Seven
Irene had always been something of an enigma, but Frances didn’t know if she ought to be alarmed or admiring of Irene’s austere high-rise apartment. It looked more like a stage set than a home. “Do you live here?” Frances asked, to make sure she was understanding the landscape.
“Of course I live here. Why would I have a key if I didn’t live here?” Irene dropped her bag and yoga mat on the floor.
“It’s just … you don’t have a lot of things,” Frances said, moving deeper into the small apartment to have a look.
There was one other door, through which she could see a chest of drawers and a full-sized mattress on the floor.
The lamp was sitting on the floor next to it.
A single towel hung from the bar in the bathroom.
In the living area, Irene had one long couch that she had said was a sofa bed.
One long fold-up table, the sort one used at a garage sale, covered with a beach towel.
On top of it were three computer monitors arranged in a semicircle.
And a very cushy office chair. “Why?” Frances asked, motioning to computer monitors.
“Nosy,” Irene answered, and at Frances’s look, she shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
Frances gave her a dubious frown.
“I told you, I’m a hacker. I hack into things.”
“This looks like more than a local bank.”
“I work for someone. And no, I won’t tell you who. Leave well enough alone.” She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’m going to make you some matcha tea, Franny. That will put some color in you.”
The kitchen was tiny, with a two-seat bar that separated it from the living area.
There was a single barstool, pushed up against the wall.
There was nothing on the counters. No bread box, no toaster, no coffee maker.
While Irene was busy making tea, Frances moved around the small apartment, looking for clues of Irene’s life.
The only thing she found was a large closet with more yoga mats, one very large sound bowl, and several outfits, which, to the casual viewer, looked like disguises.
What was Irene doing with a sparkly leotard and matching feather headdress? Or scrubs?
She returned to the living room. If Irene were to drop dead tomorrow, Frances could imagine it would take weeks, if not months, to find a single next of kin.
There wasn’t a slip of paper anywhere. She didn’t even have a picture lying around.
This looked like the home of someone who was ready to bolt at moment’s notice.
But in the meantime, Irene did have a fantastic view of the ocean.
“So,” Frances said, “are you on the lam or something? In some sort of trouble? Maybe hiding from someone?”
Irene handed her a cup of tea. “I’m starting to think maybe I should have hidden from you. Were you always so nosy?”
Frances thought about it. “Yes, I think so.”
“Drink that. For energy. Why are you so tired, anyway? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
Frances was tired. She wanted to lie on the couch and take a nap. She remembered she was supposed to take a pill and glanced longingly at her purse, perched on the end of the tiny kitchen bar. “I’m seventy-four. I get tired.”
“Sleep when you’re dead,” Irene suggested.
Funny how that adage hit a little differently when one was closing in on death.
“We should go to Joan first.” Irene was moving on, ready to plan. She’d always been like that—impatient, wanting to go go go before anyone else was ready.
“Okay.” Frances felt terribly fatigued suddenly and sat on the couch. She tried to remember if she would have these sudden swells of fatigue before she knew about the cancer.
“She lives in Colorado and farms medical marijuana. Which I think is a cover for selling the unregulated kind.”
Frances rubbed her forehead, trying to will away the pain that was creeping in. “Joan?”
“Who else are we talking about? Keep up, Franny.”
“But how do you know?”
A funny look slipped over Irene’s face. “It’s easy to look people up. So, I look people up.”
Frances sipped the tea. It tasted like dirt. Lots of things were beginning to taste like dirt. Did they taste like dirt before she knew? Was her mind playing tricks on her? “Did you look me up?”
“Yes, Miss Pickleball.”
That was so unexpected that Frances gasped.
Irene laughed and sat in the office chair. “Have you ever heard of Google alerts? You popped up one day in the Pecan Springs Gazette.”
“The Pecan Springs Gazette?” Frances practically shouted. It was a neighborhood publication. What was it doing on Google alerts? “What did it say?”
“That you were kicked out of the club.”
Frances gasped again. “The club reported my banishment to the internet?”
“Stop gasping like that or you’ll give yourself an aneurysm. And please tell me you don’t really believe it’s a thing to ‘report’ to the internet. Some lady was getting an award at the club, and she was interviewed about her accomplishments. She listed bouncing you as an accomplishment.”
“New Boobs Sue.” Frances sighed. If she wasn’t dying, she had half a mind to postpone her quest and fly back to Houston and kick some ass.
“What did you do, anyway?”
“Nothing. I happened to play the game exceptionally well against a bunch of entitled seniors.”
Irene snorted. “I remember how you can get. You hate to lose.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Sure, but there are losers … and then there are losers,” Irene said pointedly.
“So, I guess you’ve googled Edie, too,” Frances said, unwilling to discuss how unreasonable she could be when it came to sports.
“Of course. Edie is hard to miss. She hosts parties and charity events and is really into gardening. Like, wins awards for it. Which blows my mind. I always thought she would be the one to become an alcoholic while she made grown men cry. But apparently, she stuck with that bastard Mark who turned us in.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“She’s, like, stupid rich,” Irene continued.
“Oh. Good for Edie, I guess.”
“Maybe. I would take self-respect over money, but that’s just me. Speaking of money, what’s your plan for rallying the troops? What do we do, just call them?”
As Frances had impetuously come up with this grand plan, she hadn’t thought that far. She set aside the tea. “I think phoning either of them out of the blue is a bad idea. They’d think it was a setup and probably hang up.”
“So, what are you saying, we just pop in?” Irene asked. “No one likes a pop-in, Fran. I discovered that just today.”
“Funny,” Frances said. She wished Irene would go to the bathroom so she could grab her meds. “But sometimes it’s necessary. Remember that job we did in Pittsburgh?”
“I remember how furious the lady of the house was. What was her name? She was getting some sort of wax job when we showed up.” Irene laughed at the memory of it.
“Alice Thompson,” Frances said. The younger, newer wife of Derek Thompson.
A man who had bled his ex-wife dry while she was in the hospital.
Frances had known about that at the time because she and Edie were friends with Derek Thompson’s daughter, LeeAnn.
She’d always wondered what had happened to LeeAnn after everything went down.
It was Edie who wanted to end Derek Thompson.
She wanted to take something of value from him like he’d taken from his ex-wife.
Specifically, a painting of value LeeAnn had told them about.
It was Edie who came up with the catering scheme.
The Thompsons were hosting a charity fundraiser, and Edie was dating a man who had been hired on to be a bartender for the catering company.
The event was to be held at their very large estate.
The plan had seemed simple in theory—the four of them would present themselves as the catering crew that would be serving the following day.
They would arrive a day early, claiming they had been sent to look at the event space to assess it for service.
Joan had even snagged waitress costumes somewhere.
This was in the days before the internet.
Before cell phones. It had seemed reasonable to the four of them.
The woman who had come to the door when they arrived was a servant of some sort. Frances explained what they were there to do, and asked that she fetch the new Mrs. Thompson.
“But she’s indisposed,” the girl said.
“She must have forgotten,” Frances said. “But, like, we’re not going to get paid if we don’t do the preliminary scouting.”
The girl at the door had sympathized with that. She’d gone to get the lady of the house, who had come downstairs in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head, her nails only half painted, and a thick glob of wax on her legs.
She was immediately skeptical that there should be any catering staff that day.
“I am sure there has been some mistake,” she said to Frances.
“I’ve worked with this catering company many times, and they’ve never had to have a look.
I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. Now is not a good time.
” She had gestured for them to turn around and go out the door.
“I told you it was a dumb plan,” Joan had whispered hotly to Frances.
But Joan had underestimated Edie’s desire to make this happen.
Because that was the moment the man of the house wandered onto the scene, munching on a sandwich.
Frances would never forget the speed with which Edie reached for her blouse and yanked it hard enough to pop a couple of buttons, revealing a red lacy bra underneath.
She turned her brilliant smile to the man.
“Mr. Thompson!” she’d said, as if they were acquainted, and thereby grabbing the immediate attention of the wife. “LeeAnn didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
“LeeAnn?” Mr. Thompson said, his sandwich forgotten, his eyes locked on the peek-a-boo of red lace.
Edie had already sidled up to him—she moved like a cat. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for treating us to dinner.”