Sylvie's Cowboy Page 7

  “Who told you that?” Clarice pushed him out and closed the door.

  …

  The rutted dirt road to the ranch house was sheer agony, and Walt wondered how much worse if would have been if Clarice hadn’t taped his ribs. Between the pain and exhaustion, he could barely see straight as he limped from the truck barn to the house.

  Sylvie was reading in bed with Maude nestled among the covers and Butch on the floor beside them. At the sound of the front door opening, Butch and Maude perked up and rushed from the room.

  Sylvie dropped her book, shrugged into her thick terry robe, fluffed her hair, and went to stand in her bedroom door. Walt came into view, trying not to limp, accompanied by the happy dogs. He stopped when he looked up and saw Sylvie in the doorway. “Oh. Hi. Sorry I woke ya.”

  “Where have you been?” she asked, trying very hard to sound as if it didn’t actually matter.

  “Ah, visiting. Visiting a friend.”

  “Uh-huh? Well, how is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend.”

  “Oh. Ah, fine. She’s fine. She’s okay. You?”

  Sylvie looked down at her toes and back up at Walt. “I wanted to sell a horse today, McGurk. I’m just sorry it was to you. I mean, I’m sorry about the way it happened.”

  “Hmmph,” he nodded, and continued limping toward his room.

  “I was hoping you’d say, ‘That’s all right, Sylvie. It wasn’t your fault.’”

  Outside his room, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned back toward her. “Was only one finger on the trigger, Sylvie girl.”

  He limped into his room and closed the door. A second later he opened the door and shooed out the two dogs. He shut the door again.

  “G’night,” Sylvie said to the closed door. She returned to her room, admitted Maude, and shut the door.

  Maude whined.

  Sylvie reopened the bedroom door to admit the waiting Butch. Maude welcomed the big mongrel with slurps and wiggles. Sylvie sighed. “Maude, didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE - THE RECOVERY

  The following morning Sylvie was on the telephone at the front desk in Clarice’s Beauty World when an obese woman entered from the street. The woman wore a flowery pink house dress and her hair was covered with a red kerchief. She carried a purse and a Walt Disney World shopping bag. Sylvie thought the woman looked familiar.

  The beauty salon vibrated with the hum of conversation, whir of hair dryers, and twang of country music. Nearly every chair was occupied by ladies in various stages of trim, wash, rinse, comb-out, roll-up, or blow-dry. The corner table in the reception area was mounded with house-and-garden, celebrity gossip, and style magazines.

  Sylvie looked like a beautician instead of like an investment banker, because today she was wearing a uniform and shoes borrowed from Clarice. Sylvie greeted the familiar-looking obese visitor with a smile and a raised finger while listening to the party on the other end of the phone. When she turned from the customer to her calendar on the opposite side of the desk, Sylvie’s eyes passed across the photo of her puppy, Maude, in a silver frame standing beside the phone.

  Sylvie did a double take, twice comparing the dog’s face with that of the obese newcomer. It was the same face. Sylvie quickly placed the dog’s photo face down. She turned toward Clarice and received a tiny nod of understanding.

  Clarice waved to the customer and called, “Go on back and get shampooed, Maude.” She sent Sylvie a wink when she emphasized the name. “We’ll be right with you.”

  Maude Stokes waved at Clarice and lumbered to the rear of the shop, where she disappeared into the shampoo room.

  Sylvie, on the telephone, said, “Okay, then, we’ll see you next week. Regular time. You take care of that baby, now.”

  “And take away that filthy pacifier,” muttered Clarice. “That’s how they pick up every germ that comes along.”

  On the phone, Sylvie added, “And Clarice sends her love. ... Right. ... ‘Bye.” She hung up the phone and scribbled something in the appointment calendar.

  “You never tell ‘em what I tell you to tell ‘em,” said Clarice from the first chair behind the desk, where she was rolling up a permanent wave on a red-haired woman.

  “You never want me to tell them what you say you want me to tell them,” said Sylvie with a smile.

  Minutes later, Maude Stokes emerged from the shampoo room, towel around her head, carrying a cup of coffee. She waddled to the empty chair beside where Clarice was working.

  The red-haired woman smiled at Maude. “Well, don’t just sit there, get ‘em, out!” said the redhead. “We all know you’re dying to show ‘em, and you know we can’t wait to see ‘em.”

  Happily, Maude put down her coffee and delved into her shopping bag. She produced a photo album. “It was gorgeous,” she drawled. “Sue Ann never looked so sweet.”

  A woman two chairs away, in the middle of drying her hair, shouted over the din of the dryer. “Are those the wedding pictures? I want to see those when you’re finished.”

  Maude Stokes waved acknowledgment and handed the album to the redhead. Sylvie retired to the back room to complete some chores there.

  While Maude waited for the return of her prized wedding album, she looked at Clarice with the keen interest of an accomplished gossip. “Clarice? Think you and Walt will ever tie the knot?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  The redhead chimed in, “Saw his truck at your place last night.”

  Clarice tried to appear calm in front of the curious women. The rumor mill would churn into action the minute these ladies detected any emotion in Clarice’s reaction. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about ... about me and Walt ... about us keeping company. ... I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything in front of Sylvie.” Clarice tilted her head toward the back room.

  Ironically, Sylvie chose that moment to return with a broom and begin sweeping around the beauticians’ stations.

  The redhead caught Clarice’s eyes in the mirror. “Ooooh, so that’s how it is!” she told Clarice with a sly smirk.

  Maude Stokes called, “Sylvie—”

  “Y’all behave!” Clarice whispered.

  “I’m behavin’,” Maude crooned to Clarice before turning again to Sylvie. “Sylvie, how’s Walter? I heard the poor boy’s all stove up. My Eddie loaded the truck for him today—and Walter McGurk ain’t never in this world let nobody load feed for him before. I could send Eddie over to the ranch in the evenings to help out if y’all need him.” Maude licked her lips at the prospect of a juicy story brewing.

  Sylvie kept sweeping. “Walt’s all right,” she said pleasantly.

  “He’s fine, Maude,” said Clarice dismissively.

  “You should know,” Maude murmured just loud enough for Clarice and the redhead to hear. The redhead giggled.

  Sylvie began sweeping toward the rear of the shop, putting distance between herself and Clarice’s two visitors.

  …

  A short while later the telephone rang on the living room end table at the McGurk ranch. Footsteps approached and stopped. A man’s hand lifted the receiver. The man wore a gold Rolex and an expensive, well-tailored business suit. It was Walt McGurk as few people ever saw him. He lifted the receiver to his ear and said, “McGurk.”

  At the reception desk of Clarice’s Beauty World, Sylvie was hunched over the phone trying to keep the call private. “Hello, Walt?”

  “Sylvie? What you doin’ callin’ in the middle of the day? Somethin’ the matter?

  “No. Huh-uh. I just, ah, well, I ... how are you feeling? I mean, you hardly said anything this morning and I thought maybe, I mean, are you in pain or anything? You want me to get you something from the drug store?”

  Walt held the receiver away and examined it. This was a tone of voice he had never heard from Sylvie Pace. He returned the phone to his ear, shaking his head. “No, thanks. Don
’t need a thing. Just gonna be sore for a few days.”

  “Maude Stokes was here. She said if you’re laid up and need help, she could send Eddie.”

  “Well, you can tell that old busybody that I ain’t laid up in the least, and she can keep her spies at home, thank you very much. Fact, I was just on my way out. The shop in Clewiston got your car runnin’, by the way. You can drive yourself home this evening if you want.”

  “Okay. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure,” Walt confirmed. “See you tonight.”

  “Right. ... ‘Bye.”

  Walt almost hung up the receiver, but he yanked it back. “Wait, Sylvie! ... Sylvie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Listen, I ...

  Thanks. Thanks for callin’.”

  Walt and Sylvie both looked bemused as they disconnected the call.

  …

  A couple hours east of the McGurk ranch, Dan Stern’s car sped southward on I-95 toward downtown Miami. Behind Stern’s car, a black limousine wove left and right, lane to lane until it reached a position just off Dan’s rear bumper.

  The interstate was always crowded, and the entire commuter herd was stampeding at more than seventy miles per hour. The black limousine thumped the rear of Dan’s car.

  Dan felt the jolt and reacted with a look in his mirror. His phone rang. He reached for the handset, looked nervously in the rearview mirror, then punched the speaker button instead. He spoke into the microphone on his sunvisor. “Hello?”

  Hugo’s voice was unmistakable. It oozed from the speaker like oily black smoke. “We read the papers, Danny Boy. Your deal with the Nipponese fell apart. We want our money, Danny.”

  The limo thumped his bumper again, nearly sending Dan into the traffic rushing by on either side of him on the multi-lane freeway.

  Dan clutched the steering wheel for dear life. “Are you crazy? You’ll get us all killed!”

  “Only one of us, Danny,” the smoky voice said.

  “Look, I’m on my way right now to meet a guy and take him to look at the project. I’ll get the money.”

  “You bet you will,” said Hugo. “And that’s one bet we’ll be happy to cover.”

  The phone went dead. The limo swerved around Dan and swooped past him as if he were standing still. Dan wiped sweat from his face with trembling fingers.

  …

  Forty-five minutes later Leslye Larrimore stepped off the elevator at Pace-Larrimore-Stern, briefcase in hand, and crossed the lobby to her office.

  Her secretary looked up from typing when Les entered. “Good morning, Ms. Larrimore.”

  “Pardon? Oh. Morning.” Leslie fumbled for her new key then wrestled with the lock on her private office.

  “I didn’t have a key,” Diane apologized. “I would have tidied up a little—”

  “That’s all right,” Leslye interrupted. “It’s fine like it is.” The lock finally tumbled and Leslie pushed through the doorway.

  “Are you all right?” asked Diane. Too late. Les was gone, closing the door behind her.

  Leslye ignored the draped model of Pace Tower as she made a beeline for the desk, dropped her briefcase, and unlocked a drawer. She popped a pill and washed it down with a gulp from her silver flask. She finished with a breath spray then re-locked the drawer and finger-combed her hair.

  Diane’s voice came over the intercom of the desk phone. “Ms. Larrimore? Would you like me to bring you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Diane. Has Mr. Stern called?”

  “He called from his car about forty minutes ago. He and Mr. McGurk should be here soon.”

  “Good. Buzz me when they get here.” Leslye skirted her desk and approached the model table. When she removed the drape, she reacted with horror. The Pace Tower model was a shambles, as if someone had smashed it with a sledgehammer and then taken a blowtorch to it.

  “Diane!” shouted Les.

  Momentarily, Diane opened the door, alarmed. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Who’s been in here!?”

  “No one, Ms. Larrimore. You have the only key.”

  Leslye stepped aside so Diane could see the demolished model. “Do you think I did this!”

  Diane took an involuntary step forward. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. How could someone get in and do this?”

  “They couldn’t. They, they couldn’t get in. Nobody could—”

  Leslye cut her off. “Call Stern and head him off. Send them to the construction site instead. I can’t show them this.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Diane and hurried from the room.

  Leslye plodded back to her desk, slumped in her chair, and stared at the smashed model while she reached for the flask in the drawer.

  The phone rang on her desk. She took a swig from the flask.

  The phone rang again. She slapped the intercom button. “Diane, get that, please.”

  “It’s not ringing out here, ma’am. It must be your private line.”

  Leslye slapped the intercom off. The phone rang again. She took another swig and stared at the ruined model.

  The phone rang yet again. She activated the speaker with an angry swat. “Leslye Larrimore.”

  A man’s voice on the phone sang, “Rockabye Leslye, in the treetop—”

  “Who is this?”

  “—When the wind blows, the Tower will rock—”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “—When the deal breaks, the Tower will fall—”

  “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “—And down will come Leslye, Tower and all.”

  Disbelief joined the fear on Leslye’s face. “I know you. I know your voice.”

  The man said, “Didn’t I always tell you, you get what you pay for, Les?”

  “No! It can’t be you!” Leslie was beside herself. Even though she was now speaking to a dial tone, she cried, “Who are you!”

  Diane’s voice came over the intercom. “Ms. Larrimore? Are you all right?”

  Wild-eyed and panting, Leslye took a swig from her flask before answering. “Yes. Yes, I’m all ri—I’m okay. I’m fine. Fine.” She chugged another hit from the flask.

  “I reached Mr. Stern. He’s taking Mr. McGurk to the construction site. Will you join them there?”

  “No!” Leslye calmed herself with an effort. “I mean, no, I’ll be in conference all day. Tell them I’m sorry, but I can not be disturbed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Diane clicked off.

  Leslye, clutching her flask, left her desk and stalked toward the shattered model as if it were a live alligator. She pulled a chair close and sat, drinking and staring.

  …

  The Pace Tower site was full of hard-hatted construction workers and the sounds of men and machines in the midst of a big, big job. More noise was added when Dan Stern’s car pulled in and parked near the action. Walt’s red truck followed and park beside Dan’s car. A man rushed over with hard hats for the two men emerging from the vehicles.

  Walt was stiff and slow as he eased himself out of the truck. Dan met him with the two hard hats. Both men strapped the protective helmets on their heads, poor complements to their otherwise Gentleman’s Quarterly ensembles.

  With a gesture, Dan directed Walt’s attention to a sign proclaiming this the site of “Pace Tower.”

  Walt nodded. “Pace. Named after Harry, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Dan, admiring the unfinished structure. “Harry lost his share, though. Signed it over as collateral for a loan that went into default. Sad for Sylvie. It would have been her share now.” He turned his attention from the building to Walt. “You must like Sylvie a lot to take this meeting. You darn sure don’t like me.”

  Walt didn’t contradict him. He only shrugged and said, “I came because it was Harry’s project. Sentimental reasons, okay?”

  Dan nodded and smiled his most sincere, winning smile. “You know, Walt, you and I have had our differenc
es, but man to man, I feel I ought to warn you about Sylvie.”

  “It’s okay. I think she’s actually starting to like me. Some women do.”

  “Sure, she likes you! She’s probably done her homework just like I did. By now she knows the best kept secret in south Florida. You, my friend, probably have more money than Harry had!”

  Anger touched Walt’s eyes, but he forced it down hard. After a few heartbeats, he spoke with unnatural calm. “I don’t know how much money Harry had. I just know he didn’t take any of it with him. Wasn’t there something you wanted to show me?”

  Dan was smart enough to grab the opportunity for a change of subject. “Right this way,” he said, moving away from the car. “Just a quick tour, then we’ll talk investment.”

  Dan ushered Walt across the jumbled construction site, keeping up a salesman’s chatter all the while.

  As they returned to the cars some time later, Dan tried to add a personal note to their business discussion. “I’m sorry you don’t feel up to playing in tomorrow’s polo match. I was going to bet on you this time.” Dan laughed at his own joke.

  When Walt didn’t laugh, Dan sobered and became solicitous. “But seriously, I hope you don’t hold any grudge about that tragedy the other day. It really was an accident, you know that.”

  “I know exactly what it was,” Walt said neutrally.

  …

  The next afternoon found Sylvie and Leslye in their expensive reserved seats at the Polo Club. Sylvie held Maude in her lap as the ladies admired the teams’ warm-ups. Leslye was a little less than sober and was nursing a concession stand beer. Sylvie’s gaze was concentrated on the field below when a shadow fell across her.

  A familiar male voice said, “Mind if I join you?”

  Both women looked up and saw Walt McGurk. Leslye quickly turned back to watch the field. Sylvie looked Walt over carefully as if judging his health. “I was looking for you down there,” she said.

  Walt slowly lowered himself into the seat beside her. “Too old and too slow,” he said. “Especially after last time.”