“That’s your doing. You keep threatening me.”
“You know what comes next, don’t you?”
She didn’t bother replying; he was going to tell her anyway—probably something to do with broken legs after a personal visit by wide-shouldered thugs bearing tire irons. “Look, I’m doing the best I can. I will get you the money!” Westen flung the phone across the room. It struck a picture of her husband and son hanging on the wall. The glass shattered. The picture tilted and, in slow motion, thunked to the floor. She went to pick it up, sank to the carpet, clutched the photo to her chest and lowered her forehead onto the warped frame. “How could you do this to me?”
A hand touched her shoulder. Westen erupted to her feet, bumping into whoever had come in. She expected Grady. It was the snake-lady.
“There are laws against them doing stuff like that,” the woman said.
“What?”
Snake-lady pointed at the phone, whose dial tone had begun screeching. She picked up the phone and set it back on the charging base, then went to work plucking the broken bits of glass from the carpet. When the woman was satisfied all the pieces had been cleared, she dumped them in the trashcan beside the desk.
Westen realized she was still holding the picture. She laid it on the desk. “Sorry for the outburst. I’m not usually a crying kind of person.”
“Couldn’t prove it by me.” She grinned. “I mean it. There
are
laws against them harassing and threatening like that. You need to report it.”
“I can handle them.”
“Then why the tears?”
“It’s nothing.” Westen shook off the emotion to bypass the embarrassment of being caught moping. “What can I do for you?”
“Wanted to let you know I’m buying the corn snake.”
“That’s nice. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
At the same moment, they realized her choice of wording and broke into laughter.
“I understand corn snakes make good pets,” Westen said. “You know what escape artists they are though, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I mention it because it makes them a lot more work.”
“Believe me, he’ll be a lot easier to care for than a man.”
“I don’t doubt that a bit. Just an FYI, the snake is a female.”
“Smashing. Just smashing. Oh, almost forgot, the real reason I barged in. Your clerk needs help with the credit card machine.”
The two women strode to the front of the store where Westen cleared up Grady’s internet troubles. She typed in the information. The woman’s name was Phoebe Smith. She did indeed live a few blocks away. Westen wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood. She herself lived on the other side of town.
The snake reposed in a travel cage on the counter. Westen picked up the handle and passed it to the woman. “Here you go, Mrs. Smith. Er, Phoebe.”
“Not Phoebe. Not Miss. Not Mrs. It’s Smith. Never call me Phoebe. Ever. Just Smith.”
“Gotcha.” Funny being so emphatic. It wasn’t like they’d ever see each other again.
Smith reached for the carrier. “Remember what I said.”
Westen nodded. “I still want to know what you do to train them.”
“I think, one of these days you’re going to find out.” With that Smith was out the door.
For several moments Westen stood there. Cars log-jammed on Hazen Drive out front. She and Grady often joked that someone could come in and buy a houseful of new pets and still get back to their car before traffic moved along. People passed on the sidewalk. A tall man wearing a black overcoat stopped to peer in the window at the hodgepodge of puppies in the pen. He looked up. Their eyes met. He smiled. Westen spun away, sure the grinning face belonged to the man from a collection agency.
“Grady, we have to discuss your frequent tardiness.”
He shuffled from behind the cash register and picked up a sweeper. “I know. The baby was up all night. I overslept. I could say it won’t happen again...”
“Don’t bother.”
“Did you forget about that meeting?” Grady asked.
She barely had time to squeeze out the word “meeting?” when she realized she was supposed to see her insurance agent at ten. She whirled and raced to the office for a jacket—a nice, timeless, camel-colored wool blend—that wouldn’t turn heads in public. Not like the one worn by the snake-lady.
Chapter Three
Westen turned left out the door and speed-walked—not easy to do in two-inch heels—to the coffee shop where she was to meet Kendra Jean Valentine. KJ—she despised the name Kendra Jean—was an agent for NH Property and Casualty Insurance, the underwriters not only for Hughes Pets but Westen’s home and car. As far as Westen was concerned, the job was a big come-down for KJ. Back in school, KJ always boasted she’d make the big screen. Often compared herself to up and coming actress Cameron Diaz. At the time, Westen had no doubt she’d make it. She achieved everything she set out to do—football star’s girlfriend, lead cheerleader, valedictorian and homecoming queen—all things she stole from Westen.
That was the past though, right?
Everyone always said to bury the hatchet, but they never said where.
KJ was seated in the red plaid booth, emerald suit jacket heaved over the back of the cushion. Her long, fire engine red hair literally glimmered in the late May sunlight. Perfect. Always perfect. From the looks of the half-empty mug in front of her, Westen was late. She hated being late. She hated people who were late. When they were late too often, she considered firing them.
Westen slid into the booth. Immediately the waitress arrived, as if trying to move them along asap. Didn’t seem like it could matter, there was only one other customer in the place. “I’ll have a coffee, please.” The waitress scurried away.
That’s when she realized that KJ’s normally perfect demeanor was anything but. Her hair was mussed; like she’d slept in it. Her makeup was a disaster: mascara raccoonish. The woman looked like she’d been on a bender. A wad of napkin was clutched in her left hand.
“Good morning. How’re you?” KJ asked.
Though the greeting was merely a platitude, Westen said, “Clearly, better than you are. Have you been crying?” She waved off her words. “Sorry, that’s the mother in me. It’s none of my business.”
With a red lacquered fingernail, KJ flicked the edge of the manila folder, the name Benjamin Richard Hughes/Hughes Pets on the tab in blue magic marker. Flick flick flick.
Westen wanted to squeeze the fingers quiet. What on earth was wrong with Kendra Jean? What did she have to be nervous about? Westen was the one whose life was on the chopping block. Best to get this over with. “You have some papers for me to sign?”
KJ stopped flicking long enough to spin the folder on the table and open the cover. Topmost were insurance papers for the pet shop. Westen was pretty sure they were all in order; she had paid the policy last week. KJ moved them aside.
Next was her homeowners’ policy. All in order. Next came minor policies for jewelry, the car, and the boat that both Bens loved so much—talk about bundling!
Westen waited with her breath caught someplace between esophagus and throat, for the papers that had drawn both of them to this time and place. Ben’s life insurance.
“I hate having to do this,” KJ said.
“It’s okay.” Westen hid clenched, trembling hands under the table. “It’s been two months since Ben and Ben junior died. I’ve come to terms with it.” Sort of.
“That’s not what I mean.”
KJ hesitated as if she wanted to say more, then closed her mouth, separated the sheaf of papers from the others, held it by the stapled corner and flipped to the last page where huge red capital letters nearly made Westen throw up on the table. CANCELLED.
There was a period of dead silence where not even the passing cars made a sound. A million or so emotions shot through her, from abandonment to outright hatred. Westen leaped from the seat and sprinted for the washroom, thankful she’d left her heels under the table. She didn’t breathe till she was facing herself in the fingerprinted mirror over the sink where the water pinged relentlessly into the bowl.
No life insurance. Zero, nada, zilch, naught—big f-ing goose egg.
She’d been counting on the money to bail out the shop she’d inherited when Ben died. To pay the house’s mortgage. To make the car payment. What on earth happened? Why had Ben cancelled the policy? He’d always been the frugal one. Always thought twice before buying something not completely necessary. Always been careful. Her knees buckled. To keep from falling on her ass, Westen leaned her head against the mirror and gripped the edges of the sink.
So far, today was the king of all days. The day when the bejeweled crown turned out to be filled with paste, its gold flaking off with each wisp of breeze. What was left when it all blew away? The outline, a skeleton of the old crown. Westen scrunched her eyes shut, took in a long breath, counted to ten, then let it out. When all the air had expelled from her lungs, she opened her eyes. Darn. Nothing had changed.
So, what
was
left after the crown fell apart? A skeleton.
What was a skeleton but a framework? A framework on which to shape a new crown. A bigger and better one.
And that’s what she had—the shop. Her crown. In disrepair and fading fast, but a shop nonetheless. A skeleton from which to build a new and better one. Westen straightened up feeling like the six million dollar man: better, stronger, faster. She could make the shop work. She
would
make it work.
Now all she had to do was face KJ. Her old nemesis was probably sitting out there gloating like crazy—hiding a smirk behind a red lacquered fingernail. Yes, one more thing she took from poor little Westen. Well, the heck with her. The heck with the creditors. The heck with all of them.
She braced herself for KJ’s crocodile tears—oh, so sorry this happened, I warned him not to cancel it, I knew something bad would happen—and made her way back to the table, catching her pantyhose on a nick in the floor and tearing out the whole foot. Westen looked down and laughed, really laughed. Phoebe Smith would be proud of the way she literally threw back her head and guffawed.
She slipped into the booth, the coffee no longer steaming, but she took a long drink anyway. After that, Westen finally was able to make eye contact with the oh-so-perfect KJ. But KJ’s head was resting on the table, cushioned by her arms clad in a long sleeved silk blouse. Her shoulders were shaking. KJ was crying. Sheesh, more tears. What had happened to the women of the town lately; had someone siphoned a load of bad water into the reservoir?
Westen swiped a hand across her face. “KJ, are you all right?”
The red head lifted. The blue eyes blinked. “Oh, you’re back.” She sat up straight, dabbing a napkin in her eyes.
“When did Ben cash in the policy?”
“About eight months ago. Look Westen, I’m really sorry about all this. I told him—”
Westen waved the sincere-sounding apology away. “Ben wasn’t a good listener. Besides, whoever would’ve guessed a drunk driver would kill him before he reached forty?” She gave as nonchalant a shrug as she could, hoping her own tears wouldn’t spew forth. “These things happen.” Westen put her hand on KJ’s arm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
At first KJ shook her head. Then she seemed to come to a decision. The lips that at one time matched the red fingernails, opened and, once the words started coming, they spilled out like kids’ building blocks. The words gushed so fast Westen wished she’d taken a speed-listening class. “It was all my idea. And, now that it’s screwed up, it’s all my fault.”
Couldn’t be, she was just too perfect.
Tears came now, almost as fast as the words. “Oh God, I’ll lose my job, and Brett will leave me.”
Brett? She was married again? How many times was that?
“How was I supposed to know it’d be stolen?” KJ whined.
Stolen? Things were getting juicier by the minute.
“How will I ever pay the money back?”
Money? How much?
As if hearing Westen’s thoughts, KJ replied, “Only the biggest policy the company’s ever written. A hundred million.”
Like, a one with eight zeros? Man! Made her debts look like teardrops. What was with the references to tears today?
“Oh God, they’re going to kill me, I—”
“KJ, stop.” She did. “Take a breath.” She did. “Now another. I want you to slow down and start at the beginning. Tell me what happened and why you think the problem—whatever it is—is your fault.”
“It is my fault.” KJ took a breath, this time without being told. “I came up with this idea to encourage people to better enjoy the arts. All the arts: paintings, sculptures, etcetera. I thought if people could see them up close and personal... Well, I convinced the New Hampshire Center for the Arts what a great idea it was. They gave me space to set up a special showing of local artists to be displayed among the famous ones. I was even able to borrow a Picasso from the Art Institute of Chicago.”
Westen finally saw where this was going.
“Because the painting’s valued around a hundred million, I had to convince three other companies to go in with NH Property and Casualty.”
“Let me speed this up a little,” Westen said. “The painting was stolen and you’re on the hook for the entire payout to the insurance companies.”
“That’s pretty much the gist of it.”
Westen wondered what kind of threats the collection agency would use when she defaulted on
those
payments.
“Any idea what’s going to happen for real? Did management come down on you yet?”
“Not yet. The theft only happened yesterday. That’s why I couldn’t meet you last week, I’ve been in Chicago arranging this transport.”
“In light of the results, I guess it didn’t matter when we met, did it?”
“I guess not. I’m really sorry.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“Would you like any more coffee? Or hot chocolate?” intruded a female voice. Both women gazed at the waitress as though she’d just stepped off a spaceship.
“Uh, sure,” Westen answered for both of them.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” came another voice.
Westen turned to see snake-lady Phoebe Smith standing beside the table. She had on a different jacket. This one was purple with diagonal yellow stripes.