Linwood Barclay - Far From True

“Whatcha looking for?”

“The number for the guy who handled my divorce. Arthur Clement, his name was. In Albany.”

Corbin’s face scrunched up. “What do you need him for? You already divorced the dude. And now he’s dead.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And he’s not the only one.”

“I’m not following.”

She found the number, used her index finger as a bookmark, turned to look at the nearly naked man standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “I’m sure you aren’t.”

“Come on, help me out here.”

“His wife died, too,” Felicia explained. “And his first wife died years ago. So maybe I’m entitled to something.”

“Didn’t you say he’s got a daughter? Like, all grown-up?”

“Lucy,” Felicia said. “Yeah. But everything shouldn’t all go to her.”

“Was the guy that loaded?”

Felicia shrugged. “Maybe not. But there’ll be something. There’s the house. He probably had investments and stuff like that. As his only surviving ex-wife, I must be entitled to something . Who knows? Maybe he mentioned me in his will.”

“Did he tell you he had?”

Felicia bit her lip. “Not exactly.”

“I think you’re pissing up a rope here, Felish,” Corbin said. “Whatever he’s got will probably go to his kid. I’m not a lawyer, but—”

“No, you’re a bartender.”

“I’m just saying, I’m not a lawyer, but that’s how it looks to me.”

“It won’t bother you if I get a more professional opinion?”

Corbin leaned into the doorframe, ran his tongue over his teeth. “You know, Felish, I’m not sure this is working out.”

She had the address book open again and was reaching for the phone.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“I don’t think you respect me for who I am.”

She had the receiver in her hand, was entering a number. “Respect you? Of course I do. I respect you for exactly what you are. You’re — hello?” Felicia turned her back to Corbin. “I need to talk to Arthur. No, I need to speak to him right this second. This is an emergency. That’s right. This is Felicia Chalmers. You tell him there’s been a death — tell him that. Yes, I’ll hold.”

Felicia spun around, wanting to say something to Corbin, but he’d disappeared. She heard a toilet flush.

Then, “Yes? Is this Mr. Clement? You handled my divorce from Adam Chalmers? That’s right, that’s right. Well, there was a big accident here in Promise Falls last night and — yes, the drive-in. My ex and his new wife, Miriam? They were killed. Which means I’m his only surviving ex-wife. Yes, yes, there’s a daughter, but shouldn’t there be something for me? What if I could prove that I’ve been a source of moral support all this time? I have e-mails. Lots of e-mails and texts that would prove that. And there was more than that going on. We still maintained a physical relationship, wifely duties basically. That would have to mean something and—”

She listened. “Uh-huh.” Listened some more. “Uh-huh.”

Then, “Well, I don’t care if that’s your opinion off the top of your head. The opinion I’m getting from my gut is that I might be entitled to something, especially with Miriam dead. When can I come in to see you? Next week? I can pull together all my paperwork by then, yes. And I can find out what the house might be worth. Okay. Good, thank you. I’ll see you then.”

Felicia hung up the phone. When she turned around, Corbin was back, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Felicia said, “Good thing I didn’t listen to the bartender.”

Samantha Worthington, in the middle of restocking the vending machines with small packages of detergent, jumped when the cell phone tucked into the front pocket of her jeans went off. She’d been on edge ever since Ed had come to visit her at the Laundromat that morning, and it didn’t take much to give her a heart attack.

She dug out the phone, looked at the caller ID.

David Harwood.

Jesus, the guy just didn’t give up. She supposed one had to give him points for trying. She let it ring. She had her voice mail set to cut in after six rings. So she didn’t have to wait long for the phone to shut up. But she held on to it for another minute, wondering if he would leave her a message.

A red dot with a 1 inside it appeared on her phone. Did she want to listen to anything else this guy had to say?

She tapped the dot, put the phone to her ear.

“Sam, it’s David. Look, I get why you don’t want to take my calls. You think I set you up for something, and I swear I didn’t. Maybe, shit, I don’t know, but if we could talk about it... Maybe dinner? Something simple. We could even — if you’re okay with this — Carl could come over to my place and hang out with Ethan. My parents would be there. Or — I don’t know. Look, I won’t call again. I don’t want to be some stalker asshole. It’s just, the thing is... I like you. We’ve both got a shitload of problems, and maybe you don’t need any more, but I just... I gotta go. If you’re up for dinner, or anything, call me. Bye.”

Sam was offered the choice of pressing seven to delete the message, or nine to save it. She had her thumb over the nine, then hit the seven.

David Harwood was right. She had enough problems right now.

Starting with Ed. The war with her in-laws over her son, Carl, was heating up.

Of course, it was already well under way. They’d been trying to get Carl away from her ever since their son, Brandon — Sam’s ex-husband — was sentenced to six years for holding up a branch of the Revere Federal Bank. The court had tacked on an extra two years because Brandon had waved a gun around.

The stupid bastard. At least he hadn’t shot anyone.

His parents — especially Yolanda — had always hated Sam, particularly when she filed for divorce before Brandon turned to bank robbery. But that hatred multiplied exponentially after she and Carl left Boston. That meant Brandon’s parents didn’t get to see their grandson nearly as often — it had been difficult to cut them off completely when they all lived in the same town — and they were the kind of people who were used to getting what they wanted. Garnet was the manager of one of Revere’s other branches — the ironies abounded — and Yolanda behaved as though she were married to the secretary of finance.

Sam hadn’t even told them she planned to move. She liked to imagine the surprise on their faces the first time they dropped by unannounced and found someone else living in her apartment. How that must have pissed them off.

It was such an embarrassment, particularly for Garnet, that Brandon had robbed not just a bank but a Revere bank, that he and his wife were desperate to pin the blame on Sam.

Their theory, and the one they shared with everyone they talked to, including a reporter for the Boston Globe , was that Brandon had turned to robbing banks as a way to win Sam back. Garnet and Yolanda Worthington said their son believed he could buy back Sam’s affections if he had the money to get her anything she wanted.

It was a version of temporary insanity, they argued. Brandon’s lawyer argued it, too, in court, but failed to win over a jury. Despite that, her ex-husband’s parents stuck to the story.

It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t Brandon’s.

It was hers.

One hundred percent total bullshit.

Sam wanted to put a few hundred miles between Brandon’s parents, and Carl and her. If she’d had the means, she’d have moved to Australia, but Promise Falls was as far as she could afford to go. An aunt used to live here, and she’d spent three summers in the town as a teenager. Even though her aunt had passed away, she believed she could make a new home here for Carl and herself.