Ten Beach Road (31 page)

“The fact that I haven’t chosen to reproduce doesn’t mean I don’t know how the equipment works,” Nikki replied. “Or how a seed gets planted.” She moved closer to the fixed window above the front door. “Speaking of which, how long have Renée Franklin and her garden ladies been here?”

The army had spread out to attack different sections of the garden. John Franklin sat on a camp chair that had been placed near the fountain, a smile on his face as he watched his wife command her battalion.

“Mrs. Franklin wanted to get started before it got too hot,” Avery said. “I don’t think a single one of them is under seventy-five. They’ll fill in with some new plantings after the house has been pressure washed and painted.”

Nicole moved down the hall to peer out the rear windows above the loggia; that was the one advantage in being last in line—she didn’t need to hold on to her spot. Only her bladder. “Good God, that woman is climbing up that tree. I think she’s got a . . .”

The whir of an electric saw drifted up to them followed by the crash of a limb landing on concrete. There were a few “whoo-whoo-whoos” punctuated by surprisingly vigorous arm pumps and a lot of swinging arm flesh. The saw whirred again and another limb dropped into the empty crater of concrete in the center of the back patio.

“I guess it’s a good thing the pool hasn’t been done yet,” Deirdre said beside her.

“Right. Just like it’s a good thing we only have one bathroom because it cuts down on the cleaning.” Nikki narrowed her gaze on the immaculate Deirdre. “We do still only have one bathroom, right?”

Deirdre just smiled. “Of course,” she said. But Nikki vowed to make sure. Avery wasn’t the only one suspicious of her mother’s motives. Or maybe Nikki’s nose was just out of joint because Deirdre had proved even better at getting others to do her bidding than Nikki was herself.

Down below, the garden ladies continued to swarm over the property, cutting and pulling and weeding; each sure movement confirming that despite their advanced ages they were neither frail nor timid.

“Wow,” Avery whispered. “Look at her go.” Renée moved from group to group in a most un-Vanna-like way—a commander with a clear mission in mind. Occasionally she went back to her husband for a moment or two like a sun responding to gravitational pull. And then she was back at it, her husband’s admiring gaze following her wherever she went.

Nikki saw the sheen of tears in Avery’s eyes and felt the telltale prickle behind her own eyelids as she witnessed the couple’s obvious connection. Good grief! She swiped at them with the back of her hand as Madeline came out of the bathroom fully dressed.

“Jesus,” Madeline said. “I haven’t had a period in six months. I thought I was done.” She shook her head, disgusted. “It must be the stress. I’m not sure whose tampons those were, but I’ll buy some to replace what I borrowed.”

“No problem,” Avery and Nikki said at the same time, then the three of them looked at each other.

Nikki groaned. “This is what happens when you have a group of women living in such close quarters; everybody’s cycles start syncing up. I feel like I’m in the middle of Anita Diamant’s
The Red Tent
.”

“Don’t look at me,” Deirdre said. “I am
way
over that. But it may explain some of the whacked-out behavior over the last week. A pregnant girl and three PMSers? Somebody should warn Chase and his guys to tread lightly. Thank God there are no weapons in the house.”

“You know how much it hurts me to agree with you,” Avery said as she moved toward the now-vacant bathroom. “But you got that right.”

Maddie sighed and headed for the back stairs. “I guess I’ll mix up a couple of pitchers of lemonade to hydrate the troops.”

“Well, whatever you do don’t piss them off,” Nicole said. “Even the smallest of them seems to have major muscle and some of them have power tools.”

After what felt like an eternity, Avery finally came out of the bathroom. With a nod, she went down the front stairs. The bathroom was Nikki’s at last. Hers, all hers!

She raced in, locking the door behind her, and claimed the toilet. She sighed in sheer relief; the word “hallelujah” formed in her brain.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside and there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Ma’am?” The voice belonged to Robby the plumber. “I have to turn off the water! It’ll only be for about an hour.”

Nikki washed her hands in the sink and yanked open the door. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve been waiting for way too long, and I just now got in here.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” That’s how young the plumber was. She was a “ma’am” in his eyes. “But . . .”

She looked him in the eye. He was very sweet, respectful, and earnest. Chase insisted he came from a long line of plumbers and knew what he was doing. At the moment none of those things mattered in the least. She reached out and grabbed a handful of Robby’s T-shirt and pulled him closer. “You can’t turn off the water right now, Robby. We only have one working bathroom. Which includes one sink. And one toilet. And one shower. For all five of us. And I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.” Something he undoubtedly now knew given how close they were standing.

He swallowed. She actually watched the excruciatingly slow movement of his Adam’s apple.

“You can’t shut off the water until I’m done. I need to use this bathroom. I
will
use this bathroom.”

“There’s a Port-O-Let outside, Miz Grant,” he said, trying not to show his fear. “You could . . .”

“No,” she assured him. “I most definitely could not.”

She got a tighter grip on his shirt and pulled his face up to hers. She was vaguely aware that someone had come up behind him. “You will not even think about turning off that water for the next thirty minutes. If you make one move toward the water line, I’ll come and find you. And it won’t be pretty.”

Robby blanched; his face turned white. That was when she heard Joe Giraldi’s voice. “It’s not worth your life, boy,” he said quietly. “You definitely don’t want to stand between a desperate woman and her
toilette
.” He said it in the French manner and with an annoyingly taunting smile in his voice.

A red haze formed in front of Nikki’s eyes. “What are you,” she asked Giraldi, never taking her eyes off the nervous plumber, “a hostage negotiator?”

“Only if I need to be.” Giraldi took her hand and pried Robby’s T-shirt out of it. She could feel his gaze locked on her; hers remained on Robby.

“Why don’t you go on downstairs and I’ll let you know when it’s safe to turn off the water?” Giraldi said to Robby in the same “let’s not get anyone killed” tone. “Go on,” he said when the young man didn’t move. “I’ll give you the all-clear when it’s safe.”

Robby hotfooted it downstairs. Nikki and Giraldi stood face-to-face. Or in their case, face to chest. She tried not to think about how she looked or what she might smell like.

“Is he even a real plumber?” she demanded. “Or have you had some FBI trainee screwing around with our pipes? Because I think that would make what I’m thinking about justifiable homicide.”

“Robby’s the real deal,” Giraldi said in that same calm, infuriating voice. “I’m just ‘assisting’ him today. If you behave yourself you may have a second bathroom up and running soon.”

“You’ve just been playing with us, haven’t you? It’s some sort of bizarre bathroom deprivation technique. I bet all the guys in the trench coats and dark sunglasses got a big chuckle out of that!”

He smiled. “Maybe a few grins, but the plumbing issues are real. Definitely not our doing.”

She took a deep breath trying to calm herself, but there was no real calm to be found.

“I just wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t want it to look suspicious in case your brother’s watching,” Giraldi continued.

“Malcolm?” she asked. “You think Malcolm’s close enough to see us?” She laughed somewhat hysterically even as she wondered if that could be true.

“It’s unlikely,” he conceded, “but possible.”

“And how many different work people do you think you can pretend to be before someone else notices? You’ve been a cable guy, a fisherman-turned-mover, and now a plumber. How many jobs you don’t know how to perform can you possibly use as cover?”

“Oh, I know how to do all those things,” he said. “They just don’t happen to be what I do for a living.”

She leaned in to him, not because she was drawn to, but because she wanted to crowd him in the way his mere existence crowded her. She looked him right in the eyes, the dark intelligent ones, and wished he were older or far younger. Or uglier. He was way too good-looking for someone so dangerous. Agent Joe Giraldi was like her very own personal Venus flytrap.

“We know you’ve been trying to reach him,” he said, stepping neither back nor forward.

“Then you also know he hasn’t responded. And probably never will.”

His look sharpened, and she wondered again if he knew about the message Malcolm had sent. Not that it had proven particularly helpful or clarified anything.

“Look, there are a lot of people at the agency who think you’re in this with him.”

“Does that include you?”

He looked like he didn’t want to answer.

“Does it?”

She could see him considering his answer. Finally he said, “You’re still a ‘subject of interest,’ but I think you’ve been duped like everybody else. I think he’s an ungrateful bastard given everything you did for him. But our forensic accountant and financial analyst are tracking the money, and there’s an arrest warrant at NCIC and Interpol. It’s just a matter of time before we catch up with him. I’d like to see you end up on the right side of this mess.”

“Is that a warning?” she asked even as she realized she was standing far too close. She was relieved when he dropped back a step and leaned against the wall.

He shrugged. “He’s been spotted in Florida. He hasn’t landed anywhere for long, but we have reports of him in the Keys and in the Florida panhandle. Does either of those areas mean anything to you or your brother?”

It took everything Nikki had not to react, but she couldn’t help thinking of that long ago Thanksgiving.

“If you know something, you need to share it,” Giraldi said. “You can’t possibly think he deserves to go free after ruining so many people. That money doesn’t belong to him. And the longer it takes us to catch him, the less of it there will be left.”

She studied him for a long moment, trying to see past the good looks and the focused determination. Special Agent Joe Giraldi was a force to be reckoned with. As was the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was highly unlikely she could reach Malcolm without Giraldi and his people knowing it; it seemed even less likely she could find him without their help.

Once her brother had been everything to her. Even now, as angry and disappointed in him as she was, he was the only family she had. She didn’t want to set Malcolm up for capture; she wanted to get to him first so that she could convince him to turn himself in and return the money. It was far too late to prevent all the harm he’d done, the lives he’d ruined, but she desperately wanted him to do at least some semblance of the “right thing.” Giraldi might never knowingly give her that chance, but he might well locate Malcolm before she could.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said as she looked into the agent’s clear dark eyes. “Let’s stop all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. You say you’re handy? We can use some more hands on this job. That way you can watch for Malcolm.” And she could watch him. “I for one don’t expect him to show his face here, but I guess you never know.”

“You want me to work on your house,” he said, straightening. “With you.”

“Sure, why not?” she asked. “You’re here half the time anyway. As a taxpayer, I’m probably already paying your salary. And while we’re working together I’ll decide whether I can trust you or not.”

“And then?” he asked with a look in his eyes that made her think maybe that flytrap was about to slam shut. “Then you’ll help us catch your brother?”

“If you find him, I’ll talk to him,” she said, careful not to give away too much.

“Okay,” he said easily, and she knew she wasn’t the only one holding back. “You’re on.” He glanced down at his watch. “But you better hurry. You’re down to about fifteen minutes.”

She gave him a wink. “Make it the original thirty minutes, and I’ll give you a few days off before you have to start.”

His soft laughter followed her, floating in the hallway until the bathroom door clicked shut behind her.

 

 

The YouTube post was cut to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. At each boom of the cannon the shot changed.

The morning bathroom line was punctuated by the door being yanked open and slamming shut. The sunset toasts were broken down into a sequence of shots: caviar and Cheez Doodles. Toasts and hoots of laughter. The sun rising and setting in a frenzy of animation that illustrated the passing days as well as how much progress had been made and how very much was left to be done.

The work shots were compelling: Nicole leaning over to swipe chemicals across the door stretched out in front of her. Avery sanding beside her, her face determined, her muscles defined. Both of them shot from every conceivable angle. Not a smiling point or gesture to be found.

There were shots of the trucks and the workmen and Chase from all sides; he apparently didn’t have a bad one. The standoff in the pool house was there, apparently shot through the open door. The sweet-faced Robby at work was intercut with the bathroom line each morning. The swarm of the white-haired garden ladies was there, too. Throughout the three minutes of video were close-ups of Maddie’s hands, mother’s hands, polishing and wiping, cooking and cleaning, writing lists and clipping coupons.

Kyra, who was only seen in the occasional reflection of a shiny surface, had caught it all: the sweat and the tears, the toasts and high fives, the agonies and the ecstasies, the growing friendship and the bonds that had formed. She’d managed to demonstrate the magnitude of the task and each struggle and mistake, even more clearly than she had with her sneering commentaries.