T. Bunn - Winner Take All

The next morning Kirsten is awakened by a chorus of screams and the sight of the young woman sprawled dead in her bathroom .

After the police finally depart and the agency’s lawyer makes them sign forms nobody bothers to read and the hotel expels them and they are off to another day’s gig, one of the other women consoles the handsome young man by saying, “Don’t blame yourself. She forgot the first rule of this game, is all.”

The next morning, Kirsten leaves for Washington .

After her confrontation with Sephus Jones, Kirsten brought in her gym bag with the change of office clothes and showered in the upstairs guestroom. Marcus had said nothing when she had deposited her makeup in the big home’s unused bath. But his silent pleasure had been so vast she had grappled for days with a renewed urge to flee. How could she tell Marcus that he was someone else’s perfect catch? Especially when she remained so viciously at war with her own desires.

She returned downstairs to be confronted by the crumpled envelope resting on the front hall table. She could still feel the man’s lightning jab into her pocket, the roughness of his fingers on her thigh. She debated calling Marcus at the Raleigh courthouse to tell him … What? That New Horizons remained an enemy? That she had finally decided it was best to return to Washington? She sighed her way into her desk at the rear of Netty’s office.

Research on Dale Steadman took no time at all. The man had left a trail of headlines. The local Wilmington paper called Dale Steadman the epitome of a self-made man, the product of two university lecturers who were both mortified to discover they had sired a behemoth who loved to do battle. He had been an all-state fullback, then played one season of pro ball before injury permanently sidelined him. He had gone on to earn a real degree at Duke, in accounting of all things. He had then returned to Wilmington and established a textile company specializing in high-end sports fashion.

Fay Wilbur chose that moment to come thumping through the office’s rear door. Deacon’s wife was a rail-thin woman who never stopped moving. Kirsten could feel the woman’s glare on her back, an acidic torch that just begged for battle. Fay banged the dust mop around the room, striking every available surface and glaring constantly at Kirsten.

Netty was heads-down at her own computer, her desk at the office’s far end. When Fay finally harrumphed her disgust and departed, Netty said, “That woman is dead set on giving me hives this morning.”

“It’s not you.”

“You know what’s going on here?”

Kirsten did not reply.

“Well, the woman’s in a state, is all I can say.”

Kirsten returned to the research. Three years later, New Horizons had bought Dale out. He started spending more time in New York. He sat on boards and did some consulting for U.S. textile companies seeking to avoid moving their operations overseas. He met Erin Brandt. They pursued an international romance, they married. The Steadmans built a home in Wilmington and subsequently divorced. One child, a daughter.

The phone rang. Netty answered with “Marcus Glenwood’s office. Just a moment please.” She cupped the phone and called, “Fay, it’s for you.”

The thunking halted. “Who’s that calling?”

“Your daughter. Line three.”

The mop was dropped with a clatter. The two women exchanged a glance as Fay picked up the conference room phone and snapped, “What is it now?” She was silent a long moment, then, “I can’t tell you any more than I did the last time. I get to it soon as the man walks in the door.”

Fay slammed down the phone, picked up her mop, and started up the front stairs trailing smoky epitaphs.

Netty rose from her desk with her mug in hand. “Never thought I’d need to run a gauntlet just to freshen my coffee.”

As she was leaving the office the phone rang. Netty snagged the phone on Kirsten’s desk. “Marcus Glenwood’s office. I’m sorry, Mr. Glenwood is in court this morning.” She listened a moment. “Who may I say is calling?”

Netty gave Kirsten a curious glance. “What is this in regard to, please?”

Netty listened a moment further, then pressed the mute button and said, “Senator Jacobs’ office wants to talk with you about the Steadman case.”

“Me?”

“He even knew your name. Should I say you’re not available?”

“This is growing worse by the minute.”

“What is?”

Kirsten reached for her receiver. “Kirsten Stansted.”

“Brent Daniels, Ms. Stansted. I run the senator’s local operations. We understand your office is about to become involved in an international custody dispute.”

“That is for Mr. Glenwood to say.”

“Then our sources have it wrong?”

“How did you get my name?”

“Ms. Stansted, I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are over six hundred cases where American courts have assigned custody to one parent, only to have the child abducted by the other and shielded from being returned by the German court system.”

“Sir, I asked you a question.”

“This is a direct violation of the Hague Convention on Children. It has become a matter of concern to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. We have been looking for a landmark case to force the German government’s hand.” There was the rustle of pages. “The senator is hoping to be in Raleigh this weekend. Could you ask Mr. Glenwood to stop by the senator’s local office and let us discuss the matter?”

“I will pass on your message.”

“Something your office might not be aware of, Ms. Stansted. Erin Brandt will be leaving for London sometime late Sunday evening. She’s been contracted to perform at Covent Garden, which is the way the Royal Opera House is usually referred to. It’s her only scheduled visit outside Germany this summer. Just a little something to establish our bona fides, give your boss a reason to stop by. Shall we say Sunday afternoon around five?”

As she hung up the phone, Fay banged her way down the stairs, quarreling with the railing and the front hall mirror before heading back into the kitchen. Netty said, “Deacon should get a place at heaven’s front table for putting up with that woman.”

Kirsten rose, picked up her cup, and headed for the rear doors. Netty watched her with astonishment. “You can’t possibly be needing caffeine that bad.”

Kirsten found Fay peering angrily into the refrigerator and muttering to herself. “Can I help you with something?”

Fay reached in and snagged a plate with cautious disapproval. “What is this mess here?”

“Fresh tofu. Bean curd.”

Fay Wilbur was a smoldering wick of a woman. She shook the plate, making the white curd glisten and wobble. “You’re feeding my boy white Jell-O?” She gave it a careful sniff, and her features wrinkled even further. “Land sakes, this stuff is long dead.”

“Put it back, please.”

“And what do we have here.” Fay set the plate on the counter, but kept her gaze inside the refrigerator. “Would you just look at this mess.”

Kirsten moved close enough to be able to see what she was pointing at. “That’s fresh basil. And Brie.”

“How much did you pay for this wine?” She pulled out a bottle, raised her eyebrows at the label. “I know my boy didn’t go and buy this ’less somebody was telling him to. He’s got more sense than that.”

“Excuse me? Your boy?”

“Ain’t nothing in this whole kitchen to keep body and soul together.” She set the bottle back, and asked the cool interior, “Tell me something, child. Can you cook?”

“I don’t see-”

“This is not a difficult question. I want to know, can you cook. Don’t tell me you think you can keep my boy happy with moldy cheese and wine. What are you bringing to the table, other than some fine looks and sweet blond hair?” She swiveled around, using the refrigerator’s open door as a place to settle. “All I’m asking is, what is my boy gonna find himself living with, once them looks of yours start to fade.”