Ill Will (29 page)

And one read as cop/private dick. He was sitting slumped on the far end of the row, in need of a shave, but not so scraggy as to say truly down on his luck. He had on a soft, old leather jacket that was an odd tan color. It was his eyes that gave him away. He was watching far too carefully, taking in not just the men at the front of the room, but also everyone in it—including me. I wondered if I could be as easily spotted.

I dropped my purse on the floor, catching it so the gun didn’t clunk, then grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket like it was about to ring and I’d forgotten to turn it off. One advantage to being a female private eye is that we can play the bimbo, something the boys can’t do. When I looked up again, he was looking elsewhere. Maybe I’d fooled him. Or maybe he was a caffeine junkie and his watchfulness was a result of the jitters.

The speakers switched roles, with Vincent now following the slides to discuss the products that NBG sold. He was a slightly better speaker than the first man, aided by his smile and his big, brown eyes. I tried to pay attention—well, look like I was paying attention. Between the web page and our meeting at Aunt Marion’s, I was familiar with most of what Vincent was covering. I really did not need to think about colon health.

The first speaker, once finished, sat down in the front row. The other older man was scowling at him, as if anyone benefiting from NBG—as they presumably were—should be able to stand for the entire time. I guessed he was the alpha dog. He certainly didn’t have puppy-dog eyes—cold steel gray from this distance.

Once Vincent had finished—he wisely chose to stand at the side of the room—the final man took over. This was the sell. He extolled how much benefit we could bring to our friends, family and neighbors if we introduced them to Nature’s Beautiful Gift. He explained about sample packs, at a moderate but unspecified price. We could add to our arsenal, giving them out to convince those who weren’t willing to purchase a full bottle until they’d tried them. He was the best salesman, rarely referring to the projected images, moving around, modulating his voice. He explained in a tone that contained almost real regret it was possible not all of us would make it as naturalists—it took drive and determination, of course, but also we had to want to bring this special gift—yes, those were his exact words—to the world. And to do that we had to be special.

He walked down the aisle as he said this, making eye contact with each of us. I put on my most “yes, I want to be special” expression—without going over the top. He gave me the barest smile and nod. I would have felt special if I hadn’t noticed him doing the same thing with most of the other people in the room. He didn’t look at the man I’d spotted as a pro—as if he knew that was someone who had no real interest in his spiel.

He walked back the aisle to stand in the brightest spot. On his way he briefly stopped in front of his sitting comrade. It was a just a step, then a quick one away, but the intention was clear; he was a little too close, his crotch bare inches from the other man’s face. Oh, yes, he was the alpha dog and he was proving it.

The other pro noticed it, too. He was closely watching the speaker now. But the front man was now smiling, had moved away from the sitting man, continuing his speech in his warm, inviting voice.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed. I told myself that he might be a good person. But clearly there had been a battle between him and the man in the front row. He had won and now was making his victory clear. It didn’t make me like either of them, but I didn’t want to rush to judgment. Maybe the sitter had gotten drunk at a company party and pawed his fourteen-year-old daughter. I didn’t know. All I did know was this was not a happy family and Vincent had clearly chosen to side with the speaker.

He finished with a request that we all come forward and speak to him and the other naturalists—Vincent and the other man—to see if we were special enough to be let into the NBG family. There were three small tables at the side of the room. Vincent and the sitting man positioned themselves behind two of them—the sitter pulling up a chair. Vincent chose to remain standing until the end.

The two young women were immediately at Vincent’s table. The speaker ushered Social Security Man and the heavier of the two older women to the sitter’s table. He took the more attractive older woman for himself.

I was slow to get up, fumbling with my purse and cell phone. I didn’t want to sign up to be a Nature’s Beautiful Gift salesperson, but that might be the only way to get the keys to the kingdom.

The other pro—I wasn’t sure if he was private, like me, or public, like an actual cop—stood, openly surveying the scene, but made no move to head to a table.

Shit or get off the pot.
I chose shit and made my way to Vincent’s table. The two young women were chatting up a storm. They weren’t together, but neither was willing to be second in line—and possibly in Vincent’s affection, so they were both standing at the table, each trying to crowd the other out. Alas for all of us, they were also young enough to think that parroting back in adoring tones the same stuff we’d just sat through was the key to Vincent’s heart. I’d heard it just once and I was bored. Presumably Vincent did this once or twice a month. Even his puppy-dog eyes were struggling to feign interest. They insisted on laboring over each line on the order form, vying to out-order each other yet somehow not break their piggy banks.

For a brief moment when their heads were down, Vincent stole a look at me, gave a shrug and a brief smile as if imploring me to wait.

Good luck, Vincent
, I said to myself.
These are the kinds of girls you’ll have to explain where their clitoris is. And what it’s for.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“No one’s in my line.” The alpha dog. He gave me his warmest smile as if to promise he knew I’d be special. Too special to wait for his underling, Vincent.

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I followed him to his table. It was set up a little apart from the others and was a little bigger. Perhaps alpha wolf would be a better descriptor.

“You are?” he asked.

Oh, hell, what was my name supposed to be? “Deborah…Perkins.” Perkins was the surname for perky pink characters. “And I’m sorry, I know you introduced yourself in the beginning, but I’ve forgotten.”

“Grant Walters. Pleased to meet you, Deborah. Or is it Debbie?” He again smiled.

“It can be either, Mr. Walters. My mother insists on Deborah. My friends call me Debbie.”

“Please, Grant. And I hope we’ll be friends, Debbie.”

“I have to be honest, sir, I mean, Grant, I’m interested, but I’m on a tight budget at the moment, so I can’t manage more than a small order right now.”

“Small is okay. I started small.” His face indicated he was pleased as punch to be spending his time taking a tiny order. Only the briefest sliding of his eyes to see who else was in the room betrayed him.

“Did you? That’s encouraging. I wouldn’t mind being where you are someday.” It was time to throw a little ambition in with the pink. Grant wanted a woman who could make him money—there was no flirting here. He was trying to seduce me, of course, but with no sex involved. His seduction was about power. He had staked me as the most promising prospect in the room and gone after me.

“So, tell me about yourself. Why do you want to be where I am now?”

I spun Debbie’s story. Recently divorced. Ex-husband was a lawyer, so she got just about nothing. Put him through law school, had planned to go herself, but they couldn’t afford two tuitions, so as any woman who favored pink would, she let him go first and did administrative work, had worked her way up to assisting one of the top executives in the export firm, but it had been badly damaged by Katrina, the boss took the insurance money and decided not to rebuild. I (as Debbie) stayed in the area because my husband still had his job, only to find out a year ago that he was sleeping with his secretary and wanted a divorce. It was hard to find work after the storm, so I was struggling, yadda, yadda.

“Why this product?” he asked.

“I don’t want to just make money. I’m getting old enough to worry about my health, my family’s health. It would be nice to combine doing okay and making a difference. Vincent intrigued me—about Nature’s Beautiful Gift,” I made clear. “I still had my questions, but thought I should check it out. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would be part of a losing operation.” Two could play the seduction game. “And it was your talk that made me decide maybe I could do this. I’d like to go back to college, so the flexible hours appeal to me. Plus I like that I get to decide how much I work. I can really push if I want and do well.”

He nodded and grinned at me, friendly and conquering. My deception was to be the kind of acolyte he wanted. His smile told me I had succeeded.

“I think we can work something out,” he said. “If you work hard you won’t be small for long.”

He was the boss. He let me start with half of what the usual minimum order would be.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” he said as I counted out the money.

Luckily I had enough cash. I didn’t have a credit card with Deborah Perkins name on it. “I have every intention of doing the best I can,” I said. My best wouldn’t have anything to do with selling Nature’s Beautiful Gift, however. As I was signing the paperwork in Deborah Perkins’s loopy handwriting, I asked softly, “What do you think might be best for someone who’s really ill? Is there anything that might help?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a…relative, someone close to me…who has cancer. It’s…not looking good.” My words were slow because I still was ambivalent about using cancer, and therefore Cordelia, for something like this. But he took my hesitation for sorrow, not ambivalence.

“That’s hard to say. There are some things that might help. Immune booster is always good. It also depends on where and how bad.”

“Lymphoma,” I said. “Stage three.” That was it, my deal with the devil. But I couldn’t come up with a good lie and the truth all too conveniently served my purpose.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. He really did look sorry. Then added quietly, “There might be something else. Something I’ve heard about. I’ll have to check on it. Call me in a few days.” He gave me his business card.

He was too important to call me; I had to call him. That worked for me. I could get a cheap cell phone with a number that had nothing to do with Micky Knight, private investigator.

I thanked him, we shook hands, and I walked away. I understood our interaction was over, that he had to move on to the next conquest, even if it was checking Vincent and the other man’s paperwork.

Vincent had his two young girls following him around, so we all trooped down to the parking lot. There was still a damp drizzle, but at least the rain had slowed. Vincent, being the youngest and probably most eager disciple, was tasked with unloading the NBG truck and doling out to us the product we now had to sell. The two girls were vying to be the last one and therefore alone with Vincent. I was more than happy to assist by hurriedly backing my car up to the truck, popping the trunk and quickly hefting the boxes I had bought—ten bottles of eight of the most popular items, plus ten sample packs, which were priced at two dollars and fifty cents apiece. I’d purchased the bottles for ten dollars apiece and was supposed to sell them for nineteen-ninety-five each. Close to 100 percent mark-up.

I’d lost track of the private cop after getting in line and thought maybe I had been wrong about him. But then I spotted him in a nondescript car at the end of the parking lot watching us.

I managed to close my trunk and pull out just as the sky opened up again. Those poor girls. The rain was going to cause their makeup to run.

I swung by my office long enough to change out of the pink shirt and the rhinestone jeans. So not my style. I wasn’t sure what to do with the eighty pill bottles—plus ten sample packs—in my trunk, but carting them up three flights of stairs to my office didn’t seem an appealing option.

I didn’t even bother checking messages—they could hold until tomorrow. It would give me something to do while waiting for Cordelia.

She might be home by now, but I did a quick run by the grocery store. As quick as I could, given the distance. I planned to make a big pot of chicken soup tonight. I’d freeze some of it. That way she’d had something decent and quick to eat when she wasn’t feeling well. Sports drinks—they’re good if you’re dehydrated. Plus a really good meal tonight, a decent bottle of red, filet mignon, some shrimp for an appetizer, spinach salad, and asparagus as the side. And some wickedly sinful ice cream for dessert.

She was indeed home. She even smiled as I unloaded the grocery bag.

“Thank you,” she said as she put the ice cream away. “But you don’t need to cook two big meals tonight. I can’t eat after midnight and I doubt I’ll want to eat much tomorrow. So the chicken soup can wait.”

No it couldn’t. Not for her, but for me. Cooking would keep me busy, keep me focusing on whether the chicken was tender or not and did it need more salt or more carrots? I dreaded tomorrow, didn’t want it to come, and maybe if I kept myself distracted enough, it would get here without my agonizing over it. And once it was here, then I knew what I had to do. Go with her, stay with her, not let my worry become her burden.

I insisted she take it easy, sit and read. I poured the wine, gave her a glass while I chopped and diced for the soup. Once I had that on and simmering, I prepared our meal, grilling the shrimp, steak, and asparagus. It was a nice enough evening that we were able to eat outside. We didn’t say much, held hands between cutting the steak, watched the last glimmer of the sun set. The days were getting longer, warmer.