Mourning Dove (15 page)

“Unfortunately, the women
are just as gossipy. It’s my reputation that’s being destroyed, not yours, not
Jonathon’s. It seems to be okay for men to play around, but women, even those
who show a cold shoulder to inept lines, are always fair game for the rumor
mongers in corporate America. I am thoroughly disgusted with it and can’t seem
to find an ounce of funny bone material in the current situation.”

“Okay, I’m not laughing.”
Another snicker leaked from the back of his throat. “Ah, come on, Sara. It’s so
stupid it has to be funny.”

“Maybe. That sweaty
cluster of testosterone pressed up against the glass did look silly. Especially
when you consider that half of them were overflowing their gym shorts.”

“Tell me about the little
inconsistencies that are keeping you up at night.” He was back to serious in a
heartbeat.

She nodded at his
request, walked to the front of her desk, unlocked the top drawer on the right
side, and pulled out a listing of phone numbers. The room was silent while he
read those that were highlighted and the comments Louise had scrawled beside
them.

“Don’t you find that a
call to the CIA at one-thirty in the morning from this office and another at
two a.m. from Jonathon’s office is a little peculiar?”

“How did Louise happen
onto this list?”

“It’s her job to track
down unaccounted for long distance calls. Actually it’s mine, but I’ve been
covering for Jonathon, so Louise is covering some of my duties. The way I see
it, in July and August, Ross worked out of this office and he probably made the
calls and passed over the list as inconsequential. Louise saw it as incomplete
and finished verifying the list. You notice that some of the calls were made
from Jonathon’s office. Either Ross was snooping around the CFO’s office at two
in the morning or Jonathon is also talking to the CIA after hours.”

“Sara, what do you know
about the situation in San Francisco?”

“Only what Jonathon’s
told me by phone. Ross found that his predecessor was selling company secrets
to the competition. Then he made the unpardonable mistake of trying to stall
our finding out while he covered it up. Ross was fired, by me, and is now
missing.”

She reached over to her
printer, handed him a copy of the amended page to the financial report, and
waited for his comment.

Ron watched the mob at
Jordie’s art show from a detached position behind the punch bowl. The Artists
Association had packed their building for the showing of unusual oil techniques
by a favorite local. He was told the crush was unprecedented for a Thursday
evening. Some came to see the man accused of killing his girlfriend in a
lovers’ quarrel, others to report on the strange and unexplained behavior of
the notorious, a few to appreciate the artist’s unusually dark talent with a
brush. Jordie, dressed in his traditional black, was surrounded by well-wishers
and the curious in the far corner of the large showcase room.

Ron was still gnawing on
the code he couldn’t decipher. He smiled at Cass when she walked into the room.
She was flitting from room to room talking up the interest in her son’s work,
selling more canvasses than the efforts of the association’s rep, the board of
regents, and the art critic from the Boston Globe put together.

Allen sauntered up to the
spread of refreshments and plowed a furrow through the crab dip with a rippled
chip.

“Where’s Annette?” Ron
asked him.

“My future bride is in
the process of spending me into the poor house with all the paintings she wants
to buy from Jordie. One will severely curtail the honeymoon, two will break the
bank, and she’s eyeballed four. Tell me again why it was important we come
tonight?”

“Sara was afraid no one
would show except the reporters. She asked, she demanded, we all show up. I
even managed to convince our new bookkeeper to attend.”

“Well, for an event with
no turn out, this place sure is packed. Have you seen Sara?”

“After all the pushing
she did to get everyone here, I don’t think she’s coming.”

“I saw her just a minute
ago in the loft.”

“Are you sure, Allen? She
didn’t come by me.”

“She probably took one
look at your grumpy face through the window and came in through the exit. There
she is now talking to Annette.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,”
the Association’s rep called out from a standing position on top of a chair, “I
have just been informed that all of Mr. O’Brien’s canvasses on display tonight
have been sold.” The roar of applause punctuated the announcement as the rep
descended from her perch.

“I wonder how many of
those I’ll be paying for over the next twenty years,” Allen said from the side
of his mouth.

Ron wedged a path through
to the star of the show.

“Congratulations, Jordie.
I knew all it would take is people seeing your work. Are we still meeting at
the end of the evening?” Ron asked.

“Yes sir. I have some
thoughts on the other matter we discussed.”

“Good, I was hoping you
would.”

“Sara brought some people
from an art foundation,” Jordie added. “Have you met them yet?”

“No, I...”

A group of four people
walked up to Jordie and Ron. The short woman in the group with a gentle
southern voice stepped forward. “Jordan, congratulations on your smashing
success; I am so glad I arrived early enough to purchase one of your treasures
for our foundation. I have some friends in New York who may be interested in
your painting style.”

“Thank you very much for
your kindness, Mrs. Starr. I’m very pleased you were able to come down from Portland and I would like to introduce you all to a man who has always been like a father
to me, there when I need him, there when I didn’t think I did. “Elaina and
Robert Starr, Matthew Farrell, I’m pleased to introduce you to, Ron Stafford of
Stafford Sound Systems.”

“Ron, meet Robert and
Elaina Starr of Starr Shine Communications and the Starr Foundation for the
Arts, and Matthew Farrell government liaison to the Starr Shine company. I understand
Sara and Matthew Farrell are also part of that foundation.”

“Are you related to our
Sara in some way, Mr. Stafford? You have the same last name.” Elaina Starr was
oblivious to the dangerous undertow in the group.

“She’s a very talented
lady, madam,” Ron offered as he shook her hand. He could feel the bile building
in the back of his mouth when he shook the older man’s hand, a man much taller
than his wife and most of the crowd at Jordie’s event. The younger man facing
him had his hand splayed on Sara’s half-naked back. He remembered the
anniversary she first wore that piece of turquoise silk and how little time it
took to get her out of it. She was losing weight; she was losing it for someone
else. He turned back to the gracious lady before him. “Mrs. Starr, Sara is my wife.”

***

Cass and Sara watched as
Ron and Jordie spoke near the exit. Jordie was looking through the window at
the wet glistening street beyond. The joy that had creased his smile all
evening was gone. Ron pulled an envelope from his breast pocket that Jordie
folded in half and slid into his. After they shook hands Ron opened the door
and walked out.

“Do you know what that’s
all about?” Cass asked her.

“I thought Ron was
staying for an after hours celebration.”

“Maybe he’s put off by
your friends,” Cass nodded at the small group from Starr Shine in front of
Jordie’s skull painting talking to the Boston Globe reporter.

“Well, he’s going to have
to get over it. The Starr Foundation has the contacts Jordie needs right now.
I’m tickled pink they were available on such short notice.”

“I’m not disagreeing with
you, but did you see the look on Ron’s face when Jordie introduced them? He was
changing colors like a confused chameleon. First his face turned white when he
saw you with the group, then red when he realized your Mr. Farrell was acting
possessive toward you.”

“He wasn’t.”

“He was. He purposely
placed his hand on your bare back when Ron was being introduced. Then he
grinned at something Mrs. Starr asked. I wasn’t close enough to hear her
question, but Ron didn’t like it.”

“She asked Ron if he was
related to me and I think Ron had just realized what dress I’m wearing.”

“It’s a knockout, by the
way. Where did you pick that little number up?”

“It’s old. I didn’t have
time to shop. I was just hoping I had shed enough pounds to fit into it. It’s
not too tight is it?”

“Now you ask! It’s not
too tight, but it must be a bit drafty in the back. So tell me about this Mr.
Farrell, and what happened to the cowboy?”

“Jonathon is in California on business. Matthew Farrell is a government liaison temporarily attached to the
company for an R & D project. He was asked to work on the art foundation,
too. He’s a nice man and delightfully clumsy around women.”

“Sounds like there’s more
to this story than you’re letting on.”

“I’m not ready.”

“Not ready for what?
Confiding in an old friend, news at eleven, or a new relationship?”

“We haven’t had time to
talk all week. I’m sorry. It’s been crazy at the office since Jonathon left for
San Francisco. News at eleven has a whole new meaning now; I’m sure you’ll be
hysterical over it when I’m ready to share.”

“How about dinner on
Sunday, my place, you bring the dessert.”

“You’re on. I promise to
decipher any cryptic remarks said by me this week if you promise not to jump to
any conclusions. By the way, I thought it was nice of Mike to send flowers.”

“It would have been
better for him to show up.”

***

Matthew Farrell’s cell
rang in the middle of the night. 

“Mr. Farrell?”

“Yes?”

“You have a rotten apple
in your barrel.”

“Who is this?”

“Just listen to me. I
don’t have much time. Someone you trust is dealing in secrets. If you don’t
stop him we’re all going to die.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“I can’t; it’s not safe
for me here.”

“Tell me the name of the
rotten apple, then.”

“It’s the big shot. I
can’t tell you more. I think he’s listening.

“You need to give me more
to go on and the validation of your name. Without that why would I believe
you?”

“You gave me your card;
you said if I was ever in trouble or had information you could use to contact
you. Well, I’m talking to you now. You piece it together.”

“You haven’t given me
anything I can use yet. Meet me somewhere.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Give me a clue, then.”

“Twinkle, twinkle little
star. How I wonder what you are. Up above us all you sit, treating us like
little shits.”

The connection was
terminated.

“Damn it, the first
decent night’s sleep in months and now this.” Pushing off the bed in his hotel
suite, Matthew walked into the alcove by the sink, added coffee to the machine,
filled the reservoir, and pushed the button. Over his career he’d given cards
to hundreds of people. Who the bloody hell was this? Somebody current or
somebody old? It was definitely somebody pissed off.

“You are utterly amazing,
milady,” the Yorkshire accent filled Sara’s office doorway. She looked up at
his charming presence and motioned him in.

“Could it be my ability
to slay corporate giants with a single pen stroke, my skill at devouring bags
full of Chinese take-out without breaking a sweat, or could it be my talent at
social gatherings to cover faux pas from family and friends with a demur smile
plastered on my face?” She leaned back in her office chair and tossed her
glasses on the desk.

“I believe we have a
swelled head problem, milady,” Matthew joked. “Maybe we inhaled too much
chlorine at lunch?” He slid into one of the conference chairs at the end of her
desk. “I was referring to your ability to balance your work schedule, and
Jonathon’s, your athletic prowess in the pool at lunch, your sponsorship of
young artists, your skill at fending off the advances and charges of all the
men in your life, and still, at five-thirty on Friday night, you glow like an
English rose in a tea garden.”

“If you’re fishing around
for a dinner companion again, might I suggest a home cooked meal for the
traveling businessman?” She watched his gray eyes change to a deeper slate as a
smile warmed his face.

“The lady cooks, too?”

“The lady can open cans
and follow directions on the back of boxes. Nothing fancy, just a chance to
unwind without a hovering waitress.”

“You’re on.” He got to
his feet and reached back to the coat rack hidden behind her office door. “Your
wrap pretty dove, before you change your mind.”

She turned into the coat
he offered and found herself trapped in his arms. “Arms length, please; have
you forgotten Lewis, the security guard? I’m only offering dinner and a quiet
evening at my home, not anything more.”

“A lot can happen in a
quiet evening. Let’s take it one step at a time.” He reached for her bulging
brief case. “Lead the way, milady.”

***

A half hour later,
Leonardo pounced onto the kitchen table and began his exotic dance, brushing
his body up against Sara’s to the inner rhythm of his purr.

“So this is the infamous
feline mummy,” Matthew scratched behind the cat’s ears and then under his chin.
“He seems harmless enough – just starved for attention.”

“He belonged to our son’s
friend, Stacey. Then, Jordie took him in. I guess Jordie didn’t pay enough
attention. He left the cat to his own devices one too many times, then came
home to a disaster one day last week. According to Jordie, Leonardo trashed the
place.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“He was quite upset.
That’s totally out of character for Jordie.”

“So, you ended up with
the cat. You aren’t home much either. Has Leonardo,” he scooped the purring
pile of orange and black fluff into his arms, “trashed your place? I mean
besides the episode with the mummy costume.”

“He’s demanding, as he is
now when I do finally get home; but he’s not been destructive like what Jordie
described.”

“How destructive was it?”

“He knocked over several
completed canvasses that were ready for the show, slashing two beyond repair.
He also knocked over tubes of paint and broke a jar of thinner, then walked
through it all leaving his signature on everything.”

“Hard to believe a cat
could cause so much destruction. Sounds more like Leonardo witnessed a break-in
and then freaked out. Are there a lot of burglaries in Newburyport?”

“I wouldn’t know over
all, but lately, yes. Stacey’s apartment and store were both trashed before...she
died. I just can’t talk about that right now.”

“So, what’s for dinner?
I’m famished.” He put the cat down and watched Sara open a small tin of gourmet
cat food. “Uh, Sara, I hope that’s for the cat and not our appetizer.”

“It might be if you don’t
behave.”

“Have you thought much
about what you’re going to do next?”

“Well, I’m going to get a
round steak out of my fridge, slice it very thin, dredge it in flour and brown
it in a skillet. Then I’m going to put a pot of water on to boil for noodles,
dice up some onions and garlic.”

“Although that sounds
strangely like something not prepared from a box and you already have my
stomach grumbling over its empty condition, that isn’t what I want to know.
What’s the next step with the husband you don’t live with? He looked like he
was jealous last night when we were introduced.”

“He wants me to come
home.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m the one who left.
Obviously I did that for a reason.”

“Is there a chance for
reconciliation or is the reason now living with him?”

“It wasn’t like that.
Here make yourself useful.”

She put two plates
stacked with a pile of silver and two linen napkins in his hands. “You’re
trying to sidetrack me. Is he the kind of man that likes his cake and the
frosting, too?”

“There was no evidence of
another woman while I still lived with him, but I can tell you he’s got one
now. Signs of her existence were glaringly obvious when I came to pick up the
rest of my things the weekend I moved into this place.”

“Nice place, by the way.
Smaller than I expected though.”

“It meets my needs. I
spend very little time away from work. It’s also a far sight more complete than
the house I lived in with Ron.”

“Would you like me to
finish dicing the vegetables for you? You’re making me a tad uneasy with that
lethal looking knife.”

“Sure, we might as well
both be shedding onion tears. On the other subject though, I think my marriage
is dead. We just haven’t had the burial yet. I do care about him for all that we’ve
been through together. At times, I feel I’m losing my best friend in the
bargain. He still calls me to talk. This separation thing isn’t easy. What
about you? Have you ever lost someone you were close to?”

“I’ve never found the
right person to share my dreams. I came close in college, but her idea of fun
had a bit of a sadistic thread through it. The relationship was doomed before
it ever got started. I’ve grown up since then. I know what’s important and
what’s not.”

Sara took the cutting
board full of diced vegetables from him and slid them into the hot skillet,
pushing them around with a wooden spatula. “What’s important to you?”

“A common core of
beliefs: trust, loyalty, fidelity.”

“Not love?” She asked
handing him a glass of ice tea.

“With the right person
it’s a given, I would think. What’s in this glass?”

“It’s not alcohol. Taste
it.”

He sipped slowly and
closed his eyes. “Sweet tea, it’s been a very long time. My father’s mother
always made sweet tea. She died the year I graduated from high school. Before
then, I was required to spend the week before Easter with her even when I’d
rather be off with my friends. Dad would allow no excuse. Gran and I sipped
sweet tea and played cards for hours between church services. I swear there was
a different reason for church every single day that week.” He took another long
swallow then looked up at Sara’s smile. “What?” he asked.

“Just now you look
different, relaxed, caught in the pleasant memories of another life. I’m glad
to have brought them forward with a simple glass of tea. Do you still spend
Holy Week in church?” She stirred water and tomato paste into the steaming
concoction.

“
That’s
what she
called it! There for a minute I couldn’t remember.  I drifted away from the
tradition after she died. Probably because no one dragged me back. Are you into
Sunday morning rituals?” He leaned forward and asked for seconds on the tea
with a simple thank you.

“My only Sunday morning
ritual is getting caught up on sleep, laundry, and housework in that order. I
haven’t quite reconciled with God over the loss of my son.”

“You want to talk about
that?”

“No. It borders on
insanity and I don’t want you to think less of me.” She added a dollop of sour
cream to the mixture in the skillet, stirred then turned off the burner.

“Interesting choice of
words,” he replied. “I’ve got a broad sense of what’s sane and what’s not. I
took psychology and parapsychology in college. Hell, nothing could be more
bizarre than
The X-Files
on TV.”

“But that’s fiction,
unfortunately my life isn’t.” She poured the scalding pot of noodles into a
strainer, dumped them onto a platter, and draped the steak and pink gravy over
the top. “Let’s eat.”

“Real life is always more
bizarre than fiction.” He pulled out a chair for her to sit. “This looks and
smells like heaven. Does it have a name?”

“Well, I could call it
beef stroganoff, but it’s missing the wine.”

Later, sitting on the
couch with feet crossed on the coffee table, they nursed spoonfuls of coffee
ice cream and watched the old Sean Connery movie,
The Hunt for Red October
.
“This scene reminds me of our conversation about the CIA. Have you asked about
the phone list I gave you?”

“I want to check out the
other numbers first and place the whereabouts of the people who could have been
in those two offices at those times. If Jonathon Pierce and Ross Gordon are
accounted for, then who else has access: Lewis, the night security guard, other
members of the finance department, and of course, Robert Starr, himself?”

“Can you do that without
making anyone suspicious?”

“Remember, I too work for
the government. I haven’t gotten this far without the ability to poke my nose
into dark corners unseen.”

“This is potentially
dangerous, Matthew. Don’t take risks and don’t trust anyone.”

“You know more than
you’re telling me. What is it?”

“It’s...just a feeling
since Stacey’s death. I’m edgy. And the two things aren’t even related. Please
be careful.”

He reached over and
placed a chaste kiss on the side of her lips. “Don’t worry, I’m always careful.
I won’t let you down. Think of me as your guardian angel for the next few
weeks.” He placed a second kiss on the other side of her lips, and a third on
her forehead. Then he pulled away.

Sara pulled him back
ending the torment of his nibbling. The room spun as she sank into the carnality
of what this kiss was asking.

A phone rang. It stopped;
then a moment later, another, louder ring filled the room. “Someone is
persistent,” he said.

She reached across the
end table beside the couch. “Hello?”

“Yes, Jonathon....No, you
didn’t wake me. I was just finishing dinner; I had something in my mouth.”

Matthew wriggled his
eyebrows and she smacked him on the arm. She turned toward the coat closet.
“How did it happen?...Was it an accident?...Alcohol related?...Okay, is there
anything I can do from this end?...No, the board meeting went well. They’re
waiting for your next update on the situation...All right, I will...Sure, let
me know as soon as you can.” She disconnected the call.

And, he waited.

“Ross Gordon, the man I
replaced, is dead.”