The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (25 page)

“I think I already answered that question last weekend, although you very nearly did kill me,” he said as he kissed her slowly.

“Perhaps you’re out of your depth,” she answered, working the studs out from the front of his shirt, “which would be rather surprising for such a tall man.”

He chuckled. “Not likely. But we can test your hypothesis. Perhaps last weekend was an anomaly.” He took her by the hand and led her into the guest bedroom. “Change of venue. Must make the housekeeper earn her pay.”

D
ocuments had swamped the office like a flash flood. The New York firm representing Franjipur had let loose the floodgates. The paralegals were awash in paper, searching for information to be used in the imminent depositions of several corporate executives. There was much work to be done in a short time and the atmosphere was charged with the adrenaline that accompanies a crucial deadline.

Lindsay sat on the floor, cross-legged in her wool trousers, sorting a collection of documents into piles all around her. Mercedes moved quickly about the office in her skirt and stocking feet, sifting through pages in the open box on her desk. Simone used the shelving unit against the wall to sort stacks of paper. Piles were everywhere. Mercedes cleared off the bulletin board where they planned to post any hot documents that might turn up. They were creating files for each witness and working together to share their discoveries. A picture of life in Franjipur’s corporate headquarters was slowly emerging.

Darrel and Stuart would soon be flying to New York to take the depositions. If they were successful, the witnesses would be forced to commit themselves on many issues they had so far avoided—in particular, whether Rand had gained knowledge of something that he was never supposed to know, the knowing of which would have made him a liability to upper management and explained his removal from the company.

Mercedes was reviewing documents for Emerson. He had given her precious little guidance and seemed to be avoiding her like the plague. She was on her own to get things right, or face the consequences.

Defendants, after losing a protracted court fight, had recently produced the personal calendars of the executives and phone message logbooks. Meanwhile, the friendly snitches at Franjipur had sent them security logs, reservation data, and correspondence about a particular suite in the New York facility. Mercedes hunted through all of it—but for what exactly, she did not know.

There were odd symbols on some of the dates in reservation logs for the suite—but no names were associated with those reservations. She wondered if there was a correlation, and showed them to Lindsay and Simone. They checked personal calendars for various individuals and found “Out of Town” written on some of the dates. There was nothing incriminating about any of it, but neither was there any explanation—no flight information, nothing about destination or the purpose of the trip, as was the case for other entries.

Mercedes tacked a copy of the organizational chart for the New York facility on the board. Photographs of all the top management were there by their titles: all white males in their forties and fifties. Which of them had used the suite and what went on there? She felt edgy and her intuition nagged her. One of their informants had given them the name of an escort service frequently called by a
trusted few. She felt that somewhere in the maze were the keys to Rand’s case and that nearly every piece of the puzzle was right under her nose. She had only to fit them together.

J
ACK’S DISTINCTIVE HANDWRITING COVERED A
large picture postcard that was lying beneath the mail slot at home. Germaine scooped it up when they opened the door at the end of the day, and they read his words together.

Far from having the ideal vacation, he wrote, he was sick in bed with a bad cold, unable to go out. Room service was supplying all his sustenance; he was bored and missed them. He still planned to attend his friend’s wedding the next day, but his ill health had definitely put a damper on the trip. He’d been thinking about their wedding. How were his girls doing?

“Behave yourselves,” he wrote, “at least until we can misbehave together.”

The front of the card showed the palatial Manila Hotel, host to heads of state and famous for exquisite luxury.
Leave it to Jack even to get sick in style,
Mercedes thought. For the tiniest instant she wondered what illicit delights room service in the Philippines might provide a wealthy American. She imagined him laid out on a bank of pillows, his nose red from blowing, his eyes puffy, his feet sticking out at the end of the bed. At least he was in a place where he could rest. She wondered what she would do if he were in San Francisco.

What was he like when he was sick?
In sickness and in health, until death us do part.
She envisioned him as he had been on the night of the holiday party, glorious in his tuxedo. Even though he had not felt well, no one discerned it. Her pulse lurched at the thought of his return on Christmas Eve. Then she saw Germaine studying her, and gave her daughter a hug.

“He’ll be home soon. He’s just tired and caught a bug. So let’s have a good supper, and you can read me your book report.”

S
HORTLY BEFORE LUNCH THE NEXT DAY,
Emerson sent his secretary, Lorraine, into the paralegal room to retrieve the documents that he presumed Mercedes had organized. Mercedes told Lorraine she would deliver them herself.

His office was next to Caroline’s, on the opposite side of the floor from Jack’s. Rarely had she been in it, but it was the brunt of many jokes. Every item on his desk had a designated position with precise coordinates. The tape dispenser, stapler, pencil holder, paper clips, and telephone were arranged exactly an inch apart along the edge of his desk. The game the staff played at his expense was to rearrange these objects when he was out for lunch. A prisoner of his obsessions, he corrected any minute deviation the moment he returned. A secretary or a file clerk would happen to pass by while he did it, and a few moments later snickering would erupt from the secretaries’ cubicles.

He sat primly in his big chair, nervously stroking his thin moustache, brooding intently, when Mercedes appeared in his doorway with an accordion file of documents. He jumped slightly and tried to assume a more commanding pose.

“Lorraine came to get these, but I thought I’d bring them to you,” she said confidently. “I wonder if you have a moment to talk.” She didn’t wait for a response, but flipped the door closed behind her and sat down across from him.

“I suppose,” he said dismissively.

She placed the documents in the center of his blotter. He corrected their position to parallel the blotter edges exactly.

“Just a couple of ideas,” she said. “I think there’s some kind of
code used in the reservation log for the suite. I’m not sure why, but maybe it was to let certain people on the staff know which of the managers would be there or what the plans were for that particular day. There are symbols on the reservation log we’re trying to figure out. We’ve started a chart and I’m hoping to decipher the pattern before Darrel and Stuart go to New York, or before you get much further with the outline.”

“Humph,” he sniffed, unimpressed.

“I just thought you’d like to know my suspicions, since you’re working on the prep with Darrel.”

“Got it.”

“And there’s something else,” she said, fingering her engagement ring. Emerson sat up even more stiffly.

“I hope Jack’s announcement of our engagement at the party didn’t make you uncomfortable. I saw you leave.”

He flushed and pursed his lips. “Why would I care about that?”

“I just wanted to be sure we hadn’t done anything to offend you,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to look him in the eye. “It was such a happy occasion, and we were sorry you left.”

“Did Jack say that?” he asked caustically.

“I’m sure I speak for both of us.”

He glared at her. “And I’m sure you haven’t a clue.”

“About what?”

“About Mr. Perfect Bridegroom-To-Be.” He gestured toward the door, flicking his fingers at her. “I have work to do, if you don’t mind.”

Mercedes searched his face for a long moment. At her leisure she stood up and went out, leaving the door open behind her.

T
HAT NIGHT A LETTER IN
a Manila Hotel envelope arrived in the mail, along with another picture postcard for Germaine. It showed the Manila marketplace, a crowded scene of vendors’ tables shaded by colorful awnings and palm trees. Filipino women with glossy blue-black hair carried children on their hips as they milled about tables piled high with mangos, coconuts, and vegetables that Germaine couldn’t identify. Everyone wore loose, short-sleeved clothes, and many children were barefoot.

The hotel stationery was heavy and embossed, and Jack’s bold script had been written with his blunt-tip fountain pen. He had attended the wedding, in spite of his health, and was effusive in his praise. Splendor had been on display in every detail. A seated dinner for more than four hundred guests had followed the service. He’d met all the family members of both the bride and groom and enjoyed all the pomp and ceremony, down to the horse-drawn carriage bedecked with flowers that carried the newlyweds from the church to the reception. But he had been forced to turn in early and hadn’t left his room since. He wished she’d been there with him, but was glad she was not being further exposed to whatever he had. His symptoms had moved into his lungs, and he was waiting to be seen by the house doctor.

It’s a shame this big gorgeous bed is going to waste, Bella. But it’s making me think about our honeymoon. Where shall we go? What about Tuscany? Have you been there? We could spend a few days in Florence. I love every inch of you!

Jack

She held the paper to her nose, trying to detect some scent of her beloved. Emerson’s comments stuck in her mind and pricked like nettles. Whatever he thought he knew was irrelevant. Mr. Perfect Bridegroom-To-Be was a prince. Emerson was the one who didn’t have a
clue. She folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope. Uneasily she wondered what the doctor would say. When Jack came home everything would be all right again. She was sure of it.

“Well, what did he say?” Germaine asked.

“He wants me to keep his seat warm at the gaming table,” she grinned at her bright child, “so his Scrabble partner isn’t too restless.” She smoothed Germaine’s hair and touched her chin. “Soon you’ll have a very nice stepfather.”

Germaine grinned. “I know!”