Cast in Stone (19 page)

"From
the board?"

"I
just had a few questions."

"I
don't have to answer any more questions." She pinned me with a
level gaze. "I've cooperated fully. I've agreed to a payment
schedule, and by God I'll live up to it, but I will not, I repeat, I
will not be hounded by you people. You go back and tell them that."

"I'm
not from the bank or the board or anyone else you know."

She
was cautious now.

"Are
you here about property?"

"Not
exactly, I—"

She
waved at me dismissively. "Then I don't have time for you. I
don't mean to be impolite, mister, but my dance card is full. I've
got more than I can handle already. Anything you're selling, I
haven't got the money to buy. So, if you don't mind, let's not waste
each other's time, okay?"

She
gestured toward the door, then turned her back on me.

"Nice
work. You've got her eating out of your hand," Duvall mumbled
from behind me. I tried again.

"I
wanted to ask you about a former employee." Inexplicably, I
suddenly had her undivided attention. "Who?" "Allison
Stark." Her relief was apparent.

"We've
never employed anybody by that name." "You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Perhaps
Mr. Weber would—"

"Listen,
mister, before you travel too far down that road and make an ass of
yourself, Mr. Weber is my father. Okay? This is his business. Has
been for twenty-three years. I've worked here full time since I got
out of high school. Every year we hire three or four new salespeople
to work the busy season. Usually it's four. It's not like they're
hard to keep track of. Soon as Labor Day rolls around they're out of
town like they were shot out of a cannon, never to be seen again. In
case you haven't noticed, Lakeside isn't exactly Gotham City
this time of year. And I'm telling you we've never had any Alice."

"Allison."

"No
Alice, no Allison. No anything. Okay? So, if you'll excuse me, I'm a
little backed up here at the moment."

She
sat down heavily at her desk and began leafing through her oversize
Rolodex. I slipped a folded-up copy of Carl's composite photograph
out of my coat pocket, smoothed it out on the edge of the empty desk,
and crossed the room.

"Could
I just get you to take a look at this picture for me?"

Glowering
at me. "And then you'll go away?" "I swear."

She
snatched the picture from my hand.

"I
don't have time for this foolishness, mister."

She
cast an exasperated glance at the paper in her hand. In an instant,
she went black and white. She slid back into her chair as if pressed
back by a giant hand; her button eyes remained glued to the picture
as it slowly waffled its way to the floor. From deep within, a single
contraction convulsed her body, snapping her like a whip. Throwing
both hands over her mouth, she stumbled pell-mell toward the rear of
the building, darting into the lavatory, slamming the door behind
her. I opened my mouth and then closed it again. Rebecca was not so
kind.

"She's
putty in your hands now."

Neither
the door nor the distance was sufficient to muffle the anguished
sounds of her violent retching. The toilet flushed a couple of times,
but the heaving ground on unabated, coming in waves for what seemed
an eternity. I started back. Rebecca stopped me with a small wag
of-her head and went herself.

Tapping
lightly on the door, she stepped partially inside.

"I'm
a doctor," I heard her whisper before she softly pulled the door
closed behind he?.

The
toilet* flushed again. The gagging went on— straining, dry and
empty-throated now, then ceased, replaced by muffled talk and tears.

Rebecca
reappeared briefly, stepped back into the far room, gathered a
handful of paper napkins, and reentered the bathroom. More running
water and talk. I retrieved the offending picture from the floor and
pocketed it.

They
came out together. Rosalee Weber was the -color of oatmeal, her eyes
unfocused, the front of her blouse soaked and dark. A wayward line of
brown vomit clung stubbornly to the hem of her skirt. The smell of
vegetable soup trailed in her wake. Guiding her with a hand on the
shoulder, Rebecca eased her to her chair.

Seated,
Rosalee used both hands to wipe imaginary hair from her face and then
gave a final snuffle.

"Please
excuse me," she said to the room. "Nothing like that's ever
happened to me before. I don't know what came over me."

I
kept quiet. No matter. She read my mind.

"It
was that face. I never expected to see that face again."

She
slid out the bottom drawer of the desk, took out a box of tissues,
and blew her nose. "What did you call her?" she asked.
"Allison Stark."

"She
called herself Rachel Gandy when she was here." "When was
that?"

"This
past summer . . . back before ... before ..."

She
began to sniffle again and then, in stages, worked into a full cry;
the cries turned to wails; her heavy body pulsed to the sobs as if
some inner wall of collected reserve had suddenly crumbled. I
fidgeted and waited.

"I'm
so sorry," she said, scraping herself back together. "I
thought I was past all of this. I thought I'd put it behind me. I've
worked so hard to put this all back together. Sorry." She dabbed
her swollen eyes.

"No
problem," I said.

"Nobody
would listen to me."

"I'll
listen, if you feel up to telling me about it."

Nodding,
Rosalee Weber inhaled deeply and then began her story as if she were
going to have to tell it in a single breath.

"She
showed up right around the first week of April, just about when we
begin to take on new people for the summer season. She'd met my dad
over in Seattle. They'd been at a survivors' support group together.
You know, for people who've recently lost loved ones. So they could
talk and support each other." I nodded, understanding "My
mom had passed away last January. I mean, it wasn't a surprise or
anything, she'd been real sick for quite a while, but Dad was
devastated. He—" she snuffled once, caught herself and
continued. "Anyway . . . he'd been going over twice a month for
these support groups that his doctor recommended. That's where they
met. Rachel lost her

husband
in a car accident a couple of months before, and you know they'd got
to talking and Dad told her how we hired in the spring and she told
him how she was in the business before she got married, so he ended
up offering her a job. And then in early April, there she was on the
front steps."

"Where
did this support group meet?"

"Providence
Hospital, over in Seattle."

"What
then? You hired her?"

"I
thought she was a bit uptown for around here, but Dad really liked
her—her being from Wisconsin and all." She read my face.
"Dad's family was originally from the Madison area. We've
still got people back there on his side of the family—aunts and
uncles."

"Can
you remember anything else about her Wisconsin background?"

She
shook her head. "That was between Rachel and Dad. Wisconsin was
way before my time. We went back a couple of times for the holidays
when I was little, but I don't know anything about it."

"So
she signed on—" I led her back.

"Right
around the beginning of April. You could see right away that she knew
what she was doing." She shrugged heavily. "She turned out
to be one of the best salespeople I'd ever seen. Maybe a bit too
strong at the close for my taste, you know, pushy, but nobody
complained so I—we let it go."

Rosalee
finally came up for air.

"Anyway,
by the time Lake Vista came around, she was so far ahead of all the
other new hires that we just naturally put her to work on that."

"What's
Lake Vista?"

"That's
the new condo project over on the east side of the lake. Ninety-six
custom units. It was Dad's baby. He got in on the ground floor. He
put a lot of his own money into it. Dad helped line up the other

investors
and everything. Vista was going to be his big one. We had a sales
exclusive on it."

Rebecca's
eyes told me that she'd also noticed the change in tense.

"And
Rachel was selling the condo units?"

"Between
her and Dad they sold fifty-three of the units, which was just
incredible in what everybody said was a flat market."

Her
eyes welled again, but she surprised me and carried on.

"Dad
was just aglow. It was like he'd been reborn. I hadn't seen him that
happy since before Mom got sick. The Lake Vista project was the best
medicine in the world for him. It gave him hope again. He kept saying
how this was the one that was going to lift us up to a whole 'nother
level. No more small-time for us, all of that kind of stuff-. How he
already had a start on an even bigger project. How he was going
international."

She
was winding down, beginning to sniffle again. I poked her. "And
then?"

"And
then ... it was a Monday. Right about at the end of August. Things
were beginning to wind down for the season. Dad went over to Seattle
for a stockholders' meeting. To tell them the good news about
how far ahead of projections we were and all that. He was like a
little kid. Bought himself a brand-new suit and everything."

She
cleared her nose again, hurrying now.

"A
couple of hours after he left. . . she . . . Rachel.. . she comes in
and tells me that she got a call, you know, with a job offer and what
with the season winding down how she's gonna take it, but that she's
gotta get there instantly if she wants the job. She asks me to pay
her off so she can leave right away."

"And?"

"Well,
what was I going to do? She knew I could sign checks. I'd paid her
before. It was the end of the season. I paid her off. I sat right
here and watched while she took it across the street and cashed it.
Thirty-eight hundred bucks and change. She came out, got on the
airport shuttle, and I never saw her again until you—"

She
waved a hand in my direction. This time, she prodded herself.

"Anyway,
Dad came back the next morning just walking on air. He was
everybody's hero. Then . . . you know, when he got finished with his
story, I just sort of casually mentioned that Rachel had moved on."

She
shuddered at the memory.

"It
wasn't like it should have been such a big surprise or anything. Rick
and Loretta had already given notice. She wasn't the first associate
to just up and leave. I shouldn't have ... he . . ."

She
looked up at me as if for a dispensation. I had none to offer.

"I'll
never forget the look on his face—the pain and hurt. He screamed at
me. Swore. He never swore. Called me a bitch. Said I was a goddamn
liar. In my whole life he'd never talked to me like that before. For
a second I actually thought he was going to attack me, but he just
ran out the door, across the street to the bank."

She
found a hidden cache of strength. Her tone got stronger.

"He
looked twenty years older when he came back from the bank. Never said
another word to me. Just picked up his briefcase and headed out the
door. I never—" Another tissue. "He ... to make a long
story short . . . the Lake Vista escrow account was empty."

"How
much?"

"Four
hundred ninety thousand in down payments and deposits."

"You
called the cops." I made it a statement.

"My
dad signed the transfer. He was an officer of the corporation. It was
his responsibility. And there was the note."

I
didn't want to ask, but did anyway.

"Note?"

"He
left a note. He said it was all his fault. That he took full
responsibility. That he'd made a bad investment and lost all the
money. Didn't mention anybody else. He was that way. He wouldn't
blame anybody else for his problems. He just took all the blame on
himself."