Don't You Trust Me? (18 page)

Hmm.

Uncle Karl would have the key on his chain. But Uncle Karl was a careful person. What if he lost the key? Undoubtedly he would have another copy somewhere. It would be a small key, I thought, smaller than a door key, more like one for a suitcase. I suddenly recalled the key rack in the mudroom, a piece of board with hooks screwed into it, where random keys were kept.

I went to check. Extra house keys, keys to some of the neighbors' houses (interesting), keys to the lawn tractor and the ATV. There were a few unlabeled small keys, which I tried in the lock. None fit.

I went back to the master bedroom. I hadn't paid much attention to Uncle Karl's closet and bureau earlier, but now I did look, and thoroughly.

I know I can be rather conceited, so I will force myself here to admit that it was pure luck that I found it. I was pulling out a drawer in the bureau when it hit a point where it would come no further. Of course, this might have been due to good carpentry, a stop installed to prevent the drawer from falling out onto the floor. In fact, I
was simply annoyed that it was resisting me, and I gave it a vicious yank. It came out, with an accompanying clink as something came loose from its underside.

In the end I had to pull the lower drawers out to their furthest extent and then snake my arm into a thin space in order to grope around underneath to find the item that had fallen, but at last I managed to pinch it between the tips of my middle finger and forefinger.

As I had expected, it was a small key. I sat looking at it, thinking,
My goodness, but that's a lot of trouble to hide a key that protects perfectly innocent business dealings!

An hour later I was beginning to understand. I am only an unsophisticated fifteen-year-old girl with no knowledge of the Internal Revenue Service or finance or anything technical like that, but it seemed to me that Uncle Karl might be being a little deceitful in his relations with the United States government.

There were several sets of records written in pencil on ledger paper—the kind that is ruled into columns—with cryptic initialed notes at the heads to indicate what each row of figures represented. Let me think: Why would a modern businessman need records on paper locked in his desk, when he had a staff of bookkeepers, each in possession of a computer loaded with the latest financial software?

The advantage of paper is that if one wants to destroy
it, it burns, while digital information is never lost beyond recall. Did I understand exactly what the numbers before me meant? No, I did not. But it was easy to guess that it was something he did not want generally known. After some thought, I took two pages, one that was labeled “SAC,” and one “SFA,” which I thought might represent this year's sales at his two biggest dealerships. These pages I put into the suitcase with the other things I had taken. Even if he discovered that they were missing, he couldn't start a big hunt for them without having to explain what they were.

Also in the suitcase I placed, with the utmost, loving care, an envelope containing ten thousand dollars. Yes, $10,000. That was what I found in the upper locked drawer, along with a sizeable stash of pain pills. I replaced the envelope of cash with a similar-looking envelope stuffed with play money left over from the benefit horse race, and left the pill bottles alone. Now that I had the key, there was no point in letting him know I had been in his desk. With any luck he would not immediately notice the lack of two sheets of paper and the exchange of play money for real dollars, but if he was in the habit of taking the pills, it was likely he would spot the fact that they had disappeared.

Uncle Karl played poker the last Friday night of every month. I supposed the envelope of cash was meant to fund this activity. Pretty high stakes, but I thought he
was a natural gambler, and, I mean, what of it? He could afford it. I'd have to leave here before his next poker night, or else replace it.

Several hours later Uncle returned, satisfied with the new shipment of pickup trucks, and retired to his office. I waited, in my usual state of alert serenity, hoping that he would not notice anything to concern him, but ready to respond if he did. Nothing happened, and at five o'clock Aunt Antonia and Brooke came home, chattering about the movie they had seen, the clothing they had purchased, and the lunch they had consumed. Uncle Karl appeared and took his evening glass of sherry with Aunt Antonia before our informal meal of salad and soup. Mrs. Barnes was still on her day off, so we were roughing it.

“And have you had a productive day today, Morgan?” Aunt Antonia inquired graciously.

“Oh yes, Aunt, thank you,
very
productive,” I said as I helped myself to more clam chowder.

IF I'D BEEN SMART, I
would have crammed all the valuables I could fit into my suitcase and called a cab to take me to the airport while the family been out for the day on Sunday. I
know
that. I just couldn't do it. I wanted to savor the accolades when I went back to school on Monday after my successful charity benefit. I wanted to make sure Helena knew that Brett had come to
my
event instead of hanging out with her on Saturday. I wanted to pick up the cash from the collection boxes around town.

Since I couldn't bring myself to leave on Sunday or Monday, I should have left on Tuesday. By Tuesday I had been praised and petted to my heart's content, thanked Brett for his support right in front of Helena
and her friends, and emptied the boxes down to the last Canadian nickel. Yet I didn't go.

I went to school and home again, ate wonderful meals and luxuriated in the hot tub and snuggled up in my big, soft bed each night. I took to carrying a little microfiber dust rag around in my jeans pocket and polishing places where I had probably left fingerprints, and where that good housekeeper Mrs. Barnes might not have cleaned lately—the back and underside of my chair in the dining room, the door of my bedroom closet, the flush on the toilet in my private bathroom.

Every time the phone rang, I waited to hear that it was Janelle on the other line, or her friends or neighbors, or even her parents. If either Aunt Antonia or Uncle Karl answered, she would probably not identify herself right away, according to my instructions. Yet that didn't help me much—she'd only ask for Brooke. Unless I answered the phone every single time it rang, a phone call from Janelle meant the end of my life in the Styles household.

At last I was forced to make a decision. Friday night was Uncle Karl's poker game. If I hadn't left by then, I would have to switch the envelope of real money in my suitcase with the fake in his desk drawer, or he'd discover the substitution. Still, I didn't want to go yet. What if he won a lot of money at the game? That would make my departure much sweeter. True, he also might lose a lot of
money, but I ignored that possibility. Uncle Karl was a winner, not a loser—I was sure of it.

No more stalling; I would leave on Saturday. The whole family, me included, was scheduled to go over to Granny's house for a tea party with the neighbors, and then we were all supposed to go out to dinner together. If I faked sick and stayed home, that would give me most of Saturday to make my getaway.

Friday evening came, and Uncle Karl went off to meet his pals for a night of cards and single malt whiskey.

“Good luck,” I said as he emerged from his office thrusting the envelope, gorged with cash, into the inner pocket of his jacket. “I hope you win lots and lots tonight.”

He laughed, touched by my obvious sincerity. “With those good wishes, I can't miss, Morgan. Thanks!”

Aunt Antonia didn't wish him luck; she didn't approve of his poker games. Neither did Brooke. He and I, gamblers both, exchanged surreptitious smiles over the heads of the two puritans. He was gambling on cards; I was gambling on him. If I had been related to him, I'd have said we shared some genes in common, what with our risky behavior and the whiff of dishonesty that hovered over his business dealings.

I settled down with a book in a chair right next to the house telephone. I might be a gambler, but there was no sense in not taking basic precautions. The one call
that came in was for Aunt Antonia, and the caller was middle-aged and female, wanting to know if she and Uncle Karl were available for a dinner party. Brooke got a call on her cell. After she answered it, she blushed and retired to her room. Probably that boy.

Brooke had not been her usual chatty self with me since the incident at the petting zoo, but instead was withdrawn and silent when it was the two of us alone in a room together. I hoped that her current moodiness was caused by preoccupation about a guy, and not due to unkind suspicions about me.

The new boyfriend had been witness to an encounter at school the other day, which, if he'd told Brooke about it, probably hadn't helped restore her faith in me. A kid named Rebecca Niles was pestering me at my locker as I was preparing to go home.

“My dad wants those canned goods,” she said in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“I don't have any,” I said. “I've been busy lately, in case you hadn't heard.”

“You
promised
,” she said in a whiny voice. “And he already
paid
for them.”

The boyfriend, who had been breezing past, slowed. He stopped and had a drink at a nearby water fountain, his ears twitching like a rabbit's.

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. “I'll get them to him later.”

“He
needs
them,” she said. “He's been doing really
well with the high-end items. He wants more caviar and stuff.”

“Look, I can't talk about this now,” I said. “I'll stop by this weekend at the store and have a chat with him. Bye.” I slammed my locker door shut and walked away.

What was that all about, you ask? Well, see, Rebecca Niles—who was a very low-ranking sophomore—her father owned this little convenience store a couple of blocks from the school. It sold soda and candy and lots of boxed and canned foods for people who didn't want to make a run to the supermarket when they ran out of something. So when I got donations of things like hearts of palm, or grilled artichoke hearts in a jar, well . . .

C'mon. I'd think you'd know me by now. You didn't really believe I was going to donate
all
that fancy canned food to the poor, did you? Give me a break. Poor people don't even like caviar.

The boyfriend definitely heard most of the conversation. But pretty soon it wouldn't matter, because I'd be gone and both he and Brooke would be free to think what they liked.

Anyway, at ten o'clock I mentioned to Aunt Antonia that I could feel a little tickle at the back of my throat. Brooke had not emerged from her bedroom since the call on her cell, so it was Aunt and me in the living room.

“Oh dear, I hope you aren't coming down with something,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn't be a surprise if
you did, after all the work you've been putting in—sort of a reaction to the stress. Let me make you some tea with honey. That usually helps a little.”

I sipped my tea and agreed that it had soothed my fictitious sore throat. My plans required that I be alone in the house the next day—true, Mrs. Barnes would be here part of the time, but in this big house it ought to be easy to avoid her while I made my preparations—so I was careful not to be too reassuring about the state of my health.

I retired to my room at ten thirty. At one thirty a noise woke me, and I lay there listening. Evidently Uncle Karl was returning from his game and not making much attempt to be quiet about it. I had to know whether he had won or lost tonight. I got up and switched on the hall lights, descending to the first floor, where Uncle sat in one of the leather club chairs, having a last drink before bed.

“Morgan! Sweetheart!” A big smile spread over his face at the sight of me. He was pretty lit up, I could tell. “My good luck charm! Your kind wishes brought me luck. I won a packet tonight.”

I could have kissed him. He'd come through for me! The gamble had been worth the risk.

However, I couldn't show my elation. In a raspy voice I said, “Congratulations, Uncle Karl.”

“What's a matter with your voice?” he inquired,
slurring ever so slightly. “What're you doing up, anyway?”

“Sore throat,” I said. “I couldn't sleep.”

“Poor kid. Well, we can't have that, can we? I think there's some ibuprofen in the kitchen.”

He got up and bumbled around the kitchen for a while, then returned with two pills and a glass of lukewarm water.

“Thanks, Uncle Karl.”

He sat finishing his drink while I took the medicine and swallowed the water, grimacing at the supposed pain.

“Yeah—I better get that money to the bank,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “Too much to keep in the house. Askin' for trouble.”

I regarded him with disapproval. I did not want him taking that money with him when he left in the morning. “The bank is closed on Saturday,” I said in a firm tone.

“Oh, right,” he said. I rose and took my water glass to the kitchen.

“Good night, Uncle Karl,” I said. “Congratulations on your win.”

“Well, get some sleep. That ibuprofen must be working. Your voice sounds better already.”

Oops. I gave a pathetic little cough and a wan smile, and shuffled off upstairs.

Needless to say, I did not go back to bed. He had
agreed with me that the bank would be closed, but for all I knew there were other branches, perhaps even ones closer to Granny's house, that might be open. I wanted to make the switch tonight, before I lost the chance. I waited the tedious half hour while Uncle Karl puttered around, getting ready for bed. To my relief, I heard him cross the living room and go into his study. Holding my breath and straining my senses, I heard the faint jingle of keys, then the click as he unlocked and opened the desk drawer, then a further click as he shut it.