That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?
In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.
The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with The Register folded under one arm.
“Art, we need to talk.”
“Yes, we do. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.
She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, “Katherine, I’ve decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?”
Slowly she turned. “What?”
“I’ve had enough. The job is killing me,” he said. “I’m up for reelection next year but I don’t have the stomach for another campaign. I’m burned out, Katie.”
All she could think to say was: “We can’t afford to retire, Art.”
“Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ.”
In that acid tone of voice that Katie had come to despise.
“Shocking as it may seem,” the judge went on, “I made a few modest investments without consulting you. One of them’s paid off very handsomely, to the tune of a quarter-million dollars.”
Katie gave no outward sign of being impressed, but it was a struggle to remain composed. “What kind of investment?”
“A unit trust. It’s a bit complicated to explain.”
“I bet.”
“Real estate, Katherine.”
She made the coffee and poured a cup for Arthur.
“You’re forty-three years old and ready to retire.”
“The American dream,” said the judge, smacking his lips.
“Why the islands? And which islands?” Katie, thinking: I can’t even get him to take me to the beach.
Arthur Battenkill said, “Roy Tigert has offered to loan us his bungalow in the Bahamas. At Marsh Harbour, just to see if we like it. If we don’t, we’ll try someplace else—the Caymans or Saint Thomas.”
Katie was speechless. Bungalow in the Bahamas—it sounded like a vaudeville song.
Awkwardly her husband reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “I know things haven’t been perfect around here—we need to make a change, Katherine, to save what we’ve got. We’ll go away and start over, you and me, with nobody else to worry about.”
Meaning Tom Krome—or Art’s secretaries?
Katie asked, “When?”
“Right away.”
“Oh.”
“Remember how much you liked Nassau?”
“I’ve never been there, Arthur. That must’ve been Willow.”
The judge sucked desperately at his coffee.
Katie said, “This isn’t about saving our marriage, it’s about Tommy’s house burning down with a dead body inside. You’re scared shitless because it’s your fault.”
Arthur Battenkill Jr. stared blankly into his cup. “You’ve developed quite an imagination, Katherine.”
“You’re running away. Admit it, Arthur. You stole some getaway money, and now you want to leave the country. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No,” said the judge, “I think you’re practical.”
On that same Monday morning, the fourth of December, the real estate office of Clara Markham received an unexpected visitor: Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. He’d flown to Florida on a private Gulfstream jet, chartered for him by Richard “The Icepick” Tar-bone. The mission of Bernard Squires was to place a large deposit on the Simmons Wood property, thereby locking it up for the union pension fund from which the Tarbone crime family regularly stole. After driving through Grange, Bernard Squires felt more confident than ever that the shopping mall planned for Simmons Wood could be devised to fail both plausibly and exorbitantly.
“We spoke on the phone,” he said to Clara Markham.
“Yes, of course” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got nothing new to report.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Clara Markham asked if Squires could come back later, as she had an important closing to attend.
Squires was courteous but insistent. “I doubt it’s as important as this,” he said, and positioned a black eelskin briefcase on her desk.
The real estate agent had never seen so much cash; neat, tight bundles of fifties and hundreds. Somewhere among the sweet-smelling stacks, Clara knew, was her commission; probably the largest she’d ever see.