earnestly at me. “As soon as I realized what he was leading up to, I hung up. And you’re right. He is a jerk.”
I managed a smile, but my heart was racing. Not from jealousy, though, and certainly not from anger at M.J. Bill was a jerk; I’d always known that. We’d divorced once I realized that he’d never been faithful, not even for one month during the four years we were together. But this was even worse. M.J. was my friend. How could he set his sights on her?
And why did the fact that he was attracted to her leave me so panicked? Any man still breathing is attracted to M.J.
But that sort of logic didn’t matter to me.
M.J. put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Cat. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Fine. And there’s no reason for you to apologize. It’s not your fault he’s a lowlife asshole.”
I raked my fingers through my hair. I thought I was beyond being hurt by the scumsucker, but my hands were shaking. “I wish I was a lesbian. Women are so far superior to men.”
“Yes,” M.J. agreed. “We are.” She gave me a hug, which I really needed. “But despite Frank and Bill, I have to believe there are still some good guys out there.”
I let out a rude snort. “Yeah, maybe. But they’re all prepubescent. The trouble with men is that they all suffer from testosterone poisoning. It shrinks their brains and swells their balls and they’re never the same again.”
M.J. laughed, but I was serious. “Come on, Cat,” she said. “Surely you’ve known one or two good guys.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I have.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“My old high school boyfriend, for one.”
“If he was so great, why didn’t you just marry him?
“M.J. sighed. “I wanted to. But he went away to college on a football scholarship, and Mama had me on the beauty pageant circuit. That was when I really believed I could have a future in the movies. I guess he and I just sort of drifted apart. You know how it is at that age.”
I slipped on my shoes and let the subject drop. But her remembered high school passion reminded me of my own. He’d been a skinny Cajun boy and our favorite date had been to go fishing. At least we always took fishing gear when we set off in his flatboat. But we never did catch anything. We were too busy making out.
Despite my cynicism, I couldn’t help smiling at the memory. God, how I’d loved that boy.
“Anyway,” M.J. went on. “Not to change the subject, but I thought of something, or maybe I dreamed it. Anyway, we have to go back to the house.” She smiled like an impish kitten. “Frank kept mad money. I don’t know exactly where, but I remember last year when his grandson had a DUI and they wouldn’t take credit cards at the jail. He went upstairs and came down with a fistful of cash.”
“Is there a safe?”
“Yes, but it’s downstairs, and I already checked it.”
While Bitsey fed her demanding husband, M.J. and I took my car to her house. She’d padlocked the gate so we knew Frank Jr. hadn’t been in yet. But it was only a matter of time. Two hours and twenty minutes later we found a false bottom in the humidor in Frank’s study. It was a large, freestanding piece made of beautiful English oak.
Big humidor equals big hidden panel equals big, big payoff. Frank might have let M.J. collect art, but it was obvious that he collected money. Packets of twenties, fifties, hundreds and five-hundred-dollar bills. In his desk drawer we found three collections of the new state quarters and an odd bag of felt-wrapped coins. Old ones.
M.J.’s eyes lit up as she snatched the bag from the drawer. “These must be valuable or he wouldn’t have kept them.” Then she grabbed a few more of her clothes, filled a garbage bag with boxes of shoes, and we left.
“Aren’t you going to padlock the gate?
“Nope. And I didn’t lock the house, either. I’m outta here, and I’m never coming back.”
“Maybe someone will break in,” I said, “and burn it down. Wouldn’t Bitsey be pleased.”
“Me, too.” M.J. snapped her seat belt on.
I gave her a sidelong look. She meant it. Since Frank’s death, M.J. had spent over a week drunk and less than a day sober. But I could sense some sort of change in her, as if she’d turned a corner, from shock to sorrow to really pissed off. I steered my VW onto the boulevard that led to the gate house for the exclusive neighborhood.
“So. Are we heading back to Bitsey’s?” she asked.
“No. Not there. Tonight you can stay with me. Tomorrow we’ll figure out your next step.”
Bitsey came over around eleven the next day. I was working from home, mostly phone stuff, and I had a meeting at a client’s home at two. M.J. was in the shower. She’d already exercised for an hour and a half, made us a healthy breakfast of OJ, cracked-wheat toast, organic boysenberry jam and melon balls. Bitsey had a Krispy Kreme napkin in her hand and a sprinkle of sugar on the stomach of her olive-green jumper.
Bitsey flung her hobo bag onto the kitchen counter, stepped out of her shoes, then plopped down in my window seat. I looked at her over the rim of my red polka-dot Peepers. “Have you been crying? What did he do?”
She shot me a belligerent glare. “Why do you always assume it’s Jack? You never give him a chance.”
Tread lightly. “Well, since it’s only you and him at home now…” I raised my brows and trailed off.
“I talked to Margaret this morning.”
Margaret was the middle of Bitsey’s three perfect daughters, the one with the most potential for not being perfect. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know.” Bitsey heaved a weary sigh. “You know she transferred to Arizona State. Well, it turns out she hates it there.”
“The state or the university?” I asked. “Or maybe the state and the university?”
She ignored me. “What if she drops out? Jack says if she does she can’t come home.”
I sat down next to her. “That’s not much of a threat anymore. At her age she probably won’t want to come home.”
Bitsey looked down at her lap and plucked at the Krispy Kreme sugar. She needed a manicure, I thought, then immediately hated myself for noticing. Sometimes I can be so shallow. The last thing Bitsey needed was her friends magnifying her insignificant flaws. Jack was more than up to that task.
She let out another deep sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to go home, either.”
Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good. For all the ups and downs in her marriage, the one thing Bitsey had never done was consider abandoning it. At least not out loud. I might not like Jack Albertson all that much, but I’d been divorced twice and I knew just how hard the process could be.
