Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (3 page)

Veronica refused to play teasing games with Jake, though. This was business. Serious business. “He signed Jinx, Inc., over to me.”

Jake’s mouth dropped open before he clicked it shut. “You’re kidding!”

She had his attention now. “But not only the treasure-hunting company. He’s given me his boat,
Sweet Jinx;
the Barnegat warehouse; his Long Beach Island house; and a bunch of his personal belongings. Without my permission, by the way.”

Veronica had become increasingly dissatisfied with her job as a corporate lawyer this past year. But that didn’t mean she wanted to, or would ever, become a treasure hunter, for Pete’s sake. That would be like Donald Trump deciding to become a hula dancer. No, it was the field of corporate law that no longer appealed to her, not the law itself.

Jake was clearly startled by her news, but he remained silent, waiting for her to explain. Talking to Jake was like playing a game of cards—she never knew what he was thinking, unless he wanted her to.

Jake laughed. “You? Running a treasure-hunting company? Last time I talked to Frank, he said he was planning a venture that involved deep-sea wreck diving. Hell’s bells, Ronnie, you get seasick in the bathtub.” He was still laughing.

“It’s not funny. I have a job in Boston. A
steady
job,” she added for his benefit. “I have no time for this nonsense.”

Jake didn’t rise to her “steady job” bait. He’d heard it enough in the past. “So? Decline all the . . . gifts.”

“I can’t. His lawyer says the trust he’s set up is ironclad. I just came from Harley Winston’s office in Asbury Park.”

Jake’s eyes swept over her. “So that’s why you’re all dolled up.”

She felt herself blush, though she hadn’t a clue why. Jake had said and done much more to make her blush over the years. “I went to a charity event for my grandmother in Spring Lake before I met with the lawyer.”

He nodded, his face suddenly grim. Jake didn’t like her grandmother any more than her grandfather did.

If he only knew how her grandmother had flipped when Veronica had told her where she was going tonight!

“Can Frank do that—give you something you don’t want? Isn’t it illegal or something? Oh. Forget I said that.”

They both knew her grandfather was up close and personal with all the politicians in New Jersey. Criminals, too, for that matter. Sometimes they were one and the same. He could probably do just about anything without being arrested.

“If he’s given it to you, then sell it. No big deal!”

“Hah! You would not believe the conditions he’s set up for me to liquidate anything. I’d be spending the next few years in court. Besides that, I’m not sure what Frank’s financial situation is until I look through the paperwork. I have a two-foot pile of folders in my car that Winston gave me. I might be liable for his debts as well.”

“Frank always was a cagey one.” He said
cagey
as if it were a compliment. Jake frowned then. “Why would Frank do this? Turn over his precious company to someone who knows diddly-squat about treasure hunting—and who has no interest in learning?”

Veronica winced at his last remark. Jake had always pushed her to get closer to her eccentric grandfather, who had often been downright cruel to her. Frank had assumed she was as judgmental as her grandmother, Lillian, who had divorced him more than fifty years ago. “I don’t know why,” she replied finally.

He waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “I’ll bite, babe. Why not just ask him?”

“I intend to. In fact, I’ve already spoken to my own lawyer back in Boston. He suggested I talk to Frank before I do anything.” She put a hand to her forehead and sighed.

“Headache?”

She nodded, waiting for him to say something sarcastic, like, “What? Your halo on too tight?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

He said nothing, though, just continued to worry the beads in his pocket while watching her.

“So, Ronnie, you came to me first before confronting Frank. Why?” Slowly, his eyes went wide with disbelief as he came to his own mistaken conclusion. “Un-be-friggin-liev-able! Don’t tell me you missed me.”

That was a low blow. She would always miss him, and he knew it.

Instead of appearing pleased, Jake shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Judging by the movement of his fingers in the jeans pocket, he was worrying those beads like crazy.

“Why? Did
you
miss
me?
” She regretted the words the second they left her mouth. “Never mind.”

But it was too late. Some words couldn’t be taken back.

Whatever discomfort he’d been experiencing melted away, and sparks sizzled in the air. The sexual attraction between them had always been spectacular. It was probably why she’d given in to him when she was a freshman and he was a senior at Boston U. It was probably why they kept marrying. But then, they’d learned the hard way that good sex didn’t necessarily mean good marriage. Even love didn’t guarantee a good marriage, as had so sadly been drummed into them four bloody times.

He put a hand over his mouth and rubbed it back and forth, watching her intently. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“I’m not here because of . . . us.” To her chagrin, her face heated. She was a corporate lawyer who had no trouble talking with high-powered clients and judges, but now she was floundering for words like a teenager.

“Obviously! The last time we were together, you told me to hit the road and stay out of your life forever.”

“Of course I told you that. You were already halfway out the door. Running away. Like you always do.”

“Sure I run. You provoke me into leaving every single damn time.”

“You avoid arguments.”

“You love arguments.”

“Maybe if you had stuck around one of those times, you might have discovered how untrue that is.”

“I stuck plenty.” Jake’s jaw tightened as he visibly suppressed his temper. Apparently their last parting still rankled him. Finally, he ran his fingers through his hair and said, “I didn’t run. You pushed me out.”

“Oh, Jake. That was two years ago.”

“Uh-oh!” Jake stiffened at the sudden softness of her voice, and fear flashed across his face for a brief moment.

Good heavens! Does he think I want to hook up with him again? And why would that scare him? Well, okay, that would scare me, too. Like a bad B movie.
Return of the Living Idiots. “Don’t uh-oh me. I haven’t changed my mind. I am not interested in you
that way.
I came to you because Frank’s lawyer gave me some interesting information. It appears you are a major investor in Jinx, Inc.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Since you invested in Frank’s company, you must know what he was up to regarding me.”

“No, I didn’t know Frank was handing the company over to you.”

“It’s a corporation, isn’t it? Jinx,
Inc.
He can’t make that big of a decision without consulting his shareholders.”

Jake laughed. “The
Inc.
to Frank means
signed in ink.
It’s not legally a corporation.”

“Why did you just happen to dump that much money in his lap? Why not invest in something else, like, oh, let’s say, real estate?” It was a question she shouldn’t have asked. Jake was a rounder, a person who plays poker for a living. Taking risks was in his genes. She, on the other hand, was a
grinder,
a person who played safe; it was not a compliment, in her case.

Jake exhaled with exasperation at her persistent questions. “I like Frank. I had a stretch of good luck. Simple as that. And why the hell not?”

“Good luck? Good luck?” She was practically shrieking. “Give me a break! A hundred thousand dollars is not
just luck.
”

“Let’s not beat that dead horse again.” His jaw, under the day-old stubble, was stiff, and his eyes blazed. Her criticism of his gambling was a perpetual hot button—a dead horse, for sure.

“Couldn’t you have bought a savings bond or some IBM stock? I’ll bet you don’t even have an IRA yet.” Veronica grimaced as she realized that she had fallen into lecturing him again about being conservative with finances. Jake used to tease her about it. In fact, he had often joked that her idea of doubling her money was folding the bills and putting them back in her pocket. Still, she blathered on. “The investment-to-return ratio on blue chips has got to be better than treasure hunting and almost risk-free in comparison.”

He relaxed and smiled at her. When he smiled like that, his dimples emerged, and Jake’s dimples pretty much amounted to lethal weapons of the most erotic kind. “Cupcake, when did I ever play it safe?”

And that is the crux of our problem. Always has been. Always will be.
“I want you to pull your money out and talk some sense into my grandfather.”

“Still afraid of the old man, are you?”

“I’m not afraid . . . oh, all right, he does scare me a little. I never win an argument with him. And he has a way of making me feel like I’m a condescending clone of my grandmother.”

He gave her a quick once-over that said he agreed with that opinion.

The jerk!

“What makes you think I could do any better?” Jake asked.

“He likes you. He always has.”

“He likes you, too, Ronnie. You never gave him a chance.”

The unspoken message was that she had never given Jake a chance, either, which was ridiculous. She’d given him four chances. She waited for him to say that he liked her, too, which he would normally have done, but he didn’t.
Something is going on here. Jake is not acting his usual self.
“Let’s put the subject of my grandfather in the ‘dead horse’ category, too.” She and Jake had never agreed about Frank and probably never would.

He glanced at his wristwatch. “Listen, I have only another half hour before they resume play. I need to go meditate for a few minutes. What do you want from me?”

Ouch! Talk about blunt! There was a time when he would have had me in the sack by now, game or no game.
“I told you, Jake. Go talk with Frank.”

“
You
go talk to Frank.”

Blunt again.
“Come with me to Long Beach Island.” She slapped a palm over her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

“I can’t,” he said sadly. “Five minutes next to you and I’m already all twisted up inside. You make—oh, shit!”

Veronica turned to see what had caused Jake to curse. A young woman was approaching. As if watching a slow-motion vignette, Veronica saw the woman smile at Jake, ignoring her as she came up to them, then put her hand on his arm.

In the old days, Veronica would have actually snarled at that hand on his arm. Now she just snarled inwardly.

The girl—woman—couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Definitely no cellulite here. Her wavy blonde hair was any woman’s dream . . . or man’s, for that matter. Her tall, perfect figure put Barbie to shame.
Is Jake her Ken?
She wore a black suit with a brass name tag. Probably a casino or hotel employee.

“I just got off work, sugar.”

Sugar? I think I’m going to be sick.

“How are you doing in the tournament?”

Probably good since he was one of five finalists in a million-dollar tournament.

“I’m doing great.” He didn’t sound great. The bimbo—it was unfair, but that’s how Veronica labeled any of Jake’s women—tilted her head in confusion, first at Jake and then at Veronica.

He sighed deeply, then said, “Trish, this is my ex-wife, Veronica—Ronnie—Jinkowsky.” His eyes held Veronica’s for a long while, as if he was sorry for something. Then he put his arm over the bimbo’s shoulders and said, “This is Trish Dangel.” There was a long pause before he added, “My fiancée.”

Someone said, “Congratulations.” It had to be Veronica, but she couldn’t be sure since she was stunned. She couldn’t have hurt more if she’d been kicked in the stomach.
It’s been lovely, but I think I’ll go scream now.
Loud white noise roared in her head.
Do not cry in front of him. Do. Not. Cry.
She turned slowly and walked away from the couple. Jake called after her to wait, but she
couldn’t
stop.

Once she had gone some distance, nausea overcame her and she rushed into the first ladies’ room she saw.

The scent of industrial-strength pine cleaner and a floral deodorizer assaulted her senses. Luckily, the restroom was empty.

Apparently, Jake had moved on with his life. It was unreasonable for her to be so stricken. Their relationship had always been doomed.

Still, Veronica’s heart hurt, despite the divorces, despite not having seen him for two years. She was reacting so strongly because his announcement had blindsided her, she concluded.

Satisfied with that explanation, she walked woodenly into one of the stalls, locked the door, and leaned against the wall.

I don’t care!

I don’t care!

I don’t care!

Then she gave in to the sharp pain in her abdomen, clutched herself around her middle, crumpled to her knees, and retched violently.

Chapter
2

Desperate men do desperate things. . . .

Frank Jinkowsky lay in his big antique bed late that night with his longtime girlfriend, Flora Clark—Flossie—nestled in his arms, her face on his chest. They were both naked. And both panting.

He had no business shaking the sheets like this, being seventy-five years old, but then Flossie was a young chick—only fifty-five—and he never could resist her. She was so sexy she could turn on a cadaver.

And who was he kidding? He had every business getting it on. As long as he was able. Contrary to general opinion, there were probably a whole lot of senior citizens doing the same thing right now. Use it or lose it. Definitely.

When he’d first hooked up with Flossie, he’d been fifty and she a mere thirty. A scandal! Especially to his ex-wife, Lillian, who had a permanent pole up her ass.

Although he’d learned the hard way that matrimony wasn’t for him, he would have married Flossie long ago, for her sake. But she’d balked, having suffered a bad marriage herself. Now, after all these years, the idea of a legal document seemed downright silly.

“Was that as good for you as it was for me?” he joked, giving her a squeeze.

Flossie peered up at him, without raising her head, and smiled. “Not bad for an old codger . . . especially without Viagra.”

He chuckled. He didn’t need those blue pills yet, but he’d use them in a heartbeat if he had to. Pride went out the window when it came to a man’s favorite body part.

“My breasts are sagging,” Flossie said out of the blue. “Do you think I should get a boob lift?”

Now there is a loaded question if I ever heard one.
He leaned down and kissed her. He loved her, sagging breasts or not. “Don’t you dare.”

She giggled.

Seventy-five years old and I can still make a woman giggle. Am I good or what?

“I know why you wanted to have sex tonight,” she said, pulling the sheet up over them.

Another loaded comment.
But he was no dummy. He settled for a simple, “Oh?”

“Yeah. You’re trying to divert my attention from that loco, asinine, stupid, impossible, harebrained scheme of yours. You’ve done some insane things in your day, but this time you’re going too far.”

He laughed. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

She slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Now, Floss, come on. You have to—”

“I mean it, Frank. Nobody is going to believe you’re broke, especially not your granddaughter.”

Frank wanted Ronnie to work for him, but he knew she wouldn’t come unless he gave her a really good reason. So, he’d come up with the idea of pretending to be on the skids financially and needing a successful project and her help to get him out of trouble.

Time was running out on him, and he had to correct the mistakes of the past couple of decades that involved his family. That meant Ronnie, since she was the only family he had left. That’s why he’d invited Jake to invest in his company last year. That’s why he was turning his company over to his prissy granddaughter, whom he hoped to unpriss. That’s why he had taken on the Pink Project for his old friend Rosa Menotti.

Yeah, it was a crazy idea, but he’d done crazier things in his life. “I can pull it off, honey.”

“All she has to do is go in the attic and see what you’ve stashed there.”

“She is
not
going to go into the attic,” he assured her. “Hell, I can barely get her to come into the house, even for a short visit.”

“And whose fault is that? You should have fought harder to see your granddaughter. Not to mention Joey, when you first got divorced.” Joey was Joseph Jinkowsky, Frank’s son and Ronnie’s father. Long dead now.

“I know, I know. The first couple years I was just too boiling mad to do anything. After that, I admit it, I was having too much fun being a wild adventurer with no marriage ties. Then, when Ronnie’s mother died so young and Ronnie and Joey moved in with Lillian, it seemed an exercise in futility. They were totally under her thumb then.”

“She did paint a wicked picture of you from day one.”

“I have my faults, but no one this side of Satan’s parlor has
that
many sins.”

Flossie sighed, and he could feel her breath against his chest hairs. “It’s your ridiculous pride. That’s what it is.”

Maybe. But he was for damn sure swallowing his pride now.

“You could tell Ronnie that you’re sorry, that you love her and want her to take over the company. Tell her that you want to retire; then the two of us can ride off into the sunset in our miniyacht.”

Last Fling
was a fifty-foot cabin cruiser he had hidden away in a Barnegat slip. It wasn’t a yacht by any means; although it had all the luxuries of one, it was still small enough not to need a crew. Just the two of them. Flossie called it a
miniyacht
because of all the extras he’d added, like a Jacuzzi and a restaurant-quality kitchen.

“Yeah, right. And then she’ll just hop onto my lap and give me a grandpa hug,” he scoffed. “And don’t forget I want a great-grandchild in there, too. Ronnie and Jake belong together, and I’m gonna make sure it happens. This time I plan to be around when a baby is born and growing up.”

“You’re setting up bad karma with that poverty nonsense.”

“Karma, smarma!”

Flossie tsked. “Well, don’t ask me to help. I won’t tell such a ludicrous lie.”

“You don’t have to lie. Just don’t give me away.”

Her silence was answer enough. He could trust Flossie.

“I expect she’ll show up here tomorrow, madder’n a hen in heat.” Tossing in one last argument, he added, “It’s the only way. Ronnie will never agree to help me unless it’s something really drastic.”

“Drastic is getting down on your knees and begging. Drastic is getting down on your knees and praying. Drastic is not your pretending to be almost in Chapter Eleven.” Flossie inhaled and exhaled with exasperation, then added softly, “I hope you won’t be hurt.”

He kissed the top of her head and prepared to fall asleep.

How could I hurt more than I already do?

Welcome to the funny farm . . .

It looked like a creepy haunted house.

Veronica arrived at her grandfather’s oceanfront home at ten the next morning, after crossing the bridge from Manahawkin where she had spent the night in a motel. The turn-of-the-last-century mansion was located in Loveladies at the northern end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—a strip of land bracketed by the ocean on one side and Barnegat Bay on the other. Nearby was the historic Barnegat Lighthouse.

The house, which sat on more than an acre of land, would probably bring a cool five million in today’s market, even though her grandfather had certainly let it go. Shutters dangled from some windows. Blinds were pulled down in others. The weathered wood shakes appeared really . . . weathered. The mansard roof probably leaked, if some of the tiles that had fallen to the ground were any indication. And the sea grass in the front yard was a shoulder-high jungle.

What happened in the past three years, since she’d been here last, to bring on such neglect? Her grandfather was a nutty old coot, but he cared about this family home—or at least he used to. She remembered something then. This was
her
family home now, if the lawyer was right.
My God! I don’t have the kind of money to refurbish or keep up a place like this. The taxes alone would eat up a good portion of my annual salary.

It was springtime, and, although it was balmy, the summer crowds had not yet flooded the town or beaches. Long Beach Island, like much of the Jersey shore, was loaded with commercial enterprises, but not so much here at the northern end. The stillness of the off-season atmosphere, combined with the crashing of waves on the beach, gave a lonely feeling to her grandfather’s house.

Even though she’d taken a Pepto-Bismol tablet to settle her stomach, she held her breath to block out the scent of salt water while she knocked on the front door. No answer. She tried again. Still no answer. But Frank’s vintage black Mustang convertible and a late-model red pickup truck with the Jinx, Inc., logo were parked in the driveway. He must be around. Turning the doorknob, she realized it was open and stepped inside.

“Anybody home?” she called out.

She thought she heard voices coming from the opposite side of the house, the one facing the beach. Walking down the corridor, she saw rooms covered with dust and filled with draped furniture. Paintings were missing, judging by the lighter rectangular spaces on the faded wallpaper. There were no antiques or the horrible Buddha with the foot-long penis that had given her nightmares when she was a child. In the library, she noticed that the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were half-empty, and assumed it was the collection of first editions that was gone. Even the stuffed animal heads mounted on the paneled walls—the taxidermied nightmares bagged by some nitwit Jinkowsky on an African safari years ago—were gone. Thank God for that.

The Jinkowsky brothers—Frank’s grandfather and two great uncles—had made their money making kielbasa in the early 1920s, first in a butcher shop in Jersey City and eventually in a Newark factory. The Kielbasa Kings, they’d been called. Those days were long gone. In fact, the year Frank married Lillian prior to both entering Stanford Law, the Jinkowsky company had been sold due to the grandchildrens’ lack of interest in entering the business. Frank had come into a small fortune along with the Long Beach Island mansion. Instead of hotfooting it off to law school—a tradition in Lillian’s family that he’d promised to follow—he’d decided to use his inheritance as seed money for a treasure-hunting company. That had been the beginning of the end for him and his wife, who’d felt betrayed by her husband’s change of career. The worst abomination, according to Lillian, was that Frank had gotten her pregnant before leaving.

Dreary
would be the best word to describe the house now. Or
plundered.
Had her grandfather needed to sell everything in order to raise cash? She could think of no other reason for the house’s condition.

She continued down the hall to the great room, with its fireplace big enough to roast a boar. That room and the kitchen were clean, with nothing removed, as far as she remembered.

She could see her grandfather out on the deck with Flossie, his live-in girlfriend. A wide expanse of beach extended from the deck to the ocean, and seagulls squawked as they swooped down for food.

Frank and Flossie sat at a large, round patio table with an unfurled center umbrella. Polka music played loudly on a tape deck; her grandfather did love a good accordion. Flossie, who was fiftysomething, resembled an aging stripper, which she could have been, given Frank’s habits. But actually, she’d been a Las Vegas showgirl. Even though Veronica had been only seven at the time, she could still remember the uproar when fifty-year-old Frank took up with thirtysomething Flossie. Lillian hated Flossie almost as much as she did Frank.

To say that Flossie was well-endowed would be a colossal understatement—another reason for thin-as-a-rail Lillian to hate her “replacement.” This morning Flossie wore tight black jeans, a revealing red tank top edged with sequins, and red high-heeled slides. The woman had more than twenty years on Veronica, but Flossie had a better figure. Her blonde hair, dyed of course, sported the biggest metal rollers Veronica had ever seen, possibly empty soup cans.

Her grandfather was a big man, at least six foot three and burly, like the mountain men in old westerns. Needless to say, he had scared her a little when she was a child. He was reading the morning newspaper, a burning cigar in one hand and a glass of some amber-colored beverage in front of him. Probably bourbon.
Booze before noon? No wonder he has money problems.
He wore denim shorts, which were full of holes; a threadbare, once-yellow T-shirt; and his trademark suspenders—he had more than Larry King, he sometimes bragged. They were Mickey Mouse ones today. The canvas shoes on his feet were so worn, they were more sole than anything else. He was usually rather vain about his appearance, but today he was unshaven, and his white hair stood out like Don King’s. He’d always been a handsome man. Now he looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

She could have sworn they’d noticed her approach, but maybe not because Flossie was arguing with him about eating his breakfast.

“I don’t want any of that frickin’ egg shit,” he said. Not bothering to peer up from the paper, he blew enough smoke into the air to make Flossie choke.

Waving her hand in front of her face, Flossie said, “It’s not egg shit, darling. It’s eggs benedict. I got the recipe from Vivian over at the Nail You manicure shop.”

Veronica glanced at Flossie’s hands. Yep, she still had those inch-long sculptured nails, painted bright red today and matching her shirt.

“Pfff! That doesn’t look like any eggs benedict I ever saw. It’s green, fer chrissake!”

“It’s jalapenos in the sauce—Mexican eggs benedict.” Flossie smacked him on the shoulder. “Eat the eggs, dammit.”

“I can eat shredded wheat, like always. Why are you wastin’ money on this other food?”