A Perfect Life (25 page)

“Complicated, isn't it?”

CHAPTER 39

The remains of a room service omelette cooled on the small table where Cannonball Walker sat with legs crossed and fingers drumming. He'd placed a call to John Pastings, and the old banker was keeping him holding.

Canon would not hang up. He turned in his chair and looked out at the bright start of an unseasonably warm day. Soft green buds peppered the dark limbs of a willow oak on the street corner outside his window. Men in khakis and golf shirts, women in khakis and blazers, trotted up and down the steps of the gas company building across the street. “Business casual” had outfitted the world in khaki.

“Mr. Walker?”

Canon was caught by surprise after the long hold. “Uh. Yeah.”

John Pastings asked, “Have you decided to let our attorneys have a look at that power of attorney?”

“No. I don't expect that'd do much good, except maybe to let you drag things out. I called to ask you a question about Nancy Thomas.” He paused, but the old banker didn't speak. Canon wondered if it was his imagination that the fat man's breathing seemed to grow louder and more labored with the mention of Scott's mother. “You see, Mr. Pastings, I stopped by to see Nancy yesterday afternoon. It was a very informative visit.”

Pastings coughed. “You have to understand something, Mr. Walker. You—you've got to know after visiting Nancy . . .” Pastings stumbled, seemingly unable to weave words into a complete sentence.

“Are you okay, Mr. Pastings?”

“Scott didn't need to know about his mother.” The banker was almost yelling. He paused to get his voice under control. “Not with her in that condition. And I don't mean her scars. No. I'm talking about her mind, Mr. Walker. What would Scott be today if he'd grown up with a crazy mother who preferred . . .” His voice trailed off.

Cannonball finished the sentence for him. “Who preferred Bobby? Who preferred her crazy, burned-up son to her healthy one? Is that what you were gonna say?”

Labored breathing filled the earpiece. “You're down here to stir up trouble, and I'm not going to be a part of it. Tell Scott what you will, Mr. Walker, but I won't be made a part of it. My hands are clean. I've done everything I could to help . . .”

“Tell me about the embezzlement scheme, Mr. Pastings. What happened to make Robert Thomas set fire to his home with his family sleepin' inside?”

The line turned silent—not even Pastings's heavy breathing sounded against the hum of the connection. Either he was gone or he'd moved the mouthpiece away from his face.

“Mr. Pastings? You there?”

Seconds passed before Cannonball heard a soft
click
as Pastings placed his phone into its cradle.

The old bluesman sat and looked at the receiver in his hand. He dropped it back onto its base, and the phone rang almost immediately.

Cannon picked up the phone. “Mr. Pastings?”

“It's me. Scott. What's going on down there?”

Cannonball looked out again at the budding oak. “Still tryin' to get somethin' worth listenin' to out of John Pastings over at the bank. Findin' out some things. Ain't ready to put it all together yet.”

“But you're finding out enough to make it worth staying a few more days. Is that what you're saying?”

The old man ran a thickly veined hand across the tight salt-and-pepper curls on his scalp. “I guess that's about the size of it.”

“I'm coming South. Everything's leading us that way.”

“You comin' to Alabama?”

“No, no. To North Carolina. Kate Billings is there.”

Cannonball snorted. “That one's no good. Wears evil like angel's wings.”

Scott paused as Cannonball's picture of Kate formed in his mind. He said, “The cops may be looking for me. Dr. Reynolds—my boss at the hospital—got shot last night. I was there when he died.”

“Some folks get the stink of bad luck on 'em and can't get clean.” The old man sounded disgusted.

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Shit, Doc. Damn wonder I believe a word you're sayin'. Hell, me sayin' you're carryin' around the stink of bad luck may be about the nicest thing anybody could say about you right now. It's either that or you're the most evil sonofabitch I ever run across.”

“You don't believe me?”

“If I didn't, I wouldn't be down here puttin' up with all the shit I'm puttin' up with from John Pastings to try to help you out. No, Doc. We're just callin' a spade a spade, here. You're an unlucky sonofabitch.”

Seconds passed. Finally, Scott said, “I don't believe in bad luck.”

“That's too bad, boy, 'cause it sure as hell believes in you.”

“What's got you so riled up, Cannonball? Is there something you're not telling me?”

The old man looked out his window some more. He changed the subject. “How you gettin' to Carolina with the cops after you?”

“I'm not sure. Fly, I guess. We need to get there as fast as possible.”

“Doc.” The old bluesman dropped his head and rubbed hard at his scalp. “Fast and right ain't the same thing. Fast and good ain't, either.”

“Yeah, but somebody needs to tell Charles Hunter that he's employing a maniac. Kate has already—”

The old man interrupted. “She already showed she'll do anything to get next to Hunter. I don't think we gotta worry Charles Hunter until Kate is in his will.” Cannonball chuckled. “She might be tryin' to screw him to death. But other than that . . .” His voice trailed off. “Now, listen to me.” He paused. “Who's with you? Who is this ‘we' you're talkin' about?”

“A woman from the hospital. Her name's Natalie Friedman. She helped me tie Kate Billings to Dr. Reynolds. She's . . . she's helped a lot.”

The old man leaned back against the bed pillows. “You thinkin' with your dick again, Doc? Your track record with women ain't exactly awe-inspirin'. If you'll remember, you thought Kate Billings was helpin' you, too.”

“I appreciate what you're doing for me down there, Cannonball. But—”

“But mind my own fuckin' business.”

“Basically.”

“Okay, okay. Didn't mean to offend.” Both men let some time pass. “Get back to how you're plannin' to travel. For what it's worth, I don't believe I'd be buyin' an airline ticket with the cops lookin' for me.” He paused to think. “Tell you what. Grab a train to New York. Get a cab to the Madison Hotel on Central Park. There's a garage two blocks behind the hotel. My car is there. I know the owner. He'll know you're comin'.”

Scott sighed. “You want me to take your car?”

“What I want . . .” The old man stopped to sigh now himself. “What I want is for you to slow the hell down and
think
. Drive down the coast. Talk things over with your woman friend. Stop along the way and get some rest, get some pussy. But mostly just take the time to fuckin'
think
. Folks might stop droppin' dead all around you if you stopped and used that big brain you're supposed to have before you jumped in every pile of shit you come across.” Cannonball paused. “You can consider not gettin' your ass arrested at the Boston airport as an added benefit. And,” he said, “my thirty-eight's in the glove compartment of the car.”

“I don't want it.”

“Yeah.” The old man sounded tired. “But you might need it.”

Scott pushed the
END
button on Natalie's cell phone just as she walked out of the motel bathroom. She smiled. “You get him?”

“I got him.”

She crossed the brown shag rug and sat on the rumpled bed next to Scott. Her hair was damp and smelled of shampoo. She wore a white towel, tucked in at her cleavage. “You look pitiful. What'd he say?”

Without thought, Scott reached over and rested his hand on the smooth skin of her thigh. “Let's see. I've got the
stink
of bad luck on me, I think with my dick, and I need to stop and think instead of jumping in every pile of shit I see.” He nodded at the rug. “I think that's about it.”

Natalie laughed; then she leaned over to kiss him lightly on the lips before standing. “Sounds like a good friend.” She smiled at Scott's discomfort. “Any advice?”

“He said not to fly. Cannonball's car is in New York. He strongly suggested we drive down if we don't want to get arrested.”

“Really?” Natalie picked up an overnight bag and walked back toward the bathroom. “I can't wait to meet this guy.”

Sarah Hunter climbed onto the deck of the Boston Whaler and turned to wave to Kate. The boat putted away, hauling five island kids to school on the mainland. As the captain pointed his boat away from the morning sun, the little girl ran to the transom and called out. “Kate? Kate!”

Kate waved again.

“Daddy's coming home.” The child's face glowed.

Her nanny smiled and flashed a thumbs-up before turning to walk away. She had work to do. The homecoming had to be perfect. Kate was glad that Sarah had piloted her little sailboat without incident—that she, the loving nanny, hadn't had reason to call Charles in Boston with news of his daughter's accident. It was better this way, really. Too much tragedy too soon could have sent Charles Hunter spiraling down into insanity or drunkenness. Neither of which would do anyone any good. Neither of which, she thought, would do
me
any good.

She climbed into Charles's ragtop Jeep and cranked the engine.

The day moved slowly back inside the spotless house. Groceries from the mainland were delivered late morning. Kate prepared a marinade for the tenderloin of lamb, placing the spices in a straight line at the top of her cutting board before starting, washing each bowl and utensil as she used it. The tenderloin went into sealed Tupperware with the marinade, the Tupperware into the fridge.

Too early to start cutting vegetables, she opted instead to carefully wash the asparagus and broccolini, the Portobello mushrooms and baby carrots. Each stalk scrubbed under running water, the underside of each mushroom cap washed until the water ran clear, and then each piece set in a stainless colander to drain before joining its brethren in Ziploc bags. At exactly 2:00
P
.
M
., Kate mixed yeast dough for homemade rolls. Precisely fifteen minutes later, she placed the dough in an opaque glass bowl, covered the bowl with a damp cloth, and put the bowl on a cleared shelf in the laundry room where the afternoon sun always warmed the air.

The dough would have exactly two hours to rise.

Kate went to her room to bathe. She went to prepare.

Dinner was a celebration. Charles sat at the head of the table as Kate covered the linen cloth with platters of grilled tenderloin, vegetables sauteed in olive oil, fresh carrots and tomatoes. She returned with a large basket of yeast rolls—Charles's favorite thing in the world, according to his daughter—and set the basket at Charles's elbow.

As Kate brought out the food, Sarah set the table with silver and napkins. Charles laughed and drank scotch and asked Sarah about school and friends. He was on his third drink since walking in the door an hour before. Kate noticed and brought out a bottle of Saintsbury Pinot Noir.

Charles smiled and held up his tumbler. “I'll just stick with this, but you go ahead with the wine.”

“No way.” She wanted him drunk, but not too drunk. Kate leaned down in front of Charles and changed her voice to imitate a carnival hypnotist. “Look deep into my eyes.” When she stood back up, Kate whisked away his tumbler of scotch.

Sarah laughed at the trick.

Charles colored a little. “Now hold on here.”

“No way. I worked on this homecoming meal all afternoon, and that's a great bottle of wine. We're going to do things right tonight.” Kate turned to Sarah. “Right, Sarah?”

Sarah nodded her head. “Right!”

Charles raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

Kate quickly took the tumbler to the kitchen. When she returned, she made a show of tickling Sarah as she guided the child to her chair. Sarah squealed with happiness. Her father was home, and, finally, she seemed to have won over Kate. Her father had instructed her to “build a relationship” with her new nanny. Now it was happening. All the quiet times when her father was away, all the awkward dinners with just her and Kate, were in the past.

This was their life now. Her father would always be there; Kate would make gourmet meals and tickle her and play jokes; nothing else bad would happen.

As Kate took her seat opposite Charles, Sarah said, “This is just perfect, isn't it, Daddy?”

“You know, Sarah, I believe it is.”

Kate smiled as she picked up a platter and speared a helping of grilled lamb.

Dinner lasted over an hour, then Charles and Sarah went for a walk on the beach while Kate cleared the dishes and stored leftovers. She made quick work of it and headed for her room to change into a nightgown and robe. By the time father and daughter returned, Kate had arranged herself on the living room sofa—a glass of wine in one hand and a magazine in the other.

“You two have a nice walk?”

Charles held up his cast. He blushed a little at the thought of breaking his foot while drop-kicking the urn containing his wife's ashes out to sea. Kate was, after all, the only living being who knew what had happened. “I wouldn't exactly call it a walk. More of a
sit
in the sand. But we did have a good time.” He looked down at Sarah. “Didn't we, monkey britches?”

Sarah gave him a look. “Stop calling me that.”

He winked at Kate. “Wow. I can't believe you've gotten all that cleaned up already.”

Sarah examined Kate's robe. “And she's already ready for bed, too. Are you tired from cooking, Kate?”

The nanny smiled. “No, I'm not tired. Just wanted to get comfortable and do some reading. But, speaking of tired”—Kate glanced at her watch—“you've got about thirty more minutes before bedtime. I'm afraid it's time for a bath.”

“I'm celebrating with Daddy.”

Charles laughed. “Nice try. Hit the showers, monkey britches.”

Sarah stomped out, making a show of feigned anger, and he laughed appreciatively. He walked to the bar to pour a drink. “You two seem to be getting along.”

“I think we are. It took a while but I think we're going to be friends.”

“Good. I'm going out on the patio. Call me when Sarah's ready to be tucked in.”