So About the Money (25 page)

“She’s dead,” Holly blurted.

Peter froze. “Are you sure?” He raised a hand. “Of course you’re sure. Damn, what a waste.”

“That’s one way to put it.”
 

She watched the other shoe drop. His head turned, his gaze darting around the room. “I’m sure my security chief didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I’m sure he didn’t.”
 

Holy crap, JC needed to know about this.

Holly hurried to her car. What had Marcy been doing with Peter’s chief of security? That didn’t track with the Marcy she knew. Then again, did the possibility of Marcy having an affair with Tim ever register?
 

Movement at the casino entrance caught her eye. Creepy Security Guy was leaning against the doorframe, a familiar posture she couldn’t quite place. He raised a hand, a finger-gun pointing at her.

Her mouth went dry and a band of tension made breathing difficult. Had he heard Peter tell her about Marcy? Was the finger-gun a threat? She climbed into her car and started it, then sneaked another peek. A chill sifted down her spine.
He was still staring at her
.
 

The exit was on the other side of the parking lot. Great. Now she had to drive past him. She eased the car forward, determined to focus straight ahead.
 

The figure by the door drew her gaze like hooks were anchored in her eyeballs.
 

He touched the brim of his hat, a casual salute, his face lifting from the shadow for a split second.
 

Her breathing stopped.

No. It couldn’t be
.
 

Black spots crowded the edge of her sight, left tunnel vision that obscured the pavement. Somehow, she made it out of the parking lot, then pulled to the side of the road.

 
She gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands.
 

Oh, my God.
She knew the guy was freaking her out but now she knew why. Creepy Security Guy looked just like Frank Phalen.

It couldn’t be him.

Could it?

Chapter Twenty-four

Wednesday, late afternoon

Three hours later, Holly drove away from a disastrous meeting with Fred Zhang. With stiff fingers, she crammed the Bluetooth into her ear, punched the office contact, and jammed the phone into her pocket.
 

“Desert Accounting.”

“Is Mother in the office?”

Tracey hesitated a beat. “She didn’t make it to the meeting?”

“Would I be asking if she did?”

Tracey cleared her throat. “Good point. She called, said something came up and to let you know she’d be late. But your phone went straight to voicemail.”

“Dammit.” Holly slammed her fist against the steering wheel. “Fred Zhang was so ticked off Mother didn’t show up. He didn’t even try to hide it.”
 

“I’m sorry,” Tracey murmured.
 

Holly didn’t know who she was angrier with: her mother, Fred, or herself. “I spent a lot of time and energy getting this meeting arranged, coming up with good ideas for his company.”
 

Tracey maintained a tactful silence.

Her initial snit aired, worry poked at Holly. “Should I start calling the hospitals? I mean, where is she? She isn’t answering her cell.”

“I’m sure she’s okay.”

Traffic had thickened into the evening homeward rush by the time Holly reached the center of Richland. She turned left beside the central park. The city boasted a town square, but instead of a picture-perfect historic courthouse, two butt-ugly federal buildings lined the west side of the square. Holly wasn’t sure if they were built in the 50s or 70s. Neither decade produced exceptional architecture. The hulking pre-cast concrete walls and slit windows of the courthouse looked like a bunker or a fallout shelter. Given the Hanford nuclear site’s proximity—and Richland’s reason for existing—the resemblance was most likely deliberate.

“This town is going to drive me crazy,” Holly muttered.

“What do you mean?” was Tracey’s cautious response.
 

She turned onto George Washington Way and joined the throng crawling away from the park. Flat-topped, one-story buildings with metal awnings lined the street. Mom and Pop stores, insurance co-op, a restaurant/diner. “This place reeks of the 50s.”
 

“It’s not that bad.”

Holly heard the smile in Tracey’s voice. “Yes, it is. Fred Zhang’s Neanderthal attitude came through loud and clear. He only agreed to the meeting because Mother and his wife are friends. He had absolutely no interest in anything I had to say. ‘What could a young, unmarried woman
possibly
know about business,’ should’ve been hung on a banner over the man’s desk.”

“What do you want me to do besides listen?” Tracey’s sympathetic voice filled Holly’s ear.

Part of her wanted to lean on Tracey’s shoulder and sob. I’m so tired of being lonely. Overworked. Stressed out.
 

Tracey didn’t need to hear her personal problems.
 

Let it go.

Holly slumped in her seat, propped her elbow on the window ledge, and rested her head on her curled fingers. “Sorry. I’m venting.”

“I figured that out a few minutes ago.”

“The meeting with Fred was just the crowning glory to a crappy day. Marcy’s funeral was a major sobfest. I wanted to go to the graveyard, but no, I had to fix my makeup and show up for this stupid meeting that was a complete waste of time.”

“There are always going to be close-minded men like Fred. Brooding about the wasted time won’t change anything.”

With a twitch of her shoulders, Holly channeled the
hakuna matata
dude, and relegated the mess to the past. “You’re right. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
 

But she was
so
going to have it out with her mother.

If she could ever find the woman.
 

“Are you coming back to the office?” Tracey asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Holly ended the conversation and flipped over to her messages. JC still hadn’t called her back. The guy had dogged her for days, but now that she actually had news—
Frank Phalen might be in town and he may have been dating Marcy
—JC had vanished.
 

Her fingers tapped a nervous dance across the wheel. Had it really been Frank? Would he really leave Seattle to follow her here? Why would he do that—and not try to contact her? Besides, the Frank she knew would never work as a security guard.

Had she simply tacked Frank’s features onto Creepy Security Guy because she’d been upset about Marcy? Learning this stuff about Marcy had stirred up all her bad memories of Frank.

After only a few dates, Frank had called constantly, insisting on knowing her schedule, attempting to control who she saw and where she went. That was when she told him it was over.
 

He hadn’t taken it well, to say the least. He’d threatened enough to scare the crap out of her, but he’d never beaten her like Lee hit Marcy. Frank’s threats had been psychological rather than physical.
 

Why hadn’t Marcy turned to her family? Her friends?
 

Frustration followed Holly down G’Way and perched on her shoulders at the red light. Small, wooden houses lined the street, resisting the encroaching business district. She stared at the newest mixed-use building as she inched toward the highway. What had the developer been thinking when he painted it that awful color? Thank goodness Stevens Ventures hadn’t built it—she didn’t have to pretend to like it.

She pressed the Bluetooth again and said, “Mother.”
 

To her surprise, her mother answered.
 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry I missed the meeting.”

Was that okay or not? “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” her mother said hurriedly.
 

And disconnected.
 

Like that explained anything.
 

Well, at least she knew her mother was alive.

Traffic stalled completely at the next intersection. Holly sat at the red light at Bradley, staring at the overhead road signs. Pasco. Kennewick. Interstate 82.

Those signs were the story of her life. Three directions. Three choices.
 

She could turn left to Pasco and confront Alex. He’d left a dozen messages in her voicemail. They ranged from his initial tirade after Marcy’s wake to a three-o’clock-in-the-morning, plaintive, “Call me.”

She could go straight and take Highway 240 back to Kennewick and work. Joy of joys.

Or she could turn right onto the interstate and go home. To her house in Hills West. To Seattle.
 

She sighed. Either way, she’d be alone.
 

Again.
 

The light changed.

She turned left.
 

~$~

Even as she looped around the interstate exit, Holly was already second-guessing her decision. She wasn’t in love with Alex. She liked him. They’d had a great time together—right up until the hunting expedition and its disastrous conclusion.
 

Finding Marcy’s body wasn’t Alex’s fault—and she was overreacting to the incidents at the wake. He wouldn’t have keyed her car. That was too passive aggressive for him. And as for his mother, well, if she had serious designs on the guy, the witch would be a major hurdle, but really, who cared? She just wanted someone fun for a few months while she was still in Richland.
 

Someone who could be a buffer between JC and her.
 

Someone who might keep JC from getting past her defenses.
 

Was she about to do something incredibly stupid, like patch things up with Alex, simply because on too many levels JC scared her? She could walk away from Alex. JC? She couldn’t go through that again.
 

Not that she’d actually consider getting involved with JC again.

Ugh. She wanted to pound her head against the steering wheel. Using Alex wouldn’t be fair, but neither of them had ever expected anything more than a good time. And she wouldn’t be using him, just getting things back to where they’d been
before
. She’d catch him before the restaurant opened, clear the air, and arrange to go dancing or invite him to Bookwalter Winery with Laurie and her on Saturday.
 

She straightened in her seat, feeling marginally better. Having at least part of her life back to normal would let her focus on straightening out the rest of the craziness.

The parking lot at Alex’s restaurant held only a few cars. Alex’s distinctive Z stood amid the sedans and econo-boxes clustered beside the employee entrance. Holly parked near the front door and burst out laughing. The pig crate sat at the restaurant’s front entrance.
 

Alex would go ballistic when he saw it. What was JC thinking, sending it to the restaurant? The health department would go crazy. But oh, if anybody deserved to get a pig, it was Alex.
 

Did he even know it was here? Surely the FFA guys wouldn’t just dump it and run. She’d missed the delivery at her own office, but there had to be a process for transferring the crate.
 

She approached the entrance. At least outdoors the pig didn’t smell as bad. A huge tag sat on top of the crate, taped to the green instruction sheet she’d already seen. She turned the tag to the light and read:

Holly Price had the crate.
 

Paid the fee.

Chose another’s fate.
 

A new address for the pig.

Tag, you’re it.
 

Her name was entered on the sender’s line.