Elevator, The (2 page)

M
ichelle returns the laptop to her dresser, then curls back under the covers to think. So—Marshall Owens is a plant, a test of her company’s legitimacy. Owens has probably noticed the ads she places in the employment section of every Sunday newspaper, ads that suggest her expert counselors will market clients through exclusive insider channels and help applicants obtain interviews with top executives at major firms.

She pounds her pillow, then slides her hand under her cheek. Her agency won’t be the first vetted by an ambitious reporter. She’s read articles that condemn companies like hers, using words like
fraudulent
and
scam.
They promise to network and investigate for you, the typical exposé reports, and charge thousands of dollars for services you can perform yourself using free materials and the Internet.

If finding an executive position is so easy, why does she have so many clients? So what if on occasion she does little more than polish a CEO’s résumé? Most administrators haven’t evaluated their biographical materials in years. They wouldn’t begin to know how to portray their skills in the light of an ever-changing employment market. They care only about the bottom line: salary and benefits. They want a job that offers a corner office, a savvy staff and a generous paycheck, but they don’t want to do the legwork it takes to land such a position.

That’s why they come to Tilson Corporate Careers. Michelle and her associates spend hours, if necessary, prying important details from clients and taking copious notes about the applicant’s past employment, skills and responsibilities. They ask for address books, references from previous employers, even Christmas-card lists. Somewhere amid all that paperwork, Michelle and her staff usually find the opportunity that will result in a new position.

She is trying to think of the best way to approach the
Tribune
reporter when Roy Orbison begins to warble “Pretty Woman” from the depths of her purse. She groans, then reaches for the leather bag on the floor.

A digital photo of Lauren Cameron, her workout partner and best friend, lights the cover of her cell phone. “Hello?”

“Good morning!” Lauren’s voice, as bright and vibrant as a new whistle, hurts Michelle’s ears. “Did I wake you?”

Michelle nestles the phone between her shoulder and chin. “I’ve been up a while.”

“I thought you might be. I’ve been watching the Weather Channel since five. But hey, I wanted to be sure you didn’t forget our date tomorrow. You and me at Lord & Taylor, right? I’ll meet you outside the bridal salon at one.”

Michelle resists the urge to groan. In a weak moment she promised to serve as maid of honor at Lauren’s second wedding, but the thought of standing alongside the bride’s young nieces now seems ridiculous. “Are you sure about this? Your sister’s oldest daughter might be hurt if you don’t ask her to be your maid of honor.”

Lauren makes a small
pffing
sound. “She’s a child. You’re my best friend.”

“She’s sixteen, I’m thirty-three. The thought of standing with all those little girls and holding a nosegay—”

“I won’t ask you to wear a prom dress. We’ll pick out something sophisticated and you’ll look wonderful.”

Lauren’s lying, of course, the way one girlfriend will always fib when she wants to neutralize the other’s feelings. She’ll probably dress her attendants in yellow, a color that will make the little girls glow like sunbeams while it tints Michelle with shades of cirrhosis. At the wedding, Lauren’s relatives will elbow each other and someone will whisper that the really tall attendant is Michelle Tilson, and yes, the program’s correct. She’s really a
maid
of honor, because the poor woman has never been able to snag a husband.

Michelle rests her head on her hand as Lauren chatters about her preparations. So much to do, because even in cosmopolitan Tampa, marriage is a sacred estate and must be celebrated with every appropriate ritual. Prevailing attitudes assume that any woman who’s over thirty and still single must be a little odd, while a woman who’s over thirty, single and not looking to be married—well, that scenario is just plain unnatural.

Funny how Michelle never feels like a spinster in the office or at a club. At Lauren’s church, though, with a half-dozen preteens clustered around her elbows, she’ll feel like somebody’s withered maiden aunt.

“…I’m thinking yellow chrysanthemums will be perfect for November. You agree?”

The direct question hits Michelle like a thump between the eyes. “Mums? You don’t mean those plate-size things, do you?”

“You’re exaggerating, as always. But yes, I want this wedding to be bright and colorful. I want to hold the reception outdoors and I thought big yellow mums would be gorgeous against the deep shade of those oaks on the property.”

Michelle rolls onto her back and studies the ceiling. “I don’t know if you should count on those old oaks. We do have a hurricane headed our way.”

Lauren
pffffs
again. “It’s going to blow right by us. They always do.”

“This one might not. Parker’s really concerned. He’s up in his office now, checking on—”

“They said Charley was going to hit us, but that one turned at the last minute. Besides, my neighbor says the Native Americans who used to live here performed ritual sacrifices or something and swore no major storm would ever hit this area. So far, they’ve been right.”

Michelle can’t stop a wry smile. “Well, if you promise to sacrifice a chicken—”

“The weather wouldn’t dare interfere with my plans. So don’t forget—tomorrow, one o’clock, Lord & Taylor. We’re going to find my maid of honor something scrumptious to wear and soon you can ask me to return the favor.”

A sudden surge of adrenaline sparks Michelle’s blood. “Why do you say that? Did Parker say something the other night?”

“Not to me, he didn’t. But I’m sure he’s getting ready to make his move. He’s got that smitten look.”

Michelle closes her eyes, glad that Lauren can’t see her face. “He’s not in a hurry…and neither am I.”

“Good grief, why are you waiting? Haven’t you been dating over a year?”

“He has kids, Lauren, and the youngest is still seeing a shrink. Parker doesn’t want to rush things.”

“So you’re going to let him keep you hanging indefinitely?” Lauren sighs. “Out of all the available men we’ve met, why’d you have to fall for a widower with teenagers?”

Michelle turns her head and spots the single red rose Parker left on the bureau. “Because I was tired of dating boys,” she whispers, “and Parker’s the most honest man I’ve ever met.”

Her comment hangs in the silence, then Lauren clicks her tongue. “Whatever you say, girlfriend. Stay dry today, okay? And don’t stand me up tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

Michelle snaps the phone shut, then sets it on the pillow that still bears the imprint of Parker’s head. She misses him already. If he doesn’t call and invite her to his house, it’s going to be a long, lonely weekend.

She rolls out of bed and plants her feet on the carpet, then hunches forward as an unexpected wave of nausea rises from somewhere near her center. Last night’s pasta primavera must not have agreed with her…but she didn’t eat that much. They slipped out of the restaurant after only a few bites because that gleam entered Parker’s eye. She has never been able to talk to him when he looks at her like a starving dog yearning for a steak.

At the thought of food, her stomach lurches again. She places her hand over her belly, where some sort of gastric disturbance is doing its best to emulate the hurricane. Deep breaths. If she can convince her gut she will never look at another calorie-laden pasta dish, she might make it to the medicine cabinet and that bottle of chalky pink stuff….

Another deep breath. When the gurgling beneath her palm subsides, she lifts her head and straightens to an almost-vertical posture. She can’t be sick today. She needs to get to the office before the weather worsens; she has to pick up the Owens file.

The third-floor window, flanked by accordion storm shutters she has not yet closed, reveals a slate-blue sky and the swaying tendrils of a tall palm. The live oak shading the rear of the condominium stands like a silent sentinel, its thick canopy too stubborn to shift for only a probing, preliminary wind.

A sudden urge catches her by surprise. Forgetting the weather, she flies into the bathroom and crouches by the toilet.

When her ravaged stomach has emptied itself, she leans against the wall and pulls a towel from the rack, then presses it to her mouth. A sheen of perspiration coats her arms and neck, but she is beginning to feel better. What lousy luck, to suffer a bout of food poisoning today—

Her breath catches in her throat as a niggling thought rises from the back of her brain. What if this nausea has nothing to do with food?

Like a child who can’t stop picking at a scab, Gina spreads the investigator’s report on the bed and reviews the list of dates and places.

The last entry sounds like a perfectly idyllic getaway, but Gina has never stayed with Sonny at the Don CeSar, and she would have remembered staying there as recently as last weekend. Sonny was supposed to be at a convention. In Orlando.

The corner of her mouth twists when she remembers a wedding reception she and Sonny attended at the Don CeSar. The place must have impressed him if he decided it was worthy of his mistress.

She shudders as a cold coil of misery tightens beneath her breastbone. Why is she torturing herself? Bad enough to learn of Sonny’s infidelity; she doesn’t need to know details.

Unless there’s a logical reason for all these meetings. The truth might lie in some arcane bit of information the investigator missed. Sonny could have purchased the diamond bracelet as an investment or a Christmas gift for his wife. The young girl on Sonny’s arm could be an overfriendly secretary; perhaps the lunches and dinners are innocent business appointments. He might have a hard time explaining the Don CeSar rendezvous, but one night does not have to destroy a marriage.

Gina moves to the heavy mahogany armoire in the corner of the room, Sonny’s private domain. Because the housekeeper folds and puts away laundry, Gina hasn’t opened these doors since they moved in three years ago.

If Sonny is saving the diamond bracelet for her, it’s likely to be hidden here.

She lifts stacks of folded underwear, rifles through a mound of socks and slides her hands beneath several cotton handkerchiefs. Nothing. She opens the lowest drawer on the right, scoops up a collection of cuff links and watches, and sets the jewelry on the edge of a shelf. After running her thumbnail along the side of the drawer, she removes the velvet-lined false bottom and exposes the digital keypad.

If she hadn’t been home alone when the deliverymen brought the armoire, she wouldn’t know about this secret safe. In an effort to be helpful—and undoubtedly to secure a bigger tip—the deliveryman had pointed out the safe’s location and given her a sealed envelope containing the combination Sonny had chosen: six, five, eighty-five. Their wedding anniversary.

She had never mentioned the safe to Sonny; she wasn’t sure if he even used it. But now her breath solidifies in her throat as she presses the appropriate keys. The keypad beeps, releasing the lock on the hinged cover. She opens the safe she hasn’t thought about in years.

No bracelet. Nothing but papers: the deed to the house, their passports, a card with bank and mutual-fund account numbers. Nothing unusual, nothing incriminating, except—

Despite the bands of tightness around her lungs, Gina snatches a breath and picks up an unfamiliar bankbook. The plastic cover is shiny, the opening date less than four months ago. The bank is located in the Cayman Islands, and the account is in Sonny’s name alone. Opening balance: one hundred fifty thousand dollars.

Her heart turns to stone within her chest. He’s already begun to bleed his family dry.

She sinks to the edge of the bed. At various moments since receiving the private investigator’s report, she’s wanted to deny everything, strangle her husband and kill herself. At one point she was certain she deserved Sonny’s betrayal because she hadn’t been a better wife.

But those were emotional responses; she should have expected them. Now she needs to put her feelings aside and think about what to do. She needs a plan…and the courage to see it through.

Her thoughts drift toward a book on her night table:
Courage
by Amelia Earhart. “Courage,” the aviatrix wrote, “is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.”

If Gina is to have peace, she must move forward with confidence and determination. At long last her questions have been answered, her suspicions confirmed. Now she has evidence in black, white and full color. The P.I.’s package has provided everything she needs to divorce Sonny, but no one cares much about culpability these days. No-fault divorce has simplified procedures for cheating spouses and the sheer frequency of cases has made the division of a couple’s estate a matter of routine. A judge will look over their assets, draw a line to divide his from hers and send them on their way. Of course, with the wrinkle of this other bank account, perhaps it’s not going to be that easy.