The Ultimate Exit Strategy, page 11
I saw she saw me there. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?” Starr had neither wanted nor expected to see me in the doorway and her eyes flickered over to the telephone as an avenue of escape, but the lines had gone quiet. Starr frowned at the lost call and snatched at another Kleenex from the box on the edge of her desk to blow her nose, then she loaded an envelope into her laser printer.
I’d said I was wondering about the corporate apartment Winslow kept in the city. “How would I know?” Her fingers got busy typing an address into her keyboard. This was said with dim suspicion as I’d started to lie ineffectively. I had a friend, I said, who needed a place and I thought there might be a good deal on the sublease, lying so miserably; I’d even stopped listening to myself. “And I was just thinking if you could tell me if anyone else ever used it, besides Wes.” I’d hoped that my nervous friendly giggle would engender generous feelings in return, but it did not. “Because if you had the key I could maybe stop by the apartment to see if it’s what she’s looking for, you know.”
Starr looked as if she expected I’d gone crazy, but at least she wasn’t typing any longer. I seemed to have obtained her complete, if somewhat incredulous attention. I kept nodding in a way that I felt conveyed harmless curiosity, prodding gently that if she didn’t have the key maybe she could say who did.
“I don’t have it, all right?” Her fingers arched high above the keyboard again in an unbroken and professional rhythm. Then, as if she’d just that second grasped the point of my questions, they stopped mid-click. “Who did you say was asking about this?”
“Maybe the police.” I was hoping to threaten, but Starr just squinted her eyes back at me into insolent questioning little lines.
“I have work to do, Virginia,” she told me not bothering to look up again. “Probably, so do you.” I watched while she banged out a few final characters, then mouse clicked her document off to the printer and I went to find Ellen Borgia, who had said that she would give me a ride to Winslow’s memorial at one-thirty in Barrington. Attendance was apparently mandatory, as Madsen had chartered a bus for the secretaries.
XIII
There are solemn state funerals, public processionals past the open coffins of some beloved leader. There are lurid private affairs filled with children wailing and huge, broad brush theatrical grief. But Winslow’s funeral could best be described as a tasteful pageant of dark suits and tightly composed expressions.
What tears there were fell silently down the stony, white faces of his wife and very close relations. Little more than twelve years old, Wallace, the daughter, and Starr D’nofrio were the most distraught, but surprisingly, Ellen Borgia, had managed enough salt water to exhaust the pack of travel tissues I carried in my purse, explaining puffy-faced, “I talked to my lawyer yesterday. When they put that fucker in the ground they as good as buried most of our claims besides hostile environment.” The bad news was the feminist law firm of Owens, Babbitt and Coogan now suggested to Ellen that the settlement looked like a pretty good deal and Ellen was desolate enough that I made a mental note to cross her off Cassandra’s suspect list which was the good news I couldn’t tell her.
* * *
After a mercifully short post-service interval, we’d piled into a long caravan of cars, (the secretarial charter bus, a massive black funeral wreath attached to its front grill bringing up the rear), first to the cemetery, and then back to Winslow’s compound for a wake-like bit of ritual milling usually reserved for the family of the deceased.
What I was slowly beginning to understand was how genuinely August Madsen believed we employees were his family, placed somehow in his charge as our great white father, the way God had given Man responsibility over the lower forms of life. However odd or insulting it might have been to realize your employer considered you as very nearly chattel, it was stranger still to imagine the complexity of Madsen’s emotions around this little gathering of the firm, retrograde obligations of stewardship and human husbandry that in their undertaking proved he was better than the rest of us – a motley, little rag-tag group to baby-sit, the likes of whom neither he nor Wes ever even wanted to contemplate moving in next door.
Not much chance of that because Barrington was very toney, affectedly rural in its narrow quaint roads with names like Steeplechase Way, and Goose Lake Lane, as rustic as the streets I’d learned to drive on back in Blue River, small town America. In Barrington, though, the smell of manure was expensive, and the country lanes ended in the circular driveways of multi-million-dollar homes.
Winslow had lived down a long, gravel, tree-lined lane, a location particularly hard to find since Ellen and I had ditched the main funeral procession to stop for a post-cemetery cup of tea. By the time we’d arrived at the late Wesley Winslow’s impressive double, oaken front doors, Madsen had begun his oratory. The old man, Madsen, even at upwards of seventy years old, was still a formidable presence with a full thick head of white hair and wiry eyebrows. Raising both arms for quiet, then opening them in a great, magnanimous, brave-faced, stationary wave, Madsen announced: “We have lost a member of our Whytebread family, but we must all of us go on to the kind of success that Wesley had envisioned for this company.”
You could feel an excited vibration run through the crowd. The collective unspoken hope buried in this benediction was that Madsen, inspired by the turnout at Winslow’s funeral, had changed his mind and the Gold Rush deal would somehow continue on track, somehow money would still rain from heaven.
“We will fill the gap of leadership and we will succeed together.” Madsen was promising so sincerely that it seemed almost as if applause might have been in order. But then, of course, Wesley Winslow was dead, so perhaps applause was not quite the ticket. Most everybody, on turning over this dilemma of etiquette, decided on a general murmur of respectful assent.
Linda Tibbits, however, took a bold step – the wrong step – and as she began to clap, heads turned, first slowly, then en masse at the lonely hollow sound of her solitary faux pas.
August Madsen was unmistakably frowning, a great, big, daddy of a frown. We were all, the rest of us, just google-eyed staring. Then, clearly disoriented, maybe by sadness, likely by some unfortunate glitch in their ass-kissing instincts, Rupert Dean and Kyle Petit joined in the ill-fated ovation as if they imagined Linda just wasn’t clapping loudly enough to suit the old man’s taste. They started in, both of them, heartily as if he had just announced the bonus pool would be double this year, and August Madsen began to frown more deeply until, after a few very long moments, the applause sputtered out to sad intermittent pops.
Recognizing a problem, Rupert’s face dropped instantly into a picture which might well have been entitled: whoops. Rupert presently transitioned to a more fittingly somber expression of grief, and then, both he and Kyle turned together eyeing each other critically, as if to suggest that the other one had been solely responsible for the gaffe.
“We’ve lost an important member of our family.” Madsen began again, this time in a less stirring tone whose intended effect was unmistakable. “Whytebread will go on without Wesley Winslow, but that does not mean we won’t mourn him. We will mourn him and remember him together as a family.”
Madsen then turned and opened both doors with a vigorous pull. As we all filed into the house behind him, I noticed Justin’s red BMW pull in behind the bus.
From the hall I could see that Madsen had thoughtfully catered a cold cut buffet, which was simply laid out, almost picnic-style, on a table that could have seated twenty in a dining room entirely adequate for a ballroom dance competition. The food stood at the end of the short gauntlet of Winslows and Madsens blocking the table, which we negotiated one by one, shaking Trisha Winslow’s hand and saying something unoriginal, but well-considered, to convey how sorry we were for her loss, our loss as we had now been asked by Madsen to regard Winslow’s death.
Hands clasped decorously and quietly in front of her body, poised for a hug or to limply press a hand of the next person in line, it seemed since the Christmas party, Mrs. Winslow had acquired a kind of grace.
“Valium,” Ellen pronounced less discreetly than I would have liked. But through the long line, as I waited my turn to express condolences, there was time to watch the show of perfect widowhood and to be amazed that Trisha Winslow could graciously accept not just her husband’s tearful runny-nosed secretary Starr, but Camille and her daughter, as well, both of them weeping, and Elana looking so pregnant she might have burst. Mrs. Winslow offered her husband’s suspected teenaged mistress a warm embrace of presumed absolution.
I wasn’t the only one watching. Cassandra Hope was standing unaffected at the edge of this spectacle in a fabulous black crepe pants suit, doggedly taking notes while Trisha Winslow hugged Camille, and Allison Price, Herb Symon, and The Irishman, all of Winslow longtime colleagues, right down the line, calling them each flawlessly by name, the perfect corporate wife.
I could only imagine that in deference to his death she was trying to be what he had wanted. It was the funeral dance, too little too late – August Madsen’s speech about his Whytebread family, Trisha Winslow’s sudden conversion to silent dignity and composure, Camille Gutierrez’s effusive tears for a man who had knocked up her underage daughter and then demoted her for complaining about it. They were the fragile personal lies of revisionist history, vainly rewriting our memories of dead relationships, making them better than they were and us better in them when, conveniently, there is no one to contradict our version.
“Thank you for coming, Virginia,” Trisha Winslow’s eyes met mine for absolutely the correct number of seconds, and then dropped demurely, overwhelmed by the depth of her sadness. I waited at the sidelines, after she had released me, for Justin to move through the line, watching as Trisha clasped his hands, both of them. For him she had a special half smile of I don’t know what, a crack in the near perfect execution of her role.
I would have liked to know Justin’s thoughts on all of this, but Starr was on him seconds after he’d delivered his kiss to Trisha Winslow’s cheek. Before I could catch them, Starr had steered him over by the shrubbery that lined Winslow’s back patio for a little tête-à-tête. As they talked they stood close, but I had the sense as I watched that they were much further apart than the distance between them.
I looked away as Justin was touching her arm in a comforting gesture. Then, I’d gone to fight the buffet line alone, carrying off an enormous sandwich in which I had sampled a little of every kind of meat available plus two kinds of mustard, and retired to a quiet corner of the dining room which even with the milling fifty or so people didn’t seem quite full. The back wall of the house opened through a combination of French doors and freshly washed, picture windows onto a huge, gray slate patio and, beyond, to a rose garden.
It was quite a lawn. Not a single weed or blade of grass peeked through the sandy spaces between the patio stones. Invitingly in the distance there was the faint, peaceful blue of a small private lake.
I’d wanted to take my lunch and just wander off – far away from Whytebread and the rest of my life, but there, on the patio, I could see Cassandra Hope was blocking my way. Raising a hand to her ear, she pantomimed the telephone call she would make to me later. Then she was immediately gone, leaving me with Winslow’s million dollar view of the lake and the trees. I would have preferred to enjoy it alone, but Ellen Borgia seemed intent on conversation.
“Look at all those rose bushes.” She held a glass of red wine, a napkin and sandwich plate balanced God knew how, as she managed to give my elbow a friendly squeeze. “They say she doesn’t use manufactured chemicals. Starr said Wes made her hire extra gardeners to paint the rose leaves with nicotine to keep the aphids off – Trisha.” The name came out with a quiet reverence, Ellen talking the way people do about Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, celebrated widowhood having somehow conveyed a certain glamour that simple affluence had not.
I imagined Trisha Winslow would be spraying with Ortho insecticide now on the formidable rows of roses for aphids, and mildew and black spot.
“There’s eight acres or something like that – not of roses, but the whole estate,” Ellen told me.
“Quite a place.” I struggled, full-mouthed, with enunciation, “a dream house,” wiping away a dab of mustard from my upper lip with the back of my hand.
“Do you think so?” Ellen made a jerky gesture with her head towards the widow Winslow. “When we’re gone she’ll be dancing on the tables. When we’re gone the only ones who’ll still be crying are the old man and Winslow’s dog-faced little girl.” It seemed to me an ungraciousness assertion in the face of all that nice free food and I began to ask what she meant by that, but Ellen had walked away, melted into the crowd at the buffet.
Maybe she went straight out to her car. Maybe she went back through Madsen’s buffet line for seconds or even thirds, but in any case, Ellen didn’t wait around to drive me back to the city. I returned to Whytebread packed onto the secretarial bus where Camille Gutierrez explained at interminable length the parable of the prodigal son, in a way that I could only surmise was an invitation for me to find Jesus. Whatever Camille’s intentions, when I got back to my desk there was a completely unambiguous invitation to find Cassandra in the conference room.
XIV
“Just a second, Virginia.” Cassandra crossed the legs of her beautiful suit, as I took the seat kitty corner to her place at the head of the table.
I was admiring the blouse and the toned appearance of her forearms; the sleeves on her white silk blouse carefully rolled two turns, when the creak of the closing conference room door revealed the second cop. He was standing quiet as a deer by the console table, a hard-looking young, black man with a haircut that featured his scalp from nearly every angle and an air of frank appraisal that left me to wonder how obviously I had been admiring Cassandra.
For her part, she’d barely raised her eyes. “This is Officer Hamilton, Ms. Kelly.” The young cop made a silent noncommittal nod as he took a seat on Cassandra’s side of the table. “Well, then,” she turned a blank page in her open notebook asking Hamilton to get us some coffee as if we were seated in her offices rather than my own, “and some tea for Ms. Kelly.” He had apparently found the lunchroom or maybe Herb had shown them in a sudden fit of hospitality. “We’ll start when you come back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Officer Hamilton now discovered a voice.
“Would you like that?” She turned to me indulgently, barking at Hamilton as if she liked to lord it over him: “And see if you can’t find some herbal tea, will you?” Cassandra rose, pushing closed the conference room door, which he had left ajar.
“So, are you doing all right?” Cassandra asked when we were alone. She had shined on an enigmatic smile like high beams meant to blind and dazzle. Her hand made its way across the table to squeeze my arm, reassuringly. “You’re okay, Virginia?”
“You weren’t worried about that this morning.” I said.
“Relax. If it would make you feel better I’ll have a car keep an eye on your place, dear.” I thought that it might, and, that matter settled, Cassandra continued to stroke my wrist until young Hamilton returned. Then, somewhere in the serving of, and the thank yous for the tea, her hand made its way appropriately into her lap and Cassandra became all business again. “Can you tell us again how you found the lunchbox for the record?” She switched on a small tape recorder, affirming, as if we’d just become acquainted, that it would be all right to record our conversation.
In addition to the history of the lunchbox, Cassandra had a number of questions. “You said Mr. Winslow was sweating profusely before his collapse. Did Winslow collapse after Tom Zemluski was ejected from the meeting? Was this after Mr. Zemluski had threatened Winslow?” Annoyingly, she seemed not at all interested in the car that had been following me, the idea that Winslow’s lunch had been packed and poisoned by a mistress, or the information that the Fly Agaric is not usually fatal which I had unsuccessfully tried to work into the conversation. Just the same, for the better part of an hour, the tape recorder turned steadily on the table in front of me. I watch the box and Cassandra watched me, stopping occasionally to write what I was recounting.
Hamilton was taking notes too, quite faithfully as if he expected later to be tested on the material. I’d left some people I didn’t think really mattered out of our discussions, notably Ellen who it seemed to me wanted to sue Winslow more than anything else, and since you couldn’t sue a dead man, I couldn’t imagine that she’d killed him. I was holding onto Tom in my mind, but tenuously as he didn’t seem the poisoning type, more a blunt heavy instrument kind of guy. Just the same, I told Cassandra The Irishman had been lobbying against the merger and that he wanted us to pool our stock so we could blackmail Winslow into giving us some assurances we would all keep our jobs after the sale.
“And what did you say to that?” She glanced up at me when I answered as if she were making a determination on what I was telling her, and nodding noncommittally.
I’d told Tom: no – not in so many words but that had been the gist of it after the lunch bill was paid.
Cassandra kept nodding. “I have Whytebread’s phone list here.” She slipped a paper from the briefcase, which lay on the chair beside her, a premeditated move requiring not even a glance to locate the right paper, the right folder. “Maybe you could give me a little insight into the personalities involved.” Inexplicably I noticed the tape recorder had been switched off. “For example,” she posited laying the paper down flat on the table so that I could read it, “does Herb Symon dislike Justin Collier for being a homosexual?” Hitting me again with that challenging smile, the force of which struck me momentarily dumb.
Hamilton had taken up a very serious expression. Head down, he continued to write, although our conversation had come to a precipitous pause.
