Kiss and Tell (14 page)

T
he show Emanuel Macklin put on for the EMS attendants in back of the ambulance was an Oscar-worthy performance. He gasped, he moaned, he groaned and muttered and mumbled as the young man monitored his vitals. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the puzzlement on the attendant's face. Other than a possible elevated blood-pressure reading, he couldn't find anything wrong with him.

“We're here, Mr. Macklin. Steady now. We'll have you fixed up in no time.”

Manny tried to sit up, waved off the attendant, then let out a belch that all but shook the ambulance. “Ah! That felt good! See, that was my problem! All that rich Thanksgiving food!” Such a lie. He'd had a Spam sandwich for Thanksgiving dinner.

“No, no, you can't get up, Mr. Macklin! Please.”

Manny's legs were already over the side of the gurney, and he was sitting upright. “I'm fine. I just had gas. Damn, that felt good. Thank you for getting me here. I appreciate it.” In a nanosecond, he had his checkbook out of his breast pocket and was writing out a check. “Ten thousand should cover it, doncha think, young man? Thanks again.” And he was out of the ambulance and running toward an SUV that had pulled up behind the ambulance.

“What the hell . . .”

“Where's the patient? I thought you guys radioed in a possible heart attack,” a flustered nurse said as she looked around for the patient.

The attendant jerked his head in the direction of the SUV. “Just call it a miraculous recovery and let it go at that. The guy paid for the trip, so we're good to go here. Gotta run, a call is coming in.”

The attendant looked around for the plump white-haired man and wasn't surprised to see him climbing into the SUV. Later, he would think about all that had happened, but now he had to get back on the road.

“Emanuel Macklin, sir. I'll pay you anything you want if you take me into town. Just name it.”

Tom Furgeson looked at the man who had climbed uninvited into his van. “Hey, who do you think you are? Get your ass outta my van.”

“I'm just a guy who needs to get into town. I told you I'd pay you whatever you want. You're just sitting here, and this is a four-wheel drive, right?”

“I was just sitting here because I was waiting for my wife to get off her shift, but she said they were shorthanded, and she agreed to stay on for a few more hours. I was waiting for the ambulance to move so I could drive off. I'm not some damn chauffeur, and the roads are treacherous. You need to get out of my truck. Like now, mister. I'm going to park and wait inside until my wife goes off duty.”

“How does a thousand dollars sound?” Macklin said, whipping out his checkbook.

“Buckle up, buddy! Where do you want to go?” Macklin rattled off his office address as he buckled up. It always comes down to money, he thought smugly. Money can buy anything. And I'm the living proof.

Ninety minutes later, huffing and puffing, Macklin climbed two flights of stairs to his Washington office. He wasn't surprised to find the office empty. After all, it was Saturday. He turned on the lights and the heat and walked around. It was a rattrap, no doubt about it, but his business quarters were his stock-in-trade. The offices in New York were even worse. He was known for blathering on about overhead that didn't need to be passed on to his investors. Not to mention that he had a fifty-year lease with affordable rent. An office was an office. A place to toil from nine to five. He didn't need fine rugs, rich paneling, and custom-made furniture. And his investors loved the frugality he displayed, convinced that it contributed to the outsized returns they were earning when the dividend checks rolled in.

Macklin sat down on one of the old-fashioned swivel chairs. Wood, not Naugahyde or faux leather, but there was a beat-up flat cushion on the seat. Adam's chair. He looked around at the other chairs, which were pretty much the same, the gunmetal gray desks, lamps with green shades and hundred-watt lightbulbs. Everywhere he looked there was clutter. Piles of papers, statements, cartons filled to overflowing that had to be relocated, dust and grit everywhere. He knew for a fact that the two back rooms were filled to overflowing. Adam wanted to rent a warehouse, but Manny had vetoed that idea immediately. No way did he want his files and records someplace he couldn't get to in minutes.

Macklin looked around again and swiveled his chair so that he had a view outside the dirty windows. Now that he was
home,
he could think and plan. He allowed himself to relax until he was almost in a trance. A trance that was shattered when the phone rang. He debated about answering it. He finally picked it up and listened to a young-sounding voice ask if this was Macklin Investments.

“My name is Dennis West, sir. I'd like to set up an appointment to discuss investing an inheritance that just came my way.”

Macklin sat up straighter in his chair as he fumbled for his standard first-time speech to prospective newbies. Say no, then the client begged you to take them on. It worked every time. “Actually, Mr. West, I'm not taking on any new clients. I like to keep to a small shop, so I can give my clients 100 percent of my attention. I can recommend someone if you like.”

Dennis started to sputter. “I thought you were the best. That's what everyone told me. I need the best because I don't know a thing about investing, and my aunts don't know that much either. This is just too much money to give to someone I never heard of. I've heard of you.”

Macklin sighed loudly, just loudly enough for Dennis to hear. “How much money are you talking about, Son?”

“I'm not sure. The lawyer told me it was in the hundreds of millions but not quite a billion. My granny left it all to me.”

Emanuel Macklin thought he was going to have a coronary on the spot. His mouth went dry, and his hands started to shake. “I suppose I could make an exception. When do you want to meet? The weather is such a hindrance.”

“I was thinking Monday morning. By then, the roads should be clear, and things will be back to normal. I can be at your office at nine.”

“I have a better idea. Why don't we meet for breakfast on Monday morning. Remember, Son, I haven't committed to taking you on. I'm going to need some details. We might not be a good fit, but like I said, I can certainly recommend someone to help you. Shall we say the Knife & Fork at nine?”

“That will work,” Dennis said, excitement ringing in his voice. “I'll see you on Monday then.”

The moment Macklin broke the connection, the first thought that came to mind was
setup. Someone is out to set me up.
But then his greed took over and pushed that thought right out of his head.
Millions but not a billion.
Who was this young person? Dennis West. He looked over at the far corner and saw the computer that Adam used to keep track of office expenses and research. While he wasn't computer literate, he knew how to do a search on Google, a company, he would self-deprecatingly tell people, he had missed out on when it first went public. He fired up the ancient computer, which belonged in some museum for ancient computers, along with tape drives and floppy disks, and waited for it to boot up. He clicked on the Google button and typed in Dennis West's name.

A reporter. A good one. He had won a Pulitzer at a very young age.
Setup.
A chill ran down Macklin's arms. Then again, maybe not. He'd sounded sincere, but then he himself had perfected sincerity.

Macklin thought back to the brief conversation. He'd played it just right. He hadn't been eager, had offered to turn him over to someone else. That was good. It wouldn't hurt to meet up with the young man to see if he was on the up and up. He prided himself on reading people. No green kid would be able to pull the wool over his eyes. Once he found out where his inheritance came from he could check that out and take it from there.
Setup. Hundreds of millions but not a billion
. If it was true, this was the stuff dreams were made of.

Macklin looked down at his watch. In about forty hours, give or take a few, he'd know for sure if he was being set up or not.

While Macklin leaned back in the old swivel chair to contemplate his navel, forty miles away as the crow flies Annie de Silva and Myra Rutledge high-fived one another the moment Myra clicked off the speakerphone.

“I told you that young man was a secret weapon, Myra. He pulled it off, he actually got through to Macklin and has an appointment with him. Right now, I'm happier than a witch in a broom factory. How about you?”

Myra smiled. “When Dennis called to tell us about his inheritance, I couldn't believe it. It makes sense; that's how Sara and Tressie told us all they got their start. How wonderful to return the favor to that young man. I hope he uses the fortune wisely. And how clever of him to come up with the solution to our problem. We are good to go, Annie. By Monday, the roads will be clear, and we'll be able to take Charles's Range Rover and drive into town. I know, I know the weatherman is predicting more snow, but with no major accumulation. The big decision we have to make is, should we go with Dennis to that meeting or let him handle it himself? What do you think, Annie?”

“I say we let that young man handle things. We could work with him later on the phone, prep him, that kind of thing. While he's meeting with Macklin, I think you and I should get a bead on things and meet up with the first Mrs. Macklin. Then we can meet with Dennis and see what we have and how best to proceed. We don't want to waste too much time since we're planning to do Christmas in Las Vegas.”

“That sounds like a sterling plan. What's your thinking? Should we try calling Mrs. Macklin or surprise her?”

“Surprise is always good. That way, she won't be able to prepare a story in advance or blow us off. The element of surprise kind of leaves one a little vulnerable and prone to blurting out things they might think were best left unsaid.”

“Surprise it is, then,” Myra said. “I like the way you think, Annie.”

Annie preened at the compliment and got up to look out the window at the winter wonderland. “I can't ever remember this much snow this early in the year. I wonder if it's an omen of some kind. The kind of omen we need to pay attention to. I don't mean to pretend that I'm psychic or anything, but I'm picking up all kinds of undercurrents. And not just undercurrents but
dark
undercurrents. I don't like the feeling, Myra.” Annie shook herself like a wet shaggy dog to bring herself back to the present. “I think I'm just getting nervous in my old age.” When Annie laughed, there was no joy in the sound.

“Then let's get to it. We have work to do and plans to make. Monday will be here before you know it.” Myra held up her hand for sudden silence. “Do you hear that?”

“I do.” Annie ran to the door and peered out.

“Ah, it's Mr. Choo with his sons and his snowblowers. That means we'll be able to navigate by the end of the day. Do you want me to tell him to clear the way to the barn since that's where Charles's Range Rover is parked?”

“No, he knows what to do. Come on, Annie, we need to hunker down here and make plans. It's definite, then—we're going to go to see Mrs. Macklin first, right?”

“I think so. Always start at the beginning. Isn't that what Charles always told us? Oh Myra, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .”

“It's all right, Annie, and you're right, Charles always said to start at the beginning, so that's what we're going to do.”

Myra excused herself and went upstairs. She went into her bathroom and scrubbed her face until she thought the skin was going to peel off. She blinked as she stared at her reflection.

Who was this person with the glassy eyes and shiny red face staring back at her? A woman whose husband had just left her. For the second time. That's who was staring back at her. Her clenched fists banged down on the tile vanity as her foot lashed out to kick at the cabinet underneath. She felt the pain, but it was almost a welcome pain compared to the mental anguish she'd been going through.

She wanted to cry, but there were no more tears left. Myra had cried rivers for days now in the darkness of her room and under the covers when Annie had gone to bed or off somewhere to sit quietly.

Someone else in the world was more important to Charles than she was. How could that be? She'd thought all these years that he was her lifeline, her rock. And she to him. To be sure, they tiffed with each other from time to time, but at the end of the day, they were always on the same page. Not anymore. Maybe never again.

Myra turned and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. She dropped her head into her hands and let the tears flow.

“Mummie, don't cry. It's going to be all right, truly it is. I tried to tell you that when Daddy left. I told you that you didn't need me. And you didn't need me because everything will be all right. That's what I told Daddy, too.”