Текст книги "Crowned and Moldering"

Автор книги: Kate Carlisle

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Five

“I hope you’re happy,” Whitney snarled, as we watched Brad Jones dash toward the exit.

“Of course I’m not happy,” I said. “He’s really upset.”

“Exactly. I was just about to tell him it was Lily, but you wouldn’t let it go. I could’ve warned him if you hadn’t butted in.” Hands at her hips, she shook her head and gave me a look most adults reserved for very stupid children. “You always have to be so high-and-mighty, sticking your nose in other people’s business.”

What is she talking about? “I’m not high-and-mighty. I just don’t think you should be talking about an active crime investigation.”

“What. Ever. The fact is, Brad and Denise are really good friends of mine. I trust them. Brad wouldn’t have said anything to anyone else.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point. I wanted him to know that Lily was out of the picture so Denise wouldn’t have to worry anymore.”

“Worry about what?”

She sighed heavily, as though it was such a burden having to explain things to me. “About having to be friends with Lily again. You know, in case she ever came back to town.”

I shook my head, hopelessly confused by her. “Denise and Lily were best friends all through high school. Why wouldn’t they be friends again?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Whitney said, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. “But it was always obvious to some people that Denise had a lot more class than Lily.”

I gaped at her. “How would you know? You never even met Lily.” Whitney hadn’t moved to town until our junior year, and Lily had been gone by then.

She waved off my protest. “But I know her brother, Sean, and he’s not exactly the most cultured person in the world. And didn’t their father spend time in jail? I mean, they were practically poor.”

She said that last word in the same tone most people would say Ebola.

I had to grip my hands together to keep from slapping her for talking about Sean that way. I wanted to defend my friend, but at the same time I knew that trying to explain myself to Whitney was as useful as trying to empty the ocean with a sand pail. “Who cares?” I said. “Lily was smart and generous and kind. Maybe that meant more to Denise than money.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re so naive.”

Why was I arguing with this woman? Whitney had no concept of the idea of friendship. It was all about money with her. If you had enough money, you had status. Class. Denise’s family had money; Lily’s didn’t. So how could they possibly be friends?

I checked my watch and almost groaned out loud. I no longer had time to get a sandwich. I was going to starve, and I laid the blame directly on Whitney. “Never mind. I have to go back to work.”

“Work? Where are you working?”

I pointed down the hall. “Room 117.”

She looked baffled. “Is there a leak in the pipes or something?”

“No.” You blockhead, I thought, then felt a wave of remorse for calling her names, even under my breath. She couldn’t help being what she was. Though it would’ve been nice if she could just stay home and not subject the rest of us to her blockheadedness. “It’s Career Day.”

“Okay, but why are you here?”

“Because it’s fun. I’ve done it for five years now.”

“But . . .” She shook her head, honestly dumbstruck. “Who would want your career?”

I had to walk away before I smacked her. But after taking two steps, I stopped and said, “People who want to make a whole lot of money—that’s who.”

She grasped for something snotty to say, but came up lame. “Well, money isn’t everything.”

I choked on a laugh. Her chin jutted defiantly, but even she knew she was being ridiculous. We’d already established that money meant everything to people like her.

I turned away. “See you around, Whitney.”

“You should do something with your hair.”

All the way back to my classroom, I imagined myself stuffing those pom-poms down her throat.

*   *   *

At the end of the last session, I thanked Judy Cummings for a fun day and then hoisted up my tool chest—why did it feel heavier at the end of the day?—onto the dolly, along with my laptop and briefcase, and trudged down the hall and out the door. I’d had a good time—no, thanks to Whitney—and I felt great. I’d given out my entire batch of business cards and had twenty-eight names on my list of teens who wanted to interview for one of our four paid internships over the summer. The internships were fun, sort of like being at summer camp, except no canoes or campfires.

We taught our interns the right way to use all the tools, even power tools. And then we put them to work, sometimes painting a room, sometimes helping raise a wall or hammering drywall. Over the years, several of our interns had gone on to work full-time in construction or related fields. A couple of guys ended up going into plumbing, another started his own masonry business, and one boy wound up entering college to study architecture, inspired after spending a summer with my crew.

Thinking about how enthusiastic the kids were today reminded me of Whitney’s stupid comments earlier. I wished it wasn’t true, but I still found myself shocked and offended by her statements.

I’d known her ever since she moved to Lighthouse Cove at the beginning of our junior year. Her family used to spend summers here, and her parents decided it would be a good place to raise their children. And it was. But Whitney had been miserable. Apparently, she’d had really cool friends back in her San Francisco suburb that no one in Lighthouse Cove could come close to matching for awesomeness and style.

My friends and I had tried to reach out, but Whitney refused to have anything to do with the kids she referred to as townies. Even though by then she, too, could’ve been considered a townie by kids who’d arrived more recently. Eventually she became friends with some of the other privileged girls whose parents had also chosen to move into the beautiful Victorian-style homes built along the Alisal Cliffs. Whitney would’ve been appalled to discover that her parents and those of all of her snooty friends, the ones who’d insisted on living in homes built by the best construction company in Northern California, were the ones responsible for making my father a wealthy man.

I shook my head as I crossed the central quad and headed for the senior-class parking lot, where I’d been assigned to park my truck. To this day, I didn’t quite know what I’d done to make Whitney hate me so much. Was it because I’d had the audacity to offer to be her friend, as though she were some yokel from nowhere? Or did it have more to do with the fact that Tommy was my boyfriend? But even after she’d won him over by sleeping with him and getting herself pregnant—something I had not been willing to do—she continued to hate me. Her digs were always personal and usually had something to do with my construction-crew wardrobe. I was a mess, she said. I dressed like a boy. My nails were too short. My hair was hideous. That last one was especially funny to me, because Tommy had always been crazy about my hair.

I didn’t understand her contempt until years later. I boiled it down to a complicated mix of jealousy over my relationship with Tommy—the nicest, cutest boy in school and the star quarterback on our football team—and suspicion over my easy acceptance of my place in our small-town society. I’d grown up believing that everyone was my friend, and until Whitney showed up that had always been true. She especially hated my oddly buoyant personality that allowed me to bounce back from every sling and arrow she hurled at me.

It had taken Tommy tearfully explaining that Whitney was pregnant and they were getting married for me to face the ugly reality of Whitney Reid’s determination to hurt me, but I finally got it.

Eventually I learned to avoid her and, except for those rare moments like today, when I was forced into a face-to-face interaction, her anger wasn’t something I dwelled on anymore.

But in a small town, it wasn’t always easy to avoid her. We crossed paths regularly. I’d even saved her life twice, but still got no respect. That was because she’d considered it my fault that she’d been in danger in the first place. She was wrong, of course, but why would I ever expect her to face the truth?

“Shannon!” someone shouted.

“What?” On the edge of panic, I whirled around to see who it was. I’d been so involved in my mental rant that I thought Whitney had followed me out to the parking lot. Talk about paranoia! But it was only Ms. Barney, the school principal, waving at me. I tried to calm my thundering heartbeat as she approached.

“Hello.” I made sure the dolly wouldn’t roll away and moved to greet her and shake her hand. “How are you, Ms. Barney?”

“I’m dandy,” she said, jovial as always. “I heard you had a good Career Day.”

“I did. The students were great. They had lots of smart questions and really good comments.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She pointed toward the parking lot. “Well, the school board should be making their decision any day now.”

I smiled. “You must be getting tired of waiting.”

“You think?” She laughed. “Let me walk with you to your car.”

We made small talk as we went. Ms. Barney had become our high school principal at the beginning of my senior year and I had always liked her. She was a fair, no-nonsense administrator who seemed to genuinely enjoy working with students. But beyond that, she’d won my heart a few years ago when she hired my company to build a small extension onto her living room. She wanted a cozy reading room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a fireplace.

Since we already had a working relationship, it wasn’t surprising when, about three months ago, she had called me into her office to tell me about a new construction job that the school board was about to open up for bidding by local building companies.

That day, she had asked me to walk with her out to the senior parking lot, where she’d stopped and gestured at the crumbling, faded blacktop before us. “Pretty soon this will be a brand-new solar-paneled parking lot with a shiny new blacktop surface and space for at least five times more cars than we have now. The school board is taking construction bids and I’m hoping you’ll submit one. I would love it if they chose your company to do the job.”

I’d been pleased that she thought my company was capable of something like that. “It sounds interesting and I’d love to have the work, but I have to confess we haven’t done a solar-panel job like that before.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she’d confided, then gone on to explain why. “The solar-panel company has already been chosen. They sent a designer and a team of engineers to do a site analysis and survey last month.”

“So why would you need me?”

“The company recommended that we find a reputable local contractor to repave the surface of the lot and help with the installation of the canopies and the panels. They’ll have their own electrical engineer and a full crew, along with a project manager on-site to supervise the entire project. And they’ll take care of all the testing and maintenance.”

She pointed to a swath of pressed gravel that formed a wide walkway leading to the track field fifty yards away. “The plan is to tear up all of this old blacktop, along with the landscaping all the way to the tennis courts and halfway to the track field.”

“That’s a big area.” I pointed to an incline covered in agapanthus. “You’ll lose a lot of those plants.”

“We’ll transplant them to other areas around the school.” She flashed a broad smile. “So it’s a win-win. We plan to expand the lot to seventy-two total parking spaces.”

“Wow, that’s a lot.”

“Yes. We’ll need three double canopies to cover seventy-some cars. The solar panels on top of the canopies will eventually generate enough power to run the entire school all year round.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I know. And a few of the posts will have hookups for electric cars, too. And get this,” she added. “The canopies are configured with gutters down the middle that can harvest rainwater to use for irrigating the student gardens, the football field, and all of the landscaping.”

“Wow. You’ve covered all the bases. That sounds fantastic.”

“I’m getting excited just talking about it.” She’d glanced at me. “So, are you interested in the job?”

I had scanned the parking lot and the surrounding school grounds, thinking quickly. The way she’d explained it, I figured it wouldn’t be as complex a job as I’d first thought. Basically a lot of digging, building supports for those canopies, and laying down blacktop. And even though all of that had little connection to my specialized field, which was new-home construction and Victorian-home renovation, it wouldn’t matter. My guys and I could handle it.

The job sounded unique and interesting, and I liked the idea of involving my company in a high-tech project like this. It would be a good thing for both the school and the community, as well as for Hammer Construction.

“I’d love the chance to bid on it,” I’d said.

“Wonderful.” She’d reached into her satchel and handed me a manila envelope. “Here’s the company’s bidding form. I’m bound by school-board regulations to obtain at least one other bid, and I’ve already heard from three others that they’d like the chance to bid, too. But, truth be told, I’d prefer to work with you.”

“I’d like that, too,” I said, but I knew the rules. “How much time do I have to submit my offer?”

“The sooner the better, naturally, but I can give you up to one week.”

I could envision working several late nights doing research into the solar-tech industry in order to feel competent enough to bid on the job. “I’ll try to finish it by the weekend.”

“Let’s make it Monday.”

That would give me five days to work on the bid. I could do that. “Okay. How about if I swing by your office Monday morning with my completed offer?”

“Perfect.” She’d thought for a moment. “Call my office before you make the drive, will you? I want to be sure I’m here to personally accept it.”

“I really appreciate your confidence in me.”

“You’ve proven yourself more than capable of handling anything thrown your way,” she’d said, smiling with an assurance I wasn’t sure I felt. “Now we just have to make sure you get the job.”

*   *   *

I’d gone home that night and begun the process of bidding on the job. Since the bid would be presented to the school board, a local government agency, there were a lot of hoops to jump through.

I spent an hour studying the solar company they’d hired to do the work. I was impressed by their Web site, and even more so with the testimonials written by their clients. By the time I shut down my computer for the night, I was determined to get this job.

My father had taught me that while my good reputation was essential in obtaining any job, my skill at presenting a winning bid was just as important. It helped to have all the details in hand before starting the bidding process. I gathered as much information as I could, but since I’d never worked with companies that installed solar panels specifically, I would have to rely on my own past experiences and do the best I could with the facts and figures I already had.

The solar company, as contractor, had provided its own customized bidding form for me to fill out. On most jobs I was dealing with an individual homeowner, so I usually created my own forms. In a way, this was easier. But I was still determined to present an organized and realistic summary of the job I wanted to win.

On the front of the form, I included information about myself and my business, my professional qualifications, and a few references from satisfied homeowners who had previously agreed to sing my praises. Much of that information was available on my own company Web site, but I included a few new quotes and details I hadn’t had a chance to upload yet. I wrote down my contractor’s license number and those of my crew members.

The solar company had attached a table with a long list of every job they expected the subcontractor to perform. There was a column for me to fill in my cost estimate and another column in which to justify that cost. In other words, how much labor I expected to employ and what sorts of supplies would be needed, plus a reasonable markup for my profit. The last column was my time estimate, where I gave my best guess as to how long each phase of the job would take.

I went down the list, filling in my estimates. I allowed some flexibility in case of unexpected costs or delays. My goal was to give good value, not price myself out of the job or, worse, lose money.

It took me three extremely late nights, reworking numbers and man-hours, to finish the bid. Even though she’d allowed me more time, I really did want to get it to Ms. Barney before the weekend.

Once I’d completed the bidding forms, I made a copy for myself and placed it in a new file folder I labeled LIGHTHOUSE COVE HIGH SCHOOL PARKING CANOPY. As I put the original bid into a business envelope with Ms. Barney’s name on the front, I wondered who my competition might be.

The following morning I had called Ms. Barney bright and early and she’d told me to stop by anytime, so I drove straight to the high school to drop off my envelope. Before I’d handed it to her, I’d removed the completed form and taken out my pen.

“I’m writing down the time I gave it to you,” I explained, “in case the company has any questions.”

“Good idea,” she said.

Yes, it was. In rare instances when two contractors came in with the exact same bid, the contract would be awarded to the one who submitted theirs first. And that’s why I’d stayed up so late those three nights, finishing the paperwork. I wanted to beat the competition and get this job.

*   *   *

Now, almost three months later, Ms. Barney and I were standing at the edge of the small crumbling parking lot again.

She shook her head in dismay. “It still shocks me to realize how interminably slow the school board can be when it comes to making decisions like this.”

“Everyone has an opinion, I guess.”

“Of course, and it’s like pulling teeth to get a consensus.” She clasped her hands together. “But I’m happy to say that they’ve promised me they’re ready to choose the construction company and they’ll let me know the result this week.”

“Hurray,” I said. “You must be thrilled about that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’ve still got my heart set on your winning the job.”

We reached my truck and I turned to her. “Whether I get the job or not, I want to thank you for considering me, Ms. Barney.”

“What can I say? You’re the best.” She patted my shoulder. “Keep a good thought, and with any luck, I’ll be calling you this week with good news.”

I was bowled over by her enthusiasm and trust in me. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Thanks again.”

As I drove home, I tried to tamp down my excitement at the possibility of winning the job. But I couldn’t help it. I was as competitive as the next guy, and after all the work I’d put into drafting the bid, I’d be bummed if I didn’t get the job.

*   *   *

I’d forgotten all about my mental tirade over Whitney until I got home. Then I remembered, and it reminded me of two things: one, that I was starving, and two, that I hadn’t gotten my nails done in weeks.

The connection to Whitney and my nails was obvious. To me, at least. Whitney and her crowd used to criticize my raggedy fingernails, among everything else. Working on construction sites, I always figured my shabby nails were an occupational hazard, but I’d discovered a way to do something about it. So from one angle, I had the Mean Girls to thank for my appreciation of the mani-pedi experience.

I called on my way home to see if Paloma, the goddess of manicures, was available and, miracle of miracles, she was. My stomach was still growling—again, thanks to Whitney—so I took a quick detour into the Yummy Burger drive-in and gulped down a burger and milk shake. Then I drove home and ran inside to change into something more casual. Within minutes, I was walking the three blocks to the town square, where Paloma had her shop.

Two hours later, I awoke in a fragrant, waxy haze. I was still sitting in the massage chair at Paloma’s, having been fluffed and massaged and buffed to a fine sheen. The image of Whitney had vanished from my consciousness, and it wasn’t until I was strolling home that I even recalled that phone call Mr. Jones had received from his wife, Denise, earlier that day. I pictured his distraught expression and wondered if they had recovered from the shock of being questioned by the police in a murder investigation. I hoped so.

I’d known Denise Armstrong—now Denise Jones—my whole life. We’d always been friendly, though not especially close, because she was a few years older than I. But I liked her. Her family owned a small chain of upscale nurseries up and down the Northern California coast, and I did all my garden shopping there. They made their own mulch, and it was the best I’d ever used.

Denise had been Lily’s best friend from as far back as I could remember, and for that reason alone I liked her. I figured her only flaw was that she was now friends with Whitney. Sadly, that was enough to make me question the woman’s judgment, but the fact that she’d had the good taste to fall in love with and marry the wonderful Mr. Jones mitigated things somewhat.

Back in high school, my friends and I were shocked when we heard the news that Mr. Jones had married Denise barely a month after she graduated from high school. It was the biggest scandal ever. Well, besides Lily’s disappearance a few months before. Denise was only two years ahead of me and my friends. And Mr. Jones was a teacher! They had been very discreet, though, and nobody had ever suspected a thing. That might’ve made it even more shocking than it would’ve been had we been gossiping about them all along.

In the end, we girls reluctantly accepted the fact that the match was a good one. Mr. Jones was just a few years older than Denise, after all, and they made a very cute couple. We finally had to admit that we’d only considered the marriage a scandal because we were all so jealous of lucky Denise.

It was dark by the time I got home and let myself in through the kitchen door.

A loud bark greeted me and I saw Robbie shivering deliriously at the sight of me. I set my purse down on the table as Tiger, purring loudly, wound her furry body around my ankles.

“Hello, my darlings,” I crooned, stooping down to give each of them a hug and then tussle and pet them. “I’m excited to see you, too. Did you miss me? Of course you did.”

Robbie barked twice.

“Yes, my fingernails are pretty, aren’t they?”

He barked again, as if to say, Get real. Feed me.

“I know, I know, it’s dinnertime.” I gave him one last scratch behind his ears and stood. “I promise I won’t let you starve.”

I chuckled at my own conversation as I grabbed their empty water bowls. At the sink, I rinsed them out and filled each with fresh water.

Robbie and Tiger sat patiently until I set the bowls back down at their respective dining spots. They lapped up water as I took their food bowls and doled out their small evening meals.

While they nibbled at their dinner, I thought about making a salad, but I wasn’t hungry after chowing down on that burger a few hours ago. I did pour myself a glass of wine, though, because I deserved one after the day I’d had.

As I took my first sip, I heard a heavy thump-thump sound and glanced out the window. It was Mac Sullivan, wearing a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots, jogging down the garage stairs.

“Wonder where he’s going looking so darn hot?” I asked myself aloud, then felt foolish. Especially since my knees had gone a little weak at the sight of him. But honestly, what woman would blame me? The man was ridiculously handsome.

Tiger bumped up against my leg and I leaned down to pick her up. I was so lucky to have a cat who was willing to snuggle with me once in a while.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I murmured as I buried my face in her soft fur. “You’re thinking that if Mac’s so great, why was I semiswooning the other day when Chief Jensen was sitting right here at the kitchen table?”

Tiger just purred, obviously used to my reading her mind.

It’s a good question, I thought. Did it matter that I found both men so darned attractive? I didn’t think so, and I wasn’t going to worry about it. Not yet, anyway. Neither of these two friendships had developed into anything serious . . . yet. I was happy just to have them around to talk to and flirt with.

Mac and Eric had become friends, although they weren’t at all alike. Mac was definitely the friendlier of the two, which had been a surprise at first. As dangerously dark and edge-of-the-seat thrilling as his novels were, I hadn’t expected to find that he was actually an easygoing, fun-loving guy. I enjoyed spending time with him because he was open and honest. He liked to talk and laugh and go on adventures. And in case I hadn’t made it clear enough, he was absolutely gorgeous, with dark hair and midnight blue eyes. I’d already been halfway in love with him before I ever met him, thanks to his amazing photograph on the backs of his books.

Eric, on the other hand, had a dark side. I sometimes wondered if he’d been hurt badly in the past, because he was so circumspect when it came to talking about himself. He was tall and blond and had the world’s greatest smile—when he allowed anyone to see it, which was rare. Most of the time, he scowled. Still, there was something to be said for the tortured-hero type.

I set down the cat and watched her shake herself off and stroll away to the comfort of the living-room couch. I wiped down the kitchen counters, emptied the drying rack, and filled the coffeemaker for the morning.

My mind drifted back to my life before the two men moved to Lighthouse Cove. I hadn’t been out on a date in almost four years, for good reason. Ever since high school, I just hadn’t had a lot of luck with men. After my shattering breakup with Tommy, I’d withdrawn for a while. I spent most of my time working on construction sites or gardening. I had girlfriends, and I felt as though my life was full enough without a boyfriend around to mess up my mind.

The pitiful fact was that, until recently, I’d had exactly two dates since the breakup with Tommy, both of which were disasters. One guy turned out to be gay and the other one turned out to be a felon. I figured the universe was telling me to avoid men, and I was happy to take its advice.

But a few months ago, I reluctantly decided it was time to dip my toe back into the dating pool. I agreed to go out on a blind date set up by the ever-matchmaking Lizzie. The date ended very badly, with the guy trying to attack me on the beach. Sadly, his life ended badly, as well, a few days later, when he was murdered in the basement of a house I was working on.

“Wow, grim memories,” I muttered. Where had those awful thoughts come from? Shaking my head, I finished my wine and went upstairs and got ready for bed. Robbie and Tiger both jumped onto the bed to join me, and I switched on the television to catch a few minutes of one of my favorite old sitcoms. I needed a good laugh after rehashing my pitiful dating life. The three of us fell asleep within minutes.

*   *   *

Early Thursday morning, as I was drinking my second cup of coffee, Ms. Barney called. “You got the job! You won the bid. I’m so happy.”

“Are you kidding?” I said, not quite believing my luck. “That was so fast.”

“Well, it’s been three months,” she said with a laugh. “But I know what you mean. We were just talking about it yesterday.”

“I’m completely thrilled.”

“Good. Me, too. If you’re available, why don’t you swing by my office in the next two hours? We can sign some forms to make it official.”

“I can be there by ten.”

I arrived on time and we gave each other a quick hug before I sat down to sign some boilerplate waiver forms. She handed me a tentative schedule for completing the work on the parking lot. I thanked her again for the opportunity and she gave me a high five.

I walked out to the hall, chuckling to myself and mentally scanning the list of job sites I needed to visit that day, when I was stopped in my tracks. Halfway down the hall, Police Chief Jensen and Tommy Gallagher were walking into the counselors’ offices.

Without thinking, I scurried down the hall to see if I could talk to Tommy. He would tell me what the police were doing here. Was this about Lily? Of course it was. So who were they here to question? Were they going to arrest anybody?

By the time I reached the doorway leading to the offices, the short inner hall leading to the clerk’s counter was empty. I glanced around, wondering which of the three counselors’ offices they’d entered, but I wasn’t about to knock on each of the doors to find out. Maybe I’d be able to catch up with Tommy in the next day or so to get the scoop.

Back in the main hall, I took a quick look at the brass plate on the door. It listed the three high school counselors who had offices down that hall, and I saw a name that sent chills up my spine: DARREN DAIN. So he was still working here, still giving bad counsel to the poor students assigned to him. Thank heavens there were two other counselors to choose from—a good thing, since the school enrolled almost five hundred students from all around the county.

“I can’t believe it,” I muttered. Darren “Dismal” Dain had been the world’s worst counselor, even back in my day. There was no way he’d improved, because besides being a stupid man and a bad counselor, he was a condescending prig who hated teenagers. I’d had the bad luck to be assigned to him when I first started high school. I couldn’t count the times he’d ridiculed me for thinking I could ever make a living working in construction. He thought that with all my hair, I should consider going to beauty school and becoming a hairdresser. I could just picture Whitney and her pals having a field day with that news. I mean, the man was a clod. I remembered leaving school in tears one afternoon when he pulled me into his office to tell me I should wear a dress once in a while so the boys wouldn’t be so turned off by me.