Excerpt
Walking on My Grave
1
Katherine Farley looked down at the bright and inviting brochure. Instead of the bamboo forest and charging black rhinoceros, she pictured Ves Roundtree, springy reddish curls framing a tight narrow face. Ves radiated energy, competence, intensity. Sharp lines at the corners of Ves's eyes and mouth revealed the gnawing mind-set of a worrier, a woman who had scrabbled for what she had and could always imagine disaster looming.
Katherine turned a page of the brochure.
"Doesn't it look great?" Bob's tenor voice was eager.
Katherine smiled at him. She could see herself and Bob in the mirror behind an old saloon bar they'd installed at the end of their long living room, which overlooked the marsh. It had cost a pretty penny to buy the bar and arrange for its shipping, but that was back when they had plenty of money. The bar was a restored relic from a shuttered saloon in an abandoned cattle drive town. Now the golden oak bar and brass footrail gleamed with polish, as bright as when long-ago adventurers, con men, prospectors, and cowboys drank mule-kick bourbon and eyed saloon girls. She appraised her reflection clinically-medium height, nice figure, sleek black hair drawn back in a chignon, aristocratic features that were a dime a dozen in period films, dark eyes that had once been merry. Her smile was easy, though that took every ounce of her steel will. She wanted to rush across the room, take his dear face in her hands, love him riotously, ferociously, as if champagne-drenched nights could still be theirs. Nothing would wound him more than to know her thoughts. She was careful to keep her tone light. "You, me, and a herd of gazelles. Add gin and tonic and I'm sold. The safari looks grand." Grand and expensive. Very expensive.
His gaunt face, still handsome despite deep furrows grooved by pain, lighted with an eager smile. For an instant the past overlay the present, and it was like seeing Bob when he was strong and able to walk easily, didn't have to hobble with legs encased in braces, a cane in his left hand. Unchanged was his tousled sandy hair, intelligent dark brown eyes, bony nose, squarish chin. He one-handedly propelled the wheelchair, which he used at home, and rolled up to her. "We get a big discount if I book next week. We'll save a bunch of money."
She listened as if enthralled, hearing the wanderlust, the hunger to go and do and be, the need for variety and new experience despite the maimed right arm that lay useless in his lap and the weakened legs. She listened and knew the cost of such a trip mounted into the thousands, thousands they didn't have, thousands he no longer earned because the hand with fingers locked into a claw had been his painting hand, the thousands she had never earned with her drawings that achieved acclaim but sold for modest sums in the galleries. She was the one good with figures. She took care of bills and investments. Now she scraped to get them from month to month. She'd missed the last mortgage payment. But to see him eager meant everything to her. There were so many dark quiet days when he withdrew, and the dullness in his eyes broke her heart. Ves Roundtree could make the safari possible. She would . . . and if she wouldn't . . .
Jane Wilson cupped her chin in her hand, listened as Tim excitedly described his plan for a shopping center on the mainland: Ò . . . right there on the highway. IÕve researched the property. A great place to stop between Charleston and Savannah. It canÕt miss. You and I together can make it happen.Ó
Jane felt the usual bubbling of desire deep inside when she looked at Tim. His strong-boned face enthralled her, thick brown hair above a high forehead, strong nose, chin with a hint of a cleft. His dark eyes held the promise of passion; his full, sensuous lips worked magic when he held her. She knew she was nice-looking but no more than that. She was so ordinary compared to Tim. Her mind drifted back in memory to that moment on the beach when they'd met. She'd thought herself alone. She'd stood staring up at the Mediterranean mansion, golden in the sun, tears streaming down her face. He'd loped to her side, face drawn in concern, bronze and muscular in a lifeguard's red swim trunks, binoculars dangling from one large hand. "Hey, what's wrong?" It seemed right to tell him, swiping the tears from her face, about the days when her mother was Mr. Roundtree's secretary and how in the summers Mr. Roundtree insisted Jane was welcome to play in the pool or on the beach and join her mom for lunch. "He was such a good man. When my mom was so sick-she had cancer-and the insurance wouldn't cover some of the medicine, Mr. Roundtree helped us out. And he came to her funeral. I didn't even know until after he died that he'd left me some money."
Tim had been so interested. "So you're an heiress. First time I've ever met an heiress. That's neat."
She'd been quick to explain that she didn't get any money when Mr. Roundtree died. "He set up a trust. His sister Ves gets everything for now. When she dies, the money is split up. Originally he included my mom, but after she died, he put my name in instead. I have to be alive when Ves dies or my share goes to the others."
Tim grinned. "Better take care of yourself. How does it feel to be in line for some big-time swag?" She'd laughed and shaken her head. "I'll be an old lady before Ves dies. She's only in her forties and she's a dynamo." To Jane the prospect of lots of money seemed unreal. But she would always appreciate the note sent to her after Mr. Roundtree's death and his tribute to her mom: Nellie was as fine a person as anyone I've ever known. I wish she could have lived and taken that trip to Ireland she always wanted to. Naming you in the trust is my way of saying thank you to her for years of hard work. Jane kept the letter in her jewel box. As for the money, it was a gift that might come someday . . .
"Hey, Jane, didn't you hear what I said?" Tim was smiling, but his gaze was intent.
She reached for her glass of wine. Tim had ordered expensive wine. She looked desperately around the crowded dining room for inspiration. He'd brought her all the way to Savannah for a fine dinner, and she'd stopped listening. She felt a moment of confusion, Tim talking about his plans, his big, grandiose, pie-in-the-sky plans, because how could he ever get enough money to buy that kind of land and build a shopping center? "Oh," she said in a rush, "the center would be wonderful, wouldn't it?"
His face lightened. He reached across the table, took her hand. "All I need is backing. You can tell Ves Roundtree about the center and we'll promise her a cut of the profits." He was pleased, excited.
She felt a sweep of panic. She didn't want to ask Ves Roundtree for money. "I don't know if she'd be interested." She saw darkness in his eyes. If she made him mad, that warm, intimate smile would disappear. "Oh, I don't know, Tim. I can try"-she didn't want to ask; she had no right-"but I know she'll say no."
Curt Roundtree glared at his mother. ÒI missed out on a chance to sail to the Bahamas on Buster GordonÕs yacht.Ó
Gretchen Roundtree spoke in her usual breathy, catchy voice, but her tone was firm. "We will go to dinner, and I advise you to be charming." She looked at her son and remembered how appealing he'd been as a little boy: reddish hair in shining ringlets, a cherubic face, gurgling laughter. As an adult, in years if not in behavior, he still had reddish curls and a broad, freckled face, and he was always ready to laugh or make others laugh. His wanderlust lifestyle was made possible by rich dilettante friends who welcomed him for a stay of a week or a month at no expense to him. A generous monthly check from Gretchen took care of other expenses, but he counted on snagging rides in friends' private planes or on yachts for carefree-accent on free-holidays in Snowmass or Bermuda, depending upon the season. Friends assumed he was wealthy, because he had no job.
Gretchen was blunt. "The money spigot is turned off. No more checks from me. I'm working at a cosmetics shop to pay the food bill. Either you sweet-talk Ves out of some money or find a job." She knew the last would get his attention.
Curt's blue eyes were cold. "If the old man hadn't been such a bastard, I'd never have to worry about money."
"But he was, so you better do as I say."
"Where'd your money go?"
Gretchen shrugged. She felt a twinge of the old bitterness. Rufus had been glad to see her go. She'd agreed for $2 million. Curt didn't know how much his father had paid, but he saw her travel in style from Nice to Venice to Bar Harbor to Scottsdale. She, too, was adept at snagging invitations to stay with wealthy friends.
She looked at her son, knew they were two of a kind. Curt took his thrills from diving from a cliff in Acapulco or skiing off trail in avalanche country or daring a night at a seedy bar in Amsterdam.
She enjoyed another kind of daring, but that avenue was closed to her now. Not only closed, but she was pushed to the brink by a blackmailer. All she could do was pay up.
"I had some expenses." Gretchen's voice was tight. A cold-eyed youngish trophy wife had a damning photo in her cell phone, and her price for silence was high. Gretchen had returned to the island and the condo Rufus had provided, taken the job at Perfumerie. She could no longer mail checks to Curt.
She felt the old flash of anger at her former husband. Why couldn't he have left his millions to Curt? It was stupid to expect Curt to become some kind of financial wizard just because Rufus was a success. She still had the letter from Rufus that the lawyer sent after his death: . . . better for Curt to make his own way, better for him as a man. He should be in his sixties before Ves dies, and by then he will have learned the value of work.
"The money's gone. I don't have it anymore. I'm going to ask Ves to advance me enough to open a dress shop in Buckhead." Fifty thousand dollars would get her started, fifty thousand and some new credit cards that weren't maxed out. She imagined an elegant shop in Buckhead. If she drew the right kind of women and offered to bring the finest in couture to their homes, she would see the houses, learn enough to engage in her favorite trade. "That's my plan. I suggest you figure out one for yourself."
Adam Nash exuded an aura of success, an aura heÕd carefully cultivated over the years. Tall, well built, with a leonine head of silver hair, his chiseled features were quite perfect for a captain of industry, a spellbinding orator, a financial seer. He instilled confidence. His expression was benign, a steady gaze, a slightly raised eyebrow, a pleasant smile, as he listened to the luncheon speaker.
There was no hint of the panic flaring deep inside, like a rat twisting to be free of a trap. He had a couple of weeks at most. He could juggle figures until then, but he must have an infusion of cash no later than the end of February. Eighty-six thousand dollars. It might as well be eighty-six million. He had borrowed on the house. His Lexus was leased. He'd had no luck selling the yacht. Even if it sold, that wouldn't be enough. He'd clear only forty thousand. He needed eighty-six thousand. His credit was no good. He couldn't borrow. He had many high-flying friends but none of them would write him a check for that kind of money. There was no family to call on. His last remaining relative, a down-at-the-heels cousin, died last year. He wished he could demand the return of jewelry he'd lavished on a succession of women, but they cared no more for him than he for them. When there was pleasure, fine. When bad times came, he was alone.
He was at the head table as befitted a leading resident who was currently president of the community drive. He maintained his pleasant expression as he gazed at the audience. He saw Ves Roundtree, wiry reddish hair, nervous gestures, thin bony shoulders hunched as if poised to spring at any moment. She turned toward Ben Parotti, her conversation animated.
Ves Roundtree. She was his only hope.
Fred Butler, his round face expressionless, methodically counted out twenties. His hands moved a shade slower than usual, a calculated response to the customerÕs rudeness. ÒNine hundred and sixty. Nine hundred and eighty. One thousand.Ó He took his time as he slipped the bills into a white envelope, pushed the envelope across the wooden counter to a tall, slender woman with upswept dark hair and a supercilious stare, her attitude one of impatience. ÒCan I do anything else for you, Mrs. Crain?Ó His tone was bland.
She scooped up the envelope, the emerald on one slim finger gleaming in the beam from the overhead light. She flipped through the bills, turned away without speaking, her Jimmy Choo high heels clicking on the marble floor of the bank.
Fred hated the way he felt diminished. Most of the rich women on the island were nice. Not Viola Crain. She often looked through those she considered her social inferiors or gazed in disdain as if observing some lower life-form. Fred wished he could tell her that someday he'd be rich, too, and, when he was, he'd . . . What would he do? He didn't live in her world. But when he was rich maybe he could join the country club. Or maybe he'd go to Mexico. Americans-rich Americans-lived like princes there.
He looked at Estelle, the other teller, nodded toward an inconspicuous door. She gave him her usual sweet smile. In the right kind of world, people like Estelle would be rich, not Viola Crain. He put the See Next Window sign out and moved quickly. He turned the knob, slipped through the opening, closed the door behind him. He hurried to the break room and poured a mug of coffee. The bank had good coffee. He picked up a glazed doughnut from a half-empty box open on the counter. At the Formica-topped table, he took an end seat. He dunked the doughnut in the coffee, took a bite. The sugar lift was immediate.
