Leave It to Cleavage (6 page)

“Hello, Miranda.”

“Chief.”

They regarded each other for a moment, neither speaking. She didn’t make a move to get out of the pool, but just stood there looking up at him, waiting for him to say something. They’d known each other since birth, though that knowledge had been tempered by the social divide between them. He’d been the son of a real estate agent who died before Floridians discovered Truro’s quaint charm, and a dissatisfied Miss Rhododendron who’d deserted her husband and eight-year-old son when her life didn’t live up to her expectations.

Miranda Smith had been a Miss Rhododendron, too, plus a whole lot of Miss Something-or-Others he hadn’t bothered to keep track of. From what he could tell, she’d lived the life his mother had aspired to.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine.” She flashed the beauty pageant smile a fraction of a second late. “And you?”

“Good, good.” He made a point of staring her right in the eye, despite the natural inclination to drop his gaze lower. As he studied her he realized that her individual features were not particularly beautiful, but the sum of those parts was hard to look away from. “And Tom? How’s Tom?” he asked.

If he hadn’t been watching so closely he might have missed the hesitation. She swallowed and cocked her head in his direction. Then she pulled out her beauty contestant smile again.

“Why, he’s fine, Chief. Thank you for asking.” She finished her Scarlett O’Hara impression with another flash of white teeth. Any minute she was going to bat her eyelashes at him.

“I haven’t seen him around for a while,” Blake replied.

“No?”

“Nope.”

She fidgeted slightly. Nothing major, just enough to tell him she was uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

“That’s because he’s out of town.”

“Oh? Where is he?”

She didn’t look away, but he could have sworn he could feel her mind racing.

“He’s out of the country right now. In China.”

“China, huh? Business or pleasure?”

She blushed, which he found interesting. And then she batted her eyelashes.

“Business, of course. He’s attempting to develop new suppliers.”

“And when are you expecting him back?”

She laughed, a hollow sound that sent his law enforcement antennae quivering.

“Why, I do believe you’re interrogating me, Chief Summers. And here I thought you were just passing by.” She aimed her gaze at the uniform shirt now clinging to his chest.

Her tone intimated this was nothing more than a casual chat, but he sensed the tension in her body. And she kept making eye contact with him, which felt distinctly odd.

When he didn’t respond, she pulled herself halfway out of the water and twisted to sit on the edge of the pool, her long legs dangling.

“Why the sudden interest in my husband?”

He didn’t hesitate, eager to see how she reacted to the truth. “Because somebody called my office claiming your husband had met with foul play.”

He studied her carefully as her whole body went still. He waited for the outrage, the fear, some sort of admission of . . . something. But she just threw back her head and laughed.

“I imagine the foulest thing Tom’s met with so far is a lack of cheeseburgers, and poor potty facilities.” She brought her knees up and pushed upward to a standing position, and he did the same, trying not to watch the droplets of water slide down her body. “But I promise I’ll let him know people are worried about him the next time he calls.”

She was very damp and dewy, and her legs pretty much demanded a second look. But her smile was too bright and her shoulders too stiff. And she didn’t even ask him who the caller was. For some reason he didn’t yet know, she was lying to him.

She glanced up at the clock and reached over for the towel hanging on the wall. “I’m out of time, Chief, and I really need to shower and change. Is it all right if I go now?”

He nodded and tried not to watch too closely as she swept past him on the way to the locker room.

Something
definitely wasn’t right. Every instinct he had—both personal and professional—told him so. But it wasn’t the way Miranda Smith looked in a bathing suit.

chapter
6

M
iranda stayed in the locker room until she was sure Chief Summers was gone. Her whole body shook from the effort of trying to act normal under his sharp-eyed regard. God, she hoped she’d been convincing.

She sat in the sauna and thought about who might have reported Tom missing. Then she thought about the fact that she had lied to the chief of police. Surely that wasn’t an arrestable offense?

Her hands continued to shake as she showered and dressed. What if he started investigating? What if he found out the CEO of Ballantyne was guilty of fraud? What would happen to them all then?

She dried her hair and clubbed it back in a French braid, too preoccupied to bother trying to smooth it. Why had she told Helen and Carly she was filling in for Tom? Why hadn’t she just told the truth and let the chips fall where they may?

Her personal finances were nonexistent; her husband had come close to bankrupting the company and then apparently committed fraud to hide what he’d done. And no one at Ballantyne was likely to be reassured to know a Miss Rhododendron was stepping forward to save the day.

Slipping on her coat, Miranda took her car from the valet and drove slowly toward her parents’ house trying to analyze her options. Things had changed. This was no longer a straying husband and the need to steer the ship until a new captain was named. This was a failing company and bank fraud and a chief of police sniffing around. She was in so far over her head, they were all likely to drown.

As she pulled into her parents’ driveway she made her decision. As much as she’d like to do the right thing, and as embarrassing as it would be to tell her parents the truth, her father was the logical choice to put the company back on solid footing. She’d hand the mess over to him, and then she’d find a divorce attorney in Atlanta who could tell her how to proceed. No one who knew her would expect her to handle this disaster by herself. Why, it was ridiculous, really.

At the front door, she told herself she should feel relieved. But she felt like a failure.

“Hello, darling. Where’s Tom?” her mother asked as she opened the door and ushered Miranda inside.

Miranda averted her eyes, hoping it would seem like less of a lie later if she didn’t make eye contact now. “He, uh, he’s in China. On business.”

“Goodness.” She took hold of Miranda’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs. “Your father’s in the living room.” Her mother’s eyes clouded momentarily then cleared. “But I want to show you something first.”

“Mother, I . . .” All Miranda could think about was laying down her burden. Now, during cocktails, would be the perfect time.

But her mother drew Miranda up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, where stepping through the door was like stepping into a time warp. The theme was early pageant, and the walls were papered with pageant programs and photos of Miranda in evening gowns, in swimsuits, in the front line during opening production numbers. Above the canopied double bed, lined up in precise rows on specially built shelves, were her crowns, neatly ensconced in Plexiglas cases. Little Miss Truro and Little Miss Sunflower ultimately led to Miss Hayfield County, Miss Sweet Potato, Miss Vine-Ripe Tomato; there were lots of fruits and vegetables over which she’d ruled.

Under a spotlight set off by itself was her Rhododendron crown, which her mother moved to now.

“Mother, you really should do this room over. I’m almost forty. It’s time to move on.” What she really wanted to move on to was the subject of Ballantyne. “Let’s go downstairs and . . .”

Her mother reached into the display cube and removed the Rhododendron crown. “I’ve been thinking about the Guild Ball, Miranda.”

This was not news. Joan Ballantyne Richards Harper spent a great deal of time thinking about the Guild Ball. She’d chaired the yearly hospital fund-raiser too many times to count, and now had unlimited opinions about how Miranda should handle this year’s event.

It was the last thing on Miranda’s mind at the moment. She’d canceled several meetings since Tom had left, but vowed now that once she handed Ballantyne over to her father, she’d get things back on track.

“Mother,” Miranda said, “let’s go downstairs. I could really use a drink, and there’s something I’d like to run by Dad.”

Her mother’s brow furrowed at the mention of her father, and she caressed the tiara’s centermost rhododendron as if looking for comfort. “I think,” her mother paused as if for a drum roll, “you should reintroduce the tradition of crowning the chairwoman. It would add such drama. And it’s such a shame to leave this beautiful crown unused.”

Miranda groaned. “Mother, there is no way—”

“And we’ll get a crown for Tom too. He looks so marvelous in a tux.”

He doesn’t look too bad in black lace, either,
Miranda thought, as she inched toward the bedroom door. And come to think of it,
he’d
probably enjoy the crown. “You know, Tom’s been traveling a lot,” Miranda said. “I’m not even sure he’ll be here for—”

“You tell Tom you won’t accept any excuses,” her mother insisted. “A chairwoman never attends the ball without her husband.” She hesitated. “Except that year Adrian Wright accidentally ran hers over with her Suburban.”

Miranda just nodded while she pictured a Tom Smith pancake. Who knew what Adrian Wright’s husband had been up to before she mowed him down? “Can we go downstairs now?” she asked. “I actually wanted to talk to Daddy about some things at Ballantyne. There’s a serious problem with—”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” her mother said. “You can’t do that.” She replaced the crown and slowly turned to face Miranda. Real concern showed on her face. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but your father saw the doctor today. He’s been having minor chest pains and his blood pressure is out of control. Dr. Chainey put him on a diet and medication. And he’s talking about an angioplasty.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, a shocking sight in its own right. “He’s been instructed to avoid stress at all costs,” she said. “He’s not to think about anything more taxing than his golf game.”

Miranda wasn’t sure how she made it through the meal. It was like traveling through a desert dying of thirst and actually reaching an oasis full of fresh water only to be told you weren’t allowed to drink.

Her father was right there. He called her “Button” just like he always did, and he kicked up a real ruckus about not being allowed his usual martini or Rosalee’s buttermilk-fried chicken. Heart-healthy baked chicken was clearly not the same.

But Miranda could see the fear in his eyes. And she noticed that although he ranted for form’s sake, he ate and drank what he was served—a sobering confirmation that he knew this was for real.

Miranda pushed the food around on her plate and made polite conversation, trying not to be afraid for her father and trying to put the best possible spin on his chances for avoiding the very real specters of angioplasty and bypass surgery.

Her mother was right, her father’s health had to be protected at all costs. There would be no laying down of anything at her father’s wonderful feet. The burden of saving Truro was going to stay on her own inadequate shoulders.

Saturday morning’s
Truro Gazette
carried the usual amalgamation of small-town life. Births and deaths, the latter outweighing the former; the latest shenanigans of Truro’s greediest developer, who was “turning their lovely mountain haven into a magnet for Florida retirees and worse”; what was served at the St. Paul Baptist Church’s annual potluck supper; and assorted community happenings. But the column everyone—Miranda included—turned to first on Saturdays was Clara Bartlett’s “Truro Tattles.”

Miranda and her family had appeared in the column for as long as she could remember. Normally Clara contented herself with glowing accounts of the Ballantyne family’s pet charities and Miranda’s public appearances on the company’s behalf, but this week’s column was something shy of fawning.

Miranda’s heart sank as she sat at her kitchen table and read:

WHO
’
S MANNING THE BRA FACTORY?

This reporter can’t help but wonder what Ballantyne’s President and CEO was thinking when he took off for the Orient for such a long period of time.

We realize the company has been manufacturing the same sorts of unmentionables for over a hundred years, but can it really operate on automatic pilot?

Shouldn’t
somebody
be running the show?

chapter
7

O
n Sunday morning Blake sat between his grandfather and his daughter at the Truro First Methodist Church and pretended to listen to the minister. His grandfather was still as stone, and Blake was fairly certain he was asleep with his eyes open, a skill the old man had perfected recently and which occasionally scared Blake half to death.

His daughter Andie wasn’t anywhere near as accomplished, and Blake had lost track of the number of times her eyes had fluttered all the way shut before she jerked back awake at the sound of the church organ or a responsorial reading.

Blake’s particular skill was feigning interest while his mind wandered where it would. When he was Andie’s age, he’d passed the time replaying football games in his mind. At thirteen he’d begun picturing the female members of the choir naked, until that awful day when he’d accidentally mentally unwrapped the minister’s two-hundred-pound wife and sworn off the exercise for life.

Today his brain teased at the puzzle of Miranda Smith and the absent Tom, and he knew his brain wasn’t alone. Clara Bartlett’s column had accomplished its mission: Folks were busy wondering and whispering, and a whole lot of eyes were trained on the Ballantyne family pew.

When it was time for the final hymn, Blake stood with the rest of the crowd, clapped a hand around his daughter’s shoulders, and added his voice to a robust rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” A few minutes later Andie had made herself scarce, and he and his grandfather stood out in the cold, shaking Reverend Simmons’s hand.