“About what?”
“Some woman who won the lottery.”
“And for that he got blown up?”
“The police are skeptical. And as I said, that’s part of our problem. It’s far from certain Tom was killed in the line of duty. It could have been a robbery, it could have been … something more personal.”
Mary Andrea gave him a sour look. “Don’t tell me he was doing somebody’s wife.”
“Just a rumor, Mrs. Krome. But I’m afraid it was enough to spook Ted Koppel.”
“Shit,” Mary Andrea said. She would’ve gargled battery acid to get on Nightline.
The managing editor went on: “We gave it our best shot, but they wanted it to be a mob hit or some cocaine kingpin’s revenge for a front-page exposé. They were disappointed to find out Tom was just a feature writer. And after the adultery rumor, well, they quit returning our calls.”
Mary Andrea slumped against the door. It was like skidding into a bad dream. That the media had already lost interest in Tom Krome’s murder meant vastly reduced exposure for his bereft wife—and a wasted plane fare, Mary Andrea thought bitterly. Worse, she’d put herself in position to be humiliated if the fatal “mystery blaze” was traced to a jealous husband instead of a vengeful drug lord.
Damn you, Tom, she thought. This is my career on the line.
“How’s the hotel?” she asked glumly.
“We got you a nonsmoking room, like you requested.” Now the managing editor was chewing on a toothpick.
“And there’s a gym with a StairMaster?”
He said: “No gym. No StairMaster. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
“It’s a HoJo’s, Mrs. Krome. We put up everybody at the HoJo’s.”
After a ten-minute sulk, Mary Andrea announced she’d changed her mind; she wished to return to the airport immediately. She said she was too grief-stricken to appear at the newspaper to accept the writing award Tom had won.
“What’s it called again—the ‘Emilio’?”
“Amelia,” said the managing editor, “and it’s quite a big deal. Tom’s the first journalist to win it posthumously. It would mean a lot if you could be there in his place.”
Mary Andrea sniffed. “Mean a lot to who?”
“Me. The staff. His colleagues.” The managing editor rolled the toothpick with his tongue. “And possibly your future.”
“Come on, you just told me—”
“We’ve got a press conference scheduled.”
Mary Andrea Finley Krome drilled him with a stare. “A real press conference?”
“The TV folks will be there, if that’s what you mean.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Because it’s a safe story.”
“Safe?”
“Fluff. Human interest,” the managing editor explained. “They don’t want to get into the murky details of the murder, but they’re thrilled to do twenty seconds on a pretty young widow receiving a plaque for her slain husband.”
“I see.”
“And I’d be less than frank,” the managing editor added, “if I didn’t admit my paper could use the publicity, too. This is a big award, and we don’t win all that many.”
“When you say TV, are we talking network?”
“Affiliates, sure. CBS, ABC, and Fox.”
“Oh. Fox, too?” Mary Andrea, thinking: I’ll definitely need a new dress, something shorter.
“Will you do it?” the managing editor asked.
“I suppose I could pull myself together,” she said.
Thinking: Twenty seconds of airtime, my ass.
Katie Battenkill made a list of things for which she had forgiven Arthur, or overlooked, because he was a judge and being married to a judge was important. The inventory included his annoying table manners, his curtness to her friends and relatives, his disrespect for her religion, his violent jealousy, his cheap and repeated adulteries, his habit of premature ejaculation and of course his rancid choice of cologne.
These Katie weighed against the benefits of being Mrs. Arthur Battenkill Jr., which included a fine late-model car, a large house, invitations to all society events, an annual trip to Bermuda with the local bar association, and the occasional extravagant gift, such as the diamond pendant Katie was now admiring in the vanity mirror.
She hadn’t thought of herself as a shallow or materialistic woman, but the possibility dawned upon her. Art was quite the unrepentant sinner, yet for eight years Katie had put up with it. She’d spent little time trying to change him, but allowed herself to be intimidated by his caustic tongue and mollified by presents. Ignoring what he did became easier than arguing about it. Katie told herself it wasn’t a completely loveless marriage, inasmuch as she honestly loved being the wife of a circuit court judge; it was Arthur himself for whom she had no deep feelings.
Many Sundays she’d gone to church and asked God what to do, and at no time had He specifically counseled her to start an illicit affair with an itinerant newspaperman. But that’s what had happened. It had caught Katie Battenkill totally by surprise and left her powerless to resist—like one of her uncontrollable cravings for Godiva chocolate, only a hundred times stronger. The moment she’d laid eyes on Tom Krome, she knew what would happen….
She was in a walkathon for attention-deficit children when all of a sudden this good-looking guy came jogging down James Street in the opposite direction, weaving through the phalanx of T-shirted marchers. As he approached Katie, he slowed his pace just enough to smile and press a five-dollar bill in her palm. For the kids, he’d said, and kept running. And Katie, to her astonishment, immediately turned and ran after him.
Tom Krome was the first man she’d ever seduced, if that’s what you call a hummer in the front seat.
Now, looking back on those wild and guilt-ridden weeks, Katie understood the purpose. Everything happens for a reason—a divine force had brought Tommy jogging into her life. God was trying to tell her something: that there were good men out there, decent and caring men whom Katie could trust. And while He probably didn’t intend for her to have torrid reckless sex with the first she met, Katie hoped He would understand.
The important thing was that Tom Krome made her realize she could get by without Arthur, the lying snake. All she needed was some self-confidence, a reordering of priorities and the courage to be honest about the empty relationship with her husband. There hadn’t been enough time to fall in love with Tommy, but she certainly liked him better than she liked Arthur. The way Tom had apologized for forgetting to call that night from Grange—Katie couldn’t remember hearing Arthur say he was sorry for anything. Tom Krome wasn’t special or outstanding; he was just a kind, affectionate guy. That’s all it took. The fact that Katie Battenkill was so easily drawn astray portended a dim future for the marriage. She decided she had to get out.
Katie recalled a line from an Easter sermon: “To tolerate sin is to abet it, and to share in the sinning.” She thought of Arthur’s many sins, including Dana, Willow and others whose names she never knew. That was bad enough, the adultery, but now the judge had commissioned an arson and a man was dead.
Not an innocent man, to be sure; an evil little shit. Yet still precious in the eyes of a benevolent God.
That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?
In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.
The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with The Register folded under one arm.
“Art, we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.
She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, “Katherine, I’ve decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?”
S
lowly she turned. “What?”
“I’ve had enough. The job is killing me,” he said. “I’m up for reelection next year but I don’t have the stomach for another campaign. I’m burned out, Katie.”
All she could think to say was: “We can’t afford to retire, Art.”
“Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ.”
In that acid tone of voice that Katie had come to despise.
“Shocking as it may seem,” the judge went on, “I made a few modest investments without consulting you. One of them’s paid off very handsomely, to the tune of a quarter-million dollars.”
Katie gave no outward sign of being impressed, but it was a struggle to remain composed. “What kind of investment?”
“A unit trust. It’s a bit complicated to explain.”
“I bet.”
“Real estate, Katherine.”
She made the coffee and poured a cup for Arthur.
“You’re forty-three years old and ready to retire.”
“The American dream,” said the judge, smacking his lips.
“Why the islands? And which islands?” Katie, thinking: I can’t even get him to take me to the beach.
Arthur Battenkill said, “Roy Tigert has offered to loan us his bungalow in the Bahamas. At Marsh Harbour, just to see if we like it. If we don’t, we’ll try someplace else—the Caymans or St. Thomas.”
Katie was speechless. Bungalow in the Bahamas—it sounded like a vaudeville song.
Awkwardly her husband reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “I know things haven’t been perfect around here—we need to make a change, Katherine, to save what we’ve got. We’ll go away and start over, you and me, with nobody else to worry about.”
Meaning Tom Krome—or Art’s secretaries?
Katie asked, “When?”
“Right away.”
“Oh.”
“Remember how much you liked Nassau?”
“I’ve never been there, Arthur. That must’ve been Willow.”
The judge sucked desperately at his coffee.
Katie said, “This isn’t about saving our marriage, it’s about Tommy’s house burning down with a dead body inside. You’re scared shitless because it’s your fault.”
Arthur Battenkill Jr. stared blankly into his cup. “You’ve developed quite an imagination, Katherine.”
“You’re running away. Admit it, Arthur. You stole some getaway money, and now you want to leave the country. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No,” said the judge, “I think you’re practical.”
On the same Monday morning, the fourth of December, the real estate office of Clara Markham received an unexpected visitor: Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. He’d flown to Florida on a private Gulfstream jet, chartered for him by Richard “The Icepick” Tarbone. The mission of Bernard Squires was to place a large deposit on the Simmons Wood property, thereby locking it up for the union pension fund from which the Tarbone crime family regularly stole. After driving through Grange, Bernard Squires felt more confident than ever that the shopping mall planned for Simmons Wood could be devised to fail both plausibly and exorbitantly.
“We spoke on the phone,” he said to Clara Markham.
“Yes, of course,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got nothing new to report.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Clara Markham asked if Squires could come back later, as she had an important closing to attend.
Squires was courteous but insistent. “I doubt it’s as important as this,” he said, and positioned a black eelskin briefcase on her desk.
The real estate agent had never seen so much cash; neat, tight bundles of fifties and hundreds. Somewhere among the sweet-smelling stacks, Clara knew, was her commission; probably the largest she’d ever see.
“This is to show how serious we are about acquiring the property,” Squires explained, “and to expedite the negotiations. The people I represent are eager to get started immediately.”
Clara Markham was in a bind. She’d heard nothing over the weekend from JoLayne Lucks. Their friendship was close—and JoLayne was an absolute saint with Kenny, Clara’s beloved Persian—but the real estate agent couldn’t permit her personal feelings to jeopardize such a huge deal.
She waved a hand above the cash and said, “This is very impressive, Mr. Squires, but I must tell you I’m expecting a counteroffer.”
“Really?”
“There’s nothing in writing yet, but I’ve been assured it’s on the way.”
Squires seemed amused. “All right.” With a well-practiced motion he quietly closed the briefcase. “We’re prepared to match any reasonable counteroffer. In the meantime, I’d ask that you contact your clients and let them know how committed we are to this project.”
Clara Markham said, “Absolutely. First thing after lunch.”
“What’s wrong with right now?”
“I … I’m not sure I can reach them.”
“Let’s try,” said Bernard Squires.
Clara Markham saw that stalling was fruitless; the man wouldn’t return to Chicago without an answer. Bernard Squires settled crisply into a chair while she telephoned the attorney for the estate of Lighthorse Simmons. Five minutes later the attorney called back, having patched together a conference call with Lighthouse’s two profligate heirs—his son, Leander Simmons, and his daughter, Janine Simmons Robinson. Leander dabbled in fossil fuels and Thoroughbreds; Janine spent her money on exotic surgeries and renovating vacation houses.
Leaning close to the speakerphone, Clara Markham carefully summarized the union’s offer for Simmons Wood, the key detail being the figure of $3 million.
“In addition,” she concluded, “Mr. Squires had delivered to my office a substantial cash deposit.”
On the other end, Leander Simmons piped, “How much?” He whistled when the real estate agent told him.
An old pro at conference calls, Bernard Squires raised his voice just enough to be heard: “We wanted everyone to know how serious we are.”
“Well, you got my attention,” said Janine Simmons Robinson.
“Me, too,” her brother said.
On behalf of JoLayne Lucks and the doomed wildlife of Simmons Wood, Clara Markham felt compelled to say: “Mr. Squires and his group want to build a shopping mall on your father’s land.”
“With a playground in the atrium,” Squires added coolly.
“And a Mediterranean fountain in front,” the attorney chimed, “with real ducks and geese. It’ll be a terrific attraction for your little town.”
From the speakerphone came the instant reaction of Leander Simmons: “Personally, I don’t give a shit if you guys want to dig a coal mine. How about you, Sis?”
Said Janine: “Hey, three million bucks is three million bucks.”
“Exactly. So what the hell are we waiting for?” Leander demanded. “Just do it.”
Bernard Squires said, “We’re ready to go. However, Ms. Markham informs me there may be another offer.”
“From who?” asked Janine Simmons Robinson.
“How much?” asked her brother.
Clara Markham said, “It’s a local investor. I intended to call you as soon as I received the papers, but they haven’t arrived.”
“Then screw it,” said the attorney. “Let’s go with Squires.”
“Whatever you wish.”
“Now just hold on a second.” It was Leander Simmons. “What’s the big rush?”
He smelled more money. Bernard Squires’ expression blackened at the prospect of a bidding duel. Clara Markham noticed some fresh veins pulsing in his neck.
As it happened, Janine Simmons Robinson was on the same opportunistic wavelength as her brother. “What’s the harm in waiting a couple three days?” she said. “See what these other folks have in mind.”
“It’s your call,” said their attorney. Then: “M
s. Markham, will you get back to us as soon as you hear something—say, no later than Wednesday?”
“How about tomorrow,” said Bernard Squires.
“Wednesday,” said Leander Simmons and his sister in unison.
There was a series of clicks, then the speaker box went silent. Clara Markham looked apologetically first at Bernard Squires, then at the eelskin briefcase on her desk. “I’ll deposit this in our escrow account,” she said, “right away.”
Gravely Squires rose from the chair.
“You don’t strike me as a deceitful person,” he said, “the sort who’d try to jack up her commission by cooking up phony counteroffers.”
“I’m not a sneak,” said Clara Markham, “nor am I an imbecile. Simmons Wood will be my biggest deal of the year, Mr. Squires. I wouldn’t risk blowing the whole enchilada for a few extra bucks.”
He believed her. He’d seen the town; it was a miracle she hadn’t starved to death.
“A local investor, you said.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell me the name.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Mister Squires.”
“But you’re confident they’ve got some resources.”
“They do,” said Clara Markham, thinking: Last I heard.
Shiner’s mother overslept. The road machines woke her.
Hurriedly she squeezed into the bridal gown, snatched her parasol and sailed out the door. By the time she reached the intersection of Sebring Street and the highway, it was too late. The Department of Transportation was ready to pave the Road-Stain Jesus.
Shiner’s mother shrieked and hopped about like a costumed circus monkey. She spat in the face of the crew foreman and used her parasol to stab ineffectively at the driver of the steamroller. Ultimately she flung herself facedown upon the holy splotch and refused to budge for the machines.
“Pave me, too, you godless bastards!” she cried. “Let me be one with my Savior!”
The crew foreman wiped off his cheek and signaled for his men to halt work. He telephoned the sheriff’s office and said: “There’s a crazy witch in a wedding dress out here humping the road. What do I do?”
Two deputies arrived, followed later by a television truck.