Dead Dreams (17 page)

Sarah stood, a fake smile plastered on her face. She thrust her hand out at Marlene for a handshake. “Thanks for everything so far. But, the bank agreed on us coming back here at three and I have a prior engagement before that.”

Marlene, her face as cold as the Verde marble counter, pumped Sarah’s hand. “I have an emergency meeting I have to get to that is mandatory for all the Vice Presidents in the branch. Is there a way you can rearrange your engagement?”

“It’s set in stone,” Sarah said.

“An appointment with the hair stylist, maybe?” Marlene smirked and winked at me, as I pushed my seat back and stood next to Sarah.

Was that a wild guess? My heart popped up to my throat—that roller-coaster feeling when the car took that first plunge. How were we going to pull off our plan in forty-five minutes?

Jackson stepped in front of Sarah. “My client needs the time to sort her mind before the final papers get signed. As you can see, this is a big decision and demands serious thought. I believe the law requires at least a three-hour window on these matters due to the legal ramifications.”

Such lawyerly jargon. It sounded as if Jackson knew of our plan. Perhaps a part of it.

“Oh.” Blondie glanced up at the clock on top of the arched entry and held out her hand, palm facing us, as if to apologize. “I’ll make a quick call and sort this out. Maybe my assistant V.P. can sit in for the signing. I believe Miss McIntyre met Mr. McGraw when he set up her account.”

Sarah’s face slipped a few shades paler. Things were not going as smoothly as we’d hoped.

Seconds dragged to minutes as I looked from Marlene to Sarah to Jackson. This would be devastating to our plan. Darcey had already stalked off with the stacks, presumably to double-check everything. Ninety-nine million was a lot of money.

Sarah shot Jackson a glare, and as if he understood her unspoken words he said, “I’m afraid the law requires that the banker’s representative present for the first signing be there at the second, as well.” He grinned at Blondie. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed he was in on our scoop.

Marlene said, “Why don’t you girls take a break, and I’ll check on these details? Let’s keep the original appointment, then. I’m sure my directors will be able to excuse me from the emergency meeting.” She smiled sweetly. “The bank holds the McIntyre account in high regard, so I’m sure I could be here at three.” With that, she swiveled on her stiletto and rushed off, her heels
click-clicking
on the marble flooring.

That was close!

Sarah tugged at my arm. “You go off first,” she whispered.

I nodded, waved at Jackson, who appeared anxious to talk with Sarah, and scooted out the door. It was only at my car that I realized that, like an idiot, I’d left my yellow duffle at the bank, so I quickly scampered back to get it. As I rounded the corner, I heard Jackson’s southern twang.

He and Sarah stood a few steps away from where I was hidden behind a pillar. They were on the side of the bank near the parking lot. I meant to tell them I needed to retrieve my bag, but I stopped myself when I saw Sarah’s hand. She had taken a bundle out of her LV backpack. It looked like a brown bag used for packed lunches, similar to the ones she’d handed me on two occasions now. She passed it to Jackson. What was in it? Jackson opened it and peeked inside while Sarah looked over her shoulders stealthily, and almost caught me peering, but I’d already pulled my head back behind the pillar. I’d never seen her so worried-looking.

“Remember, don’t call me,” Sarah said quietly. “I’ll contact you if I need further help.”

“Nice working with you.” Jackson must have walked away in a hurry as his cowboy boots pounded on the asphalt.

It sounded like Jackson was in on our plan. Why had Sarah not told me this? A tight knot formed in my throat. After all I’d agreed to, Sarah still couldn’t trust me? She must not realize that, despite what I had to gain from her inheritance, I was losing something of myself, too. I had half a mind to step out and confront her, but scenes weren’t my thing, and I figured if we were to build a life together as sisters in crime, so to speak, this might be a counterproductive approach. I would find a tactful way to bring up her lack of trust. Perhaps on our plane ride.

When I peeked again, Sarah had reached her forest green Jag. Perhaps Jackson wasn’t just her attorney, looking out for her interests. He could just have been her stooge who enjoyed her wads of cash. I lost respect for this so-called lawyer who could be bought so easily. And, in some way, I was disappointed with Sarah, too. But, was I any better?

Near the bank’s mahogany desk, just as I’d left it, I saw my yellow duffel. Who’d pilfer something so cheap in such a posh institution, right? It’s a good thing no one tossed it in the trash.

During the short drive to the salon, Jackson’s words rang in my ears. “Nice working with you.” She’d paid him off. I couldn’t—shouldn’t—corner her and force her to confess. She’d think I was spying…which I guessed I was.

The haircut went smoothly enough, despite the hairstylist complaining about the double dose of hair I had. She’d joked that she should charge me twice. I hoped this wouldn’t make me memorable to her if for any reason she was questioned later. It was a salon I’d never visited so as to keep the anonymity and I even paid cash.

“Hey!” Sarah greeted me when I stepped back into our apartment. She already had her hair wrapped in a towel, her color work already completed. “What took you so long?”

“I, uh…..” I held out my bag. “I misplaced….”

“Never mind. Let’s hurry.” She headed toward my bedroom’s bathroom, where she’d laid out all the dying agents on the bathroom sink. L’Oreal products. Would my hair color take the dye and turn my shade to look exactly like Sarah’s rich red? I had my concerns but kept my mouth shut. Sarah already seemed nervous.

“Like it?” I swung my shorter hair about and pretended I was reveling in our adventurous plot, even though the bank scene I’d spied on still played in my head like a Cineplex set on auto. How to approach Sarah without offending her? She was touchy about so many things.

“We only have a little over an hour,” Sarah said. “Do you mind sitting so I can start this?”

“And, exactly how long have you been coloring people’s hair?”

“Just because I go to the salon doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”

“Really?”

“No need to be so sarcastic.”

“Have you actually taken classes for this?” I picked up the coloring tube and scanned the instructions.

“Maybe I have. Maybe I’m smarter than you think.”

“Sorry. I just don’t want to end up with green hair. It
could
look awkward.”

She slipped her hands into the surgical-like gloves and pretended to choke me, then started to attack the tubes. I glanced nervously at her as she mixed the solutions.

“Stop looking so nervous, will ya?” she said. “You’ll give the game away.”

I could end up as a carrot top, or have my hair turn fuchsia or some ghastly pukey color, like Puce, for instance, under her charge.

I sat on a blue plastic molded chair that was part of our soon-to-be-donated dining set and draped the black towel she’d brought in for the process over my shoulders. I practically held my breath through the entire procedure.

“Gawd, woman,” Sarah said. “Could you please breathe? You’re turning purple and it doesn’t match your new hair-color.”

How she could joke at a time like this?

Later, when we looked at the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet, I stepped back involuntarily. It was remarkable. We’d taken “before” pictures with my phone, and I’d have bet my last dime that afterward even Keith might have had trouble telling us apart at first glance. Especially when we put in the colored contacts. No wonder Peter Salazar had commented on how alike we looked. Perhaps he had been studying my features and had noticed this more than anybody else. Although our coloring was different, our eyes, nose and the curve of our upper lips were almost identical. Sarah was probably uncomfortable that she didn’t look as unique as she’d like to have been.

For several minutes, Sarah and I practiced some of the mannerisms we’d agreed upon, and she did a believable rendition of the “me” in the bank. She flicked hair that wasn’t there away from her cheeks and once in awhile chewed on her nails, which by this time were chipped and bitten like mine had been minutes ago. Now I had acrylic nails on, red as the devil’s pitchfork and too long to be practical for any house chores, or doing any sort of barista work.

“Will Marlene notice our change?” I asked as we packed up the hair dyes and stuffed them into black garbage bags, which we intended to toss on our way to the bank. Marlene had seemed like a person fussy with details and highly conscious of fashion.

“If you stopped looking so nervous, we might get away with this.”

I sighed.

She punched my arm. “We can practice our facial expressions a bit more.”

During the practice time, though, I thought about Dad. Was he out of his coma? He’d be sad I wasn’t there when he came to. My mother must have been furious if she’d tried to contact me and found my phone switched off. Sarah insisted I stayed focused, and I had no choice but to heed her.

“When this stint is done you can call your parents one last time,” she reminded me when I took my phone and glanced at the blank screen. “Everything comes with a price, Brie. We can’t risk mistakes. Understand?” she continued when I bit my lower lip—something I reminded myself
no
t to do, now that I was Sarah for the moment.

“Maybe I can call them when we get to a more rural place—like the Bahamas or something,” I pleaded.

“For someone who wants to get away from them, you’re sure acting dorky.”

I nodded glumly. Easy for her to say, she didn’t have a dad in ICU.

Just as I disarmed the alarm by the front entry to leave, the doorbell rang. Sarah gave me a furious stare, as if I were to blame for this surprise visitor. I wondered if it was Keith. It would be hard to explain our looks. I peeked through the keyhole, and my breath left me with a jolt, so loudly that I wondered if the visitor heard me. I turned to Sarah and jerked her into the kitchen while the doorbell kept
ding-donging
.

“It’s Pastor Perry!” I whispered, even though no one outside our door could hear us.

“Why’s he here?” Sarah’s cheeks flushed, even beneath the pale ivory foundation I’d caked on her face.