Over her shoulder, Ana glared at Maria. "I believe 'borrowed' is the preferred term." She cleared her throat. "Look at that. I'm feeling much better. You can put me down now." He smiled at us, a wicked, lazy smile. Uh-oh.
"I don't think so." He nodded to us. "You two can come with us."
Maria stood firm. "I have an appointment with Claire Battiste. I'm Nate Biederman's fiancée, Maria Ceceri."
"Why didn't you say so?" S. Larue said. He motioned to a corner of the room where a set of double glass doors blended into the decor. "Sign in there." He pivoted and walked away, Ana hanging over his shoulder.
I could hear her protesting her innocence as he disappeared into the maze of slots.
Funny, she didn't look too distressed. Now that I thought about it, S. Larue had been kind of cute. "Come on." Maria tugged on my arm.
So much for cousinly concern. "Where do you think he's taking her?"
Maria shrugged. "She knows where the car is."
We checked in with the receptionist behind the double doors, who buzzed us through another set of doors. We followed a long hallway before coming to the executive offices. At the end of a long hallway was a large reception area ringed with offices. Smack-dab in the middle sat an empty desk.
A phone rang in an inner office. And kept ringing. "Hello?" Maria called out.
After a second a woman came hurrying out. She was around fifty or so, with a wobbly bun. "Maria! I'm so glad you're here."
Maria rushed introductions. The older woman turned out to be Nate's secretary, Missy.
"It's been chaos," Missy said. "With Nate's sudden disappearance, and then Claire's . . ."
I blinked. "What? Claire's disappeared?" I asked. "I thought she came back yesterday."
Missy looked like she needed a Valium. She threw her hands in the air. "She's here, she's gone. No one knows anything. No one's seen either of them. The junior executives are trying to cover and not doing a very good job of it."
"So Claire's not here?" Maria asked.
Missy huffed. "No. She came in yesterday afternoon, resigned, said she'd be back this morning for her things. She never showed. She's not answering any of her phones and the doorman at her apartment building hasn't seen her since yesterday morning." Very strange. Very, very strange.
Missy pointed us in the direction of Nate's office. "Feel free to look around," she said, and excused herself, leaving us alone.
Dragging Maria along, I found Nate's door and opened it slowly. As soon as we entered, Maria turned her pout on full wattage. "He's sleeping with Claire," she said.
"We don't know that."
She glared. "Oh, it's so coincidental that they both up and disappear the same day."
Now would probably be a good time to mention Nate's phone call. But I really didn't want to worry Maria. I struggled with something to say. "Nate is not cheating on you. He loves you." Maria sniffed.
"He does. I don't know what's going on, but I'm sure Nate has a good explanation for whatever it is he's doing." She crossed her arms over her chest. By the look on her face, I could tell she wasn't buying my cheerleading. "Well, help me look around," I said.
"For what?"
"Anything. A date book. A calendar."
I rifled through his desk. An eight-by-ten picture of him and Maria sat on top. Nate, with his sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and charming smile gazed adoringly at Maria. Nope, no way he was cheating.
What, exactly, he was doing, I hadn't a clue.
In his top drawer I found a small leather-bound calendar. Most of the dates were filled in with everyday duties that had to do with his job. I flipped back to the day he disappeared. One of the tasks listed was Double-check PCF guest list.
Guest list? The one Verona and Colin Frye had been looking for? For the gala?
"What does P-C-F stand for again?" I asked. Maria pouted. "Phony Claire Friends?" I gave her my version of the evil eye.
"All right. It's Phineus Cancer Foundation."
"How did Nate become involved with the gala? Did you recommend him?"
"I don't have any say in that sort of thing. Brian Thatcher brought him into the mix on Claire's recommendation. Nate had been in accounting until Claire handpicked him as her right hand man here in public relations earlier this year."
"Brian Thatcher? How do I know that name?"
Maria shrugged. My mother would have pitched a fit. Grace Kelly did not shrug. "Maybe you heard it on the news. He died. Got carjacked about two months ago, was shot to death. He was my supervisor at Phineus Frye and was the go-to man for the gala."
Brian Thatcher. Suddenly, I remembered. I hadn't heard his name from the news . . . I'd heard it from Verona Frye. Yesterday. She'd taken over his job planning the gala for Phineus Frye. I'd forgotten.
"Carjacked? Really?" Maria leveled an icy glare at me.
"No, I'm making it up." Those kinds of things just didn't happen in Cincinnati. Scary. "Who's in charge of the gala now?"
"On this end, Claire and Nate. On our end, Roz asked Verona to take over the planning after Brian died." Roz Phineus didn't strike me as the business type. It was hard to imagine her, with her foot-long fingernails, as a CEO of anything. And I said so.
Maria shrugged again. "She set herself up at Phineus Frye after her husband died. She does a good job, as far as I can tell. She founded PCF—in memory of her husband Alfred. He died of cancer a couple years ago. PCF sponsors children with cancer. They pay their bills, send them to camp, etcetera."
Nate had told me to be careful.
Of what?
Of who?
After searching through the trash can and flipping through a few files, and finding nothing of any interest, I said, "I think we can leave."
Missy ran up to us on our way out, held out a small card. "We'd appreciate a call if Nate turns up." She led us to the door.
Something was bugging me. "Missy, did you send any packages out for Nate yesterday?" I was hoping she could shed some light, any light, on that package.
She bit her bottom lip. "No. Just some regular mail. Why?"
"Just wondering. Thanks."
Downstairs in the main gaming room, Maria and I searched for Mrs. Krauss. I found her standing by a game called the Big Bang. People were standing in line, waiting their turn for a five-dollar pull on a giant slot machine that stood floor to ceiling. If you were lucky enough, three cars would match up and a brand new red BMW Z3 convertible would be yours, free and clear.
Fighting the pull to play myself, I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. "Time to go."
"Ach!" She pouted just like Maria.
We found Ana in the Odyssey's bar. "How's the asthma?" I asked.
"Cured. It's amazing what a little fresh air and—" She held up a martini glass. "—a little gin will do." She looked over my shoulder at Maria. Who was, surprise surprise, pouting.
"Didn't go too well?"
I shook my head.
As we searched for Maria's Mercedes in the parking lot, I looked back at the boat. Amazingly, my first time onboard had been a lot like the time I lost my virginity. Disappointing.
Ten
All was fairly quiet on the way home from the Kalypso. I'd taken over driving duties from Maria, who sat next to me staring out the window sullenly.
Mrs. Krauss and Ana were in the backseat discussing the pros and cons of dating.
They were having trouble finding any pros.
I heard a cluck just before Brickhouse said, "And the way they fuss over every hair like it's their last?"
Ana laughed. "I once caught a guy I was dating trying on one of my wigs."
My mouth dropped open. I caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "You have wigs? Plural?"
"I'm surprised you know plural, Miss Nina Ceceri, for all the talking you did in class," Mrs. Krauss cut in. I wondered if there was a way to crash the car so that only her seat was affected.
"I have some," Ana murmured, a grin turning up the corners of her lips.
/> "Do I dare ask why?"
She waggled her eyebrows. "Halloween?" Mrs. Krauss said, "Ha!"
Maria lifted her head. Her gaze lingered on each of us before she looked at me and said, "You should borrow one. Anything's better than what you've got."
This led us into a conversation on hair coloring that lasted until after I dropped Mrs. Krauss off at her lando. She'd promised to rethink her decision about Mr. Cabrera, at least.
Ana begged off on hanging around for dinner, saying she needed to get the house clean. Her mother, my aunt Rosetta, was flying in early the next morning.
I groaned thinking about my aunt Carlotta and uncle Giuseppe. I really needed to call my mother about them. I didn't have time for houseguests.
Not to mention that I didn't have anywhere to put houseguests. My house was a modest two-story bungalow, with two bedrooms and two baths. Sure, the couch folded out, but it tended to sag in the middle. Uncle Giuseppe was a big man. I didn't want to see Aunt Carlotta smothered when they both rolled into the dip.
I supposed we ought to fill my mother in on Nate's, er, misplacement too.
Or maybe not. If Celeste Chambeau Ceceri heard there might not be a wedding . . . I shuddered.
After dropping Ana off at her condo, I drove Maria home.
"What do you think has happened to him?" Maria blinked her big blue eyes at me. "Honestly."
Honestly, I had no idea. It would be easy to speculate that he'd run off with Claire Battiste, but then there was that envelope and that phone call and that funny feeling in my chest that told me something wasn't quite right.
I pulled into Maria's long driveway—she had decided to stay at the new house permanently. "I don't know." Maria pouted. Her mood was getting seriously depressing. And annoying.
"Let's go in," I said. "Maybe he's called."
The rain had let up, but left its damage. I cringed at the puddles in Maria's yard and the acre of muck. It would take days for things to dry out. Days I didn't have. Unless the wedding was off.
Inwardly, I groaned. I hadn't thought of the repercussions of a canceled wedding. Nate's dad was footing the TBS bill. What would happen if there was no wedding? Would he back out? What would I do with all the materials? All the off-site work that had already been done?
My contractors would have to be paid in full for the work they'd completed, wedding or not. Trees, shrubs, and plants had already been bought and paid for and were sitting in TBS's fenced-in backyard just waiting to be planted. Ugh.
Suddenly feeling sick, I followed Maria inside. She hurried to the phone and frowned after checking her messages. "Nothing," she said, kicking off her heels and sinking into a sleek curved chair. It baffled me how she didn't slide right off.
She sighed heavily. I didn't know what to say, so I left her there and wandered over to the bank of tinted windows overlooking the backyard.
How much did Maria have in the bank? Probably not enough to swallow the cost of the yard. The completed job would be in low six figures. My parents lived on a fixed income—my father's retirement money from forty years of teaching at the University of Cincinnati. They'd planned well and had extra, but not that much extra.
If worse came to worse, TBS could swallow the debts, but worse would put a serious dent into my bottom line. I didn't want to think about it; I wanted to focus on Nate. But as owner of TBS, I had to think about it. I had responsibilities. I had a giant load of topsoil being delivered on Saturday. I needed to know whether or not to cancel it. Maybe Nate would show up with some ludicrous story of temporary amnesia and everything would be all right. There was that delusion thing again.
The envelope he'd sent me was once again tucked safely in my backpack. Had it been a coincidence that Stella Zamora had tried to steal it? As much as I wanted to believe that, I just didn't. To do so would break a cardinal commandment about coincidences. Maria sighed again, heavier this time.
My mind whirled, skipping to and from ridiculous theories. The packet had been snapped and zippered into my backpack, and true enough, it would have been the easiest thing for a thief to grab.
Of course, I thought, staring out at the rivers of mud in the backyard, Stella had completely bypassed my wallet, which only fed my suspicions.
Why would a pickpocket choose a manila envelope over a wallet . . . ? Unless it had been the envelope she was after? If that were true, how had Stella Zamora known I had the envelope? Had Nate told her? He was the only one who knew. Maria sighed again.
I gritted my teeth. She had every right to sigh, I suppose. Once. But she tended to wallow for attention's sake. "What am I supposed to with all the wedding gifts? The caterer? The florist?" She gasped. "Mom!"
Ugh! Enough! I couldn't take any more today.
"What's that?" I said, pointing outside, squinting, and acting up a storm. My mother always said I had a face for the movies. She just never specified what kind of face . . . or what kind of movies.
"What?" she said, getting up in one smooth glide.
"That," I said. I gestured toward the horizon. Inwardly, I smiled in glee.
"I don't see anything. Really, Nina." Again the pout. "I was comfy."
If I'd had any reservations about what I was going to do, they scurried off in a flash. I pulled open the back door. Grabbing her arm, I shoved her out. "Shoes!" she shrieked.
Before she could turn around, I nudged her farther out, down the step, off the patio. "Mud's good for the skin, right?" "Eee!" She jumped around, mud squishing between her toes. She threw a dangerous glare my way, her eyebrows dipping low. "Neeee-naaah!" I laughed. "Argh!" Maria yelled.
I looked up just in time to see the fistful of mud heading my way, but not in enough time to avoid it. It landed on my right thigh and oozed down my leg. "Serves you right," she said smugly.
"Oh yeah?" Bending down, I scooped a handful of Ohio's finest sloppy, goopy gray-brown clay and heaved. Maria's mouth dropped open as she took in the Pollocklike affect on her suit. "This is Chanel! Chanel!" She kicked, sending mud flying in my direction.
I ducked, but it splattered my face, my hair. I wiped a hunk from my eye. Out of which I saw Maria smile in self-satisfaction.
That's it! This was war!
Two-handed, I scooped and hurled. Maria pivoted and mud splattered her backside.
She looked over her shoulder with a wicked gleam in her eye. Mud landed square on her mouth. I yelled, "Now you won't have to get a facial this week!"
She sputtered, bent, and scooped. "Neither . . . will . . . you!" She laughed, a hysterical-sounding chuckle. I turned but not quick enough. Thick mud hit like a slap on my cheek.
We both dropped to our knees and started tossing mud pies.
"That's . . . that's for being so—so pouty!" I shouted. "Pouty!? I am not pouty!"
I sighed dramatically, mocking her. Mud flew, hitting my ear and the top of my head. "Poor me," I mimicked. "The gifts. The flowers!"
"Ooooh!"
"You're not the only one with problems, you know! The world doesn't revolve around you!" I tossed, and mud oozed down her cleavage. "Other people have problems too!"
"Like you?" Sarcasm dripped from her words. "Yes! Like me!"
"Aww." Mud hit me on my chest. Unfortunately there was no cleavage for it to slide into. "Riley? He's sneaking out again."
"Boo-hoo!"
I shoveled and tossed. Mud darkened Maria's hair. "And there's a panty thief in the neighborhood."
"You poor thing. Has he not hit your house yet? Is that why you're in an uproar?"
I sent her my best evil sister smile and rose to my feet. Maria scrambled up. I chased her, my fists full of mud. "My fiancé is missing!" she called back to me over her shoulder.
"Uh, hello? I found Ginger Barlow's lipstick on Kevin's boxers!"
"Yeah, but why would Nate cheat on me?!"
She must have been reading my homicidal thoughts, because she scampered away, mud splashing back at me as she ran.
She was fast, I'd give her that. As
I chased her, I wondered at this weird competitiveness. This my-life-is-worse-than-yours thing we had going on. It was utterly stupid, yet . . .
I wanted to win.
I had to win.
Maria stopped short to avoid falling into the freshly dug pond, arms flailing. She lost her balance as she rocked, going down on her rear. Quickly, she scrambled away from the edge. I dove for her ankles before she could escape.
"I have dozens of relatives flying in!" she cried out. She kicked her foot out of my grasp, slithered sideways. "Yeah—all who seem to be staying with me!"
I grabbed her other foot, and she rolled onto her belly and tried to crawl away.
On hands and knees, I went after her. Abruptly she stopped, turned toward me, slightly pale.