Amy reached down and grabbed him as she hurried to the yellow wall phone in the kitchen.
“Hello,” Amy said somewhat breathlessly.
“Amy? This is Hugh Wylie.”
“Oh, hello Hugh.”
Hugh ran Flower Fashions downtown. Whenever she had to send flowers, she let Hugh handle her order. He had good taste and his prices were reasonable.
Chaucer seized the moment, nuzzling the speaking end of the phone with his pink nose, then meowing.
“I’ve got a cat here who apparently wants to say hello to you.”
“Hello, Chaucer. How’re you doing today?”
That was another thing about Hugh. He was one of those merchants who managed to remember everything. Customers appreciated it.
“I guess he’s decided to be quiet for a while,” Amy said, then gave Chaucer a little kiss on the forehead.
“First of all, Amy, congratulations on winning that case today,”
“Well, thank you.”
“It’s time somebody stood up to Sampson.” He paused. “Maybe the old days when the country club ran the town are on the way out.”
“We can hope.”
Hugh paused.
“I’m actually calling you about your brother Richie.”
The moment she heard Richie’s name, her heart rate quickened and she could feel her palms dampen.
Ever since high school, when she’d had to be both sister and parent to Richie, people had been calling her with “Richie” messages.
Seems like Richie got into a little car wreck.
Seems like Richie had himself a minor scrape in a tavern tonight.
Seems like Richie got my daughter pregnant.
One problem after another. Every one of which Amy inevitably got herself involved in.
It got so that Richie just automatically turned his failures and grief over to her, as if she were a secretary who was an expert at handling delicate situations for her boss.
She’d hoped that his last stay in the detox clinic would change all that.
But things hadn’t changed.
She thought of how he’d smelled just a short time ago. Middle of the day and he’d reeked of whiskey.
And now she was getting another “Richie” call.
“Did something happen?” she said.
“Oh, no, nothing like that, Amy. I just wanted to make sure that it was all right if he put things on your charge account here.”
What else could she say? “Oh, sure, Hugh. That’s fine.”
“Oh, good. I just got back in the store and Ida said that Richie had called and ordered a dozen yellow roses sent out and to put them on your account.”
Was he sending her roses because she’d won the case today? She’d be happy to get a thoughtful gift from him, even if she had to pay for it herself.
“Who’d he send the flowers to?” she said. “I’m just curious.”
“Let me check the slip. Just a second.”
While she waited for Hugh to return, she let Chaucer clean her face for her.
Chaucer was an expert at face cleaning. With that long pink tongue of his, he could handle almost any job.
She smiled ticklishly at the feel of his rough-surfaced tongue dragging across her cheek.
Then Hugh was back.
“Let’s see. Oh. The Fullers.”
“Dick and Debbie?”
“Uh-huh. But that’s kind of strange.”
“What is?”
“Well, Dick and Debbie are in Europe. And—” He paused, obviously reaching the same conclusion that Amy had reached as soon as he’d read the Fullers’ name.
“Well,” he said. “I guess it really isn’t any of my business who he’s sending flowers to. Long as you say it’s OK for him to use your account.”
“It’s fine, Hugh. But I appreciate you checking with me.” Then: “So this order just came in?”
“Just about fifteen minutes ago, I guess.”
Which meant that Richie had called the flowers in after Amy had left him at the country club.
“As I said, Hugh, I really appreciate you checking with me.”
“No problem. And next time if you’re not home, I’ll just check with Chaucer.”
“He’d like that, Hugh.”
She hung up with a sour stomach and a racing mind. She was an old-time, world-class trouble borrower, a natural-born worrier.
All she could think of was Richie involved with Darcy Fuller.
He’d minimized their relationship, made it sound as if it were nothing more than a little harmless country club flirtation.
Now she knew better.
This time, Richie could well be in some very serious trouble. At the very least, he would lose his job at the country club. At the worst, he could go to prison for several years.
The glow of the day — the glow of winning against Sampson — faded completely now.
She slumped against the wall, putting her head back and closing her eyes.
All the money she’d spent on that last detox clinic.
All the hopes she’d had.
Gone, now. Gone completely.
3
David Conners Cummings had won the genetic lottery big-time. He was tall but not too tall; rugged but not too rugged; handsome but not too handsome. Mentally, he’d won a lesser prize in the gene pool — nobody would ever accuse him of being a genius. But he had an aura. He really did. Even people predisposed to disliking him — Senator Cummings’s political foes, for example — admitted to being charmed by him after just a few minutes in his presence. Now, at sixty-six, he was even more impressive physically than ever. His hair had turned snow white, adding to the hawklike visage the stamp of nobility. A lot of Roman senators would have sold every one of their slaves to have Cummings’s looks.
Sam Bowers didn’t want to be intimidated by Cummings but he was.
Sam had knocked on the Chief’s door and then peeked in and said, “Mind if I join you?”
Senator Cummings didn’t give the Chief time to speak. He said, “I was hoping you’d join us, Sam. We could use your wisdom on this matter.”
He certainly knew how to butter your bread.
The Chief’s office had recently been redone by his wife, who had been taking classes in interior decorating out at the community college.
It was now this weird amalgam of new and old — antiques and heirlooms mixed in with steel office furniture. The Chief kept telling everybody how much he liked it. Obviously, the person he was trying hardest to sell was himself.
“Sit down, Sam,” Senator Cummings said, indicating the comfortable armchair next to his.
Today the Senator was dressed in a white turtleneck, a tan suede jacket, jeans, and penny loafers. No socks. He looked like one of those guys you see on aftershave commercials at Christmastime.
Sam sat down.
“We’re talking about the Stander kid,” the Chief said.
“He isn’t a kid,” Sam said.
He wanted to make his feelings plain. He just had.
“Well, he just turned eighteen, Sam,” Cummings said calmly. “I don’t think that makes him a geezer.”
He winked at the Chief.
Sam resented the wink. It implied that the Senator and the Chief could handle this brain-addled upstart if they just let him talk himself out.
Sam said, “This is his second drunken driving charge. He almost ran into a station wagon last night.”
“ ‘Almost’ being the operative word here, Sam,” the Senator said. “The fact is that he didn’t run into it. Whether by the grace of God or whatever, not one person in that station wagon was hurt.”
“They had to go into the ditch to avoid him.”
“The Senator’s right, Sam. Outside of a little damage to the station wagon, nothing serious happened.”