Cambridge, Minnesota, was far enough away from the Twin Cities to be considered one of those small towns “up north.” It was fifty miles from Salsa Girl Salsa, where I retrieved Erin, and took us over an hour to reach it because the first twenty miles of the drive were through heavy rush hour traffic. I asked Erin why the Bignell family lived way out there instead of Lake Minnetonka, Sunfish Lake, North Oaks, or any of the other areas of the Cities where the one percent tended to gather.
“They’re simple folk,” she said.
I didn’t believe her, especially after I first saw the enormous family mansion. It was located northeast of town and surrounded by a vast field of tall grass—the only structure of any kind in sight.
“You’re supposed to be impressed,” Erin said.
“I am.”
“Eight bedrooms, nine baths, four partial baths, over twenty thousand square feet, in-ground swimming pool, six-car garage, two hundred and seventy acres.”
“You know these details because…”
“It’s my hobby. Stop the car.”
I did, pulling to the shoulder of the single-lane road that led to the Bignell mansion and nowhere else. Erin stepped out of the car. I asked what she was doing. She answered by releasing the top three buttons of her white shirt; if she twisted her body just so it would open, and the casual observer would notice the lace bra she wore underneath. She pulled out the shirttails, rolled up the waistband of her dark blue skirt until the hem was inches above her knees, pushed back the sleeves of her jacket to her elbows, and pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, making sure that several unruly strands hung down along her cheek. She appeared younger; how much younger depended on your imagination. She slid back into the car.
“What are you doing?” I asked again.
“I told you before, it’s called branding.”
“You look like a student in an all-women’s prep school flouting the dress code. All you need is a red tie with the knot pulled down to your cleavage.”
“I’m just a naïve little girl, inexperienced in the ways of the world, who needs a strong man to advise and guide her as she attempts to grow her fragile boutique into a full-fledged business. Pretend that you’re my big brother coming along to keep me out of trouble because you know how impetuous and flighty I can be.”
“This is going to be fun.”
“We’ll see.”
I continued driving toward the mansion. With nothing to compete with, it seemed to grow even bigger and grander as we approached—which, I’m sure, was the point. We parked next to a couple of dozen other cars, most of them a lot more expensive than mine. We didn’t walk to the front door but instead circled the house to the back, where we found red, white, and blue bunting, folding tables and chairs, and plenty of white canopies. Under the canopies were bars and tables loaded with food and plates. Men and women attired in white catering outfits stood behind them. There was no one standing at the bars or eating the food, however. Instead, the guests mingled in small cliques around the canopies. Most of them were dressed for an Easter parade. The breeze coming off the fields made their clothes flutter.
“Who are all these people?” I asked.
“Family; a few friends, I suppose. Mostly they’re business associates, though—people who are beholden to the Bignells for one reason or another. If you’re involved in any way with the selling of food products in the Upper Midwest and Great Lakes Region, you’re likely to be involved with the Bignell family.”
“Speaking of food, I notice that no one is eating or drinking.”
“It’s not allowed until after prayers.”
We moved among the other guests. Erin often received the once-over, that look most men and some women automatically bestow on pretty girls. The eyes of one man in particular grew wide with recognition when he noted her presence, yet he quickly looked away. He was in his midfifties with hair that was more salt than pepper. He was wearing a blue collarless shirt and black jacket. I noticed that he kept repositioning his body as he spoke to his companions so that he could track Erin’s progress as she meandered through the crowd while pretending not to. I was going to ask who he was, except Randy Bignell-Sax interrupted.
“Erin,” he said. “You’re here.”
He hugged his partner too tightly. Erin didn’t seem happy about it yet said nothing. Once again I was impressed with how young he seemed compared to his physical age.
“I told Grandfather to make you come,” he said. “I didn’t think he would, though.” Randy saw me standing behind Erin. “I remember you. What’s your name? McKenzie. I’m still annoyed at you for the way you interrogated me last night.”
“Is that what I did?”
“I’m not a child, you know. I suppose you were looking out for Erin, though, so I forgive you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“So, we’re friends now?”
“Why not?”
“Randy, we need to talk,” Erin said.
“You’re not still mad because I stole some of your tomatoes?” he said.
Erin rested her hand on his arm. He seemed to like that.
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re my friend. Besides, like you said, ten percent of them were yours anyway. I just worry knowing that you’re wandering the plant alone at night. What if you get hurt?”
“I’ll be fine. I know my way around pretty well now.”
You do? my inner voice asked.
“Ms. Peterson,” a woman said. The three of us turned to face her. Another fifty-plus, I told myself, whose hair and makeup looked like they were done by professionals and not too long ago. She was wearing a body-hugging top with a long skirt that was tight around her hips and flared outward. She wore so many bracelets that when she moved her arms she sounded like a wind chime.
“Marilyn,” Erin said.
“It’s Mrs. Bignell-Sax.”
“Of course.”
I gave the woman the once-over. She seemed to enjoy the attention.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Marilyn said. “You don’t usually grace us with your presence.” She stepped back and gazed at Erin as if she were appraising her body. “Have you been dieting?”
“No. I prefer to look healthy.”
“You do, too. As healthy as a horse. And you are?”
Since Marilyn was staring at me I answered, “McKenzie.”
I offered my hand. She didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
“And you are?” she repeated.
“An invited guest. Mr. Bignell insisted I attend.”
“Which one?”
“How many are there?”
“Bruce invited us both,” Erin said.
“I wonder why.”
“He asked that I spare him a few moments to discuss a business matter. Perhaps you’d like to sit in on the conversation.”
“I care nothing about your business.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“Seeing you two behave this way makes me sad,” Randy said. “People I care about so much. I wish you liked each other. I wish you would be friends.”
“I choose my friends very carefully,” Marilyn said. “You should do the same.”
“Mother, you’re being rude.”
“Am I?” Marilyn seemed jolted by Randy’s remark, although she tried hard to hide it. It was as if she had never heard him speak up like that. It didn’t stop her from speaking up herself, though. “I’m sorry, dear. But it’s time you learned the difference between your friends and the people who are trying to take advantage of your good nature.”
“Mother.”
“Your grandfather is about to come down. You must be sure to greet him at the stones.”
“I will, Mother.”
“You should go now.”
“In a moment, Mother.”
Marilyn turned and walked away.
“That went well,” I said.
“Fuck.” Randy’s eyes darted to Erin’s. “Sorry.”
She pressed her hand against his arm again. “It’s okay. I’ve heard the word before.”
“It’s just that my mother has become so very cynical. I don’t know why. She wasn’t like that when I was young.”
Erin moved her hand from Randy’s arm to his chest and leaned in.
“Your mother cares about you,” she said. “She doesn’t want to see you hurt.”
Randy covered Erin’s hand with his own and gave it a squeeze.
“It’s about time she let me grow up,” he said.
“Go meet your grandfather.”
“Will I see you later? I think there’s going to be dancing.”
“Then we’ll need to dance.”
Randy left, but he did it reluctantly.
“Why do I have the feeling that this is about more than a simple business arrangement?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erin said.
I was looking directly into her eyes and smiling when I said, “About thirty feet off your left shoulder there’s a man dressed in a blue shirt and black jacket who has been watching every move you make.”
Erin smiled in return and refrained from doing what most people would have done—she didn’t look.
“He seemed especially interested when you were talking to Mrs. Bignell-Sax,” I said.
“Short gray hair?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Brian Sax. Marilyn’s husband, Randy’s father; first in line to take over the company when Bruce steps down. Take my arm and lead me toward the house. Try not to make eye contact.”
I did.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“What makes you think something’s going on?”
* * *
Bruce Bignell had a full head of white hair; how much of it was real, I couldn’t say. He was tall and thin and used a cane to help propel him along a stone path that sloped gently from the terrace in back of the house to where his guests were gathered in the leveled area at the base of the hill. He held the hand of a little girl dressed in one of those pink party dresses with a ruffled skirt that parents love but kids hate. The child wasn’t smiling, but then neither was Bignell.
He halted at the edge of three carefully carved stones that served as a stage. An entourage consisting chiefly of family members and men dressed in gray and black suits clustered in front of him; they were careful to stand a few feet down the slope so that their heads were below his. The girl kept glancing to her left at a handsome woman who stood apart from the group. The woman wasn’t smiling either.
Bignell introduced the girl as his beloved great-granddaughter, without mentioning her name. He said the party had been arranged to celebrate her tenth birthday and to impress upon her what it means to be a member of the fourth generation of the great Bignell family, which apparently began with him. He actually used the word “great.” The girl curtsied. The people applauded.
Erin whispered, “They throw themselves a parade every Fourth of July. A high school marching band. Floats. The old man sitting like Santa Claus and waving to the crowd. I’m not exaggerating.”
Bignell released the little girl’s hand, and she dashed toward the handsome woman. They smiled once they were in each other’s arms and wandered off together.
“Let us pray,” Bignell said.
I thought he was going to pass the chore to a padre of some sort who would say a few words before leading the congregation in grace. But no, Bignell did the honors himself.
“Everything I have today comes from God. It is His. I own nothing. David said the world and everything in it belongs to God. I am not the owner of the things in my life. I am merely the manager whom He has trusted with His property. I must learn to think, therefore, like His manager. A manager oversees the Owner’s assets for the Owner’s benefit. The job of manager is to find out what the Owner wants done and then carry out His will. I am held accountable to God because He, as the Owner, has expectations of the manager. The Owner has complete right to full disclosure of what’s being done with His property. As His manager, I will undergo a job performance review. So will those of His managers in government who are wasting God’s money on bailouts and job stimulus programs, on healthcare bills and welfare subsidies, on food programs and housing assistance that rob God’s children of ambition and drive and the gift of hard work. But as Christians, can we sit idly by and wait for God to judge these people who squander His gifts? The Lord helps those who help themselves. It is up to each of us to make sure that these elected officials face a harsh job evaluation on Election Day. It is our task to see to it that officeholders realize that the time and money they spend belong to God. That they must be managed according to His will. That is why I pray that all of you give much of the wealth that you manage in God’s name to Christians for a Fiscally Responsible Government so that we can pressure these government officials to do what’s good and right with the property that God has entrusted to them. Let us pray…”
I looked around. The crowd was equally divided between those who nodded their heads in agreement and those who glanced surreptitiously at their wristwatches and cell phones. No one seemed outraged that Bruce Bignell was using prayer to promote a PAC but me.
“O God,” he said, “You know my weakness and failings, and that without Your help I can accomplish nothing for the good of souls, my own and others. Grant me, therefore, the help of Your grace. Grant it according to my particular needs this day. Enable me to see the task You will set before me in the daily routine of my life, and help me work hard at my appointed tasks. Teach me to bear patiently all the trials of suffering or failure that may come to me today. Amen.”
There were plenty of “Amens” spoken in response to Bignell. Afterward, several people moved forward to seek audience with the great man. The rest of us turned and moved toward the bartenders and caterers under the white canopies, but slowly, as if no one wanted to be first in line.
“I thought you were supposed to have a conversation with Bignell,” I said.
“He’ll summon us when he’s ready,” Erin told me.
I surveyed the food tables. There was plenty of everything—beef, pork, chicken, fish, and an assortment of vegetarian and side dishes—yet no pasta and no spaghetti sauce. I filled a plate and sat with Erin and several other guests who seemed consumed with the weather. No one spoke politics. No one mentioned Bignell’s prayer.
I had nearly finished my chicken when the man Erin had identified as Brian Sax appeared at the table.
“Excuse me,” he said. Seven people looked up to see if he was speaking to them. “Ms. Peterson?”
“Yes, Mr. Sax.”
“My father-in-law would like to have a word if you are finished with your dinner.”
“Of course.”
Erin stood. Sax turned toward me.
“Are you McKenzie?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You, too, then.”
Erin and Sax strolled side by side to the stone path and then up the path toward the veranda. Sax walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and Erin crossed her arms over her chest, as if they were afraid they might reach out and touch each other. I followed several paces behind, close enough to listen to their conversation without looking like it.
“I’ve missed you,” Sax said.
“You tell me that now with your entire family here to see?”
“It’s torture when you’re near and torture when you’re not.”
“I know.”
“What were you discussing with my son?”
“Business.”
“As long as that’s all you talk about.”
“I don’t understand or appreciate this jealousy.”
Sax’s head snapped toward Erin. He quickly righted himself, but not before tossing a glance over his shoulder to see if I noticed. I pretended that I didn’t.
“I have an early flight tomorrow,” Sax said. “I’ll be spending the night at the apartment in Minneapolis. Come see me.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Please.”
By then we were approaching Bruce Bignell. He was sitting on the veranda in a high-backed chair, the king on his throne. Why he didn’t greet his guests inside his enormous house—I guessed it was because he wanted to be seen greeting them. He held his cane next to his leg like a staff.
“Good evening, Mr. Bignell.” Erin’s voice had a youthful bounce to match her appearance. “It’s such a pleasure seeing you again.” She crossed the stone floor in a hurry. Instead of offering her hand to shake, she rested it on top of the old man’s hand, the one holding his cane, and squeezed. “How come all of us get old except you?”
“The Lord has been very kind to me. But Erin, sweetheart, how many times must I tell you to call me Bruce?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, sir.”
“Try.”
Erin smiled brightly. She moved a chair so near to the old man that when she sat their knees touched. Up close I noticed that he looked every minute of his eighty-plus years.
“Bruce,” she said, followed by a girlish giggle. “Oh, Mr. Bignell, you’re always teasing me.”
Bignell glanced up at his son-in-law. There was a tightness around Sax’s lips; other than that his face was impassive. Bignell dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. Sax bobbed his head toward Salsa Girl.
“Ms. Peterson,” he said.
He turned and walked off the veranda toward the other guests. Give him credit, he never once looked back.
“Mr. McKenzie,” Bignell said.
“Sir?”
“I am led to believe that you are our darling Erin’s protector.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I want you to stay and listen carefully to what I have to say. Erin, I have been reliably informed that you are experiencing difficulties with your employees.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said.
“How would you then explain the series of mishaps that have befallen you?”
“We’re taking steps—”
“You brought this on yourself. You know that, don’t you? Hiring Asians and Mexicans—”
“They’re good people, Mr. Bignell.”
“Don’t interrupt, young lady.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“They all came to this country, or they’re descendents of people who came to this country, looking for a handout, looking for a free ride; either way it’s the same thing. I understand how it happened. They saw how good-natured you are, how kind and generous, and now they’re taking advantage. Erin, there are a million swindlers out there, and if you are going to take your place among serious business people, you must learn to recognize and deal with them.”
“It’s so hard.”
“I know it is, sweetheart. However, you must be firm. You. McKenzie. What are you doing about this situation?”
“What I can.”
“It must not be very much if someone is pouring Krazy Glue into Erin’s locks and dumping rat excrement on her desk. If you’re allowing some welfare cheat who doesn’t have the backbone to support himself and his family to tear down everything this young woman has built…”
Wait. What? my inner voice said. Welfare cheat?
“What exactly do you think is going on at Salsa Girl?” I asked aloud.
Bignell refused to answer. Instead, he returned his attention to Erin.
“Say the word,” he said, “and I’ll have a management team down there by the day after tomorrow. Let me take care of you.”
“No, Mr. Bignell. It’s my company. I want to run it.”
“I appreciate your ambition, my dear. The hard work you’ve put into Salsa Girl. That’s one of the reasons I agreed to distribute your products. Only now your company has reached a size where it’s too big for a young woman to control.”
“But it’s mine.”
“It’s also Randy’s company. That makes you part of the family. You must understand, dear girl, this is not just about you anymore. Minnesota Foods has added a number of product lines to complement yours—tortillas, tortilla chips, taco shells, dried beans and rice. Your success is our success. Your failure—we simply cannot allow you to fail. Otherwise, we will need to reach out to someone else to anchor our Mexican brands, a different vendor, perhaps.”
“Please, Mr. Bignell, I can fix this.”
He was glaring at me when he replied, “We’ll be watching.” He looked back at her. “Erin, you must know how very much we care about you, about your welfare. Randy’s, too. We would love to see your partnership grow even stronger. Please remember that we’re here to assist you in any way that we can.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bignell.”
“Erin, please.”
“Bruce. Thank you, Bruce.”
He smiled. It was the first time I saw him do it, and it must have hurt, because it didn’t last more than a second or two.
“You’re such a pretty little thing,” Bignell said. “You run along now and enjoy the party.”
“Thank you, Mr.… Bruce.”
Erin smiled brightly and lightly caressed Bignell’s hand, still gripping his cane. Then she and I walked back toward the party.
Halfway there she took my hand. She squeezed it so hard that I was afraid the other guests would notice the pain it caused me.
“I am not a screamer.” Erin was again speaking with what I was beginning to recognize as her mature voice. “I do not engage in public displays of agitation.”
“I, on the other hand, have been known to weep and wail in front of whole crowds of people.”
Erin released my hand.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Don’t you think you’ve taken this ‘helpless little girl lost’ routine far enough?”
“As long as I get what I want.”
“What do you want that’s worth putting up with that asshole? I’m amazed you let him talk to you the way he did.”
“Being an asshole isn’t reason enough to make someone your enemy. If you start doing that, pretty soon you’ll be at odds with half the people on the planet. Besides, even assholes have their uses.”
* * *
We returned to our table but didn’t sit. Erin said she needed to mingle. I asked her if she wanted me to mingle with her. She said that would conflict with the brand. She was smiling when she said it, and in that moment I understood her more clearly than ever before. Erin used her sexuality like a Swiss Army knife. She had a tool that could be made to fit any task, to influence any individual, from the naïve sex kitten for Bignell to the caring older woman for Randy to the just-out-of-reach goddess for Ian Gotz to—how did she present herself to Sax, I wondered. A femme fatale, a full-blown “fatal woman”? She was the affectionate older sister for Alice, the rowdy drinking buddy for Maria, the sensual possibility for Marshall Lantry.
How is she playing you? my inner voice asked.
The honorable yet sorely tempted woman desperate to keep an alluring man at a distance for fear of betraying her friend, I told myself. Yeah, there was something enticing about that.
She’s certainly got you thinking, hasn’t she?
I went into one of the catering tents and built a steak sandwich out of the provisions I found there. After stopping in a bar tent for an ale brewed in Ireland—no domestic beers for the Bignells—I returned to the table. The sun was setting. Without it, the air turned cold and reminded me of winter. Lights went on, giving the party area a soft glow but no warmth.
I had nearly finished the sandwich when Marilyn Bignell-Sax arrived. She was wearing a cashmere sweater over the tight-fitting top.
“May I have a moment?” she asked.
She sat next to me without waiting for a reply.
“Mr. McKenzie…”
“McKenzie is fine,” I said.
She smiled. “You may call me Marilyn.”
“Thank you, Marilyn.”
“I wish to apologize for my behavior earlier. Randy was right. I was very rude.”
“Fine. But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”
Marilyn turned her head as if she were searching the crowd for Erin. I did, too. Neither of us could find her.
“How well do you know Ms. Peterson?” Marilyn asked.
“We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Yes, but how well do you know her?”
“What do you want, Marilyn?”
“I know you, McKenzie. I Googled your name.” She held up her smartphone as if to prove it. “There are stories about you. Some of the people you’ve helped. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin—I don’t know her but I know the Muehlenhaus family. You seem capable.”
I didn’t respond. Instead I waited for the fabled shoe to drop, wondering where it would land.
“Now you’re assisting Erin,” Marilyn said. “But do you know anything about her?”
“Do you?”
“No. She’s never told me anything about herself.”
“Why would she?”
“McKenzie, my son is not a serious boy.”
Maybe if you stopped calling him boy, my inner voice said.
“Randy lives only for the joy of the moment. He’s what my father calls a wastrel. After he was dismissed from his fourth college in three years, Father insisted that we cut him off. No money. No sustenance of any kind. It was the only way he’d grow up, Father said.
“Then, out of the blue, this beautiful creature ten years his senior decides to make him her partner, decides that Randy is exactly the man she needs at her side as she builds her company. Suddenly he’s mature? Suddenly he’s a sober businessman? He lends her the money to make her dream a reality. Her dream. Not Randy’s. He never once talked about going into business. We don’t even know where he found the money. The family had cut him off completely from financial assistance. My husband believes that he convinced a bank to make him a loan using the Bignell name as collateral. How else could he have secured the necessary funds?”
“However he managed it, Randy and Erin seemed to have done quite well,” I said.
“Oh yes, I can’t argue that. The company quickly made serious inroads throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin. Then it entered some competition in New Mexico and won best salsa of the year, or something like that. Based on that exposure alone, they were able to get Salsa Girl Salsa into stores there and in Texas. That’s when Randy and Erin approached Minnesota Foods to distribute Salsa Girl throughout the Upper Midwest and Great Lakes Region. Both my father and my husband were delighted to partner with them. They were so pleased with Randy. By then Erin had repaid the loan, and he was a ten-percent owner of the company. I don’t know how much that pays him, but it’s enough that he no longer asks us for money. And Erin—she just charmed the socks off my father and Brian. They were so pathetic.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t believe it. McKenzie, I know I should be grateful. Randy talked back to me, today; you heard him. He’s never done that until recently. I actually enjoyed it.”
“Yes, I could tell.”
“It’s the stories that bother me. Or I should say, the lack of stories. McKenzie, who do you know that doesn’t have stories to tell about their lives, their family; about where they went to school, their first job? Oh, Erin’ll tell you things if you push, but nothing you can put a finger on, not one verifiable fact. I asked her once where she was raised and she said the suburbs, and I asked which suburb and she said, ‘You wouldn’t like it there. Too many people of color.’ I’m not a racist, McKenzie. Erin answers questions that way so I’ll stop asking.”
“Have you shared these concerns with your people?”
Marilyn hissed dismissively. “They don’t listen to me. They accuse me of being jealous. Jealous of my son’s girlfriend even though she’s not his girlfriend. Jealous because Erin’s younger. They don’t say prettier, but they mean that, too. They’re so happy about her effect on Randy that I either have to shut up or become the enemy.”
And that’s how Erin played Marilyn, my inner voice said. Nicely done.
“I still don’t know what you want from me,” I said.
She seemed surprised by the remark.
“Nothing,” Marilyn said. “I know that Erin is your friend. I was rude to her and to you earlier. I merely wanted to explain why. And to apologize.”
Marilyn reached across the table and squeezed my hand just the way that Erin had squeezed Bignell’s hand earlier.
“Enjoy the party,” she said.
* * *
I watched Marilyn as she walked away. She was halfway across the lawn when she halted. I followed her gaze to where Erin and Brian Sax stood together. Marilyn shook her head sadly and kept walking. I kept watching. There was nothing untoward about their behavior; they could have been complete strangers asking directions, for all the emotion they displayed—which was exactly why I knew something was amiss. They’d known each other for a long time. Wouldn’t they at least smile?
Finally he stepped closer. His eyes slid from side to side, making sure no one had come within eavesdropping range. She rested her hand on his chest …
She does that a lot, my inner voice said.
… and halted his advance. She stepped back and retrieved her cell phone from her jacket pocket. While she looked at the cell, he glanced at his wristwatch. They’re synchronizing their clocks, I thought; I bet they’re going to meet later.
Erin and Sax nodded at each other and walked off in separate directions. Erin came toward me. She was intercepted by Randy. He was smiling broadly. She became flirtatious and kept touching his arm and shoulder. He asked her a question. She shook her head. From his expression, I knew he was disappointed. Erin wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, and kissed his cheek. It was a long kiss, and when it ended, Randy still appeared disappointed. Erin brushed his cheek with her fingertips where her lips had landed. He grinned. She pecked his lips, just like she had done to the kid in the bar the night before. Randy grinned some more. Erin left his side and made her way to where I was sitting.
“Let’s go,” she said.
* * *
We were in my Mustang and heading south on Highway 65 toward the Cities. Salsa Girl was leaning back against the seat, her eyes closed.
“You are a charmer,” I said.
“Am I?”
“Old man Bignell, his son-in-law, his grandson—everyone except Marilyn.”
“Afraid I’ll turn my charms on you, McKenzie?”
“I was, but not anymore.”
“Good. That’s important to me.”
“What would your mother say to all of this, I wonder?”
“My mother died a long time ago. I thought you knew.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
“We talked about it once at a party Ian threw. Or was it Dave Deese? I knew your mother died when you were young just like my father had and then you lost your father like I lost my mother. We’re both orphans, McKenzie.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Maybe it was someone else I was talking to. McKenzie, about the Bignell family—can I trust you, I mean really trust you?”
“Sure.”
“What about Nina?”
“What about her?”
“Do you tell Nina everything?”
“Nearly everything.”
“What don’t you tell her?”
“What my friends ask me to keep secret.”
“Just between you and me, then. Our secret, okay?”
“Sure.”
“The Bignells—I won’t go into details right now, but just so you know, I intend to screw them over before they do it to me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you have to say?”
“I noticed that the Bignells didn’t serve Randy’s world-famous spaghetti sauce at the party as promised.”
“It was probably meant for family only.”
“Probably.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“Who knows about the rat shit that was dumped on your desk? Besides you and me and the person who did it?”
Erin’s eyes snapped open, and she turned her head to look at me.
“No one,” she said. “I didn’t even tell Alice.”
“Yet Bruce Bignell knew all about it.”
“Yes, he did.”
“I wonder how.”
She diverted her attention to the traffic outside the window as we gobbled up the miles on the way home.
“That’s a very good question,” Erin said.
I noticed she didn’t attempt to answer it.
* * *
It was well after 9:00 P.M. when we reached Salsa Girl Salsa. Alice Pfeifer and Marshall Lantry were sitting in the office foyer. She was behind her reception desk. He was perched on a chair across the room from her. If they were enjoying each other’s company, I hadn’t noticed.
Lantry glanced at his watch when we walked in.
“It’s about time,” he said.
“I thought you’d still be hard at it,” I said.
“I know my business. Come with me.”
Lantry rose from the chair and led us down the short corridor to Erin’s office. He circled the desk and sat in Erin’s chair. If she was annoyed by the snub, she didn’t show it. We all crowded around him. He moved the mouse, and Erin’s computer screen came alive.
“Here,” he said. “This icon brings up the outside cameras.”
He clicked on the icon, and the screen was immediately divided into quarters. Each displayed one side of the building.
“This gives you a real-time view of what’s going on outside,” Lantry said, “but it’s also recording on a seventy-two-hour loop. After seventy-two hours, it starts recording over what was recorded before—so every three days. Now, if you want to erase in case you filmed something you don’t want the USDA to know about—”
I slapped him upside the head.
“Oww. What?”
I gestured at the screen.
“If you want to erase something in a hurry, you can do this…”
Lantry manipulated the recording bar.
“Okay?” He was asking me, not Erin. I didn’t say a word.
“I understand,” Erin said.
Lantry closed the icon and clicked on another. This time the screen was divided into eight equal boxes.
“Same thing as before except this is inside,” Lantry said. “We have two cameras in your production plant, and one each in your prep room, recipe room, finished-goods cooler, inside loading dock, front office, and lunchroom. I was going to mount a camera in your office, but sugar lips here wouldn’t let me do it.”
I whacked him on the head again.
“Would you stop doing that?” Lantry said.
“Would you stop insulting my friends?”
Lantry looked up at Alice. She was standing off to the side with her arms crossed over her chest.
“No disrespect,” he said. “Now, if you want to take a closer look, this is what you do.” He clicked on the box showing the prep room. It suddenly filled the entire screen. I could clearly see the shelf where the box of tomatoes that I had been reaching for when Hector Lozano slapped my hand should have been resting, only now it was empty. “If you want sound…” Lantry right-clicked on the image, and a volume-control bar appeared. He moved the cursor along the bar, and we heard a hissing sound. “We couldn’t manage it in the production plant. Too much interference. All the other rooms, though, you’ll be able to listen in.” Lantry clicked on the image a second time, and once again the screen was divided into eight boxes. He spun in his chair toward Erin.
“So, hon—Erin. Are you satisfied?”
Erin reached past him to her desk drawer, pulled it open, withdrew a thick envelope, and closed the drawer. She handed the envelope to Lantry. He held it up for everyone to see.
“I’m not even going to count it,” he said.
“I’d be insulted if you did,” Erin said.
“That’s why I’m not going to count it. I don’t want McKenzie to hit me again.”
* * *
Lantry left. Alice continued to stand there with her arms crossed.
“Is there something you want to say?” Erin asked.
“It’s impermissible to use video cameras to monitor employees unless you notify them about the surveillance.”
“You learned that in business school, did you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Erin—”
“Alice, it’s okay if you’re trying to counter theft, violence, or sabotage. I looked it up.”
“So did I, and you must notify your employees first or you could be open to legal action for invasion of privacy. You might even be violating federal wiretapping laws.”
“It’s temporary—just until we find out who’s trying to sabotage the company. We have enemies, remember? You said so yourself.”
“I still think it’s wrong.”
“Don’t ever change, Alice. McKenzie, thank you for everything. I have one last errand to run. Alice, please lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Erin left the building.
Alice dropped her arms to her sides.
“That woman,” she said.
“Alice, do you know Randy Sax? Bignell-Sax, I guess it is.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen him hanging around the place when Erin wasn’t here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has he ever dropped by unexpectedly? Has he ever wandered over to the production plant? Gone into the prep room, maybe, to steal some tomatoes?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. He knows some of the guys back there. On the rare occasion when he does stop in, he’ll joke with Hector and Tony Cremer and some of the others, but it’s not a regular thing by any means.”
“Thank you. Have a good night, what’s left of it.”
* * *
I stepped out of the building and moved to the Mustang just in time to catch the taillights of Erin’s BMW 530i as it pulled out of the lot onto Pelham Boulevard. At the same time, I saw the headlights of a second vehicle snap on. It was parked down the street. The car quickly pulled away from the curb and went in the same direction as Erin.
What are the chances? my inner voice asked.
I dashed the remaining distance to my Mustang. I had all the latest electronic gadgets, so I didn’t need to fumble for a key. The fob in my pocket unlocked the door from three feet away, and all I needed to do was press a button to start the ignition. I pulled out of the parking lot in a hurry. Soon I was on the tail of a blue Toyota Camry. I hoped it was the right car.
The Camry crossed Pelham and jumped on the I-94 freeway heading west. I was relieved when up ahead I could see Erin’s Beemer under the freeway lights. The Camry trailed about five car lengths behind it. I followed six car lengths behind the Camry and one lane over. The traffic was sparse at that time of night, and I wasn’t afraid of being cut off.
When the BMW and the Camry took the Seventh Street exit I had to wonder—were they going to my place? I felt a thrill of recognition when both cars turned right on Eleventh Avenue South and continued on to Washington. That was my corner. I relaxed, though, when they each hung a left and sped past the coffeehouse where Nina and I sometimes hung out, moving west.
Erin took a right on Park Avenue and a left on South Second Street. The Camry followed her. I followed the Camry. I got close enough to finally read its license plate and dropped back again.
The Guthrie Theater had just let out, and there were plenty of empty spaces on the street. Erin claimed one in front of a tall apartment building with a view of both the Mississippi River and downtown Minneapolis. The Camry drove past her, which is what I would have done if I’d been driving it. I pulled my own car into a space half a block back. The Camry turned off Second Street, and I lost sight of it.
Erin stepped out of the BMW. Once again she pulled the tails of her shirt out from her skirt. I couldn’t see if she had undone any of her buttons, but she draped her jacket over her shoulders like a cape and walked into the apartment building’s foyer. I left my Mustang and moved quickly down the street, using the parked cars for cover, to get a better look through the building’s windows.
Inside the foyer, Erin walked directly to a desk staffed by two security guards dressed in blue jackets. She spoke to them. One of the guards retrieved a phone and made a call. A moment later, he returned the receiver to the cradle and gestured toward a bank of elevators. The doors of one of the elevators were open. Erin stepped inside and pressed a button, and the doors closed. When they did, the two security guards laughed and slapped hands if it were one of the most entertaining things they had ever seen.
I wondered if Erin had made this trip before—and how often.
While I was wondering, the sound of a heel scraping sidewalk caused me to turn my head.
I heard it before I felt it, the sound of heavy impact as metal met bone with a wet crack followed by an electric shock that raced down my spinal column and loosened all of my extremities.
I collapsed to my knees with the brief recognition that someone had just hit me very, very hard. My torso bent forward until both elbows rested against the concrete. I bowed my head between them.
* * *
I didn’t think I had lost consciousness. Yet when I looked up, the sidewalk was empty. I explored the side of my head and found a knot the size of a microwave oven. It was warm to the touch and throbbing, but there was no blood.
I stood.
My head ached so much I was convinced I had brain damage.
Think anyone would notice? my inner voice said.
I stumbled my way back toward my Mustang, using the cars parked on the street for support. A pair of theatergoers saw me; they probably thought I was drunk.
“You okay, mister?” one of them asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. Only I wasn’t. I doubted I could spell the word if you spotted me both the f and the n. I made my way to the Mustang and climbed behind the steering wheel. Probably I shouldn’t have. My place was only about five blocks away, yet somehow walking seemed harder than driving.
I started the car. Fifteen minutes later, I was standing inside the condominium. Swear to God, looking back I couldn’t tell you how that happened.
I swallowed a couple of aspirin and ibuprofen, pulled off my clothes, and climbed into the shower. Washing my hair around the knot was painful, yet when I finished I felt better. I threw on a pair of shorts and wandered into the kitchen area. I didn’t think a drink was a good idea no matter how badly I wanted one. Instead, I poured an iced tea. Afterward, I pulled out a gel ice pack that I kept in the freezer for just such occasions and pressed it against the knot.
I made my way to the sofa in front of the HDTV to watch SportsCenter and wait for Nina. I was out before the first commercial break.