Sunset Beach(104)

Colleen reached back into the closet and pulled out the needlepoint racquet cover that had been a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, Rosemary, who was well aware that Colleen despised tennis. She unzipped the case and felt around inside, but the only thing she found was the Wilson Chris Evert racquet. It was in like-new condition, because she’d never used the thing.

She felt goose bumps rise on her arms. The black push-up bra and the black lace garter belt were gone. She’d hidden them there just last Thursday night, away from the prying eyes of Estelle, her once-a-month cleaning lady. But Estelle wasn’t due back until next week.

Allen. He’d found her secret hiding place. How many of her other secrets had he uncovered? The realization changed things. She had to get out of this place. Now. Right this minute. She picked up the Princess phone from her nightstand and dialed Brice’s house. She didn’t care anymore about his friend’s threats. She needed to hear Brice’s voice, one more time.

The phone rang once, twice, then three times. Someone picked up at the other end.

“Hello?” his wife said. This time, instead of hanging up, for some reason, Colleen didn’t end the connection. She breathed softly, listening.

“Hello,” Sherri repeated. “Hello?” There was a long, drawn-out pause. “I know it’s you,” his wife said, her voice hoarse. “I know where you live and I know where you work…”

Colleen didn’t wait to hear more. She slammed the receiver down, grabbed the train case and fled the perfect house.



* * *



Friday morning, at precisely 11:35, she made her way to the teller’s cage at the Florida Federal Savings and Loan branch four blocks from her office.

She could forge Allen’s signature in her sleep, but just in case, she practiced copying it over and over and over again in her room at the Ramada Inn, where even the pills she’d taken from work didn’t help her to sleep at all the night before.

“Hi, Mrs. Hicks.” He was the youngest teller on the line, not even twenty-one, with wispy blond hair and a sprinkling of pimples on his cheeks. He was also the only male; the rest of the tellers were a bunch of sour-faced old biddies, who’d probably faint if they ever saw a penis.

Not Christopher, though. She bet he’d seen more than his share of dick in his young days.

“Good morning, Christopher,” she said crisply. With her fingertips, she pushed her savings passbook and the withdrawal slip across the scarred marble counter.

His eyes widened when he saw the amount of the withdrawal. “Wow,” he said.

“Down payment on our new house,” Colleen said.

“Oh, okay. You’ll want a cashier’s check, right?”

She shook her head. “The seller insists on cash.” She leaned in closer and confided, “He’s Japanese. They don’t do things the same way as us.”

“Right.” He glanced over his shoulder, looking distinctly uneasy.

“Is there a problem?” She felt like screaming, but forced herself to stay calm.

“Uh, well, a transaction like this, in cash and all, I’d have to get a manager to approve.”

“Fine,” she said, pointedly looking at her wristwatch. “I can wait.”

Colleen felt as though a million ants had taken up residence in her veins. Come on, come on, come on, she wanted to scream.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, Christopher reappeared, trailing timidly behind a balding middle-aged man in a brown polyester three-piece suit. The buttons on his vest strained, and she could see sweat circles forming on the armpits of his jacket.

“Mrs. Hicks?” The manager extended a hand. “I’m Paul Forkner, assistant branch manager.” She took his hand. It was limp and sweaty.

“And I’m Colleen Hicks, and I’m due back at work in five minutes,” she replied. “As I told Christopher, we’re closing on our new house Monday, and the seller insists on a cash transaction.”

Forkner stared down at her passbook, which he was holding in his plump white hands.

“Usually in cases like these, on a withdrawal this size, we require both account holders to sign off,” Forkner said. “Perhaps your husband could drop by later—”

“That’s impossible,” Colleen interrupted. “Allen is on a fishing trip in the Keys, with his father. Dr. Morton Hicks?”

“Um, then maybe Monday?”

“The closing is at eight o’clock Monday morning,” Colleen said. She felt the blood rising in her cheeks, the ants stirring just beneath her skin. “Which is why I’m here today. With a withdrawal slip signed by myself and my husband.” She leaned across the counter and stared into his pale, bulging eyes. “Mr. Forkner, did you know that my father-in-law is on the board of this bank?”

“Yes, of course. Which is why we need to be certain things are done properly and in compliance with bank policy—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your policies,” Colleen said, so loudly that the prune-faced tellers up and down the line were momentarily frozen in place. “Now, if you would, please instruct Christopher here to complete my withdrawal, exactly as I’ve requested. Because if he doesn’t do that, and I have to tell my husband on Monday morning that we can’t close on this house because some bean-counter at this branch, where he’s banked his whole life, wouldn’t release our funds, he is not going to be happy. And if you think I’m difficult to deal with, Mr. Forkner? You haven’t met my husband. Or his father.”