The Achilles Heel (15 page)

“Yes, I’m done,” she said in a whisper, like a child after a good scolding; promising
not to misbehave again.

“Then do you want to go inside and get something to drink?” I asked her.

“No, thank you. Although, I do have something else to tell you, and it just might
stop your heart because it did mine,” she stressed. “Once I started following Jamie
around trying to catch you two together, I learned a whole lot more about my husband
and the man that he’s become‌—‌or maybe the man he’s been the whole time. I’m not
sure which yet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, as my palms instantly filled with sweat.

“Annie, he’s become a stranger to me. Twelve years ago, I married a good and moral
person, but in the last year, eight months specifically, that man has left my life
and some guy who resembles my husband eats at my house and showers in my bathroom.
In my opinion, Jamie is in some kind of trouble that seems to me he can’t escape.
He’s lost around twenty pounds, his face is usually the color of glue and he sweats
profusely. He doesn’t even wear a suit anymore, and the only reason he goes to the
office‌—‌if that’s where he really goes‌—‌is to get out of the house.”

I felt a twinge of guilt poking me since Liz was here spilling her innermost secrets.
Letting her in on any of mine was an absolute no; it could bring my whole tower crashing
down, and I wasn’t going to take that risk over a little guilt.

“The business,” she started again. “Whitman Capitol is empty, but not just empty,
more like non-existent.”

“It’s only been four months since I paid off the investors and turned the business
over to Jamie; he started with a clean slate. I find it hard to believe he lost all
of the clients and messed everything up that bad in four months,” I said as I fired
up another smoke.

She grabbed my arm, held on tight and enunciated, “Annie, there are
no
clients. I followed him one morning. When he went north on the interstate, I knew
he wasn’t going to work, so I drove down to the Plaza and let myself into the office
and God almighty, it was a disaster. No secretary, no appointments on the calendar,
no phone line. Electricity was the only utility working in the office. I started going
through his filing cabinet looking for anything that might help me understand what’s
going on. It took me about two hours, but I think I found something important.”

At this point, I was chain smoking and on the edge of my seat. Liz had no idea how
valuable this information was to me.

“Well… what did you find?” I asked her, giving my best attempt at casual.

“A little black book that Jamie had locked in the wall safe; idiot left the keys to
the safe in the desk drawer. That jackass thinks I’m just a pretty-faced housewife
with the brain capacity for folding laundry or carpooling children, and that I live
to think about baking pies and cleaning house. I’m a college graduate, goddamn it!”
She was starting to ramble now; clearly trying to validate her self-worth.

“Wait, wait!” I said, as I took her by the hand to get her attention. “What was in
the black book?” I asked, ditching the casual conversation route and going right for
desperation. I held my breath as she answered.

“There was a phone number to some farm and feed supply store and a bunch of account
numbers. Well, I’m assuming they’re account numbers; two pages of accounts starting
with three letters, followed by a bunch of numbers. Only problem is, I can’t find
any bank in Kansas City with the matching call letters to any of the ones in the book.
They
must
be banks located in a different city or something like an offshore account,” she said,
proud of her detective work.

“Can you excuse me a second?” I asked her calmly. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”

I felt the blood rushing down towards my toes and the color melting from my face.
I got out of my seat and walked inside through the kitchen and around the corner.
Once I hit that hallway, I took off running towards the office, grabbed the keys to
the safe and unlocked it. My hands were shaking so hard, they might have had a stroke.
I pulled out my little black book and already knew what I was going to find, but I
had to make sure; three letters‌—‌STX, before some random numbers.

Account number! This is a bank account!
I screamed inside my head.
Okay, Annie, keep it together. I need to compare the number in my book to see if it
matches any in Liz’s book. The account must have been set up by Whitman Capitol which
means both Jack and Jamie had access to it. But why does my book only have one account?
What’s so special about that specific account? Liz has just proven there are numerous
accounts with numerous banks. I have to take a look at those numbers, but have a flight
to catch in seventeen hours‌—‌and unless I’m dead‌—‌I’ll be on it.

I shoved the book into the safe and walked back out onto the porch with two glasses
of lemonade, offering one of them to Liz.

“Everything all right?” she asked me. “You look sick.”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through right now, Liz. If there
is any way I can help, promise me you’ll ask. Listen, I have to go out of town for
a few days, but will call to check on you. Do you feel safe at home, especially with
the kids there?” I asked.

“Yeah, I don’t think he would ever hurt us. I just think he’s gotten himself into
some real trouble,” she said.

“Let me give you some money, Liz.”

“Oh, Annie, no. Jamie is the one in trouble, not me. When my dad passed away a few
years ago, he set up a trust for me, and it
doesn’t
have my husband’s name on it. I have plenty of money to take care of my kids, but
thank you so much for offering. I really hope things can go back to the way they used
to be concerning us,” she said as she gave me a hug.

“They already are,” I replied. “Hey, would it be possible to get a copy of those account
numbers you found? I know it sounds strange, but I just want to double check something,”
I said, crossing my fingers.

She reached into her purse and pulled back the lining on the inside. “Sure, I’ve got
them right here. I figured if they were important enough to put in a safe, then I
should make copies,” she said with that same proud smile on her face as she pulled
two small pages of Xeroxed numbers out of her purse and handed one of them over to
me.

After walking her to the door, I went back to the safe to confirm my suspicions. The
number was a match; second page, fifth line from the top. The pieces were starting
to fit together.

ANNIE

M
y stomach dropped as the plane descended into Henry E. Rohlsen Airport in Christiansted,
St. Croix. Heartache, unanswered questions and meticulous planning were coming to
fruition. Finally, I was in St. Croix, and prayed to God that I didn’t leave disappointed
and empty handed.

While my bags took a ride on the luggage carousel, I checked in to get the rental
car. A thick woman with an accent to match drove me out to a parking lot littered
with convertibles. It seems everyone has the same mental picture of themselves in
the island: a nice tan, wind-blown hair, and a carefree attitude. The carefree attitude
was still up in the air, but I’d take the brown skin and effortlessly tousled hair,
so I rented a Jeep. In high school, I had a boyfriend who drove one. Actually, all
the guys within my group of friends did; must be a boy thing. I loved the amount of
noise it created when rolling down the highway; too noisy to talk, so we’d just crank
up Pink Floyd and ride.

I pulled out my GPS and plugged in the address to the Cotton House, nervous about
seeing it again, but I wasn’t here to pine over Jack. I had packed away the confusion
and anger to my innermost crannies, at this attempt, to put my life back together.
Clarity, truth, and evolution; these are what matter most on the trip. No matter how
I felt about the way he died, the outcome would always be the same; Jack was dead,
and that wasn’t going to change.

Driving on the left-hand side of the road did not appear to be a problem for me, so
I checked it off my “Things to Worry About” list. I pulled into the steep driveway
of the Cotton House, turned off the engine and just sat for a few minutes. The outside
hadn’t changed since my last visit eight years ago, and the surroundings aired a sense
of belonging.

Opening the front door was like stepping into a time warp, and I was suddenly ten
years younger. The months of lugging around a heavy heart, which felt as though it
was dipped in concrete and shackled to my chest, certainly did not make me feel ten
years younger. However, I did have high hopes that the weight of the world would no
longer rest on my shoulders. After dropping my purse on the counter, I went back to
the Jeep for the rest of my luggage, and had forgotten how far back the front door
was set from the street; all the beautiful landscaping around the front completely
hid the fact that a house sat on this lot. I rolled my suitcase into the master bedroom,
immediately pulled out the documents which had become a hinge pin to my future and
locked them into the wall safe.

Jack had found the safe by accident, when knocking a picture off the wall the last
time we were here. Now, a scene from carnival, with bright blue-faced people on stilts
sat in replacement, but this time the picture was on a swivel, and it easily swung
open.

Well that’s just genius. My first lucky break, let’s keep that going.

Within the first moments of arrival, unpacking is a necessity, or I absolutely can’t
relax. Since my Cotton House stay was extending into months, the persnickety placement
of clothes and toiletries seemed essential. Once the suitcases were emptied, under
the bed and out of site, I drew back the curtains to open the sliding glass door that
lead onto the patio. As the warm breeze fluttered in and out of my room, so did the
sound of a guitar. The rear balcony stretches across the entire back side of the house,
and has the most beautiful concrete balustrade railing. A complex structure that looks
to be plucked from a sixteenth century Greek mansion and placed here for my own personal
enjoyment. Leaning over the railing, I saw two guys in cowboy hats next door, singing
and playing their guitars. The song they played sounded familiar, so I sat down in
a rocking chair and melted into the music while the sun warmed my face. After a time,
a woman’s voice called out that lunch was ready, and they both got up and turned around
to head inside. The shorter one of the two noticed me and just stood there for a second,
holding his guitar and staring. I wanted to run inside. I was horrified he had caught
me listening and didn‘t know what to do, so on impulse, I gave him a quiet golf clap,
applauding his performance. He smiled and tipped his hat my way, then disappeared
into the hedges framing his back doors.

Speaking of lunch, I had forgotten to eat today. When renting the house, I paid an
extra fee for a concierge service to stock the fridge with the food and booze of my
choice. After six months of microwaved dinners, the inside of a refrigerator overstocked
with real food was overwhelming, but truly glorious. Pulled pork and potato salad
sat front and center, begging to be my first meal, and I was happy to oblige. Speaking
of obligations, a quick courtesy text was sent to the girls to let them know I had
made it to the beach house. I popped open a beer, turned on the radio‌—‌reggae of
course‌—‌and went outside to enjoy lunch on the veranda.

The view from my balcony appeared to be endless, and the brilliance of the sunshine
made the ocean water sparkle like thousands of tiny diamonds. I have a good idea of
what flowers experience in the spring. They’ve survived the harsh elements of winter,
flourishing through the dirt to feel the warmth of the sun; gathering strength, growing
tall and finally blooming. I was so close to blooming; I just needed a little more
sun.

My sandwich hit the spot, and I devoured it in a matter of seconds. The barbeque sauce
was thick and sweet, and the chilled beer warmed my stomach. My neighbors were back
outside again, this time splashing around in their pool. Our backyards were separated
by more balustrade railings, but the hedges weren’t tall enough to offer complete
privacy. From what I could see, the neighboring landscape was phenomenal, and obviously,
a full time job to keep the foliage trimmed and the flowers in bloom; this truly was
paradise.

After cleaning up my mess, I went through the house opening curtains and windows to
make sure every room would smell like the sea before closing them up that night. The
beach and the mountains have two very distinct smells that linger in my clothes and
my mind long after the vacation is over. I wanted to experience as much of that smell
as possible for as long as I’m here.

Next, I dialed in the interior of the house, and headed for the downstairs patio to
set up the lounge chairs around the pool when the woman next door yelled, “Hey!” with
a hefty southern drawl. It wasn’t her accent that gave away her heritage, it was the
fact that she spoke to a total stranger for no reason other than to be friendly. This
behavior is significant to the South, and the further north you travel, the rarer
it becomes.

“Hello,” I said shyly, pulling an umbrella into the corner of the patio.

She walked over to the railing and introduced herself. “Hey, neighbor, I’m Hope. You
need some help with those chairs?”

“Hi, I’m Annie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Oh no, thanks for asking, but I can do
it,” I said.

The same guys I saw earlier were floating on rafts in the pool until Hope let out
the loudest whistle I have ever heard come from a woman’s mouth. One of them was so
startled, he flipped his raft over into the water.

“Damn, baby!” he yelled as he shot out of the water coughing. “You scared the hell
out of me!”

“Well, I’m sorry, honey, but Annie here needs some manly strength,” she yelled back
as she gave me a wink. “They’ve been acting a fool for two days now, and it’s high
time I get some work outta them.”