The story had run for weeks. The local newspaper had boosted its circulation dramatically by relating the lurid details of a drug-fueled party on the north side, with everything available from horse tranquilizers to Zee tablets. The police had staged a raid and arrested several men, including the mayor’s brother-in-law, but the town’s best-known party girl had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The river was dragged for her body, but it was never found.
Dwayne Nyeberger had been among those questioned, to the embarrassment of his wife and the fury of her father.
Nell had good reason to remember that time. She and Rob had been planning a “second honeymoon” to make up for not taking one after their marriage. She had been too heavily pregnant with Jessamyn when she walked down the aisle. Except there was no aisle, just the registry office, with her mother looking embarrassed and her father assessing Rob’s prospects. Two giggling bridesmaids, hastily recruited. A bouquet purchased at the last moment, comprised of lilies that shed pollen all over her not-white maternity outfit.
Three years later, with their two toddlers temporarily lodged with her parents, the locale of their long-delayed trip had become a source of contention. She had wanted to go to Europe—to Paris. For years she had dreamed of honeymooning in Paris.
Over breakfast Rob had announced they were going to Panama City.
Nell set down her coffee cup. “But what about Paris?”
“Paris is such a cliché, Cookie,” he’d chided. Pushing his plate aside, he had propped his new AllCom on the table and begun scrolling through the stock quotations. Earlier AllComs had employed several metal alloys for the sake of versatility, but now were considered too heavy. More recent models used plastics that imitated metal in everything but weight. Rob’s, which was waterproof, functioned as a videophone and texter and provided full internet access as well as computing. The insatiable consumer market created by PCs and smartphones had morphed into a demand for total electronic connectivity. Microchips were embedded in every possible object. AllComs could even control security systems and household appliances from miles away.
Nell sought to get her husband’s attention. “What’s so romantic about Panama City, darling? I don’t even know where it is.”
His eyes had remained fixed on the small screen. “It’s in Central America and there’s a famous cathedral. You really must expand your horizons.”
“Paris would be expanding my horizons. Please, Rob, I’ve been looking forward to this for ages.”
They had gone to Panama City.
Rob had made business contacts in the Canal Zone and spent most of the time in meetings. Nell went shopping for clothes she would never wear again and souvenirs that would mean nothing to the people she bought them for. The semitropical heat caused sweat to pour from her scalp. Constant rain depressed her. When she retreated to the relative comfort of the hotel beauty salon, they insisted on brightening her hair with peroxide and ruined it.
I wonder if Lila Ragland dyed her hair, Nell thought now. Probably. Did Rob know the girl? Probably not.
In the years following their marriage the ferocious determination that had allowed a young Robert Bennett to destroy an enemy sniper nest single-handed had been channeled into his business. RobBenn had become his obsession, his one true love.
It would have been easier to compete with Lila Ragland.
Nell resolutely tucked her handbag under her arm and headed toward Mortenson’s In-a-Minnit to pick up her dry cleaning. From there she would go to her office, two rooms on the first floor of the Liberty Life and Casualty Building. Tasteful black-and-gold lettering on the glass door identified “Eleanor Bennett, Real Estate.”
When she reached the corner a sudden impulse made her glance back at the bank. Someone else was struggling with the ATM. Shay Mulligan, the red-haired veterinarian who took care of the Bennett dogs, pounded the machine with his fist and looked around in frustration.
At this moment Shay reminded Nell of a small boy—though he was a widower struggling to raise his son by himself. It couldn’t be easy. Evan Mulligan was a few months older than Nell’s daughter, Jessamyn, and horse crazy at an age when only girls were supposed to be horse crazy.
When he saw Nell looking in his direction Shay called out, “Damn thing’s chewing up my card, Miz Bennett!” His easy drawl was as much a part of him as the forest of freckles he had never outgrown.
“Don’t wait, go inside and ask Bea Fontaine to help you. Hurry up now, beat the rush!”
Shay nodded his thanks. The Bennetts were valuable customers. Their three dogs—two pedigreed Irish setters for Eleanor and the kids, and a massive Rottweiler for Robert Bennett—were given the best care money could buy.
You could tell a lot about people by their animals, Shay thought, as he passed through the security doors and entered the bank. The setters, Sheila and Shamrock—known as Rocky—were smarter than their breed’s reputation would suggest and devoted to Nell and the children. The Rottweiler was a status dog, purchased to guard the house and grounds. On rare occasions Bennett walked the dog on a very short chain to impress his neighbors. Poor Satan—and what kind of man calls his dog Satan?—wouldn’t have felt any attachment to Bennett. Mary Shaw, the housekeeper, fed him and let him into the garage on stormy days. She was his god in an apron.
Dogs, thought Shay. Dogs know who people really are.
The scene inside the bank caught his attention. The door of the vice president’s office stood wide open. Dwayne Nyeberger could be seen inside, with his arms folded on his desk and his head resting on them. Other people were milling around the lobby, eagerly telling each other what had just happened.
Shay found Bea Fontaine at her window. The position enabled her to keep an eye on the vice president’s office. “Yes, Mr. Mulligan?” She sounded distracted.
“It’s about my bank card and the ATM…”
“You too, I suppose. How much cash did you want?”
“I… uh… enough for a good tip in a French restaurant. I’m taking Angela to the…”
For a moment he had Bea’s full attention. “Are you still going out with the Watson girl? It’s been three years that I know of; you should marry her and give Evan a mother.” Bea slid a withdrawal slip toward him on the counter. “Here, sign this and we’ll give you your cash.”
Shay’s ears reddened with embarrassment. Why did people keep pressuring him to marry? His son’s feelings had to be considered; the boy loved his mother very much and had taken her death from cancer hard.
The vet fumbled with the counter pen in its black plastic receptacle, but he could not free it to sign the withdrawal slip. When another customer came up behind him, Shay gave the pen an impatient shake. It seemed to be permanently affixed to its plastic cup—which was not only chained to the counter, but stuck to it. He tugged harder.
Pen and cup stretched like bubble gum.
Bea leaned forward. “What happened? Oh. Uh, don’t try to force that, I’ll give you another one.” From a drawer below the counter she took a black ballpoint pen imprinted with the bank’s logo.
The pen softened in her hand like melting chocolate and began to ooze down her wrist.
3
The staff door at the rear of the lobby opened and, to Bea’s relief, O. M. Staunton entered. Whatever lunacy was afoot today she could dump in the Old Man’s lap.
O. M. Staunton—the initials stood for Oliver Morse, a name he hated—was called the “Old Man” behind his back, but never to his face. Customers also knew better than to refer to his bank as “the S&S” within his hearing. As president of the leading bank in the area he held the financial reins of the Sycamore River Valley in his hands, and sought to retain the standards of an earlier time. A time before the national economy began its long downward slide.