“Yes.”
“There’s sixty-two thousand dollars here. I counted it. It was dropped through the mail slot. You knew this was coming?”
“It’s business. It’s a down payment on a property down on East Broadway.”
“What’s this phone number on it? And who makes a down payment with cash, and doesn’t even get a proper receipt? And is it just a coincidence I saw Glen Garber’s truck driving away from the house when I turned down the street? Is Glen the one putting a down payment on a property? Would you mind if I asked him about it?”
“Don’t meddle in my affairs, George. You’ve done enough already, making me talk to those lawyers about Sheila. Do you know how much that hurt Glen? Do you have any idea what that may do? It could wipe him out. It could bankrupt him.”
George was unruffled. “People need to be accountable, Belinda. They need to be held to a certain standard. And if Glen wasn’t cognizant of problems Sheila was having, when he should have been, then there’s a price to pay for that. And envelopes stuffed with cash, dropped through a mail slot, do not meet those standards. Don’t you realize the sort of risks that exposes us to, to have that kind of cash around the house?”
Cognizant. She wanted to kill him. All the years she’d put up with this. Thirteen years of his sanctimonious bullshit. The fool had no idea what he was talking about. No idea how deep she was in. And no sense that this money, this envelope stuffed with cash, was her ticket to digging herself out.
“What I’m going to do,” George continued, “is I’m going to put this money away someplace safe for you, and when you can show me what exactly it relates to, and assure me it’s going to be handled in a responsible manner, then I’ll be happy to hand it over.”
“George, no. You can’t do this!”
But he was already walking away, heading to his ground-floor study. By the time she caught up, he was already across the room, swinging out the hinged portrait of his equally sanctimonious, judgmental, ramrod-stiff, son-of-a-bitch father-dead, thank God-to reveal a wall safe.
“I need that money,” Belinda pleaded.
“Well, then you better explain where it came from and what it’s for.” George turned the dial on the safe and opened it in seconds. He tossed the envelope in, closed the door, and gave the combination a spin. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with those illegitimate women’s accessories Ann used to sell. Those dreadful parties.”
She glared at him.
“You know how I feel about the sanctity of trademarks and copyright. Selling bags that are not what they purport to be, that are not authentic, that’s just not right. The fact is, I don’t even know why a woman would want a bag that said it was a Fendi or whatever when in fact it was not. You know why? Because you’d always know. What pleasure is there in carrying around something you know to be fake?”
She looked at his comb-over attempt.
“For example,” he continued, “if I could get a car that looked like a Ferrari for a fraction of the price, but underneath it was a Ford-well, that’s not a car I would want.”
George in a Ferrari, Belinda thought. She could no more picture a donkey piloting an airplane.
“What’s happening to you?” she asked. “You’ve always been a self-righteous, pretentious asshole, but these last few days there’s something else going on. You’re sleeping on the couch, saying you’re sick but you don’t have the flu or anything, and you freaked out when I tried to join you in the shower, you-”
“You’re not the only one who has stresses.”
“And now you’re adding to them. You have to give me that money.”
“It’s up to you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Belinda said to him.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “I’m doing the responsible thing.”
She wondered if he’d still be saying that after a visit from Sommer.
THIRTY-FIVE
I found my way to the Bridgeport Business College and parked in a visitor’s spot. It didn’t look all that much like a college. It was a long, flat, industrial-looking building without an ounce of academic charm. But it reportedly had good courses, and that was what had led Sheila to come here for her night classes.
I didn’t know whether Allan Butterfield was part of the regular faculty, or merely taught an evening course here on the side. I went through the entrance doors and approached a man sitting at the information desk in the drab foyer.
“I’m looking for a teacher, his name’s Butterfield.”
He didn’t need to consult anything. He pointed. “Take that hall to the end, go right, office is on the left. Just look for the signs.”
I was standing outside Allan Butterfield’s door a minute later, and rapped on it.
“Hello?” said a muffled voice from inside.
I turned the knob and opened the door on a small, cluttered office space. There was just enough room for a desk and a couple of chairs. Papers and books were stacked helter-skelter.
Butterfield wasn’t alone. A redheaded woman in her early twenties sat on the other side of the desk from Butterfield. An open laptop was balanced on her knees.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Oh, hi,” Butterfield said. “Glen, Glen Garber.” He remembered me from our meeting after Sheila’s death, when I’d been attempting to trace Sheila’s final hours.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
“I’m just finishing up here with-”
“Now.”
The woman closed her laptop and said, “That’s okay, I can come back later, Mr. Butterfield.”
“Sorry, Jenny,” he told her. “Why don’t you pop in tomorrow?”
She nodded, grabbed a jacket she had draped over the back of her chair, and squeezed past me to get out the door. I took her chair without being invited.
“So, Glen,” he said. First time I met him, I put him in his early forties. Five-five, pudgy. Mostly bald, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Last time we spoke, you were trying to track down Sheila’s movements the day of the… well, I know you were extremely concerned. Have you gotten some answers to your questions? Achieved some sort of closure?”
“Closure,” I repeated. The word tasted like sour milk in my mouth. “No, no closure.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
No sense beating around the bush. “Why are there so many calls from you to my wife’s cell phone before she died?”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Not for a good second or two. I could see he was trying to think of something, but the best he could come up with on short notice was “I’m sorry-I-what?”
“There’s a slew of calls from you to my wife. Missed calls. It looks to me like she was receiving them, but didn’t want to take them.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, I’m sure, occasionally, I may have had reason to call your wife about the course she was taking, she had questions related to the assignments, but-”
“I think that’s bullshit, Allan.”
“Honestly, Glen, I-”
“You need to know that I’m having a very, very bad day, which happens to be part of a very, very bad month. So when I tell you I’m not in the mood for bullshit, you need to believe me. Why all the calls?”
Butterfield appeared to be assessing his chances at escape. The office was so crowded, he’d never get out from behind that desk and through the door without stumbling over something before I could block his path.
“It was totally my fault,” he said. There was a slight tremor in his voice.
“What was your fault?”
“I behaved, I behaved inappropriately. Sheila-Ms. Garber-she was a very nice person. Just a naturally nice person.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“She was just… she was very special. Considerate. She was someone… someone I could talk to.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t really have anyone in my life, you see. I’ve never been married. I was engaged once, in my twenties, but it didn’t work out.” He nodded sadly. “I don’t think I was… she said I tried a little too hard. Anyway, I rent a room upstairs in a nice old house on Park. I have this job, and I like it, and the people here, they’re good to work with, but I don’t have a lot of friends.”