of the United States, where I traveled extensively and visited each facility to assess its quality of customer care. These assessments sometimes involved hiring outside consultants to assist in the evaluation process and in coaching teams to improve their performance.

“One of the consultants with whom I worked was a lovely
woman by the name of Anne-Charlotte Anderson, for whom I had the highest regard.” He looked down for a moment and took a drink of water.

“That high regard blossomed, and we fell in love. We moved in together and seemed well suited to one another. We both traveled a great deal for our work, had similar career demands, and cherished our time at home together. Our families blessed the match. We became engaged, and wedding plans commenced.”

He eyed Mercedes sorrowfully.

“However, as you may recall, the recession of 1982 was not kind to the hotel industry, and I can tell you it did not spare Franjipur. Profits took a dive and stock values declined. In reaction to this, the board of directors replaced the chief financial officer with another whom they had lured away from a competing chain.

“The new CFO reorganized several departments, one of which was Quality Control, and my position was eliminated. One Friday afternoon, I was abruptly and unceremoniously dismissed. I was given a modest severance package, paid by check on the spot, and was escorted by security from the building. It was a humiliation I hope never to repeat.”

“How many years had you been employed at that point?” Darrel asked.

“Twelve.”

Mercedes caught Stuart’s eye. Questions were already forming in both their minds, which he dignified with a nod.

“The full impact of being terminated didn’t register fully at first. Anne-Charlotte was away on business. I couldn’t bear to tell her what had happened until she returned and I could do so in person. When I did, it was
not
a happy occasion.

“Since then, I’ve been unable to find a comparable position or
any
position in the hotel industry, despite Franjipur’s promise of
assistance. I have pursued employment using every available resource. My severance package has been depleted, my life savings are gone, and our engagement is over,” he said, looking down at his hands and then at Jack.

In response to Darrel’s questions, Rand reported that he had friends still at the company and also knew former employees who would be willing to help with the investigation. He had recently obtained a copy of his personnel file and he now believed his termination was retaliatory—that his difficulties in finding work were a result of being blackballed. Documents in his personnel file seemed to have been altered. He felt checkmated.

Jack, who knew the story, ate his salad while studying Rand’s effect on the team.

Mercedes took notes in a small notebook. Jack buttered a piece of bread, bit into it, and stared at Mercedes’s mouth while she wrote. His scrutiny raised her temperature and she shifted in her seat.

More food arrived as Rand’s story drew to a close. A waft of lobster Newberg made Mercedes’s mouth water. Darrel asked Rand several follow-up questions. Emerson and Stuart contemplated Darrel’s questions while Jack’s eyes fell on Mercedes’s form-fitting turtleneck. She took notes between mouthfuls of the aromatic lobster dish, which she relished.

She met Jack’s eyes, feeling pure satisfaction. Her hard work was paying off. Here she was, surrounded by beauty, intrigue, nice men, and amazing food. Jack tilted his head to the side and watched her swallow.

Darrel explained to Rand that if they did decide to file suit, it would be an uphill battle, would cost a lot, and would probably take a couple of years. They would have to decide within the next three months, due to the statute of limitations. Stuart looked at Mercedes. They both knew what that meant—fast work, and a lot of it.

Rand took their business cards and thanked them for lunch as well as their interest in his plight. On Darrel’s signal the screen was pulled away.

Jack led their exodus through the now-empty dining room to the coat check. He retrieved Mercedes’s weather-beaten raincoat first, grasped it by its frayed collar, and held it for her as though it were a floor-length sable. She slid one arm into a sleeve, and then the other. He settled the coat onto her shoulders, then slowly extracted her long French braid from beneath the collar, feeling every inch of hair. She caught her breath sharply, recovered her composure, and buckled her coat belt as Jack smoothed her collar protectively.

Stuart, who had been watching them, glanced over at Emerson, who looked away. Darrel was busy saying good-bye to Rand. Mercedes picked up her purse, thanked Jack nonchalantly, and followed Darrel through the double doors, the tip of her braid grazing her belt. She felt Jack’s blue-eyed gaze still upon her until he climbed into his new Mercedes with Rand.

“Y
OU HANDLED THAT JUST FINE,
” Jack reassured Rand as he drove away. “‘Idiosyncrasies and knowledge’ was a perfect way to couch it. Darrel and his crew will want you to be completely forthcoming, but there’s no need to go into all the sordid details just yet. As I told you, there is much to be said for revealing only what you must, when you must.”

Rand nodded assent. “I didn’t know we would be in mixed company. It’s hardly the subject matter for such a setting.”

“I didn’t know Darrel would be bringing his paralegal. She’s very insightful, I’m told. She’ll probably be quite good at getting information from your friends at Franjipur. Let’s let nature take its course and see how far she gets with it. The less you’re viewed as being
culpable for what went on in the suite, the better. The fact that you knew
about
it is enough to make your case.”

“You’re
the lawyer. I’ve told you everything. I place my fate in your hands,” Rand said, staring out the window. He wrinkled his brow and bit his bottom lip.

Jack looked pleased. “Tell me, did you ever take part in the bacchanalian festivities yourself?”

“No, I have no taste for that sort of thing.”

“The sex for hire, or sex with boys?”

“Either,” he said, with a look of disdain. “I am a more private man than that, Mr. Soutane.”

“But you understood the value of catering to your bosses’ appetites.”

“That is elementary if one wants to succeed in the hospitality business,” he drawled. “It is not for me to judge the morality of others, but rather to see to their comforts. I was mistaken in thinking that my discretion would be rewarded.”

“Yes, but it’s a mistake that may prove very lucrative for you— and for us,” Jack replied. He checked the time on his gold watch and stepped on the gas.

G
ermaine looked out her bedroom window at the crepuscular light of a November Sunday. Gold spider chrysanthemums bloomed along the fence in place of the sweet peas. The fiery red leaves of the maple tree shivered against a steel gray sky. The rains had darkened the long wood planks of the fence and the green patch of grass in the backyard, now scattered with red leaves.

Mercedes had just eased into a hot bubble bath after a strenuous hike with Caroline and their daughters. The phone rang, and Germaine ran to answer it, her shoes clattering on the kitchen floor. It was Eleanor, as predictable as the flooding of the Nile. Every week, without fail, she called to inject her little spurt of poison into their budding lives. Mercedes put a wet washcloth over her face and slid down into the water as far as possible. She ran more hot water into the tub to drown out Germaine’s half of the conversation. But the exigencies of her mother’s voice penetrated the bathroom wall like x-rays. Her relaxation in the bath was doomed.

“Grandmother wants to talk to you, Mama,” Germaine announced from the doorway. “She says it’s an emergency.”

Mercedes pulled the plug, wrapped herself in a towel, and scurried to the kitchen. The air was chilly on her bare shoulders. The phone receiver lay on the table, its long twisted cord connected to the wall unit.

“Hello, Mother,” Mercedes said. “What’s the emergency?”

“I haven’t talked to you all week!”

“That’s
the emergency?”

“We never decided about Thanksgiving.”

“Hold on a minute, please.” Mercedes put the phone down, threw off the wet towel, slipped into her robe, and sat in a chair. She took a deep breath and looked at Germaine with a resigned expression. Germaine shrugged her shoulders and ran to get her mother’s slippers.

“There’s nothing to decide. Germaine and I have plans already, as I told you last week.”

“I insist you come home to Boston. Your father will pay the airfare.”

“I’m already home.”

“Germaine should be with her family at Thanksgiving, and whether you like it or not, we
are
your family.”

Eleanor turned straightaway to whether Mercedes was dating anyone. Had she bought any new clothes recently? Was she taking care of her skin? Were there any attractive men in the office?

“You’re just wasting your time out there, Mercedes. You would be much better off living here where we can find you a nice husband.”

“I’m getting off now, Mother.”

“For God’s sake, Mercedes, you’re thirty-two!
Think
about your future. Your looks will soon fade and then it’s all downhill from there.”

“Speak for yourself. Good-bye, and thank you for reminding me of a few things.” Click went the receiver.

AFTER GERMAINE WAS IN BED,
Mercedes set up the ironing board in the kitchen to press their clothes for the week. Trying to shake the miasma that Eleanor’s calls gave her, she concentrated on the work at hand in the silent house. The hypnotic movement of the steam iron on small white cotton shirts relaxed her, and her mind fell back to an earlier time, when she was just a girl of seven, living in Texas with her parents.

On one particular day, after a bout of derision, she had fled the house and her mother into the surrounding woods. Down a dirt path among the cedar trees she ran, marking where the shadows fell on the ground so as not to lose track of time. Through a copse she scrambled, into a small clearing where she’d made her secret place. It was near where several paths intersected in a grove of pecan trees. The trees swayed in the breeze and occasionally dropped their beautiful brown nuts. Bright red cardinals sang on the branches of shaggy-barked cedars and ate their tiny blue-green berries.

She sat on a scrap of braided rug she’d found deeper in the woods amidst the ruins of a cabin. The hearth and chimney, built long ago of river stones, were still standing, but the cabin’s walls were gone. There were all manner of treasures there—broken pieces of blue-patterned china, a shard of mirror, the head of an axe, and the remnants of the braided rug. She had dragged the rug to her spot and built a small fortress around it, piling branches on top of each other to form a low wall. Then she had fashioned a shelf from a plank and a few of the river stones, and on it assembled a collection of rose quartz, mica, and iron pyrite, some Indian arrowheads, and a rusty old coffee can full of cedar berries and pecan shells.

This was her haven. She sat, took off her shoes and socks, and gazed up at the trees, listening to the sound of the breeze rustling the
branches, which seemed to be talking to each other. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy to the forest floor, warming the cedar needles and scenting the air. A woodpecker’s call rang out, followed by the staccato of his drilling beak.

She sat motionless, imagining herself invisible. She took a few deep breaths, wishing life could always be as it was in that moment, there in her private place. Birds chirped and squirrels leapt from branch to branch, while mice and an armadillo scuttled among the dried brown leaves. She’d seen pictures of the ocean and imagined that this was all a sea—that she was a little fish at the bottom and that the trees were kelp swaying in the currents. Tranquility descended upon her. All thoughts of Eleanor and home had ceased.