Paper, Scissors, Death (16 page)

She corrected me. “Bill specifically said the conference was in Palm Desert. He came back with a glorious tan. It rained every day of the cruise.”

“Ugh.”

Back to reality, grounded by the gravitational pull of motherhood, we talked over her options. An album can be simple and effective with a coordinated selection of papers and embellishments.

Tisha combed the display rack and selected a handful of dark- colored sheets of cardstock.

“You could use these,” I said, being careful not to discourage her. “But when I think Disney or a cruise, I visualize bright and happy colors. When you go darker, the mood shifts.”

Tisha blinked at me. Her eyes narrowed, and she hesitated. Finally she said, “Despite our husbands’ partnership, we don’t know each other very well. But you’re reading me like I was a neon sign. Keep a secret? I haven’t been happy for a long time. Bill and I are in counseling. I’m thinking of asking him to move out.”

I must have looked chagrined.

She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “It’s okay. I’ve just had it with his bad-boy behavior. And I haven’t felt like myself lately. I’ve been tired and my stomach’s upset.”

“I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.” I motioned to a chair by a work table. “How about you go sit down? While you sip tea, I’ll organize the embellishments for your albums. You can talk if you want—or not—whatever suits you.”

Plied with peppermint tea, Tisha relaxed. Soon she chattered a mile a minute. She was pretty sure that Bill had used his “business” trips as opportunities to “misbehave.”

This was not a good idea. Tisha’s family had loaned Bill the capital to buy half of Dimont Development—and he’d hit them up for more money to finance Babler Estates.

“My daddy is not going to stand for Bill two-timing me,” said Tisha. “Weird, isn’t it? No wonder George and Bill had such a good partnership. They both were a couple of cheats.”

My face flamed red as I realized everyone in the world must have known about my husband’s affair with Roxanne. Everyone but me. What is it they say about the wife being the last to know?

Whatever.

Now George was dead, and Wild Bill was about to get tamed.

My woolgathering made me miss a portion of what Tisha was saying.

“And he never even paid Daddy back.” She launched into a full-blown rant. “That means half of Dimont is really mine, not Bill’s. I could walk in tomorrow and close the doors. In fact, the only reason I haven’t is because of you.”

“Me?”

“If I closed the place, it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“Fair to me?”

“Yes. There’s that buy-sell agreement. Bill is supposed to pay you for George’s half of Dimont.”

I could have been hit in the head with a telephone pole; I was that stunned.

I didn’t know what to say. But I had to say
something
. Back to the parenting book. I paraphrased Tisha’s words: “Bill has to buy half the business from me.” I stumbled over them. Did that mean what I thought it did?

Money?

Bill owed me money?

I was flat broke. I was being evicted. But Bill owed me for half of Dimont Development? Wow! What a shocker. I struggled to stay calm.

Tisha didn’t notice. She just kept talking. “First the business has to be audited. That’ll determine its worth. The audit will be done at the end of the current fiscal year, which is this coming August.”

I focused on the scrapbook paper I was cutting. I didn’t dare look up. “August.”

Tisha chattered along. “That cash infusion last fall significantly improved the balance sheet.”

“Significantly improved.” As was my mood. I wasn’t penniless!

“Remind me exactly how much cash that was.” I kept my voice light.

But I nearly chopped off my finger when Tisha answered, “Four million.”

Four million dollars?

“Daddy and Sheila both put in two million. George was really smart. He changed his life insurance. Made his mother beneficiary. If he hadn’t, you’d owe her two million bucks.”

I shuddered. Sorry, George, I said to his ghost. Here I was angry with you for making Sheila your beneficiary, and you were thinking of me the whole time. I couldn’t imagine owing my mother-in-law two million dollars.

I needed to know more. “Remind me how the buy-sell works.”

“As I understand it, one partner takes out a life insurance policy on the other. When George died, his insurance policy supplied Bill with the money to buy George’s half of the business. The paperwork on Babler Estates will be wrapped up sometime in the next two weeks. Then the business will be worth more than ever. Bill and I probably owe you a lot more than George was insured for.”

“Right.” Trying not to sound totally stupid, I said, “Babler Estates. That’s the new group of houses being built … uh …”

“Out by Babler State Park,” said Tisha. “Daddy figures it’s at least a forty-million-dollar deal. At bare minimum. To be fair, you should get credit for part of that windfall because George helped put the deal together. I didn’t mean to be avoiding you after the funeral, but until this is done, I’m in an awkward position because my husband owes you for your half of the business. And Daddy still needs to be repaid.”

“Oh, no problem.” What else could I say? I was sort of shell-shocked. Rats. What else didn’t I know? How could I have been so stupid? Where had I been all these years? Standing in front of the refrigerator and stuffing my face?

I decided to change the subject before Tisha brought up the money George had “borrowed.” Obviously it was small potatoes in comparison to the tens of millions involved in the housing project. Maybe Bill didn’t mention George’s indiscretion to his wife for the same reasons he told me he wanted to keep it quiet. If Tisha’s daddy knew there’d been an “accounting” problem, he might want his two million dollars back right away.

My head was spinning like the cups in the Mad Tea Party ride at Disney World. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, in part because the rich have access to good information. For example, if I’d been the daughter of a rich man, I might have known business partnerships include buy-sell arrangements. But my daddy had been a drunk, and the only buy-sells I knew of were rounds of beer at the bar.

I had one more question for my new best friend. “Tisha, have you ever heard of a company called ‘orb’? Or maybe it’s O.R.B.?”

She shook her head. “No, do you know what kind of business it is?” Seeing my negative reply, she continued, “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

For the duration of Tisha’s visit, we talked about our children.

“We really should get the girls together,” suggested Tisha. “I’d like Britney to have a friend who’s grounded. In touch with reality. I love CALA, but sheesh, too much wealth and privilege at an early age can’t be good for these kids.”

As we worked on Tisha’s pages, I puzzled over how to proceed. If she was correct—and I had every reason to think she was—I didn’t want the business evaluated right away. But I did need to ask Bill for a copy of the partnership agreement.

I wondered what other secrets that document might reveal.

I rang up Tisha’s purchases. I showed her the page kit for the beginner’s crop, and she signed up to come back the next night. She also asked me to set aside a complete set of the newbie page kits. I told her I’d have them ready for her at the crop. As she walked out the door, I congratulated myself on having made extra of the Father’s Day layouts. Then a nasty, small voice reminded me that while I was very good at making a buck twenty for Dodie, I hadn’t been smart enough to make sure I was repaid for my husband’s portion of a multi-million-dollar company.

Bill wasn’t in when I phoned. I left a message with the receptionist. I no sooner hung up than Merrilee walked in. This time it really was the bride-to-be, and not her doppelgänger, Linda.

“I can’t believe Roxanne is dead. It’s too, too horrible. She was always so vibrant and alive, and I can’t … I can’t …” and Merrilee started to cry. Only her snuffling and hiccuping weren’t as dainty as crying. It was more on the side of blubbering, actually. I grabbed a tissue box from under the counter and offered her a Diet Coke from the back.

The trip to the refrigerator supplied time to gather my wits so I wouldn’t start screaming. Despite my good news, I was still sick of that murderous home-wrecker. Here I’d thought I’d never have to hear Roxanne’s name again. Instead, she was invading every second of my life. If it wasn’t my mother-in-law mourning her or my kid crying about her at home, it was customers at my workplace going on about her. I wanted to run and hide, but the best I could do was dole out Diet Cokes as though they were mood-altering drugs.

Get a grip, I told myself. And find out whatever you can to prove Roxanne murdered your husband.

I popped the top so Merrilee wouldn’t ruin her nails. She slurped the cola and started in on a trip down Memory Lane, starring dearly departed Roxanne. For what seemed like an eternity, I nodded my head and made interested noises. Finally, I interrupted to suggest Merrilee make a memorial album for her friend.

“Could you help me? I mean, I know the two of you had your differences.”

Right. Like she was mean and rude and slept with other people’s husbands and I didn’t? Yes, we certainly had our differences.

I tried to think of a suitable platitude. Finally I blurted, “We’re all God’s children.” I stopped myself from adding, “As was Satan.”

Instead I said, “Of course, I’ll help you with a memorial album.” All the while thinking, I should charge her extra for my pain and suffering.

Merrilee blew her nose. For a dainty nose, it made a big blasting honk worthy of a Canada goose. She sniveled. “I don’t care what Roxanne told us. You’re not such a bad person after all.”

“Gee, thanks.” A pain shot through my head as I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Um, what did she tell you about me? Or George?”

“She loved him so much. He was everything to her.”

“I heard it was over between them.”

“She was so upset about him wanting to end their relationship. They were childhood sweethearts, and he wanted to break it off. Isn’t that sad?”

Uh, not really. I nearly pierced my own tongue biting down. I needed a muzzle to keep from screaming. Was this woman really this dumb?

“Poor darling Roxie had so much heartache in her life. So many disappointments. She wasn’t crowned Queen of Love and Beauty like her mother was. Her grades weren’t good enough for an Ivy League college. And she lost all those millions in the dot.com crash.”

“Poor baby.” I quickly mumbled, “Bless her heart,” which every Southerner knows is a code for, “What a moron!” Then I asked, “What did she live on?”

“Oh, like I told you. We all loaned her money, a lot of money. She told me she’d made a big investment, and I’d get it all back.” This was punctuated by another loud honk. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again. And I didn’t get a promissory note so I can’t write it off. That really stinks. I took a real hit on this. My accountant is sooooo upset.”

So that was what all this caterwauling was about. Money, not friendship. I could barely contain myself. What was wrong with these people?

Merrilee was too self-involved to notice any change of expression on my face. After all, I wasn’t even human. I was a servant, and therefore, part of the décor. How could I possibly have feelings? And if I did, who cared?

“Roxanne was always larger than life, you know?” Merrilee blew her nose. A big booger stuck to the tip of it, but I didn’t tell her. Nana used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does,” and this new accessory seemed just right.

“Roxie was perfect. Really, really perfect. You saw how she dressed and how beautiful she was. What a figure. And that hair. Gorgeous. Only thing was, she couldn’t have kids.”

Roxanne couldn’t have kids?

With one turn of the phrase, all the colored glass settled in the kaleidoscope, and the pattern revealed itself. While Merrilee yammered on, I picked up the layout featuring Harry Lowenstein. I studied George’s father’s face with fresh insight.

From the farthest recess of my mind, I recalled the rabbi at our wedding saying that in the Jewish culture, a man isn’t a man until he marries and fathers a child. I remembered Harry davening, mumbling his Hebrew morning prayers. I thought back to the joy in the old man’s eyes as he talked about the granddaughter he wouldn’t live to see because cancer would claim him first.

A door opened, revealing a pathway lit with understanding. On one side I saw George and a barren Roxanne and on the other Harry and a frustrated Sheila. I walked a narrow road between those couples and carried Anya in my arms. I saw the forces that shaped my married life. Forces I couldn’t reckon with because I hadn’t known they existed. As I made my journey, the solemn voice of my daughter reminded me, “Daddy said we were a family, and he’d never, ever leave us.”

My unplanned pregnancy had intersected with George’s father’s need to leave a legacy. What conflict my husband must have felt! On one hand was a woman he loved (or at least lusted after) who could never have children. On the other was a woman he barely knew but had gotten pregnant. In the end, he chose easing his dying father’s mind over making himself happy. The joy George felt when he held our baby in his arms had been real. It was the joy of continuation, of preserving his father’s memory, and of being a father himself.

George meant what he said to Anya. He never planned to leave us. He had managed to compartmentalize his relationship with Roxanne, dividing his thoughts as though his mind was a duplex. We lived in one half; she lived in the other.

And what must it have been like for Roxanne? To have that “perfect” body betray her? To watch my daughter and her father and to know a portion of George would always be off limits to her?

It must have made Roxanne mad enough to kill. But if that was the case, then who killed her? And why? And what did the photos we’d downloaded from the shower have to do with any of this?

Suddenly, I thought about Sheila bribing the housekeeper at the Ritz-Carlton and the waiter at Antonio’s. Maybe she had more moxie than I credited her for. Could she have killed Roxanne? Had Roxanne gone from favored candidate for daughter-in-law to dead woman walking when Sheila discovered the debutante had murdered her son?

“Hey? Kiki? Hello?” Merrilee waved a soiled Kleenex in front of my face.

“Sorry. My mind wandered.”

“I want an album for Roxanne.” Merrilee snuffled loudly. “I want you to do all that scrapbook stuff for me. There will be a celebration of her life at Antonio’s on The Hill. I want to show off the album at the gathering.”

Antonio’s! Now that Roxanne was gone, maybe one of the wait staff would be willing to talk.

“Of course.” I made the bride-to-be a copy of my special handout, and we moved to the album display.

I had one more question for Merrilee. “Did Roxanne have a favorite waiter at Antonio’s?”