Kiss and Tell (8 page)

Macklin Investments
in fine script at the side of the page. Dear God. She knew what she was going to see even before she let her gaze rake the page.

“That was everything we had in the world, Mary. It's gone. We can't make it on my small pension and Social Security. As it is, we were dipping into our account every month. Nan's medicines have gotten more expensive. The insurance rates have gone up. We were just getting by, barely. Nan saw that and started to cry, saying she was a burden to me. We both know her MS is getting worse. She asked me . . . she wants me to . . .”

Mary reared up, her face full of shock. “Do not go there, Pete Anders. Do not even think what you are thinking. Do you hear me? I can help. Father Steve, the parish, they'll help. This is no time to be proud. Are you listening to me, Pete?”

Pete's big hands started to shake. “Explain that to me, Mary. How could this happen? The account was doing great, then slowed down, went back up, then last month, it started downward again. In just twenty-seven days, I'm not worth even the price of that piece of paper. Is it possible there's a mistake?” There was such hope in his voice that Mary felt sick to her stomach.

“Anything is possible, Pete,” she said, trying to make her voice cheerful. She didn't succeed. “Listen, I know how this all works. Lowell taught me when he got ill. I used to take care of all his affairs. Let me look into it in the morning.” She looked at the clock on the range and said, “It's too late today to do anything, but I'll see what I can find out first thing in the morning. I can call my brother's people and see if we can get a handle on all of this. I want you to go home now and take care of Nan and try to convince her things will be all right. Let me take the bread out of the oven, and I'll get the stew ready. Make sure Nan eats. She can't afford to lose any more weight, you know that. And, Pete, take all her meds and keep them away from her. Promise me you'll do that.”

“I will, Mary. You're such a good friend. Thank you seems hardly adequate, but that and blowing away your snow and mowing your lawn in the summer is all I can do for you.”

“And that's way too much as it is. I thank God every day that you and the others are such good neighbors. Now, here, take this and be careful going home. It's starting to ice up out there. I'll call you in the morning the moment I know anything. Give Nan a hug for me.”

Pete would have hugged her, but his hands were full. He nodded as Mary led him to the door. She turned on the outside light. She blinked, wondering when it had gotten dark. Time was moving too fast again, was her first thought. She stood in the doorway until she saw Pete enter his garage through the side door. Then she collapsed against her own front door and let her whole body turn to Jell-O. “You bastard,” she whispered over and over. “Well, we'll just see about that!”

 

 

The next morning, Winnie in her arms, Mary walked into the kitchen and turned on the lights. It was still dark outside. The range clock said it was 5:10. She hadn't slept a wink. She'd tossed and turned all night long. She itched, she ached, she felt pain for her neighbor. She had to do something. She'd stared at the ceiling for hours, trying to decide what, if anything, she
could
do. She set the cat down and walked over to the stove. She did everything by rote, but the two-page brokerage statement seemed to bore holes in her back. She whirled around. She should burn the ugly thing. But it wasn't hers to burn. What she would do was make a copy of it. She'd left her brother's home office intact after he'd passed away. Everything still worked although she never used any of the fancy machines. All she did was dust and clean and air out the room from time to time. Yes, yes, she'd make a copy and give Pete back his original.

And just what was she going to do with a copy of Pete's statement? To be decided.

Mary fed the cat, toasted an English muffin she didn't want, then poured herself a cup of coffee. She knew what she had to do. What she did not know was whether she had the guts to do it. She heaved a mighty sigh. She realized she was Pete and Nan's only hope. That meant no matter how hard it was going to be, she had to do what only she could do.

Sitting at the small, round, oak table in her kitchen, Mary looked around. Until last night, this room had been a comfort room. There was nothing like a warm kitchen to make a person feel good. The heady scents, the aromas of cooking food and baking bread made her so happy. She loved the bright, cheerful curtains hanging in the window, loved the waxy green philodendron hanging from the old beams in the little house. A place of joy and comfort.

But when the digital clock clicked to 9:00, would she still feel that way? Would her life change? Of course it would because once you woke a sleeping tiger, you had to deal with that tiger's wrath.
Dear God, please let me be up to this. Please. Please.

Mary spent the next three and a half hours watching the digital numbers on the range clock change. Night turned to day, and her kitchen was bathed in blinding whiteness. She barely noticed. She took turns shivering inside her chenille robe, the same one that she used to wear when she nursed her children in the middle of the night. It was so old, most of the nub was worn off it, but she wouldn't part with it for anything in the world. It was an old friend that gave her comfort.

The clock ticked forward: 8:57. Mary drew a deep breath. She clenched and unclenched her fists, which were balled up in the pockets of the old robe. She blinked when the numbers changed to 8:58. Two more minutes. Her heart thundered in her chest. She needed to calm down. She let her breath out in a loud
swoosh
when the numbers changed to 8:59. One more minute to go. The paper in hand, she got up off the chair she'd been glued to and walked over to the old-fashioned wall phone. She zeroed in on the range clock the moment the numbers indicated it was 9:00. One more deep breath before she punched in the numbers for Macklin Investments. She knew her son's extension and wondered how he would respond. She knew full well that she had never, not once, called him at the office. Indeed, she had had no contact with him whatsoever after she left her husband and the two children he had, effectively, stolen from her.

A nasal-sounding voice asked how she could direct the call. Mary said, “Extension 478, please.”

Mary heard her son's voice and almost lost it right then and there. She wanted to hang up the phone to end the call so badly, her hands began to shake. She said, “Adam?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was short but noticeable. “Mom! Mom, is that you?”

How wonderful that acknowledging word sounded. Mary licked at her lips, and said, “Yes, Adam, it's me. I need to talk to you. Do you have time?”

“My God, Mom! Of course I have time. Where are you? Why . . . what . . . how . . . Are you okay? You aren't sick, are you? Why are you calling? Damn, Mom, it's so good to hear your voice. Dad said . . . never mind what he said. Can we meet, Mom? I'd like that. I tried to find you. But Dad said if you wanted to be found, you'd get in touch. Why did you abandon us like that? Why, Mom?”

Mary was so light-headed, she had to grab hold of the kitchen counter to keep herself upright. “That's all for another time, Adam. I'm calling you for a reason.”

“Well, whatever it is, I'm glad you called. Talk to me, Mom.”

And she did. She laid it all out quickly and concisely. She hated hearing her son's indrawn breath, hated that she couldn't see him to gauge his reaction. She just simply hated this whole darn call. Period. “And one more thing, Adam. When you cut the check for Mr. Anders, add an additional two hundred thousand dollars. That's not a suggestion, it's an order. If you don't follow through, I will do exactly what I said I would do. Now, repeat the fax number I gave you and tell me exactly when you will be faxing me the revised monthly statement showing the additional two hundred thousand dollars. Then I want you to close out the account and fax the closing statement. Are we clear on all of this, Adam?”

Adam's voice was hard. “I understand perfectly. Who is Peter Anders? Your new husband? Is he the man you left us for?”

Mary wanted to cry. She
was
crying, wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her old robe. “Pete Anders is an old, dear friend. His wife has multiple sclerosis and is practically bedridden. They depend on the money they invested with your father. They need the money for medicine, for food on the table, and to help pay their mortgage. That's who Pete Anders is. I want you to think about that, Adam, really think about Pete and all the other Petes you and your father have been swindling all these years. I will give you fifteen minutes, not one minute longer, to fax me what I asked for. Send the check by messenger. Pete's address is on his account. I don't care if you have to use a dogsled to deliver it; just do it. This morning will be soon enough. Before noon. Good-bye, Adam.”

Mary had to jab at the old phone three times before she could get the receiver into the cradle because she was so blinded with her tears. She unwound a length of paper towels, swiped at her eyes, and blew her nose. She'd done it! She'd actually done it.

Mary sniffed as she made a second pot of coffee, her eyes once again on the digital clock on the range. She poured a cup and hurried up to the second floor to Lowell's old office. She felt like her skin was on fire, that's how nervous she was. Would Adam do what she'd told him to do, or would he call his father? When the fax line rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. Her hands were trembling so badly, she could barely hold the paper in her hand. She tried to read it but couldn't. She had to go back downstairs to get her reading glasses.

Tears puddled in Mary's eyes again as she read through the newly revised statement. And the short letter explaining that a check would be hand delivered by noon for the full value of the account, and apologizing for the erroneous statement showing major losses that should have actually been a gain in value of two hundred thousand dollars. Mary blessed herself. God did work in mysterious ways. Sometimes with a little help from a well-meaning friend.

Mary dialed Pete's number and told him to come over. He blew in the kitchen door with a wave of swirling snow that was blowing off the roof. She didn't even bother to ask about Nan. She just waved the papers under his nose and told him about the check that would be delivered by noon.

Pete knuckled his worn, callused hands over his eyes. He was trembling so bad, Mary had to help him to a chair. She poured him a cup of strong black coffee and ordered him to drink it.

“How . . . I don't understand, how did this happen?”

Mary smiled. “Can we just say, and leave it at, that sometimes it's not what you know but who you know. When the check comes, take it to the bank if the roads are clear. I'll call Lowell's people, and they'll talk to you about investing the money. Now, I want you to go home and show the papers to Nan and make her a nice big breakfast. There is one thing, though, Pete. If anyone asks if you know where I live, please don't tell them. Just say I'm a friend and leave it at that. Can you promise me that?”

“Of course. It goes without saying. Mary, I don't know how to thank you. You're just like Lowell, always helping someone. Nan had a bad night, but I think this just might turn out to be a good day for her. I'll build us a nice fire, then we'll watch some old movies and wait for the check to come.”

Pete's hug was bone crushing before he walked out into the winter wonderland. Mary smiled. The smile left her face when she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom, feeling every day of her age.

Mary didn't even bother to remove her robe. She climbed into bed, whistled for Winnie, who came on the run and leaped onto the pillow. Mary fell asleep making a promise to herself that she was going to take matters into her own hands and do something about her ex-husband's activities. She didn't want any more Pete Anderses on her conscience.

T
he reporters all piled into the
Post
's van.
God, Ted, turn on the heater,” Maggie said, her teeth chattering as she reached for Dennis's hand. She turned to the young reporter and asked, “Are you okay, Dennis?”

“Yes. No. God, no, I'm not okay. I never saw a dead body, and I just saw two of them. I should have given the coroner their right names. I just froze. They're going to know I lied because I gave them my real name and phone number. How's that going to look? I bet I broke some kind of law. I never break the law. Never. I respect the law.” He was shaking uncontrollably, and while he knew he was babbling, he couldn't seem to help himself.

Ted turned around in his seat to glare at Dennis. “Will you relax. All you have to say is you were in shock and you mixed up your paternal grandmother with your maternal grandmother. No one is going to fault you. We'll make it right. We needed to know if it was . . . them. Okay?”

“No, Ted, it is not okay. Who is going to claim the bodies? Who is going to bury them? They said they had no one. That leaves me. I have to do it! I don't know the first thing to do. I don't have money to bury them. Do you think the
Post
will give me an advance on my pay?”

Maggie took pity on the young reporter and tried to make her voice as soothing as possible when she said, “Dennis, the burial is not your responsibility. I'm sure the ladies have a will. They said the Quinn Law Firm represents them. I'm sure they'll handle everything.”

“That's . . . that's so impersonal. A law firm burying a client. No. I want to do it. I can pay back the advance over time. I know what you are all thinking—that I'm nuts—but I'm not. For a little while yesterday, I was Ms. Overton's grandson. And Tressie's nephew. It seemed real at the time, and I remember what Ms. Overton said. She said that if she ever had a grandson, she would want him to be someone like me. Yeah, maybe they were just words, but coming from that feisty old lady, I really took them to heart, okay? I'm going to do this no matter what you say. If you guys want to make fun of me, go ahead. And if you don't want to go to the funeral service, then stay the hell away. I don't have any more to say,” Dennis said, clamping his lips tight. He continued to shake as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

Ted swallowed hard after Espinosa jabbed him in the ribs. Maggie wrapped her arms around Dennis and crooned to him.

“Dennis, it's a wonderful thing you want to do. We're the schmucks for not thinking of it ourselves. I'm ashamed of myself because you are right. You make me proud to know you, kid. We'll help in any way we can, right, guys?” Ted said, a desperate note creeping into his voice.

Maggie and Espinosa agreed, but Dennis remained tight lipped. Finally, he unlocked his lips, and said, “I know you know those two ladies were rich and probably could pay for their own funeral, but that doesn't make it right. Paying for your own funeral just doesn't . . . it's wrong. Somebody has to care enough to do the right thing. I'm going to do it. I'll make the arrangements for a service, and I'm going to get up there and say how nice it was for a few minutes to think I had a granny and an aunt. Everyone needs someone at some point in their lives. I'm just sorry they're gone and won't know we cared enough to do this.”

“Dennis, trust me, they'll know,” Maggie said, squeezing his hand. Dennis squeezed back.

“Why are we still sitting here, Ted? The car's hot already, so turn down the heat,” Espinosa said.

Ted turned around, his fists clenched against the wheel. “Are we going home or to the impound lot? Somebody needs to make a decision here.”

“The impound lot!” Dennis said briskly. “We need to get the ladies' gear. I know what to do, and this time I'll do it right.”

“Right on! Buckle up, guys, the roads are hazardous. This might take us awhile, so be patient.”

And patience
was
the name of the game. It took them a full ninety minutes to cross town to the impound lot and another twenty minutes to find a spot to park the van when they reached the lot.

The reporters hopped out of the van and raced against the wind and falling snow toward the office. Everywhere they looked, there were tow trucks, disabled vehicles, and shouting men and women looking for a place to stash a vehicle. Guard dogs barked and howled at all the unusual activity. Tow drivers cursed as angry car owners bellowed their outrage.

“See if you can identify a Range Rover, that's what the ladies were driving,” Maggie said. “I saw it in the garage parked next to a little Beemer. They would never have taken a sports car out in such bad weather.”

Espinosa spotted it almost immediately. He gulped and swiped at the snow caking his face. He shook his head at what he was seeing. Only Ted heard him say, “No one could have survived in that.”

“Don't we have to ask permission before we take anything out of the truck?” Maggie asked.

“First we take it, then we ask. Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Ted said. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to him as he pushed at the tailgate of the big truck. He finally managed to pry it open. Quicker than lightning, they had the bags in hand, while Maggie crawled in the back and over the seats to search for the women's purses. She crawled back out, victorious.

The foursome trudged through the snow to the office, where a frantic, frazzled older woman, probably the owner's wife, was trying to do everything at once. She looked up at the reporters as she hung up the phone. “What?” she said loudly.

Dennis stepped forward and took charge. He went into his spiel, tears pooling in his eyes as he pointed to the ladies' bags. “I already identified their . . . their . . . remains at the morgue. Tell me what to sign.” He fished around until he came up with his driver's license, his
Post
credentials, and a ten-year-old rumpled library card. “I'm taking their stuff—it's just clothes and stuff, but it's
their
clothes and stuff, and I want it. Do you have a problem with that, ma'am?” he asked, his voice husky with tears.

The woman's frazzled features softened. “No, Son, I don't. The police might, but that's their problem. Here, fill out this form and don't leave anything blank. Stand still so I can take your picture. All of you, if you're with this young man.” The foursome dutifully lined up. The woman snapped off two pictures. She quickly scanned the form Dennis filled out and nodded her approval. She attached the Polaroid snapshots to the form with an oversize paper clip and she tossed the papers into an overflowing basket on the corner of her desk. “I'm sorry for your loss, Son. I've said that eight times already this evening.

Be careful out there, I don't want to see your vehicle in here later on. Try and get behind a plow or a maintenance truck.”

Back in the van, Ted had to do some fancy driving and maneuvering to get around all the tow trucks coming into and leaving the lot. He knew that at one point his back fender scraped against something, but he wasn't about to get out to see if there was any damage to the van. Inclement weather usually meant no responsibility for the reporter when the motor pool questioned the last person signed out on the van. They had what they had come for, so it was a plus all the way around.

“Where to now? Out to the farm or back to your place, Maggie?”

“The weather is too bad to try for Pinewood. Maybe in the morning. Let's go to my house, make a fire, and finish our dinner. This has turned out to be one hell of a day,” she muttered under her breath.

“You can say that again,” Dennis mumbled. An hour and a half later, Ted did his best to pull alongside the curb in front of the house in Georgetown that he used to share with Maggie. The plow had already been through at least once, and snow was piled to the curb. The streets were already narrow as it was, so God alone knew what Ted would find in the morning when it was time to leave for work. He hated Georgetown when it snowed. He hated it when it rained, too, as the streets flooded.

The reporters piled out of the car. Somewhere down the street they heard a dog bark, a joyous sound, which probably meant the dog and a kid were playing in the snow. They raced over the piled-high snow and up the snow-filled steps to Maggie's stoop. They stomped their feet impatiently as Maggie did her best to fit the key in the lock in the darkness because she'd forgotten to turn on the outside light when they left the house earlier in the evening. They almost knocked each other out barreling through the door.

“It's turning to sleet now,” Espinosa said. “That's not good.”

Maggie turned the heat up. She issued orders like a general. “Ted, build up the fire. You know where the dry wood in the basement is. Dennis, warm up the food. Espinosa, start going through those bags, and someone call the farm and tell Myra and Annie what we've been doing. I'm going to put some warmer clothes on. Ted, you have a box of clothes in the guest-room closet if you guys want to change.”

“You keep clothes here?” Dennis asked, his eyes round as saucers.

Ted raised his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he drawled. “You have a problem with that?”

“No! No!” There was so much he didn't know and so much he wished he didn't know. Dennis kicked off his shoes. “If you have any extra socks, I'd appreciate your lending them to me. If not, that's okay, I'll just put mine in the dryer. In fact, that's what I'm going to do, forget about the socks.” He knew he was babbling, but he didn't care because he always babbled to himself when he was under stress.

In the laundry room, Dennis stripped off his socks and his khaki slacks and tossed them into the dryer. He danced around in his boxers, shivering as he waited for his clothes to warm up. It had been a hell of a day, he thought wearily. He wanted to cry but realized that wasn't very manly, so instead he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He struggled to remember his childhood prayers. He didn't pray often, but he did pray. Most people he knew only prayed when something was awry. He knew that because he'd once had a long discussion on stress and crisis with his college friends and a few of his instructors. He'd also read it somewhere and had wondered if it was true. Probably, he decided, if he was an example. He was sorry for that. He bowed his head and offered up a prayer for his pseudo-granny and -aunt.

When the dryer
pinged,
Dennis reached for his clothes. He couldn't ever remember anything feeling as good as when he donned his warm socks and pants. He heaved a mighty sigh. Now, he thought, I can take on the world. As well as Ted, Maggie, and Espinosa.

Dennis carried the warmed-up food into Maggie's family room in time to see a blazing fire and Espinosa ending his telephone call to the farm. Maggie plopped down on an oversize pillow right in front of the fire. She reached for her plate, looked at it, then shocked everyone by saying, “I'm not really that hungry.” Maggie could eat 24/7 no matter the circumstances. Her colleagues blinked at her words.

Ted stirred the food on his plate, his eyes on the blazing fire. Espinosa sipped at his beer as he stared down at his plate. “Myra said we should call Nikki and tell her about the accident and that we have Sara's and Tress's belongings. I took the liberty of calling Nikki, and she said they were coming over. Guess they're here,” he said, as the doorbell chimed. Maggie was up and running to the door. They all hugged as Maggie helped Nikki and Jack off with their snow-covered coats.

“Come in where it's warm; we have a good fire going. Are you hungry?” When she had no takers, she led her old friends into the family room, where she introduced Dennis to Nikki and Jack.

“This is just so hard to believe,” Nikki said as she flopped down by the fire next to where Maggie had been sitting. “I talked to both Sara and Tressie earlier in the day. I've never met either one of them in person, but have had a lot of contact with the two of them these last few years. They were extremely private people. Very reclusive as well as private, and I honored that. Sara and Tressie were originally clients of Marcy Duval, an old member of the firm. She relocated to California four years ago because she decided that she really wanted to represent movie stars. As the owner of the firm, I inherited all of her clients. They seemed like nice ladies, shy and reclusive but ever so nice. It's such a shock.

“What I'm not getting is how you all know Sara and Tressie?”

“They got in touch with Myra and Annie. They wanted help from the Vigilantes. That's why we met up with them today out at Queen's Ridge. It was therapy day, and Myra and Annie took Lady and invited us to go with them.”

“Why did you talk to them today?” Maggie asked. “Or is that attorney-client privilege? We . . . actually Dennis identified the . . . the bodies, then we went to the impound lot and got their belongings. Should we turn them over to you? We aren't sure what we should do.”