Mrs. Million (32 page)

“Thanks for coming,” Barbaraannette said.

“It’s all part of Cold Rock Savings & Loan’s customer appreciation program.”

“I’ll have to throw more business your way.”

“We appreciate that. By the way, not that it’s any of my concern, but how long are you going to leave them like that?”

Barbaraannette laughed. “I don’t know. What do you think? Another couple hours? I’ll call Dale Gordon, tell him where they—” She gasped; her leg collapsed but Art held her up. “Just a twinge,” she said.

Art bent over and put one arm behind her knees and picked her up.

Barbaraannette said, “You can’t carry me.”

“The hell I can’t.” He moved down the logging road at a brisk walk.

“I guess maybe you can.”

The road and the unconscious André Gideon came into view at the same time. Barbaraannette asked, “What happened to him?”

“I ran into him. I—hey!”

“What?”

“I—oh, damn, damn, damn. My briefcase, Barbaraannette…your money, it’s gone!”

“O
PEN IT UP! OPEN
it up! I wanna look. C’mon, Rod Man!”

They were traveling west in Art Dobbleman’s Plymouth, Hugh behind the wheel. Rodney was trying to figure out the latches on the briefcase. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t work them.

“Push the end,” Hugh said. “Push in on the end.”

“I’m trying! The damn thing’s locked.”

The right wheel dropped onto the shoulder, Hugh muscled the car back onto the roadway. Rodney said, “Why don’t you pull over, man, you’re bouncing me all over the place.”

“I’m not slowing down till we hit Montana.”

“Montana?” This was the first Rodney had heard about Montana. “What are you talking about, Montana?”

“We buy ourselves a ranch, Rod Man. That son of a bitch Bobby’s gonna buy us a ranch after all. It’s what you call justice.”

Rodney grunted. He had his pocketknife out and was hacking at the leather around the clasp.

Hugh said, “And you want to be as far away from your old lady as possible when she finds her car, right?”

“You got that right.”

They had traveled seventy-three miles in the general direction of Montana when Rodney finally cut through enough leather and pressed wood to rip the top off the briefcase. He looked inside, blinked rapidly, and produced a sound that fell somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Hugh glanced over, then looking equally stunned took his foot off the accelerator and let the car drift to a stop. He did not even bother to pull off the road.

Using several bungee cords from Barbaraannette’s trunk, Art attached the unconscious André Gideon to a nearby poplar tree. “This won’t hold him long, but it should keep him until the police get here.”

Barbaraannette said, “You think Hugh and Rodney took the briefcase?”

“I don’t know who else it could’ve been.” They crossed the road to the car, Barbaraannette limping. Art said, “Want me to drive?”

Barbaraannette handed him the keys. Art opened the door for her and helped her in. She could not remember ever having been a passenger in her own car. She watched him get in the other side and adjust the seat and put on his seatbelt. His big hands made the steering wheel look tiny.

“I’m taking you to the Medical Center,” he said, starting the car.

“No, you’re taking me home.”

“I am?”

“I mean, I’d rather go home.”

Art looked over at Barbaraannette’s leg, frowning. “I know it’s just a flesh wound, but don’t you want to have it looked at?”

“I’m looking at it. It’s just a bruise with a little furrow cut through. When I was a Crockette I hurt myself worse sliding into second base.”

Art was about to argue, but caught himself. It was enough that she was letting him drive her car.

A couple miles down the road they came upon an abandoned red Isuzu with a mangled front end. “There’s the car they were in. My car’s not where I left it. They must’ve changed the tire and got it started. I bet they stopped when they saw your car, and found the briefcase.” He slowed as they passed the Isuzu.

Barbaraannette said, “What did you do? Smash into them?”

“They didn’t want to stop,” Art said with a note of pride.

“I wonder if they’ve looked in the briefcase yet.”

“I’d like to see that.” He turned onto the highway. When they passed the Kum & Go, Art let up on the gas and said, “Isn’t that your sister?”

Barbaraannette slunk down in her seat. “Keep driving.” She giggled. Art wasn’t sure what was so funny, but he laughed, too.

Rodney fished out another paper. “Listen to this. ‘My Dad, by Adam Berg.’ It says, ‘My Dad is big. My Dad is strong and he can beat up other kids Dads and he can drink a whole case of beer. That is what Dad can do. My Dad.’ You think that’s about George Berg?”

Hugh scowled. “How the fuck should I know?” They were still heading west in Art Dobbleman’s Plymouth, destination unknown.

“George has a kid, doesn’t he?”

“Would you just throw that shit out the window?”

“And he’s always getting in fights.”

“Christ, Rod Man, just toss it, would you? There’s no money in there. We been scammed. All we got’s two wrecked cars.”

“We got this car.”

“Yeah, and it’s not ours.”

Rodney shrugged and began reading another paper. There were hundreds of them. Essays and worksheets and old tests. Thousands, all written by little kids. “You ever think of having kids?”

“How am I s’posed to have a kid? My wife divorced me.”

“I think about it a lot.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah, I know. Hey, listen to this one.”

Hugh grabbed the paper out of Rodney’s hand and threw it out the window. He pulled over, got out, grabbed the open briefcase and threw it on the road. He got back in the car and resumed driving.

Rodney said, “Well now, that was pretty childish.”

“Screw you,” said Hugh.

While Barbaraannette was in the bathroom cleaning and bandaging her flesh wound, Art called the police and told them where to find

André Gideon. At Barbaraannette’s request, he neglected to mention the location of the Ford Taurus. He had just hung up when Barbaraannette limped back into the kitchen. She had changed into a pair of soft khaki slacks and a white cotton sweater.

Art said, “They want us to come down to the police station.”

“Now?”

“I’m sure it can wait. You look nice. No one would guess you’d just been shot.”

Barbaraannette smiled. “You want a cup of coffee?”

Art nodded, then shook his head. “You wouldn’t have a beer in the house, would you?”

“I might just have two.” Barbaraannette found two cans of Budweiser in the refrigerator—Phlox’s leftovers. They sat at the kitchen table holding their cold cans of beer and looking at each other.

Art said, “So.”

“So?”

“All that trouble to get Bobby back here and you’re just going to leave him in that trunk?”

Barbaraannette shrugged. “I’ll let the police know. Later. Right now I’m kind of enjoying thinking about him being stuck in there. If it wasn’t for poor Phlox being in there with him, I might leave it go till morning.”

Art grinned. “You’re a cold, hard woman, Barbaraannette.”

“I’m an ice queen.” She tasted her beer. “It was pretty weird, seeing him again. I don’t know what I expected.” She took a long swallow, feeling the icy liquid tumble down her throat. “I didn’t know what I would do, what I would feel. I couldn’t even imagine why I wanted him, but I did want him. And then there he was, stuck in that trunk with his pimply ass in the air and I just wasn’t interested. He’s losing his hair now, did you notice?”

“I didn’t look that close.” In fact, he had hardly been able to look at all.

“I saw him and all the want just disappeared.” Her eyes lost focus for a moment, then she smiled and slowly shook her head. “I wonder if I knew that would happen?”

Art was watching the little things happening on her face: the way the remarkable blue in her eyes intensified for a split second every time she blinked; the faint quiver of her upper lip that preceded each string of words; the flash of her tongue between her teeth. Her hand was only ten or twelve inches away from his. He could reach across the table and take it and she wouldn’t pull away. Sometime soon he would do that. There was no hurry now.

She said, “Did you ever want something for such a long time that when you finally got it you’d used up all your want of it?”

Art nodded—not because he had ever experienced such a thing, but just to keep her talking. He had wanted Barbaraannette forever, it seemed, and his feelings were in no way diminished now. He could not imagine not wanting her. But now, for the first time, he could imagine having her.

She said, “I remember once when I was a little girl I spent a whole summer thinking about going to the Isanti County Fair so I could get a corndog because I’d had one the year before and I thought it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Then when the fair finally came I went to the corndog place and the man selling them was really old and ugly and the skin on his arms was flaky and the smell of the hot grease was so strong that I bought the corndog but I couldn’t take a bite so I gave it to Toagie. Then we went on the Tilt-a-Whirl and she puked it up.”

Art could see she was being serious, but he couldn’t help asking, “Bobby is the corndog?”

Barbaraannette gave him a startled look, then started laughing. They were still laughing when the phone began to ring. They watched it for five or six rings.

“I suppose I’d better,” Barbaraannette said. She picked up the handset and said, “Hello?”

“Barbaraannette? This is your sister.”

Barbaraannette flinched. “Oh. Mary Beth, I’m sorry about your car!”

“Yes, well, you should be. Antonia and I are still where you abandoned us, waiting for the tow truck. But that’s not why I’m calling. I just this moment spoke with Dr. Cohen at Crestview. To say that he was apoplectic would be to understate the case by several orders of magnitude, dear. The poor man could hardly get a word out.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently mother has stolen another car.”

“The Porsche again?”

“Dr. Cohen’s Porsche is in the shop as a result of Hilde’s last adventure. No, this time she borrowed a Mercedes-Benz, which, unfortunately, also belongs to Dr. Cohen. The poor man is beside himself.”

Holding back laughter, Barbaraannette said, “I suppose we’d better go find her.”

“Yes you should. Your sister and I are otherwise occupied, no thanks to you.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened with Bobby?”

“Since you did not want our help, I thought it better not to ask. You are alive, presumably?”

“I’m fine, and so is Bobby, more or less.”

“And are you one million dollars poorer?”

Barbaraannette smiled. “No Mary Beth, I’m not. And I’m finished with Bobby Quinn.”

“That’s good, dear. Here comes the tow truck.”

Barbaraannette hung up the phone. “Hilde’s taken another joyride,” she said to Art. “I have to go find her.”

“Would you like some company?”

“You know what I’d really like? Would you take the money back to the bank? It makes me nervous to have it here in the house.”

“I don’t blame you. Where is it?”

Barbaraannette stood up. “In a grocery bag in the closet in the spare bedroom.”

Art followed, watching the way her body moved inside her clothes. Barbaraannette opened the bedroom door and went rigid. Clothing and shoes were strewn on the floor and on the bed. Dresser drawers hung open. She ran to the closet, looked inside, turned an anguished face to Art.

“Are you sure, Mrs. Grabo?”

“Yes I’m sure.”

“That’s eighteen cashmere sweaters, Mrs. Grabo. You want them
all?”

“They’re twenty percent off, right?”

The saleswoman nodded helplessly.

“Then I want them all.” Hilde’s attention was captured by a display of scarves. The sign on the rack read
Spring Clearance.
She grabbed the woman’s sleeve and pointed. “Are all those on sale?”

The saleswoman winced.

“I’ll take them all,” Hilde said. “They’ll make great stocking stuffers. Let’s see, I’m going to want them all gift-wrapped.”

The saleswoman swallowed, then caught sight of Mr. Himmelman, the manager of Harold’s Fashions, watching from the far side of the aisle, half concealed behind a rack of spring coats, motioning to her. He held up a hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, raised his eyebrows.

The saleswoman said, “Mrs. Grabo, excuse me but, how will you be paying?”

Hilde Grabo smiled broadly. “That’s not a problem, dear.” She reached into her bag and brought out a plastic-wrapped brick of hundred dollar bills, plunked it down on the counter.

“I
S SHE STILL MAD?
” Barbaraannette pushed the cap back onto the lipstick tube. “It’s been two days.”

Toagie, sitting on Barbaraannette’s bed chewing furiously on a piece of Nicorette, shrugged. “You know Mary Beth. She’ll get over it. Right now I think she’s busy keeping Hilde out of trouble.”

“What do you think of these?” Barbaraannette held a pair of dangly earrings up to her ears.

Toagie squinted and pushed out her lower lip. “Not with that necklace.”

“I was going to change the necklace.”

“The necklace is perfect with that dress.”

“I’m not changing the dress.” The dress was new, bought specifically for tonight. The saleswoman at Harold’s had promised that it would render her date speechless. The plunging neckline alone would probably do it.

“The dress is fleeping awesome.” Toagie removed the gum from her mouth and gave it a frowning inspection. “This stuff is awful.”

“It’ll grow on you.” Barbaraannette displayed a set of pearl studs.

“Much better.” Toagie stuck the used gum to the instep of her left boot and dug a crumpled pack of Salems out of her purse.

Barbaraannette frowned, shrugged, installed the studs in her earlobes, regarded her reflection. “How does Hilde like living at Mary Beth’s?”

“She calls it ‘jail,’ but I think she’s doing fine. Wears a different cashmere sweater every day. That was sweet of you to let her keep them.”