Full Tilt

  "What about the burger and onion rings?"

  "I'm not very hungry right now."

  "Well, then, maybe another time." Max closed the door and joined her on the other side. He started the car, and the bars closed over them once more.

  "I hate this thing," she muttered.

  Max drove in silence, as though he suspected she needed time to gather her wits, but he glanced her way now and then in concern. "Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

  "Uh-huh." Jamie figured it was best to keep her mouth shut.

  "Ask her if she has considered therapy," Muffin said.

  "I don't need therapy," Jamie replied, then realized she was talking to a computer. Maybe she did need a little counseling after all. She laced her fingers together in her lap, trying to appear as normal as she could after having convinced them she wasn't. Okay, she was obviously more stressed than she'd thought. "You know, I wouldn't have freaked out if your computer had made herself known a little earlier. I thought you were nutso."

  Muffin spoke. "I didn't approve of Max inviting an engaged woman to take a ride with him. It's not proper. Instead of saying anything I decided to keep quiet."

  "Sounds like you've been reading Miss Manners again, Muf," Max said.

  Jamie looked at him. "Um, Max, could we just forget this ride and conversation ever took place?"

  "Aw, Jamie, don't be embarrassed. It happens to the best of us."

  "I'll bet you've never had a panic attack."

  "Are you kidding?" Muffin said. "The man thrives on stress."

  Max patted Jamie's hand. "Don't worry, I won't say anything."

  Max pulled into the parking lot of the country club some minutes later and parked close to the front door. The bars lifted. "Thank you for an, um, interesting evening," he said. "I hope to have the pleasure again real soon."

  Jamie couldn't get away quickly enough. Without another word, she climbed from the car and raced toward the building, almost running into Phillip inside as he was coming out of the men's room. Safe, predictable Phillip. He hadn't stood her up after all.

  "Jamie, I'm so sorry I'm late. Both of my tuxes were at the cleaners. I completely forgot. I had to call the owner and ask him to reopen so I could get them. I tried to call."

  She buried her face against his chest, no longer annoyed with him for being late. She smoothed his reddish-blond hair into place. The man had obviously rushed to get there.

  "Honey, are you okay?"

  "I am now."

  * * * * *

  "... And one more thing," Frankie said, standing at the podium before a crowd that took up four dining rooms. "I promise not only to lower the sales tax, I'm going to make significant cuts to what I see as outrageous property taxes."

  The group applauded heartily.

  "The people in this town pay far too much in taxes. And for what?" He paused. "What happened to the new sewage treatment facility we were promised?

  "Our government offices are overcrowded. We probably have more committees and task forces than New York City. We've even got a committee that oversees the rest of the committees. Why?" Several in the crowd chuckled. "I, for one, am sick of all the bureaucracy. Hell's bells, I had to go through ten different departments to get my name on the ballot." More laughter.

  Max, having arrived just as they were serving dinner, glanced at Deedee. She met his gaze and frowned. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

  "I saw you on the balcony with Jamie Swift earlier. Shortly before the two of you disappeared. What's with that?"

  Max shrugged. "She and I both share an interest in cars. Did you know she and her father rebuilt the Mustang she's driving?"

  Deedee nodded. "That's how we met. Frankie tried to buy it from her a couple of years back. She wouldn't part with it, but we've been friends ever since." Deedee paused. "You didn't mention the fact I asked you to help her out?"

  "Of course not. But she's a smart woman. She'll figure it out sooner or later."

  Deedee looked thoughtful. "So, what do you think of her?"

  "I think she's a fine person."

  "You know she's engaged."

  Max looked across the room, not for the first time, and noticed the man sitting next to Jamie. "He's a lucky man."

  Frankie continued his speech. "I promise, if I'm elected, I'll start a full investigation into our missing tax dollars. I'm going to find out once and for all what happened to that money."

  Max leaned close to Deedee. "Smile, big sister. You should be very proud of your husband for wanting to make this town a better place."

  "Frankie's made a lot of promises to these people. I just hope he lives long enough to keep them."

  * * * * *

  An hour later, a man stepped inside a telephone booth, dropped two quarters into the slot and dialed. He waited for the person on the other end to answer. "Fontana just won the hearts of everybody in this town with his speech tonight. He's planning an investigation into the missing tax dollars."

  There was a slight pause. "That's bad news."

  "I don't know how seriously we can take him. He's an ex-wrestler, for God's sake. He's not smart enough."

  "Oh, he's smarter than you think. He also has his brother-in-law by his side now. Max Holt has the brains and the wherewithal to get anything he needs."

  "So what's the plan?"

  "We get rid of them. And I know just the person who will do it."

  Chapter Three

  Jamie parked her mustang in her personal slot near the front of the building and sat there for a moment, collecting her thoughts. She felt crummy for sending Phillip home last night, but she had been in no mood for lovemaking. After he'd left, she'd lain awake most of the night thinking about how she'd made such a fool of herself in front of Max whatever-his-last-name-was and worrying about what today would bring.

  She ran her hand along the dashboard and was surprised to find it dusty. Normally, she kept her car spotless. She lovingly washed it once a week and hand-waxed it when necessary, taking comfort in the task because of the comfortable feelings it evoked, as well as the memories. It frightened her sometimes to think how close she'd come to selling it. Her father had given it to her as a college graduation gift, and she tended to it as one would a well-loved family member. She often wished she had a brother or sister, but she had no one, no aunts and uncles, no cousins. She had lost her grandmother years before, a soft-spoken, white-haired woman with crystal-blue eyes and a kindly face who had once offered to take Jamie in because she feared her son was incapable of handling the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  Jamie had balked at the idea. She and her father could handle anything as long as they were together. She would simply have to try harder to be a better daughter, she'd told herself. She would cook his favorite foods and keep the house just as her mother had left it. She would keep the woman's framed pictures dusted and sitting just so on her father's night table. And she would pretend, just as he had, that her mother would come back and everything would be fine. A normal family.

  Sometimes, Jamie imagined she smelled her father's Aqua Velva aftershave in the upholstery, and then she would get tears in her eyes because she felt so very much alone now that he was gone. Then she would think of Phillip, and the knot in her stomach would melt like soft candy. Phillip, who loved her deeply and wanted to share his life with her. They'd met at a fund-raising dance where the men had to pay to dance with the woman of their choice. Phillip had paid five hundred dollars to dance with Jamie.

  He offered the stability she'd craved as a child.

  His family loved her, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins. And Phillip's mother, Annabelle, who treated her like the daughter she'd always wanted and planned to give them a wedding to end all weddings.

  Jamie knew she was blessed. Finally, she would have the family she had always longed for. She imagined holidays with fat turkeys and brown-sugar-coated hams and relatives rushing in and out bearing Christmas gifts and shopping with Phill
ip for nieces and nephews. The scenes in her head were like Norman Rockwell paintings. They represented everything that was sane and normal and real.

  Jamie and Annabelle had settled on an outdoor wedding in September, hoping the heat and humidity would be more tolerable. She and Phillip would say their vows beneath the massive moss-draped live oaks that had graced the family estate for more than two hundred years and were as deeply rooted in the history of Beaumont as the Standishes themselves.

  Jamie felt more optimistic as she climbed from the car. She was marrying the man of her dreams, and she faced a rock-solid future with him. Although she had never experienced the maternal instincts her friends had, she suspected it wouldn't be long before she and Phillip started a family. Annabelle loved her grandchildren more than anything in the world, and Jamie knew the woman would be eagerly awaiting her son's firstborn. As scary as it was sometimes to imagine actually walking down an aisle and becoming Mrs. Phillip Standish, Jamie knew she was making the right decision.

  She hitched her chin high as she started for the building. Even though the day held a lot of uncertainty, what with her silent partner paying a surprise visit, Jamie was determined not to let it stress her. She had sacrificed almost everything she owned to keep the newspaper going, and she was a darn good publisher. In her mind, that was enough. If she was a little short on furniture and desks, M. Holt would simply have to understand.

  Jamie rounded the building and headed toward the double glass doors. She found Vera standing outside, as if she were guarding the place. "Good morning, Vera."

  "You don't want to go in there."

  Jamie came to a halt, feeling a sense of dread wash over her. "Why not?"

  "It, uh, needs a little more work."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Tom and Herman are going to pay for this. I'm on my way to their places right now. I plan to shoot holes into their tires."

  "Are you out of your mind?"

  "Once you see the place you'll want to be the trigger person, but it's my gun and I insist on being the shooter. You can drive the getaway car."

  "You have lost your mind. Now, get a grip, we have work to do." Jamie tried to sidestep her, but the woman refused to budge. "Would you please move out of my way, Vera? Jeez, how bad can it be?"

  She found out as soon as she pushed through the doors. "Oh, double damn."

  "I told you it was bad. I'm not even going to charge you for cussing this time."

  Several employees stood around the water cooler whispering. They scurried away like squirrels when they spied Jamie. "Is this some kind of joke?" Jamie asked.

  "Danged if I know. I've been trying to reach Tom and Herman all morning, but they aren't answering their phones. They're probably having a good laugh over it right now."

  Jamie planted her hands on her hips in obvious annoyance. "Why would anyone in their right mind paint an entire office battleship gray? It looks like a dungeon in here."

  "I tried to warn you. Tom's crew recently painted the armory building. This was probably left over from that job."

  Jamie took in the furniture. Herman Bates had obviously thought it would be fun to decorate the reception area in what looked like cowhide. The sofa and matching chair were a furry tawn with white splotches that made Jamie think of a Guernsey dairy cow. Bullhorns hung from the wall. "I don't believe this." She looked at Vera. "I would be scared to sit on it in case it has fleas or mad cow disease."

  "I don't think it's real cowhide, hon." Vera patted her shoulder. "The good thing is the furniture doesn't have to be returned. Herman left a note that we can keep it. Which is a good thing for him considering where I'd planned to stick it after we finished with it."

  Mike Henderson came through the front doors and stopped dead in his tracks. "Wow! Cool furniture."

  Jamie and Vera glared at him.

  He shrugged. "Okay, so it's a little different, but that's not always a bad thing."

  Jamie turned and started for her office. "I wouldn't go in there," Vera warned.

  "It can't be as bad as this room." Jamie opened the door. Her heart sank to her toes. "Oh, God, it's Graceland."

  "I've never seen a desk made of shellacked tree trunks," Mike said. "Is that a velvet painting of Elvis?"

  Jamie crossed her arms and tapped one foot impatiently. "This is not a darn bit funny. I know Herman and Tom are a couple of pranksters, but this is way over the line. I have half a mind to—"

  "Shoot 'em?" Vera said hopefully.

  "I wouldn't waste the bullets." Jamie pressed her hand against her forehead where a headache was starting to form. "There's nothing we can do about it now. Mr. Holt will be here in a few hours, and we're on deadline." Jamie reached into her desk drawer for her pack of cigarettes and pulled out one.

  "You're not going to light that," Vera said.

  "I just want to hold it. And be alone for a while," she added. She turned and faced the window. "Mike, give me fifteen minutes to calm down, and then we'll get started."

  "Sure, Jamie." He paused. "By the way, you look very pretty and professional today. I wouldn't worry about the way this place looks. Mr. Holt will be so impressed with you he won't even notice the decor."

  Jamie didn't respond. She knew Mike was simply trying to make her feel better, but it didn't work. She heard the door close behind her, and she sank into her chair.

  * * * * *

  The morning dragged for Jamie who kept glancing at her watch. The knot in her stomach grew with each passing hour, but she tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on the job at hand. Mike worked beside her tirelessly. Although he had a tendency to get distracted by a pretty face, he was good at his job and buckled down like the best of them when the heat was on. Some people, including Jamie, worked better under pressure. She wondered if she should delegate more authority to Mike so he would feel challenged.

  Shortly before lunch, Vera announced Mike had a telephone call. He didn't look up from his work as he grabbed the phone. "Is she going to be okay?" he asked after listening quietly.

  Jamie looked up. Mike's face was pale, all the color gone. "What is it?" she said once he hung up.

  "My mom fainted in the grocery store. She's in the emergency room."

  "You have to go," Jamie said, knowing Mike was an only child. His parents were older and required a lot of attention.

  "What about the newspaper?"

  "It will be here when you get back."

  He stood and fumbled in his pocket for his car keys and started for the door.

  Jamie stood as well. "Are you okay to drive?"

  "Yeah."

  "Call me when you know something," she said. He hurried out, almost slamming into Vera.

  "Where does he think he's going?"

  Jamie explained the situation. "I'm going to be rushed for the rest of the afternoon. Please hold my calls."

  "Did you remember to return Phillip's call?"

  "No, but I will."

  "That's what you said an hour ago. He's going to think I didn't give you the message. He'll blame me. Word will get around that I'm not a good administrative assistant, and I won't be able to find a new job."

  "You're not going anywhere, Vera."

  "That's what you think. Just so happens I'm updating my resume. Not only is the pay bad, but there are no opportunities for advancement."

  "Do we have to discuss this now?" Jamie asked wearily.

  "Oh, yeah, this is a bad time. Just forget I said anything."

  Five minutes later Jamie's phone rang. It was Phillip. "I'm sorry I haven't called you back," she said quickly. "You know how it is around here during deadline, and I'm short a person."

  "I wouldn't have bothered you, but my mother has called my office three times and wants to know if we've settled on that platinum-leaf china pattern from Starlings, Ltd. She says it has to be soon because people will have to special order it once they receive the wedding invitations. Also, she's threatening to take you over her knee personally if you don't decide on y
our gown."

  Jamie groaned. "Oh, Phillip."

  "I know, I know. She's driving me up the wall, too. Don't think you're in this alone." He chuckled. "That's what we get for agreeing to let her plan this whole thing."

  "I need to get this newspaper out first," Jamie said, knowing Annabelle would keep her on the phone for hours if she called.

  Jamie's headache had worsened. Too much stress in her life, she thought. The newspaper consumed every waking moment. She was annoyed with Phillip the night before for being late, but how many times had she been forced to break a date at the last minute? And poor Annabelle. She had taken on all the responsibility of planning the wedding, talking to caterers, dressmakers, florists, and Jamie couldn't even decide on a china pattern. September had seemed so far away. Jamie hadn't realized the work and planning that went into a wedding, especially the kind of wedding Annabelle planned.

  Right now, though, Jamie had a newspaper to publish. She had struggled too hard to keep it going. Not only had she sold most of her office furniture, she'd sold her grandmother's jewelry and antiques and everything else she could think of in order to keep the bills paid. She couldn't afford to drop the ball now.

  Jamie glanced at the clock. Still no sign of Mr. Holt. She was beginning to feel desperate and panicky, just as she had the night before in Max's car. Max and his talking computer. She wondered where he was now, wondered if he was already on his way back to Virginia. She hoped that was the case. She never wanted to lay eyes on him again and remember how she literally flipped out.

  Dang, her palms were wet. Jamie swiped them across her skirt. What was wrong with her? She had always been the calm one, the one who took charge when the pressure was on. She wished she could cancel the appointment with Mr. Holt. Of all times to have to face her partner.

  * * * * *

  "Hey, dude, I think we passed it."

  Vito Puccini finished off a slice of cold pizza, wiped his mouth on his arm, and looked at the man in the passenger seat. "What the hell you mean we passed it? You said we were supposed to take exit eighty-eight. The last exit was eighty-three."