Kill the Competition (8 page)

Belinda's smile froze. "Okay."

"I'll bring you the name of Gustav's cousin, the auto body guy," Carole said.

"Thanks."

They closed their doors, waved to each other, and moved off in opposite directions.

Libby returned the legal pad to her bag. "At this rate, I'll be ready to retire by the time we finish this book."

Belinda laughed and steered back toward the entrance. "It's a cute idea, though—a multigenerational approach to men."

"Men—you can't live with 'em and you can't just shoot 'em." Libby sighed. "I think I'll make pork chops for dinner."

"Uh-hm." Since that hefty raise Margo promised her wouldn't kick in for a while, she was thinking pork 'n beans for dinner.

"Glen likes pork chops." Libby patted a Bloomingdale's bag near her knee. "And if I butter him up with a little fried food, maybe I can smuggle in my new wind sock."

"When did you buy that?"

"At lunch—my friend in HR was going to the downtown location and asked me to ride along." Libby made a rueful noise. "Jeanie got me into wind socks."

Belinda remembered her earlier thought of whether the woman had committed suicide. On the other hand, Carole had mentioned it was Jeanie's idea to take self-defense classes—had she been afraid of something... or someone? Belinda affected a light tone.

"Libby, was your friend's death really an accident?"

Libby looked up. "Did you hear something different?"

Belinda pulled the car into Libby's driveway. "No, I... no."

Libby's suspicious expression turned to distress. "Oh, Lordy, there's Glen. See you tomorrow." The woman catapulted out of the car and practically ran past her husband, who was talking to a neighbor. Her husband smiled, then caught sight of the Bloomingdale's bag. His expression changed, and when Belinda pulled out, he was striding after Libby, his face a tomato. Hopefully those fried pork chops would calm him down.

Libby's reaction to the question about Jeanie Lawford's death nagged at Belinda as she rejoined the heavy traffic, but she tried to put the unfortunate woman out of her mind.

The ping of pain from the accident had flowered into a persistent ache. "Mmmm, what a day," she murmured, then smiled in spite of her discomfort. What was a little stitch compared to the opportunity her tardiness had inadvertently led to? Chief. Financial. Officer. Could most successful people trace their achievements back to one pivotal action? One decision to take a chance, to break a rule?

The car behind her blasted her with its horn. She smiled in the rearview mirror and pulled ahead. She was still smiling as she turned into her subdivision.

Perry Ponytail was in his driveway, shirtless and washing his king-cab truck. Feeling generous, Belinda waved as she drove by. She pulled into her driveway and shifted into park in front of her garage door—she needed to unload her car trunk and take pictures of the damage for her insurance company. She hauled her purse and briefcase out of the floorboard, then walked to the end of the short driveway to check her mailbox.

Junk mail, junk mail, card from Vince, junk mail.

Her heart squeezed. A card from Vince?

Chapter 6

Some men were leg men and some were breast men. Vince Whittaker was a Hallmark man. He gave cards for every obscure holiday on the calendar, and for no reason at all. Somewhere in her remaining unpacked moving cartons was a hatbox full of cards he'd given her. While they'd been dating, she had considered his card-giving thoughtful. Since the wedding, however, she had come to believe that he liked the efficiency of the little colorful squares of paper: If one gave cards that expressed a sentiment, one didn't have to verbally express said sentiment.

Because she hadn't talked to him since moving to Atlanta, she mused over the numerous card options at his disposal: miss you, thinking of you, I'm sorry, congratulations, sympathy, get well (if he was presumptuous enough to think she had a broken heart), and thank you (if he was uncouth enough to gloat over his freedom).

She pushed her thumb underneath the envelope flap.

"Hey, Belinda!"

She shielded her eyes to see Perry walking toward her, his white, wiry torso gleaming from sweat and suds. "Hi, Perry."

"Sure is hot, ain't it?"

He zeroed in on her boobs, and she wished she hadn't removed her jacket. "Yes, it's hot, all right."

"How's the furniture business?"

"Fine."

"I'm in the market for a new recliner."

"Ah. I can't help you there because I work in the home office."

"Where's that?"

"The Stratford Plaza building on Peachtree."

He nodded. "My company has the electrical maintenance contract on that building. Swanky place."

"Yes."

He smashed a fly that landed on his stomach, then yanked his thumb toward his shiny truck. "While I got the hose and bucket out, I was thinking we could wash your car."

"Oh, no, thank you, Perry."

"I'll do most of the work. I can pull your car down while you change into cutoffs and a T-shirt."

And if her T-shirt just happened to get wet during the car-washing, he wouldn't object. These Southern men were a crafty breed.

"Thanks, Perry, but I had a fender bender this morning, so there's no use washing my car until I have it repaired."

He tore his gaze from her chest to walk around the car and inspect the damage. He whistled low. "Yep, looks like you'll need a headlight and maybe a bumper. Where's your tire?"

"In the trunk."

He circled the car and squinted at her trunk lid, which sat decidedly askew.

"I think the trunk latch was damaged, too."

He ran his fingers along the wide part of the seam, gave a couple of tugs and popped it open. Her deflated tire sat on top of the miscellaneous mess. He shook his head as he examined the ragged tear in the rubber. "Definitely gonna need a new tire." Then he fingered the latch mechanism and made a clicking sound with his cheek. "Yeah, it's broken."

"Leave it open, I'm going to empty the trunk later."

He lowered the lid partially and wiped his hand on his splattered jeans. "What did you hit?"

"A police car."

"No shit?"

"Er, no."

"Damn. Want to go get some barbecue?"

"Thank you, no." She patted her briefcase. "I brought work home with me. Busy, busy, busy."

"Okay. Maybe some other time."

"Maybe."

She waved good-bye and hurried across the patch of grass between the curb and her front door. Inside she heaved a sigh of relief, stepped out of her shoes in the foyer, then walked through the first floor to park her purse and briefcase on the breakfast bar.

"Downey, I'm home."

Belinda didn't expect the cat to come running, and she didn't. Downey was still pouting over the move to Atlanta, away from Vince. She had reminded the little fur ball more than once that if Vince had wanted her, he would have kept her (the voice of experience), but Downey refused to let go.

After grabbing a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator, Belinda sat at the small glass table tucked into a niche in her kitchen and contemplated the envelope from Vince. How had he gotten her address—from her mother? Not that she would be difficult to track down using a public records source. Regardless, a sovereign woman would write Return to Sender on the front and send it winging back to Cincinnati.

She opened the can of soda, took a sip, and held the envelope up to the window.

But what if the contents of his card offered some explanation to his behavior—he was gay, he was stupid, he was dying—that could give her closure?

It was a nice envelope, buff-colored, substantial in pound and gently textured. Square and oversized, extra postage—Birds of the Audubon Society. Fancy packaging for a deep message, or fancy packaging to compensate for lack of one?

The envelope was thick—maybe it contained a tell-all letter? Pictures? Cash?

Yilk
—a wedding invitation?

He'd sworn no other woman was involved, but he was the same man who'd sworn to love and honor her until death parted them and then changed his mind three hundred and sixty minutes later.

She closed her eyes and willed away the melancholy that threatened to descend. Why had the card arrived today of all days, when she'd gotten possibly the biggest break of her career and was starting to feel good about her move to Atlanta?

A touch against her shin made her jump. Downey blinked up at her and yawned.

"Oh,
now
you want my attention," Belinda teased. With one hand she lifted the cat to her lap and with the other waved the unopened envelope. "A mysterious message from your precious master."

Downey swatted at the envelope, then decided that her paw needed grooming. Belinda propped the envelope against a yellow fruit bowl and studied it while she stroked Downey's neck. For now, she'd leave it. And think.

The phone rang, sending Downey springing to the floor. Belinda rose and flipped on lights as she walked back to the front of the town house and into the room that would serve as a sitting room when she could afford something to sit on. For now, it housed two unopened moving cartons, one blue upholstered swivel chair, one temperamental television, and one end table that served as magazine rack and telephone stand. She picked up the portable handset, thinking she'd someday splurge on caller ID. For now, so few people knew her number that it didn't matter.

"Hello?"

"Hello, dear, it's Mother."

She smiled. "Yes, Mother, I recognized your voice."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Belinda glanced around her quiet, empty rooms. "No. Have you finished packing?" In a few days her parents were embarking on the cross-country trip to the Grand Canyon they had planned for years. They were supposed to have left after the wedding, but her mother hadn't wanted to leave her in Cincinnati by herself at such a vulnerable time. After she'd moved to Atlanta, her mother hadn't wanted to leave her on the East Coast by herself at such a vulnerable time. Belinda had at last convinced her to go.

"Almost dear, almost. I hate to bother you with this pesky detail, but Mr. Finn, the mailman, brought me a package that you had returned to Suzanne Rickman before you left—you know, the silver-plated candlesticks? Well, a corner of the address label somehow got torn off, and by the time it was sent back to you, you'd moved. Mr. Finn thought rather than forwarding it on to you in Atlanta, that maybe I'd know Suzanne's address. But the only address I have for Suzanne is when she still lived at home. I called her parents, but their machine says they're on vacation and—"

"Hang on, Mom," Belinda cut in, knowing the story would go on and on otherwise. "I have Suzanne's address in my organizer." She walked back to the breakfast bar to empty her purse. "How are you and Dad?"

Her mother emitted a musical sigh. "Worried about you."

Motherhood was guilt on a slow drip.

"Well, you shouldn't be. I'm making new friends, and my job is going well." She wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and transferred items from her purse to the countertop. "In fact, today my boss hinted at a promotion." She told herself the seed of doubt that sprouted in her stomach as soon as the words left her tongue was due to the fact she didn't want to count her chickens before they were hatched, not because she was having doubts about her role in the matter.

"A promotion, isn't that nice. Have you met any young men?"

Priorities, priorities. Perry's face popped into her head—skip for obvious reasons. Then the dark-eyed policeman from this morning—skip for obvious reasons. "Um, no. In fact, there are no men in Atlanta, Mom, just women."

"Oh, Belinda, stop teasing me."

She frowned at her empty purse and picked through the items she'd removed. "Mom, my address book is probably in the car. Can I call you later?"

"Of course. Your father says hello and have you checked the oil lately."

Her father was a retired mechanic and lived in abject fear of her car engine locking up from lack of lubrication. If Frank Hennessey knew the hardships that Atlanta traffic was inflicting upon her car, he'd stroke out. "Tell Dad I'm taking the car in for a complete tune-up this week." True. Sort of.