Mrs. Million (24 page)

“Billy looks at the shirt and says, ‘Excuse me?’

“Barbaraannette says, ‘Smell the shirt.’

“The guy looks around like he can’t believe his sacred country club has been invaded by this woman, and of course his friends are just dying trying not to laugh. He figures the quickest way out of this mess is to just do like Barbaraannette wants so he sort of gives the shirt a little sniff, then hands it back to her and says, ‘Yes, that’s very interesting. Now if you’ll excuse us…?’

“But Barbie, she just lifts up one arm and sticks her pit right in his face and says, ‘Now smell that.’

“Well, you can imagine. The upshot was, she got him to admit that the shirt didn’t smell anything like her armpit; the store took back the shirt and the saleswoman got fired and things never went right for Billy Foreman after that. I noticed the store isn’t there anymore.”

“Yes. Foreman’s closed a few years ago,” André said. He slowed and turned onto the entrance ramp, heading south. The image of the woman forcing the man to smell her armpit both excited and repelled him. “It seems a rather overly direct way to handle things,” he said.

“No shit. But don’t forget, this is a woman who’s put out a million-dollar reward on her husband. Me.”

“She does not shy away from extreme solutions.”

“Like I say, you don’t want to piss her off.”

“I
’M NOT TALKING TO HER
,” Barbaraannette said.

Toagie bit her lip, looked at Brittany, who was sitting on the floor undressing a doll. Taking her hand off the mouthpiece of the phone, Toagie said, “Mary Beth? She can’t come to the phone right now.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ll tell her. Bye.” She hung up. “She’s coming over to pick up Hilde. They’ve agreed to let her return to Crestview. Also, she thinks you should withdraw the reward offer. She says to let the police handle things.”

Barbaraannette rammed the heels of her hands into the ball of dough, compressing and spreading it. “In the first place, if I take away the reward offer, then nobody except me will care about Bobby getting kidnapped. And as for the police, why would I call them? So that idiot Dale Gordon can make a worse mess of things?” She folded the dough onto itself, flopped it, turned it ninety degrees, and leaned into it again. She had been kneading for ten minutes. The dough was elastic and smooth and ready to proof, but Barbaraannette was not finished. She was no great baker, but there was nothing like kneading bread to calm a person down.

Fold, flop, turn, press out. She could hear Hilde’s snores, faintly, coming from the bedroom down the hall. Brittany had pulled the head off her doll and was attempting to reinstall it.

Toagie lit a cigarette, inhaled, blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “If it’d been you instead of Dale, you might’ve been the one with the bump on your head. Or worse, for cripes sake. And whose blood was that? You said there was blood.”

“In the basement.”

“That could have been your blood.”

“He wouldn’t have hurt me. I’m the one with the money.”

“Crazy people don’t care about money.”

“The man who has Bobby cares about money.”

Brittany stood up and leaned into her mother, pushing out her lower lip, holding out the decapitated doll.

Toagie shrugged. “Never the fleepin’ less…” She took the doll from her daughter and popped the head back in place with a practiced twist. Brittany carried the doll back to her doorway and began to dress it in miniature blue jeans. “…you don’t know what he might do.”

“He wants money. I know all about men who want money.”

Toagie smoked and watched her sister knead dough. “You’ve got strong arms,” she said, looking from Barbaraannette’s forearms to her own. “I got these little bird wrists.”

Barbaraannette lifted the dough, slammed it down, pressed it out.

“You know what’s funny?” Toagie asked.

Barbaraannette shook her head.

“You’re kneading dough, and you’re the only person I know that doesn’t.”

Barbaraannette felt herself smile. Fold, flop, turn, press out.

“So what are you gonna do?” Toagie asked.

Barbaraannette said, “Wait.”

“I know. I mean, what are you gonna do when he calls?”

Barbaraannette patted the dough into a ball, slapped it with her palm, watched her hand print appear, then disappear.

News of the attack on Police Chief Dale Gordon reached Cold Rock S&L via Sally Krone, who heard about it on her lunch break from Ginny down at the Blue Plate, who got it from her sister Bette who worked at the Pinelands Medical Center where Dale got his forehead stitched back together.

Art Dobbleman caught bits and pieces of the news as Sally, sitting at her desk surrounded by a half dozen employees and customers, told what she knew. Art was stuck on the phone listening to a tinny recitation of current Norwest CD rates. Matt McRae, their lender at Norwest, had put him on hold ten minutes earlier. Probably forgot all about him. Nagler had insisted that Art handle the transaction himself, agreeing to step in only when the negotiation stalled, which was inevitable. Typical Nate Nagler behavior. He loved to be the hero.

From what Sally said, Dale Gordon had been attacked, hit over the head. That was certainly interesting news by Cold Rock standards, but Art was not listening carefully until he heard Barbaraannette’s name come up. He pulled the phone away from his ear and said, “Wait, what was that?”

Sally said, “Barbaraannette was there, and Hugh Hulke, too.”

“She’s okay?”

“Oh sure, sure. Dale Gordon is the only one that got hurt. But here’s the funny part. The man who hit him? They think it was a
college
professor. Isn’t that weird? And what they were saying at the Blue Plate, they were saying that Bobby Quinn’s back in town.”

Art hung up the phone. To hell with Matt McRae. “Was he there, too? Bobby?”

“All I know is what Ginny told me, which was that they were there
looking
for Bobby. God, for a million dollars who wouldn’t be?”

“Bobby was there?” He was leaning over her desk, gripping the edge.

“Jeez, Art, take it easy, would you? I don’t know. Go ask Ginny. Better yet, ask Barbaraannette.”

The only number to appear more than once on André Gideon’s MCI bill was a 715 area code. Someplace called Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin. His March bill listed fourteen calls to the same number, which did not match any of the listings in Gideon’s address book. At first, Phlox took this as a negative, but after thinking about it she realized that it could also be a good thing. It could be a number he knew by heart. She called up the image of the green Taurus, of the red-faced man who had nearly run her over. They said he was a college professor, but he had laid that big policeman out, no problem.

A cop-bashing, Bobby-napping college professor with a French-sounding name and a wild look in his eyes. But what about Bobby? Had he been in the car, too? Or was he hidden away in someplace like Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin?

“You ready for another?”

Phlox looked up, surprised to find herself sitting at a bar, heels hooked over the footrest of a red vinyl upholstered stool, elbows propped on a brass rail, an empty schooner holding down the phone bill. A balding, bespectacled bartender wiped his hands on a stained bar towel, smiling at her. She was his only customer.

“Thanks,” she said. “Might as well.” One more beer might loosen up the clogs, get her thinking clear again. At the moment, she couldn’t decide whether she should go back to Barbaraannette’s or try to catch a ride out to Hugh Hulke’s farm to reclaim the pickup. If Hugh and Rodney had managed to catch up with Gideon, and if the professor led them to Bobby, then they’d probably haul Bobby straight to Barbaraannette, in which case it would be Phlox’s best move to be there to defend her interests. On the other hand, she needed her wheels. If Hugh and Rodney failed—and she was all but certain they would—then she might have to start checking out the names in Gideon’s address book, a process easily as tedious as checking out the owners of green Tauruses.

A fresh schooner of Budweiser appeared. “You ever hear of a place name of Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin?” she asked.

The bartender shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Wisconsin except the Packers are from there.”

Phlox nodded, then carried her beer over to the pay phone and called the 715 number. A woman answered after six rings. “Yey-ess?” She sounded old.

“Is André there, please?” Phlox asked.

“Who’s calling, please?” Old and suspicious.

“My name is Fiona Anderson,” said Phlox. “I’m looking for André Gideon.”

“Well you’re about thirty years late and besides, his name is Andrew, don’t you know. You people, calling yourselves such things. What did you say your name was?”

“Fiona Anderson.”

“I’m writing it down. I’m writing down your name. Fiona. Is that a Negro name?”

“Are you Mrs. Gideon?”

“Gideon? More damn foolishness! Grubb is a perfectly fine name. Who did you say this is?”

“Fiona Ander—”

“I know your Negro name, missy, what I want to know is, who are you working for?”

“I’m a friend of Andr…Andrew’s. Are you his mother?”

“I’m not answering any more questions.” Click.

Phlox finished her beer, then dropped a quarter into the phone and dialed Barbaraannette’s number.

“Hi. It’s me, Phlox,” she said. “Any news?”

Barbaraannette had heard nothing new. She was still waiting, and she wanted her phone line to stay open. Phlox hung up, returned to the bar.

The bartender was right there. “You ready for another?”

Phlox shook her head. “You know where I can get a map of Wisconsin?”

B
ARBARAANNETTE SAID, PULLING THE
sweater sleeve over Hilde’s arm, “Do you ever think you’re a bad person?”

Toagie reached in through the cuff, grasped her mother’s hand, and pulled it through. Hilde, sitting on the edge of the bed, had fallen into one of her slack-faced reveries.

“I’m not bad,” Toagie said, a slight whine entering her voice. She pulled the body of the sweater up and over Hilde’s head, worked it down her torso. “Do you think I’m bad?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Barbaraannette looked into her mother’s face. “Hilde? You there?”

Hilde smiled dreamily.

Barbaraannette said, “What I mean is, do
you
ever think you’re a bad person?”

“I’m
not
a bad person,” Toagie said.

“But if you were? What if you were, say, a rapist. Do you think you would think that you were bad? Or would you think that you were a good person who just happens to be a rapist?”

“I would think I was the scum of the earth and I’d kill myself.”

“But they don’t.”

“Barbaraannette, I’m a little worried about you.” She grasped her mother’s arm. “Come on, Hilde, let’s stand you up.”

Hilde rose unsteadily. “Are we going back to the hotel?”

“Mary Beth is picking you up.”

Brittany, who had once again removed her doll’s head, crawled out from beneath the bed. “I’m bad,” she said, grinding the headless torso into the carpet. “I’m scum of the earth.”

The doorbell rang.

“Are you all right?” Art heard the shaking in his voice.

“I’m fine.” Barbaraannette looked past him. “I thought you were Mary Beth.”

“No. I’m not.”

“That’s good.”

They regarded one another, standing on either side of the open doorway. Why are the moments of my life so damned awkward, Art wondered. He said, “I just wanted to be sure you were okay. I heard Dale Gordon got hurt.”

“He’ll be all right. Do you want to come in?” She tipped her head to the side and stepped back, making room.

Art stepped inside. The house smelled of baking bread. He said, “Now that the police are involved, I suppose you won’t need that loan.”

Barbaraannette’s mouth tightened. “Nothing has changed. The man will still want his money.”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen to me, Art. I appreciate your advice, but I’m on the edge here. I just need you to do your job. Do you understand?”

Art felt a streak of ill-advised stubbornness assert itself. “No I don’t,” he said. “Barbaraannette, I am not going to let you do this. I’m sorry. It’s wrong, and you could be hurt, and I won’t be a party to it. And that’s that.” Art looked down, half expecting to see his words lying shattered on the floor.

“You’re not going to
let
me?” Barbaraannette said.

Art heard Toagie Carlson’s voice. “Who is it, Barbaraannette?”

Barbaraannette turned her head slightly and raised her voice. “It’s the
banker.
”

Toagie appeared in the hall doorway with Hilde Grabo in tow and her daughter—Art couldn’t remember the child’s name—wrapped around her legs. “Art the forecloser,” Toagie said.

“We’re not foreclosing,” Art said.

Barbaraannette said, “What do you mean, you won’t ‘let me’?”

“I won’t do it. The police are involved now. Let them handle it.”

“The police don’t know anything, and neither do you. There was blood on the floor.”

“There…what?”

“There was blood in the basement of that house. Bobby could be hurt. Or worse.”

Art hesitated, then shook his head. “All the more reason to let the police handle it.”

“It’s my money.”

“I won’t help you buy back your marriage.”

“My marriage is none of your business.”

“Damn it, Barbaraannette, I want to help you!” His hands moved toward her.

Barbaraannette stepped back out of his reach; her face morphed, each feature realigning itself, searching for a new position. Art’s heart lifted for a moment, seeing the change as a softening, but once the transformation was complete he knew he was in trouble. Her eyebrows dropped and came together, her nostrils flared.

“Then do as I ask.”

Art raised his chin. “I won’t help you hurt yourself.”

Barbaraannette’s voice went thick and low. “Then go away. Go back to your little desk. I’ll call Nate and I’ll get the money anyway.”

“I’ll call the police,” Art said, having no other cards to play.

Barbaraannette’s lip curled. “Go on, get out of my house. I don’t need your kind of help. I don’t even like you. And if you call the police I’ll put a reward out on you, too, you self-righteous marathon-running son of a bitch!”