"And then some," Mary Andrea said, under her breath. She considered putting on a show of being jealous, to discourage the woman from further elaboration.
But Katie caught her off guard by asking: "Aren't you glad he's alive? You don't look all that thrilled."
"I'm ... I guess I'm still in shock."
Katie seemed doubtful.
Mary Andrea said, "If I weren't so damn mad at him, yes, I'd be glad." Which possibly was true. Mary Andrea knew her peevishness didn't fit the circumstances, but young Katie couldn't know what the Krome marriage was, or had become. And as good a performer as Mary Andrea was, she wasn't sure how an ex-widow ought to act. She'd never met one.
Katie said, "Don't be mad. Tom didn't set you up. What happened was my husband's fault – and mine, too, for sleeping with Tom. See, that's why Arthur had the house torched – "
"Whoa. Who's Arthur?"
"My husband. I told you about him. It's a mess, I know," said Katie, "but you've got to understand that Tommy didn't arrange this. He had no clue. When it happened he was out of town, working on an article for the paper. That's when Art sent a man to the house – "
"OK, time out!" Mary Andrea, making a T with her hands. "Is this why your husband's going to jail?"
"That's right."
"My God."
"I'm so glad you believe me."
"Oh, I'm not sure I do," said Mary Andrea. "But it's quite a story, Katie. And if you didcook it up all by yourself, then you should think about a career in show business. Seriously."
They were thirty minutes outside Grange before Katherine Battenkill spoke again.
"I've come to believe that everything happens for a reason, Mrs. Krome. There's no coincidence or chance or luck. Everything that happens is meant to guide us. For example: Tom. If I hadn't made love thirteen times with Tom, I would never have seen Arthur for what he truly is. And likewise he'd never have burned down that house, and you wouldn't be here with me right now, riding to Grange to see your husband."
For once Mary Andrea was unable to modulate her reaction. "Thirteen times in two weeks?"
Thinking: That breaks ourold record.
"But that's counting oral relations, too." Katie, attempting to soften the impact. She rolled down the window. Cool air streamed through the car. "I don't know about you, but I'm dying for a cheeseburger."
"Well, I'm dying to speak to Mr. Tom Krome."
"It won't be long now," Katie said lightly. "But we do need to make a couple of stops. One for gas."
"And what else?"
"Something special. You'll see."
29
On the morning of December 6, Clara Markham drove to her real estate office to nail down a buyer for the property known as Simmons Wood. Waiting in the parking lot was Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. As Clara Markham unlocked the front door, JoLayne Lucks strolled up – jeans, sweatshirt, peach-tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap. She'd done her nails in glossy tangerine.
The dapper Squires looked uneasy; he shifted his eelskin briefcase from one fist to the other. Clara Markham made the introductions and started a pot of coffee.
She said, "So how was your trip, Jo? Where'd you go?"
"Camping."
"In all that weather!"
"Listen, hon, it kept the bugs away." JoLayne moved quickly to change the subject. "How's my pal Kenny? How's the diet coming?"
"We've lost two pounds! I switched him to dry food, like you suggested." Clara Markham reported this proudly. She handed a cup of coffee to Bernard Squires, who thanked her in a reserved tone.
The real estate broker explained: "Kenny's my Persian blue. Jo works at the vet."
"Oh. My sister has a Siamese," said Squires, exclusively out of politeness.
JoLayne Lucks whipped off her sunglasses and zapped him with a smile. He could scarcely mask his annoyance. Thiswas his competition for a $3 million piece of commercial property – a black woman with orange fingernails who works at an animal hospital!
Clara Markham settled behind her desk, uncluttered and immaculate. JoLayne Lucks and Bernard Squires positioned themselves in straight-backed chairs, almost side by side. They set their coffee cups on cork-lined coasters.
"Shall we begin?" said Clara.
Without preamble Squires opened the briefcase across his lap, and handed to the real estate broker a sheaf of legal-sized papers. Clara skimmed the cover sheet.
For JoLayne's benefit she said, "The union's offer is three million even with twenty-five percent down. Mr. Squires already delivered a good-faith cash deposit, which we put in escrow."
They jacked up the stakes, JoLayne brooded. Bastards.
"Jo?"
"I'll offer three point one," she said, "and thirty percent up front." She'd been to the bank early. Tom Krome was right – a young vice president in designer suspenders had airily offered an open line of credit to cover any shortfall on the Simmons Wood down payment.
Squires said, "Ms. Markham, I'm not accustomed to this ... informality. Purchase proposals on a tract this size are usually put into writing."
"We're a small town, Bernard. And you're the one who's in the big hurry." Clara, with a saccharine smile.
"It's my clients, you see."
"Certainly."
JoLayne Lucks was determined not to be intimidated. "Clara knows my word is good, Mr. Squires. Don't you think things will move quicker this way, all three of us together?"
Disdain flicked across the investment manager's face. "All right, quicker it is. We'll jump to 3.25 million."
Clara Markham shifted slightly. "Don't you need to call your people in Chicago?"
"That's not necessary," Squires replied with an icy pleasantness.
"Three three," JoLayne said.
Squires closed the briefcase soundlessly. "This can go on for as long as you wish, Miss Lucks. The pension fund has given me tremendous latitude."
"Three point four." JoLayne slipped from worried to scared. The man was a shark; this was his job.
"Three five," Bernard Squires shot back. Now it was his turn to smile.
The girl was caving fast. What was I so worried about? he wondered. It's this creepy little hole of a town – I let it get to me.
He said, "You see, the union has come to rely upon my judgment in these matters. Real estate development, and so forth. They leave the negotiations to me. And the value of a parcel like this is defined hy the market on any given day. Today the market happens to be, quite frankly, pretty good."
JoLayne glanced at her friend Clara, who appeared commendably unexcited by the bidding or the rising trajectory of her commission. What wasevident in Clara's soft hazel eyes was sympathy.
Gloomily JoLayne thought: If only the lottery paid the jackpots in one lump sum, I could afford to buy Simmons Wood outright. I could match Squires dollar for dollar until the sweat trickled down his pink midwestern cheeks.
"Excuse me, Clara, may I – "
"Three point seven!" Bernard Squires piped, from reflex.
" – borrow your phone?"
Clara Markham pretended not to have heard Squires. As she slid the telephone toward JoLayne, it rang. Clara simultaneously lifted the receiver and twirled her chair, so she could not be seen. Her voice dropped to a murmur.
JoLayne snuck a glance at Bernard Squires, who was flicking invisible dust off his briefcase. They both looked up inquisitively when they heard Clara Markham say: "No problem. Send him in."
She hung up and swiveled to face them. "I'm afraid this is rather important," she said.
Bernard Squires frowned. "Not another bidder?"
"Oh my, no." The real estate agent chuckled.