Flyin' Solo, page 8
He looked up. ‘How about if I order some pizza?’
‘Sure.’ I didn’t care. Not tonight. I probably would have forgotten supper if he hadn’t mentioned it.
He picked up a cell phone lying on the coffee table and hit a speed dial number. ‘Yeah, I need to order a pizza. OK.’ He waited. ‘No problem. Let’s see, give me a large pepperoni and mushrooms, tomatoes’ – he looked at me and raised his eyebrows in question – ‘anchovies?’ I nodded. ‘Yeah, anchovies,’ he continued. ‘No, thanks, I think that’s all.’ Another pause. ‘OK, sure. Thanks.’ He turned to me. ‘Forty-five minutes.’
Sam picked up a tool with a T-shaped handle, a metal rod and a plastic attachment. At the end of the plastic section was a slit, like an eye in a needle, only larger. He threaded a square of cotton through the slit then dipped it into a small, shallow black tray filled with a strong-smelling liquid.
‘How often do you do that?’ I asked.
‘Every time I use it, at least. I went to the shooting range this afternoon. If I haven’t shot, at least once a month. But I usually go to the range that often.’ He grinned. ‘Have to keep it clean.’
He picked up the steel tube from the newspaper and pushed the tool into it, rubbing the cloth all around inside the barrel of his Glock.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Cleaning solvent. It gets the gunpowder out. Gunpowder gets all over everything. And it loosens the lead particles from bullets that stick to the inside of the barrel.’ He unscrewed the plastic tip and picked up another attachment, a brush, long and thin, like a baby bottle brush but made of a wire that looked like copper. I watched while he ran the brush through the barrel, pushing it in one end, pulling it out the other, several times. Then, methodical and unhurried, he unscrewed the brush tip and replaced the plastic attachment and the handle. He threaded a clean piece of cotton into the eye and began to clean the barrel. Again and again, he dropped a soiled square of cloth onto the newspaper, threaded a clean one and repeated the task. Finally, when the cloth came out as clean as it went in, he held the barrel up, sighted through it and nodded.
‘What have you been up to today?’ he asked. ‘Any news on Young that wasn’t on TV?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’
He threaded another clean cloth and squeezed a drop of oil from a yellow-and-red can on the cloth that extended from each side of the eye. Outers Gun Oil, read the can. He swabbed the inside of the barrel again.
‘I have a cat.’
‘Oh, yeah? I thought you didn’t like cats.’
‘It’s not that I don’t like cats. I just didn’t want a cat. I didn’t want any pet.’
‘So why do you have a cat?’
Sam picked up a cloth from the solvent pile and wiped the trigger and slide area. He wiped again with a clean cloth and then with the oil cloth patch.
‘MaryNell decided I needed one. She brought me this kitten. Black and white, short hair.’
‘What’s its name?’ He was making conversation, but his focus was on his work.
‘I don’t know yet. I keep trying things out, but nothing seems to fit.’
He picked up a rag and wiped the barrel and the rest of the gun, then carefully reassembled it. He wiped the whole piece again and looked up at me.
‘That’s it. You do want to remember to keep the business end of the gun pointed away from you – or anybody else.’ He inserted a clip.
I nodded again.
‘You hope you never have to pull it out, but, when you do, you want to know it’s ready, that you can depend on it to work the way it’s supposed to.’
‘Be prepared,’ I said.
‘Yep.’ He put the gun into its holster and stood up to put it away in his gun safe. He came back, gathered up the soiled cloths and threw them away in the kitchen. He sat down again and packed his cleaning supplies into a wooden case fitted to hold the tins and tools and cloths. He carried the case to a cabinet and put it away. I watched as he went to the kitchen and washed his hands, scrubbing away the oil, and dried them on a paper towel. He came back, sat down beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder and rubbed my neck. ‘You OK?’
I nodded, but I tucked my face into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me. ‘So what happens when this guy does come back?’ he finally asked.
I shook my head against his shoulder. ‘Nothing. As far as I’m concerned. He goes home to his wife and family and buys lots of tickets from me to fly around the country making more millions.’
No one said anything for a long minute. Then the doorbell rang.
‘Pizza,’ Sam said as he stood. ‘You want to get us some Cokes? I think there’re some in the refrigerator.’
He came back into the room with a pizza as I set Cokes, plates and napkins down on the coffee table. He sat on the couch, and I settled on the floor across from him.
Sam reached for a slice of pizza, steam and anchovy scent rising from it, and took a bite. His eyes, solemn and watchful, met mine. I knew there was something he wasn’t saying. I was pretty sure it was about Fly, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want him to push it.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Catch any murderers today?’ So I changed the subject.
He smiled. ‘Not today. They’re still running around loose out there. Be careful.’
Then I started talking about the kitten, filling the empty space with words, and he let me. By the time we’d run out of pizza, I’d run out of small talk. I helped clean up the debris, and there was that moment.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I’d better go.’
He stood in front of me, not speaking immediately. ‘Is that what you want?’
Who knew what I wanted? That was the problem. ‘I should get back to the kitten. Strange place, he’s all alone.’
He nodded, not buying it but letting me off the hook. ‘Sure.’
‘Thanks for dinner.’
He smiled and nodded slowly. ‘Shoulda got out the candles, I guess. Next time.’
‘Next time,’ I agreed. Then I drove back home to Felix, feeling both better and worse than I had when I left.
TWENTY-FOUR
A couple of days later, on Saturday, I decided it was time to take the cat to the vet.
‘OK, Cheshire, it’s time for you to meet the vet.’ I called a vet I knew from church, and he worked me in. Just inside the door, Tabby and I found a sign with arrows pointing in opposite directions: dogs to the left, cats to the right. We went right.
The attendant at the counter greeted me with a clipboard and pen. ‘Just fill this out, please.’
I was juggling Blackie, the clipboard, my purse and a pen. I sat and tried to hold the cat with my left hand while I balanced the clipboard on my knees and wrote. I noticed that everyone else’s cat was in a pet carrier. I felt like the only mother who didn’t get the memo about the dress code on the first day of school. I was embarrassed for myself and for Puss ’n Boots, too. I tried to concentrate on the form.
My name, address, and phone number were no problem. Then we got to the hard stuff. Pet’s name. I decided to come back to that later. Birthdate? I counted back six weeks from the day MaryNell had brought him to me. Close enough. He’d never know the difference. Indoor, outdoor or combination? Insurance? Were they kidding? Person responsible for payment? I guessed that would be me. Most of the rest of the questions didn’t apply: previous vet, shots, diseases, allergies, general health history.
I went back to the pet’s name blank.
I looked at the kitten. He looked back and tried to lick my hand with that sandpaper tongue. I didn’t think I could tell the attendant that I hadn’t been able to name a kitten. Sandy. I whispered it to him to try it out. ‘Sandy?’ He turned his head to look at me. OK. Good enough. I wrote it with confidence and took the form and clipboard back to the counter.
It wasn’t long before a perky attendant opened a door beside the counter. ‘Sandy?’
I stood and carried Sandy.
‘Hello,’ she said brightly. ‘How are you, Sandy?’ Sandy didn’t answer. I wondered how many cats did.
The vet met us in the hallway and took Sandy from me. ‘How’ve ya’ll been doing?’ He glanced at the form. ‘Sandy eating OK? You feeding him dry or canned food?’
‘Dry. Is that OK?’
‘Sure. Either one’s OK as long as he’s eating.’ He weighed Sandy, took blood, felt his belly and legs, looked in his ears and mouth. ‘Looks good, no mites. Judy will set you up for his shots out front.’
From there we went to PetSmart where Sandy picked out a carrier, a scratching post, more food, a fountain that circulates water so it stays fresh, and a rubber mouse with space for catnip inside. ‘Only one toy,’ I told him. ‘We’re not going to get carried away.’
TWENTY-FIVE
On Monday morning, the Coast Guard called off the search. Marcella called and told me there was no reasonable hope that Fly had survived. ‘The ships that are expected to be in the area are being notified. Air traffic control will be notifying pilots. They’ll still be looking for him.’ No one experienced in marine search and rescue, though, expected any results. ‘We’re putting together a memorial service for later in the week. I’ll let you know the details.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And there are some people out who’ll need to get back into town for the service. We’ll need you to make arrangements for them when we know more.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just let me know. And just so you’ll know, I’ll be out of the office a couple of days next week. I have to go to the Bahamas to check out some arrangements for a group. Anyone here in the office can help you, though, if you need something while I’m gone.’
Marcella said she’d send out a company email.
I made sure I knew which HealthwaRx employees were out of town, reviewed their flight reservations and made sure I had their hotel phone numbers. It was all I could do.
I wondered how I would have felt about this if I hadn’t reconnected with Fly at the reunion. If I’d just seen this on the television news, not having seen Fly in twenty years. But I had, and he’d stirred up all this … this history. And now it was never going to be resolved. I’d never know who Fly had really grown up to be. And I’d never know how I felt about that person.
For the first time, I was glad I had a cat to go home to.
TWENTY-SIX
In Tuesday’s Tennessean, I saw the first hints that all might not be as it had seemed in the Youngs’ financial empires. The HealthwaRx initial public offering price had been twenty dollars a share, but the stock’s price had quickly climbed to seventy-five. I wished I had tried to get in on that. But now some major shareholders were questioning some of the company’s accounting practices. Fly had founded the company, and, with him gone, shareholders were far less confident. The remaining partners were too busy with damage control to grieve, and the man who’d been the company’s chief accountant since it was founded wasn’t there, either, since he’d been murdered on a Nashville street the day before my reunion. There was a photograph of the two partners, Al Evanston and George Madison, in a forced perspective in front of the sign marking the company’s headquarters.
‘Franklin was an essential part of this firm,’ Madison was quoted as saying. ‘There’s no question about that. And he always will be. His vision, his creativity, his model for understanding what the market needs – and delivering that – that’s what this company is all about.’
Evanston, according to the reporter, agreed. ‘I suppose it’s natural that shareholders would be concerned. As a publicly traded company, HealthwaRx doesn’t have a lot of history. It’s only been a few weeks. But we’ve been doing what we do for a long time. Franklin Young helped make this firm not just successful, but responsible. That’s not going to change.’
Both insisted that their first priority was to help Fly’s wife and children through these difficult days and ensure that HealthwaRx continued to grow.
I called Mark as soon as I’d read the story.
‘Thought I might hear from you,’ he said.
‘That’s a good thing, right?’
Mark laughed. ‘Sure. What’d ya need?’
‘I just wondered what’s the story behind the story.’
‘I don’t know much for sure, just that there are some rumors of missing cash.’
‘At HealthwaRx?’
‘Yes, and that’s the reason everybody’s trying to reassure shareholders. But Erika’s Lifestyle Balance, Inc., is privately held. And the word is, Erika’s upset that some liquid assets aren’t where she thought they were, like in the bank.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nobody knows. But it looks suspicious that your buddy Fly had access to the accounts, and he was leaving the country when he died.’
‘Leaving the country? He was sailing!’
‘People do leave the country in boats. What was so important about that trip that he had to sail out of Miami right into the path of a storm?’
‘You think he embezzled it?’
‘I don’t know what I think. But a lot of people are asking questions. And they’re starting to ask more questions about Patton’s death, the accountant, too.’
‘Mark! Fly was incredibly wealthy! What would be the point?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘You ever know anybody who had enough? Especially a rich man who had enough?’
I didn’t have an answer for Mark, but I didn’t want to believe the rumors. I couldn’t believe it was true.
Fly’s secretary, Marcella, called a little before lunchtime. ‘There’s going to be a memorial service Friday,’ she said. ‘Eleven o’clock, visitation beginning at ten.’ She named one of the larger churches in Belle Meade. ‘It’ll be a crush, so you’ll want to come early.’
‘I saw the article in the paper. How are things going?’
‘Pretty much what you’d imagine. It’s a zoo. No, there’s some control in a zoo. Everybody’s yelling at everybody else. We’re getting auditors in here. Erika’s calling or she’s having her assistants call. She’s planning this service to say what a great husband and father Franklin was, but if he were here right now, she’d kill him. Can you make arrangements to get everybody back here? You know who’s out of town?’
‘Yeah, I pulled together a list yesterday. I’ll get back to you this afternoon with the details.’
‘Great. We’re telling everyone who’s traveling to contact you, so you’ll probably start getting calls pretty quick.’
‘I don’t want you to say anything you shouldn’t, but what’s this I’m hearing about Erika’s company?’
‘I don’t know. Something about missing cash, lots of missing cash, and Franklin’s always been the CFO. I’ve worked for this man for fifteen years. I don’t believe a word of it. In fact, if I hadn’t seen the pictures of that storm, I’d swear Erika had a hand in all this somehow. I wouldn’t trust that woman as far as I could throw her surgically reconstructed hide. And I’m getting really tired of her calls insinuating her missing assets have been buying me lingerie.’
Fly and Marcella? One more thing I didn’t want to think about.
Marcella continued. Obviously, she needed to vent. ‘I’ve worked hard for that man, for this company, and he’s paid me a good salary, bonuses that let me know he appreciated the hours I put in. And I don’t like that woman talking to me as if … as if …’ She stopped, and I heard her take a deep breath. Silence.
‘Marcella? You OK?’ I heard something. A sob? Another deep breath.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just …’
‘Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine the strain you all are under.’ I thought she was crying. ‘Look, I’ll call you back when I have the reservations changed. And you let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.’ What else could I say?
‘Thanks, Campbell. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll talk to you later.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
I did manage to change the flight reservations for all the HealthwaRx employees who were out of town so they could be back in time for Fly’s memorial service.
There was a crowd at the service. I entered the church behind the mayor and several state legislators. I hadn’t intended to introduce myself to Erika Young. With this crowd of people who were her friends, power brokers and important business associates, my condolences would be meaningless to her. I didn’t expect she had ever heard my name. I was wrong.
As I entered the church I found myself in a line leading toward Erika and her children. A woman and two men stood near her, introducing her to each visitor – or reminding her of their names. At the far end of the line stood Mrs Young, Fly’s mother, and she was clearly devastated. As I drew nearer, I watched. It was a very efficient system and let Erika look gracious, helped her make each person feel valued.
I reached the woman beside Erika first. She wore an expensively cut, conservative dark suit, and her dark hair was cut neat and short. She began to introduce herself. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m Marcella Andrews, Mr Young’s secretary.’
‘Marcella! I’m glad to meet you face-to-face. I’m Campbell Hale.’
‘Campbell, of course. It’s good to meet you. Thanks for everything you’ve done this week. You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.’
‘I was glad to be able to help. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’
‘I will. Thank you. Have you met Al Evanston and George Madison?’ She turned toward the two men. ‘George, Al, this is Campbell Hale, our new travel agent. Campbell, George Madison and Al Evanston.’ I’d seen the two men on television, of course, and in newspaper photos, but they looked older than I had expected. The strain of the last couple of weeks was showing through the golf tans.
