Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery (7 page)

“Surely you can’t be worried about
losing your job. They couldn’t do without you,” I protested. “You’ve been there
forever. You know everything. You deal with
TeleCom’s
biggest clients all over the world. You speak Spanish,” I finished up lamely.
“Who would do the translating and the liaison work when a client in South
America gets a bug up?”

Armando chuckled softly.
 
“I imagine I would, if I am still with the
company.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

He kept silent for a moment,
weighing his words. Here it comes, I thought.
“Because I have
no wish to move to Florida, which is where
OmniFutures
is located.
It would make sense for all of the administrative functions
to be in one place, and the logical place would be there.” He met my eyes
squarely for the first time. “I know you would not wish to move there either.”

I swallowed audibly while
struggling to keep my expression unalarmed, which was the opposite of what I
was feeling. Alarm didn’t quite cover it, as a matter of fact. I was shocked.
One of our greatest shared affections was for Connecticut. It had never
occurred to us to live anywhere else. Whenever we traveled, we breathed a sigh
of relief upon returning home to our green, glorious, cozy, eclectic,
enlightened state.
 
This could not be
happening.

“Do you really think that’s a
possibility, or are you just trying to ruin my evening?” I joked, stalling for
time, but he didn’t return my smile.

“I believe it is more of a
probability than a possibility, assuming I am offered a position of any kind.”

I gulped again. “That’s a lot of
assumptions for this stage in the proceedings, don’t you think? You’re assuming
the acquisition will be approved by the board and the stockholders and whatever
government agencies have to get involved in this proposed transaction. You’re
assuming positions will be consolidated, and you’re assuming that if you make
the cut, you’ll have to relocate to Florida. I know you always try to plan for
the worst, but maybe you need to just step back and take a breath. I know I
need to do that.”

I scooted closer to him in the
recliner and snuggled under his right arm, careful not to jostle Gracie. We
were quiet for a time.

“You could always look for another
job,” I suggested, but my heart wasn’t really in it.

“I may have to.”

“No, I mean now, before any of
what’s going to happen actually happens. That way, it’s your choice, not
theirs.”

He smiled at my fighting words. “I
am fifty years of age,
Cara
. The job
market for men of my years is not promising.”

“It’s better to look for a job
when you already have a job,” I persisted. “At least, that’s what they say.”

“I don’t want another job. I like
the one I have.” His expression grew mulish, and I felt him digging in his
heels. He would do nothing, I knew, until he had no choice in the matter. His
Latino stubborn streak would keep him hanging on against all odds until the
last pink slip was issued, hoping against hope to be spared a choice of evils:
abandon his job or leave Connecticut. I shifted gears.

“What’s the timetable, do you
know?”

“That is perhaps what is most
frustrating about this situation. The timetable, as you call it, keeps moving,
and delays happen at every step. At the moment George is spending his days
lobbying the other directors to convince them of the tremendous opportunity
this is for the company. Once they are on his team, they will begin working on
the stockholders, and so on and so on until a vote is taken and the offer is
accepted or rejected.” He laughed hollowly. “When I hear him bending the ear of
a director on the telephone, I wonder if George knows that as soon as the
acquisition is complete, he will be in the worst jeopardy of all of us. The
first position they will cut will be his, and he is the only person who does
not seem to know that.”

“Have you tried to explain that to
him?”

“Oh, yes, many, many times, but he
does not wish to hear me. He prefers to believe the sales pitch that is being
given to him over expensive lunches and fancy dinners and cocktail parties and
games of golf at exclusive country clubs all over the eastern coast. He returns
from these excursions tanned and filled with the fairy tales these people have
put into his head, and we have to sit and listen to him speak of the glorious
days to come as if we do not think he is insane, which we do.”

After that we fell quiet, thinking
our private thoughts but sharing the feeling of bedrock shifting beneath us.
How foolish we human beings are, I thought, making our little plans and feeling
secure in them. Yes, Mack Realty’s business had suffered a slump in the years
following 2009, but my partners and I had all been lucky enough to have fully
employed husbands whose jobs were not threatened and who could keep us in
health insurance while we regrouped. Once the economy had begun to right
itself, and the real estate market was showing steady improvement, we had
returned to our old offices in the Law Barn and essentially picked up where
we’d left off. Having survived the immediate crisis, we forgot that a new one
could be lying in wait for any one of us at any time. Suddenly Armando and I
were faced with a number of unpleasant possibilities, and averting them was
beyond our control. All we could do was sit tight and deal with whatever
happened when it happened.
 
Life, I think
they call it.

“However this turns out, we’ll be
fine,” I attempted to reassure my husband now. “We’re both healthy and
employable, even if a little creaky in the joints; and if we do have to move to
Florida for a few years, Connecticut will still be here when we get back, you
know.”

Armando raised one eyebrow.
“And Mack Realty?
Will your partners have a place for you
when we get back?”

I slapped his arm lightly. “What,
you never heard of a branch office?”

“That would be quite a long branch,”
he scoffed, and on that note we took ourselves to bed.

Six

On Tuesday we were all kept
hopping. The phone rang continually as nervous sellers sensed the coming of
winter, which meant less likelihood of attracting good buyers, and confused
purchasers wearied of the complicated new negotiations required to qualify for
and execute reasonable mortgages.
Strutter
and I
staffed the office while Margo flew in and out of the Law Barn’s front door,
files stuffed in her elegant attaché, to make hay while the hazy sun still
shone on our lovely community. Even May kept her head down for most of the day,
intent on closing out her Romantic Nights submission period by the end of the
week. I stopped by to bring her fresh coffee at mid-morning.

“Here we go again,” May sighed,
frowning at her computer screen. She’d been hard at work in the little file
room when I arrived, so I hadn’t planned on interrupting her, but she sounded
so forlorn that I stuck my head through the door instead of continuing to the
stairs.

“I’d say good morning, but it sounds
as if you have a problem,” I commented neutrally, not wanting to pry. Despite
her words, though, she didn’t look all that bothered.

“Good
mornin
’
to you, and it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with about a hundred times before,”
she smiled at me, “especially during open submissions periods like now, when
anyone with a word processing program can send me a manuscript for
consideration.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I am continually amazed at how
wildly most of the people who send me manuscripts overrate their talent. It’s
as if reason deserts them when it comes to assessing their own work.” She waved
me into the room, and I perched on the window sill to chat for a moment before
beginning my day.

“God’s gift to
publishing, huh?”

“You
betcha
,”
she agreed, chuckling wryly at the screen before her. “Take this one. According
to his author bio, he’s actually out there teaching writing courses, and people
are paying him good money to go to them.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“So he has to be pretty good,
right?”

May turned away from her computer
in disgust and picked up her own coffee. “Believe me, I’d love to think people
had more common sense, but the facts prove otherwise. This man misspelled his
own one-word book title, and the rest of his three-chapter sample goes downhill
from there.”

I laughed along with her, but she
had my sympathy.
“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear,
indeed, but there’s more.
This submission is not his first book. He’s
been published by a vanity press—you know, one of those outfits that will put
anything into print for a fee—for years and has actually managed to sell a few
books, presumably to readers who are as ignorant as he is. Combine that with
the fact that aspiring writers are
shellin
’ out their
hard-earned cash to attend his workshops, and you have the worst of all
possible results, a bad writer who thinks he’s a good writer.” She grimaced
into her coffee mug.

“What are you going to tell him?”
I asked.

“What I always tell them—the truth
as factually as I can. I’ll point out the spelling and grammatical errors in
the sample and suggest he hire a professional editor before submitting his
manuscript elsewhere, but he won’t listen to reason. He’ll just get huffy and
tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, and who
do I
think I am blah
blah
blah
.”
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, then grinned.

“What’s funny?” I
asked,
glad to see her sense of humor seemed to be intact.

“I was remembering the last time I
made the suggestion about a professional editor to a new writer. I’d actually
made the mistake of
acceptin
’ her manuscript, based
on the recommendation of an inexperienced beta reader who’d reviewed it for me.
It was my fault a contract had been issued, so I felt honor bound to keep my
word and publish the thing.
 
It was a
disaster, full of the most basic mistakes from spelling to typos to incorrect
hyphenation and proper names, but I slogged away and edited it into something
approaching publishable. When I sent it to her for
proofreadin
’,
I suggested as kindly as I possibly could that future work really would benefit
from the attentions of a professional editor.”

“I hardly dare ask, but what was
her reaction?”

May’s expression was resigned.
“What she should have done was
get
down on her knees
and thank me for
spendin
’ a week of my life making that
pile of horse
pucky
into something approaching a
book, but they never do that. Instead, she told me she’d
already
had
it reviewed
by a professional editor, can you believe it? Needless to say, I was
dumbstruck, but I guess there are charlatans
chargin
’
money for all kinds of things out there and people naïve enough to pay ‘
em
.”

“Wow,” I told her when I managed
to get my mouth shut. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m becoming a little
disillusioned with the writing and publishing business. I had no idea it was so
rife with scam artists. Why do you keep doing this again?”

“Oh, you’re just
hearin
’ my bad stories because I need to vent. There are
lots of talented writers and competent, ethical editors out there, too, and
it’s been my absolute pleasure to give more than a few a
leg
up.
 
Drop by again, and I’ll tell you
about some of those folks. I’m just cranky right now because I’ve read four terrible
submissions in a row.”

“That would do it,” I assured her.
“Feel free to unload on me anytime.”

Fortunately, the sun really did
continue to shine as the gorgeous autumn weather continued, and it helped lift
everyone’s spirits. There is nothing quite like the scent of drying leaves to a
New Englander. It instantly transported me back to my youth, scuffling through
the leaves on my walk to school with my best friend and searching eagerly for
fallen horse chestnuts, coveted prizes in those days. The best kind were so
ripe, their husks split on impact with the ground to reveal the gleaming,
reddish brown jewels within. That heady October aroma was one of the many
things I would miss about New England if we really did have to move south. I
wondered unhappily what autumn was like in Florida.
 
Was
there autumn in Florida?

Resolutely, I shoved that thought
to the back of my mind. I decided there was no point in mentioning Armando’s
job dilemma to Margo and
Strutter
until we had more
facts, and since I had no idea when that might be, I just kept quiet. Why upset
them, I reasoned? I was already upset enough for all of us, and it wasn’t as if
there was anything they could do to help me. Instead, I focused my attention on
my daughter Emma and grew determined to discover why she’d been so silent
lately. If I needed to make an appointment with her to accomplish that, so be
it. Soon after arriving at work, I sent her an e-mail announcing that I was
bringing lunch to her office at twelve-thirty, and I hoped she would be free to
eat it with me. Her reply assured me that she would be.
So
far, so good.

By
 
twenty
minutes past twelve I was
zipping across the Putnam Bridge, which spanned the Connecticut River between
Wethersfield and Glastonbury. Driving across bridges isn’t normally one of my
favorite things, but the Putnam was so familiar to me, I had no problem with
it. No alarming steel structure encased it, and the uninterrupted paved roadway
on Route 3 was only two lanes wide in most parts. I was able to mosey along at
a mere ten miles over the speed limit without some annoying
leadfoot
tailgating me.

At the highest part of the bridge,
which isn’t all that high, I could enjoy a full view of the river and the
blazing sugar maples and sumac on either bank, competing for best in show. The
foliage was so beautiful it was difficult to keep my eyes on the road ahead.
Luckily, most of my fellow travelers were equally enchanted and seemed content
to allow me to proceed at my own pace. Soon enough, I was over the bridge and
heading for the Hebron Avenue exit I preferred when visiting Emma.

As I pulled into the parking area
of the little office building across from the post office, I was relieved to
see Emma sitting on the back steps, waiting for me. Her eyes were closed and
her face turned up to the sunshine, so I was able to take a good, hard look at
her without being obvious. Doing so gave me the usual jolt of pleasure. Such an
attractive young woman, I thought to myself as always. Seeing her every day
blunted the impact somewhat, but now that we worked in different towns, and it
had been several days between visits, the sight of her made me smile. She had
my coloring, a slightly sturdier build, and long ash blonde hair smoothed away
from her face in a casual ponytail. She wore jeans and clogs and a cowl-necked
sweater—nothing special, but they suited her perfectly. As pretty a girl as she
was, though, it was her smile that put her over the top. When she opened her
eyes and grinned at me, my heart stopped its anxious thumping, and I was filled
with gratitude. Nobody who smiled like that could have anything seriously
wrong, and I breathed a mother’s sigh of relief.

“Hello, daughter,” I greeted her.
“I’m your old mother. Recognize me?”
 
I
plopped down next to her and handed her the bag lunch I’d brought from The Cove
Deli, cups of homemade chili and a chicken salad plate for us to split.

“
Mmmm
,”
Emma approved, digging for spoons and napkins, “and yes, I get your little
joke. It’s been a few days, but I’ve had some things to get straight in my head
before I underwent parental inquisition, so don’t yank my chain, okay?” She
popped the lid off her chili and dug in. “This is the best chili ever, next to
yours. I do miss the food places on Old Main Street.”

“Well, glad to hear you miss
something about your old stomping grounds. Since you didn’t dodge my lunch
invitation, I assume that you are now ready to talk about … whatever.” I put my
own cup of chili down beside me to cool and relieved the chicken salad plate of
its top cover, carefully keeping my eyes on what I was doing.

Emma plucked a succulent cherry
tomato from the plate and popped it into her mouth. “This has got to be the
last of the Anderson Farm crop,” she mourned, referring to the homestead and
fresh produce stand that had anchored the Broad Street Green for as long as I
could remember. She closed her eyes to savor the garden freshness of it. “And
yes, I’m ready to talk. In fact, I’d like to know what you think.”

“I’m all ears,” I assured her.
“What’s going on,
Em
?”

She seemed to have trouble finding
a place to begin. I chewed salad greens and waited. “Well, you remember last
month when I went to L.A. to help my friend Ellen and her dad with the local
charity golf tournament? It’s a big deal around there. I sent you pictures,”
she reminded me.

Ellen McDougal was a friend of
Emma’s from high school. Her family had relocated to California shortly after
Ellen and Emma graduated, but the girls had kept in close contact, visiting
back and forth a couple of times a year.

“Yes, I do remember that trip. You
had an especially good time, as I recall.” I stopped chewing and turned to look
at her. “You met a man, right?” She was accustomed to my reading the signs and
didn’t even flinch. “He’s turned out to be a special man,” I went on, noting
the telltale blush creeping up her throat, “and you’ve kept in touch.” A small
smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “But he lives in California,” I
finished up.

“Russell lives in Elkton,
actually,” she corrected me, and I felt a small surge of hope.

“Elkton, Maryland? Then he was
just visiting L.A. like you were.”

“He was visiting Ellen and her
family because he’s an in-law. Ellen’s sister is married to Russell’s brother,
but no, he’s not from Maryland.”

I
 
thought
hard. “Virginia?” I asked
hopefully, not thrilled but willing to settle.

Emma decided to put me out of my
misery—or into it, depending upon your point of view.
“Sorry,
Momma.
He lives in Elkton, Oregon.
Bad luck, right?
Especially since he grew up right around the corner from here
in Cromwell.
His family is still here.”

I digested this information in
silence,
waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Emma merely
helped herself to a heaping forkful of chicken salad and munched contentedly.
“You’re not engaged or anything, are you?” I asked finally to nudge her into
offering a bit more information.

She gazed at me patiently but did
not, as I had expected, roll her eyes at my silly question. That in itself was
alarming. “Not yet, but you never know. I really, really like him, Momma, enough
to fly to Oregon in a week or so and spend some time with him to find out if we
maybe have a future. So how stupid do you think that idea is?”

I put down my fork and examined
her face for signs of joking, but I found none. She had met a man from Elkton,
Oregon, and she was flying out there soon to see if they had a future together,
and she was asking what I thought about that.

It has long been my position that
my primary job, as the mother of grown children, is to keep my mouth shut, and
I’ve worked hard to stick to that tenet with both Emma and her slightly older
brother Joey. Emma was a handful as a teenager, and her father’s and my divorce
when she was fifteen had been the perfect excuse for her to act out. My
memories of those years involved many visits to the high school to meet with
the principal and various other members of the faculty about her behavior.