Lead-Pipe Cinch (13 page)

Sue’s expression was stunned. “Hundred-hour weeks? That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it fun, but it was exciting. We were creating a company out of nothing but our brains and energy, we were being successful, and it was moving fast.”

I took another sip of my margarita. It was partially melted, the lime not as tart, the tequila less intense.

“Too fast, it turned out. We grew as much as we could with just the two of us. I had every penny tied up in the company, and that was when my dad died.”

“I remember you coming home for the funeral. You looked terrible. At the time I figured it was losing your dad, but it sounds like there was more to it.”

“Gee thanks,” I said sarcastically. Then I smiled. “You’re right, I was exhausted and I was afraid to be away. Every day I was gone cost Samurai money. Blake was working too many hours already. He couldn’t cover his work and mine, too.

“And then it turned out Mom needed money.”

Sue nodded. “That was one thing I never understood. I mean, we all hear how rich doctors are.”

“If they’re getting paid, maybe. But if they’re treating patients for free . . .”

“For free?”

“He wasn’t billing the loggers who were laid off, or their families. It’s a long story.

“Anyway”—I went back to my confession—“she needed money, and I had every penny tied up in Samurai. Blake and I talked it over and decided we needed investors to be able to expand—and maybe I could get some cash out of the deal to help my mom.”

Sue pushed her empty plate away. “It sounds like there is a but at the end of that sentence.”

I sighed. “There is. We found some venture capital that came with several strings. We ended up with a board of directors who wanted to run things, and we let them. Even so, by the time I actually had some cash in hand, Mom had started working for Gregory and was determined not to take charity from her daughter.”

“That explains a whole lot about your mom,” Sue said.

I nodded. “It certainly does. It makes her crazy that I volunteer at Homes for Hope. But that’s another story.

“Things in San Francisco were good for a while. We had people to take care of the business stuff, and I could concentrate on the actual computer and security issues. I did some work that I’m still proud of.

“At the direction of the board, we went through the process of selling stock, and Blake and I got some very lucrative stock options.” I grinned. “That’s where the convertible came from. Cashed some of my first stock options and bought it. We were on top of the world for a while. Even had time for a social life, sort of. That was when Blake and I got to be a serious couple.”

The waiter appeared, whisking away the empty plates, and bringing Sue a refilled soda. I waved away his offer of a second drink, and slid my half-eaten lunch his direction.

“I don’t know when it all went bad, exactly. We were too busy playing hard and working even harder to notice.

“The board wanted to move away from our core business, add a retail security division, and a hardware development group. They insisted we could expand without losing our market. I disagreed with them and Blake disagreed with me. I thought we should focus on what we were good at, and we were already grossing several million dollars a year, but Blake kept saying we had to grow or die. We argued about it a lot.”

“Is that what broke you up?”

“I really don’t know,” I admitted. “I just know he called me late one night and left a nasty message on my voice mail. I tried to call him to find out what was wrong, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“A breakup over voice mail? Yow. That’s cold.”

“It gets worse. Stan Fischer called me early the next morning. He was a real hands-on member of the board, and he said he had to see me before the board meeting. He offered me the opportunity to resign before the board fired me.”

“But it was your company! That’s not right.”

“Remember what I said about those stock sales? The board was in control. Not me. Blake had always been better at the office politics than I was, and I figured he’d known which way to jump.

“I can take a hint. Eventually. Stan was giving me the chance to salvage a little dignity out of the situation, so I signed the resignation letter and went home to pack. I let them steal the company out from under me.”

Sue had picked up the check. When I reached for it to figure my share she held it out of my reach. “After that,” she said, “I’ll get the check. Besides, I’m the one who ordered the margarita. You can get the tip.”

I looked at the margarita glass, still half full of melted ice that turned the drink a pale anemic green. I left the glass on the table and walked out.

All the way home Sue kept glancing over at me. I knew she had more questions, but I was drained. I had poured out the long, sad story of Colossal Failure Georgiana Neverall and I had nothing more to say.

Sue parked her SUV in my driveway and shut off the engine. “Is there anything I can do, Georgie? I can only imagine how awful this is for you.” She turned to face me in the dark car. “Besides, I don’t think you failed. Look at it this way. You built a successful company, hired good people, and attracted investors.

“I mean, the company had to be
worth
stealing, didn’t it?”

I had no answer for her. I had never looked at the events in that light. It didn’t make the loss of Samurai any less painful, but it did ease the cloud that hung over all my memories of San Francisco. Just as long as I didn’t think about Blake.

That was the ultimate betrayal, and it still hurt.

I leaned across and gave Sue an awkward hug. “I don’t know why that should make me feel better, but it does. I just never thought of it that way.”

“Well start,” she said.

I climbed out of the car and headed inside. I heard Sue back out and pull away as I locked the front door behind me.

I was exhausted.

I let the dogs out, and dumped a load of coveralls and heavy socks into the washer. No matter how stressed out I was, I still needed clothes for work.

By the time the clothes were ready for the dryer I was ready for bed. I ignored the rest of the housework, thankful I lived alone. No one would check if there were dust bunnies under the bed when I fell into it.

I knew there were more ghosts lurking, and more revelations would be necessary. But for tonight I was just too tired to worry about any of them.

 

 

When I woke up the next morning I felt great. For about fourteen seconds. Then I remembered that Blake was dead, Stan Fischer was coming to Pine Ridge, the sheriff was asking prying questions, and I’d told Sue the ugly truth about my years in San Francisco.

It was not quite daylight but I couldn’t get back to sleep—the downside of falling asleep at nine o’clock. There was nothing to be done for it but crawl out of bed and stagger to the bathroom.

Maybe things would look better after a hot shower.

At least they looked brighter, if only because the sun was coming up.

The message light was blinking on the answering machine. It was always blinking lately. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, and I let the messages stack up until they threatened to fill the memory.

I started a pot of coffee and pushed the message button. My mother had called multiple times, each a little more perturbed than the last. She was genuinely concerned, although there was a part of me that always wondered if it was me she was concerned about, or how I reflected on her.

Wade had called, just to check in. He apparently didn’t know about my second visit to the sheriff’s office. I added him to the list of people I had to tell before they heard it somewhere else.

Barry had called about the time I’d gone to bed. He’d had a call from Sheriff Mitchell, and the McComb site was still off-limits. He said to call him in the morning and he’d let me know if there was work. He didn’t sound optimistic.

Paula had called, too. And Richard Parks again, just to make sure I wouldn’t rat him out to Stan. By then I was listening to just a few seconds before deleting each message.

I almost missed the one I’d been dreading.

“Hey there, Georgie Girl,” a familiar voice boomed from the speaker. I hated that name—something about a pop song from before I was born—but Stan always used it. When I protested, he told me it was all about a girl who needed to lighten up. “Written just for you,” he’d say.

I figured Stan to be about sixty, but it was hard to tell. He had been a kind of father figure at Samurai—if my father had lacked education and social skills—and he knew how to make money. I was still grateful to him for allowing me the chance to resign instead of getting fired and I suspected he’d done it without the board’s knowledge.

I still didn’t want anyone from Samurai in Pine Ridge, but after my talk with Sue I felt better about the fact that someone was going to pick up where Blake left off.

The booming voice surprisingly brought back good memories and I decided it was probably better that it was Stan. I knew Stan, I could talk to him. I let myself feel a tiny ray of hope.

I made note of Stan’s cell phone number and the name of his hotel in Portland. There wasn’t anywhere in Pine Ridge that was appropriate for someone like Stan to stay.

I waited for the sun to climb above the horizon before I called Barry, and considered what to do with the day, if I didn’t have to work.

The plumbing was finished at the Homes for Hope house, though I could help on other parts of the project. I looked around the kitchen. There was a backlog of housework that would keep me busy.

First, though, I had to find out whether Barry needed me.

Barry answered on the second ring. “I don’t know when we’ll get back out to McComb,” he told me. “The sheriff isn’t telling me anything about how long he needs to have the site closed.”

I heard a heavy sigh on Barry’s end. “I have a couple other little jobs, but they’re already fully staffed. I don’t really have anything for you. You might as well take a three-day weekend.”

“Sure,” I answered. What else could I say? I’d already told him I had the month covered, which was only a slight exaggeration.

Besides, it was my last free Saturday. With classes starting again my Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings were booked for the next three months.

I hung up. So what would it be? Clean house? See what Carl could find for me at Homes for Hope? A long drive with the top down?

I glanced at the weather and rejected the idea of a drive in the toy. It sounded like a great idea, except for the strong threat of rain.

I stalled by hauling out my
gi
and going through a complete workout. It calmed my nerves and stretched my muscles at the same time, leaving me relaxed and centered.

I thought again about the vacant storefront on Main Street. It had been a dance studio when I was a kid, full of the kind of little girls my mother wanted me to be.

A few minutes later I was in the Beetle, heading for Main Street. I had no money and no idea how I’d get a sensei to teach, but I wanted to look at that space again.

I nearly chickened out. It meant going downtown—as much downtown as there was in Pine Ridge—and possibly seeing people I didn’t want to see. Still, it beat doing housework. My mother would be ashamed of me.

The sidewalk was empty when I parked the Beetle at the curb and climbed out. The brown paper was still taped over the front window, as it had been for months. One corner had come loose, and if I stood on tiptoe I could see into the dark interior.

There wasn’t a lot to see. A scarred-wood floor, bare walls with ballet barres along one side, and two doors at the back. As I recalled, one door led to a tiny kitchen space just big enough for a sink and a miniature refrigerator. The other opened to a locker room of sorts and a bathroom. There was no need for separate spaces for girls and boys; when I grew up in Pine Ridge boys did not take dance lessons.

There was a fading “For Rent” sign in the front window.

There was no way I could afford it. I took my PDA out of my purse and made a note of the phone number anyway. Something told me I would need it eventually.

Sure. Right about the time I got a flying car.

I was standing on tiptoe again, staring in the corner of the window, when my mother called my name.

I dropped down onto flat feet and whirled around. Of all the people I didn’t want to see, two of them were standing just a few feet away—Mother and Gregory. Where did they come from?

“Hello, Georgiana,” Mom said. She moved closer and stretched out to give me a peck on the cheek.

Her glance traveled down my outfit: plain blue T-shirt, a fleece jacket, jeans, and sneakers. She was wearing a smartly tailored suit and her trademark stilettos, even on a quiet Friday morning. Her expression made it clear my fashion choices did not meet with her approval.