Mrs. Million (9 page)

Hugh said, keeping his eyes hard on Bobby, “You know what he looks like to me, Rod Man?”

“What’s that?”

“Looks like cash on the hoof, that’s what.”

Bobby made his move, scrambling over the truck cab and off the hood, hitting the ground running, one hand holding his hat to his head. He pounded down the sidewalk, no idea where he was going, heard the roar of an engine, tires squealing. How had they gotten into their car so fast? Bobby ducked between Smitty’s Auto Body and the bowling alley, jumped a chain link fence, and cut through somebody’s backyard to Fifth Street. He stopped, gasping for air. Had he lost them? He heard a roar, looked back to see an eggplant-colored van coming around the corner. He saw Hugh’s face through the windshield. Bobby took off, jumped another fence, ran down an alley. He was crossing Elm Street when a green Ford Taurus screeched to a stop in front of him. The driver, a smiling blond-headed kid, reached over and opened the passenger door.

“You need a lift?”

Bobby looked both ways, then saw the van again, coming fast down Elm. He got into the Ford and shouted, “Go! Go! They’re after me!” The kid stomped on the gas, made the turn onto Main Street, tires skittering, turned again at Fifth, doubled back on Maple.

Bobby looked back.

The kid said, “Don’t worry, there’s no way they’re gonna catch us in that old thing.”

“Good.” Bobby slumped in the seat, some of the tension draining out of him.

“How come they’re after you?”

“I don’t know. They think I owe them some money.”

“You need a place to stay?”

“I’ve got to get back to my truck. My girl’s gonna be wondering about me.”

“Sure, that’s no problem. Only I’ve got to stop off at home, first. You don’t mind, do you?”

Bobby looked back, again. No sign of the van. Maybe it would be best to wait a while—Hugh and Rodney might be waiting for him back at the station. He could hook up with Phlox later, somehow. He took a closer look at his savior. A college kid, blond-haired and smiley. Nothing to worry about there.

“That’s fine by me,” he said.

The kid, grinning like a fool, bobbed his head happily. “I got to stop at the hardware store, too. Pick up some of that duct tape,” His grin widened. “And maybe a pipewrench.”

“Doing some plumbing?”

“Yeah.”

Bobby knew almost nothing about plumbing, but he said, “Maybe I could give you a hand.” It would kill some time while he figured out what he should do next.

“I appreciate that.” Nodding and grinning.

Bobby figured the guy had a few loose connections, but that was cool. Nobody was perfect.

P
HLOX HUNG UP THE
phone. Still no answer. She heard a man shouting and looked out the service station window. She saw two men jumping into a maroon van, the driver taking off before the other guy even got his door closed. At the same time, a green car fishtailed out of the lot, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke. Within two seconds they were both out of sight.

Phlox said to the kid behind the counter, “What was that about?”

The clerk shrugged. “I dunno. The guy in the hat took off running, then all hell broke loose.”

“Hat?”

“Like a cowboy hat.”

Phlox pushed through the door and ran out to the truck. No sign of Bobby, just the pickup truck. She went back inside.

“You say you saw him run off?”

“Like he was being chased.”

Phlox nodded, putting the pieces together. She should have realized. Letting Bobby show his face in public in this town was akin to wearing the Koh-i-noor diamond to a convention of thieves. She paid the clerk for the gas, then went out to the truck and sat in the driver’s seat staring out the windshield trying to think it out. He got away, or he didn’t, or he got caught and he’ll get away, or he won’t. He’s hiding or he isn’t. He’ll come back to the gas station soon, or never. After a time, the clerk came out and asked her to move away from the pumps. Phlox drove the pickup to the corner of the lot and sat there for another twenty minutes. Finally, the image of Bobby being dragged back to his wife by faceless men prompted her to act. She went back inside and said to the clerk, “If my friend with the hat comes looking for me, tell him I went to talk to his wife.”

Of the three, it was Barbaraannette who’d got the looks and the fashion sense, though she hadn’t really blossomed until the year after she graduated from Henry High—the year after her first romance with Bobby Quinn.

Hilde remembered the day Barbaraannette had come home late from the Henry High graduation party, swollen-lipped and bright-eyed with nothing to say. Hilde had been concerned like any good mother, but she’d known the day had long been coming and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it. She took Barbaraannette to Dr. Fox, got her a prescription for birth control pills, and then bought her a root beer float at Lang’s Pharmacy.

That boy Bobby had given Barbaraannette a few heady weeks of young love, then cast his eye in other directions, the way boys will. The breakup had been hard on Barbaraannette. That fall, wounded and bitter, she had left Cold Rock to attend college in Florida.

The next time Hilde saw her daughter, it was as if God herself had reached down from heaven and transformed her. She’d dropped twenty pounds of baby fat, her skin and auburn hair had gone coppery with Florida sunshine, and her eyes carried in them the color of the sea. Even more striking, her personality had taken on a vivacious, self-confident sheen. For four years Hilde watched Barbaraannette become increasingly beautiful with each return visit to Cold Rock.

Then Barbaraannette had stopped visiting. Hilde had heard almost nothing from her middle daughter for three long years-a brief letter, now and then, with a new address in San Francisco, then Chicago, then New Orleans, then New York, each note citing another man’s name, a new job. She’d signed her letters Barb, a name Hilde hated because it sounded so hard and sharp. She had not come home, not even for Mary Beth’s wedding, for three long years.

“Mama?”

Hilde looked up from her plate of macaroni and cheese at the young woman sitting across from her. She said, “Most of the people here are old.”

“Mama, it’s me, Barbaraannette.”

What a coincidence! She’d just been thinking about Barbaraannette. “Of course you are,” she said, scooping up another forkful of the orange matter on her plate. It was salty. Hilde liked salt. “Five years you don’t come home, now look at you. Barely twenty-six, you could be thirty.”

“I’m thirty-four, Mama.”

“Thirty-four what?” Hilde hated these games. She wished the hotel management would put a stop to them.

“Years, Mama. I have to tell you something.”

“I can’t stop you.”

“I just quit my job at the school.”

“Now why did you go and do that?” School? What school?

“They asked me to leave. They don’t want me there anymore.”

“Why, that’s ridiculous! What’s wrong with those people?”

“I think they’re jealous of me.”

“Well they should be! You’re a beautiful girl. Will you be coming back to Cold Rock now?”

“I’ve been back nine years, Mama.”

Hilde blinked and looked away. She heard the voice go on speaking to her, but other voices drew her into another less confusing time. She remembered now that Barbaraannette had finally returned to Cold Rock, her eyes narrower, her lipsticked mouth hard and red over the pale curve of her chin, her voice husky from cigarettes and alcohol. She had become more beautiful than ever, though it had become a sadder, more mature beauty. What Hilde remembered most vividly was the way the men of Cold Rock, even the married ones, had swarmed the new Barbaraannette.

The girl really knew how to fix herself up.

These days—Hilde abruptly found herself back in the present—Barbaraannette did not seem to care what she wore. Her wardrobe was plain, plain, plain—all earth tones and practicality. Such a shame. Such a beautiful girl.

Hilde herself had never held back when it came to making herself look good. She’d had her breasts worked on back in the 1970s, had her face lifted twice, and had undergone a number of tucks, peels, and excisions. She’d put in four decades with Jack LaLane, spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on her wardrobe, never appeared in public without her makeup, and always kept her hair big, bold, and bright. This year she was a redhead. It was a wig, but one had to make allowances for age. After all, she was sixty-six years old.

Or was it seventy-something? She’d been sixty-six when Barbaraannette had returned to Cold Rock and renewed her romance with Frances Quinn’s boy, Bobby. Sixty-six when they’d married.

Hilde said to her daughter, “You could’ve done better.”

But when she lifted her eyes, she was alone.

S
HE COULD TAKE A
trip around the world, buy herself a Rolls-Royce, feed ten thousand hungry children, or try to get Bobby back. Or she could buy that cherrywood Hoosier she’d seen down at Eggers’ Antiquarium—six foot tall and a hundred years old if it was a day. Barbaraannette wondered which course of action Hilde would recommend if she still had her wits about her—if Hilde had
ever
had her wits about her. She might have told Barbaraannette to blow the first quarter-million on clothes and hairstyling and then go find a man who had at least as much money as she did. That was how Hilde thought. On the other hand, Hilde had always understood about Bobby. That was one thing about Hilde. She always understood, even when she had no idea what was going on.

Barbaraannette made a right turn onto Foster Avenue and heard the familiar
thunk
come from the front of the car. Nang, the mechanic down at the Shell station, told her she was going to need major front-end work soon, something called CV joints. She didn’t need a Rolls-Royce, or a limousine, but a new car would be nice. According to Art Dobbleman, even if she had to borrow the million bucks, she’d still have some money to play with. Maybe not enough to travel around the world and feed the starving children, but she could certainly afford a new car. Maybe a minivan, in case she bought that Hoosier and had to haul the thing home.

Barbaraannette pulled onto her street and into her driveway—
thunk
—pleased to see her front steps free of reporters, family members, and bankers. She noticed a white pickup truck parked across the street, a woman with fluffy blond hair behind the wheel. Another reporter? Barbaraannette walked quickly from her car to the front door, but not quickly enough.

“Excuse me!” The woman was out of her truck, trotting across the street. She wore tight, faded blue jeans, a white snap-button Western shirt with cacti embroidered above the pockets, and dangerously pointed cowboy boots. No jacket. Everything looked as if it had been intentionally purchased one size too small except for the Mexican tooled-leather bag big enough to hold a TV set bouncing off her left hip. “Are you Mrs. Quinn?” Pale eyebrows arced over frosty blue eyes.

Barbaraannette said, “That’s right.”

The woman smiled and thrust out a hand. Her nails were sky blue, the same color as her eyes, and jutted half an inch beyond the tips of her fingers. “Fiona Anderson. People call me Phlox.”

Barbaraannette nodded, but did not shake the dangerous-looking hand. “Are you a reporter?” she asked.

Phlox shook her head. “Not me, honey.” She smiled, and hundreds of fine crinkles appeared on her face. Her hair was bleached nearly white on top, with the more protected locks retaining an ash-yellow hue. Barbaraannette guessed her to be about thirty, with a good chunk of those years spent in the sun.

“Are you going to ask me to buy something, or to donate money to a worthy cause? Because if you are, you might just as well go talk to that tree.” She pointed at the maple beside her driveway.

Phlox laughed, a big, chesty laugh that made Barbaraannette want to smile. She liked women who weren’t afraid to laugh loud.

“I suppose a lot of folks have been bothering you,” Phlox said.

“A few,” Barbaraannette admitted.

“Well I’m here about your husband.”

Barbaraannette felt her heart miss a beat, then deliver an artery-swelling thump. “Bobby?”

“That’s right, honey. I brought him all the way from Arizona, fresh off the desert.”

“Where is he?” Barbaraannette looked past Phlox toward the pickup. The air seemed suddenly too rich; her head swam. Barbaraannette reached out and put a hand on her front door, drawing strength from its solidity.

Phlox laughed again, a little less chest in it this time. “I said I brought him, honey. I didn’t say I
had
him.”

Barbaraannette swallowed and heard herself say, “Would you like to come inside and sit down?” She needed to rest her rear end on something. Not waiting for Phlox to answer, she opened the door. All those years of wanting Bobby back, and now that it was happening she suddenly could not remember his face. She headed for the kitchen, needing its bright familiarity. Phlox followed.

Barbaraannette said, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Coffee would make sense of things, calm her down.

“Honey, coffee’s the last thing I need.” Phlox reached into her enormous purse-for one weird moment Barbaraannette thought she was going to pull Bobby’s head out of her bag-and came out with a twelve-pack of Budweiser. She planted the twelve-pack on the counter, tore into it expertly, her long blue nails somehow surviving the process, and came out with two cold cans. “Have you a beer, sweetie pie.”

Walking the two miles from campus to his home, briefcase bouncing off his thigh, André Gideon imagined himself giving young Jayjay a piece of his mind. “You had better learn to be more responsible, young man, or you will find yourself out on the street,” he would say. “I will only be pushed so far!”

He imagined Jayjay laughing at him, which caused his cheeks to redden further. André moved his briefcase to his left hand. He’d been late for his class and to make matters worse, Malcolm Whitly, dean of the Liberal Arts College, had chosen today to audit Humanities 1022, giving him that wall-eyed, high-browed William Buckley gaze for the entire hour. Forty-nine minutes, actually. And then, piling inconvenience upon irritation, Whitly had asked André, with his usual absurd precision, to meet in his office in Brewer Hall at 2:40 that same afternoon.