The Blossom Sisters (5 page)

“Phil said he is going to drop your Porsche off in the parking lot behind Gilligan's, and you can pick it up later, or he can have someone bring it out here. He had to hot-wire it, but he did get your car back. If I were you, I'd drive one of the cars in my garage and park yours in there, at least for now. Elaine still has a key to it, so if you take it into town, and she spots it, then it's gone again. By the way, Phil also said that her Beetle was taken to the impound lot, and she hasn't picked it up yet.”

“Damn! He actually got my Porsche back! That's great. Good idea, too, about me not driving it, as long as you don't mind me driving one of yours.”

“What's mine is yours, you know that, Gus. So we're good here, right? At least for now. I can go off knowing you're in good hands and not worry too much.”

“I don't know what to say, Barney. I just wish there was something I could do for you to repay you. You have everything. What's a guy like me supposed to do?”

“I'll tell you what you're supposed to do. You need to find away to make peace with those old ladies. I don't care if you have to slither on your belly to make it happen, just do it. This whole thing is killing them, Gus. So work on that, and we're square.”

The two old friends hugged, both their eyes burning. “See ya when I see ya,” Barney said, popping open his umbrella, which was as big as one of those monstrosities one sees at the beach. Gus watched from the kitchen as his best buddy in the whole world approached a large puddle. A very large puddle. He knew before Barney knew that he'd stomp in it. Once a kid, always a kid. He would have done the same thing.

Gus closed the door, poured a third cup of coffee, then sat down at the table to read Phil Ross's report on his wife—soon-to-be ex-wife—Elaine Ramsey Hollister.

The only thing missing was Wilson. God, how he missed the big dog. He felt like crying. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He knew he had to be alert and in the right frame of mind to read what was written in Phil Ross's report. Knowing it wasn't going to be pretty, according to Barney, before getting started, Gus steeled himself for a very tough read.

Chapter 5

E
LAINE
R
AMSEY
H
OLLISTER CURLED UP IN THE WINDOW SEAT
under the bay window and watched the storm rage outside. She hated storms, but she knew she was safe from the elements. She leaned back and hugged her knees to her chest. Next to her was a notebook and pen. It was one of those black-and-white-marble-covered ones, the kind she'd used back in grade school. She'd found it at one of the dollar stores years ago when she first decided to keep a diary to chronicle her journey to becoming rich. She clearly remembered buying a dozen because they were two for a dollar, and she'd thought that was a real bargain. She was on her last notebook. If she'd written her words smaller, condensed them more, she probably would have several virgin books left, but her childish scrawl was big, and she had felt the need over the years to write
everything
down.

Elaine flinched when a limb snapped off one of the old sycamore trees. It hit the ground with a loud thump. She peered through the driving rain to see how big the branch was. It looked huge, meaning she'd have to call someone to come and take it away. If she tried to do it herself, she'd ruin her French manicure and possibly pull a muscle in her back. She shrugged. Worst-case scenario, her attorney would require Gus to pay for the removal. She moved on in her thoughts.

Elaine picked up the black-and-white notebook and flipped to the back. She only had four blank pages—eight actually, if you counted the fronts and backs. Not nearly enough pages to continue with the intriguing details of her life saga. She panicked then as she bolted upright and swung her legs off the window seat.
Where in this day and age am I going to find these old-fashioned notebooks? They have to be the same as the rest of them.
She really hated to admit how superstitious she was, but, despite her cool and calculating personality, she was easily spooked. And she was really spooked now.

Later, she would go on the hunt for the black-and-white notebooks. Maybe eBay or that Web site she'd found a year ago for a company called Initial B Enterprises would have them. She'd really lucked out that day, and she'd been a loyal customer ever since. She'd purchased the company's voodoo kit, purchased an assortment of spells and black candles. She'd utilized their adult sex course, and she'd had more astrology readings than she could remember. She knew she was the company's best customer because they constantly sent her freebies to make sure she came back to order, which she did.

And Gus never knew a thing about it. She kept all her secret doings in a huge suitcase in the attic, someplace Gus never ventured. He had balked, though, when she insisted he install a pull-down ladder, but when she'd kissed him, he capitulated the way he always did. It made it so much easier to be able to cast her spells in the attic, where she was alone with all the paraphernalia she needed. Rituals were time-consuming, spells even more so, but she had become a pro at them. She could probably teach a course on witchcraft if she wanted to.

The only problem was making a payment to Initial B Enterprises. She didn't want to use a credit card or check, so, because she was such a good customer, the kind folks at Initial B Enterprises had agreed to money orders and the use of a post office box number. She used the household money Gus gave her for food and whatever she needed, to buy the money orders. And, from time to time, she helped herself to the bills in Gus's wallet, always careful not to take too much. For a CPA, Gus was pretty stupid when it came to money. But then, she had him
wrapped.
She corrected her thought:
All
men were stupid about all things. If they weren't, she wouldn't be where she was now. In the catbird seat, sitting in a half-million-dollar house that was paid for and would be all hers shortly. Not to mention a high-six-figure bank account in the Caymans. As would half of Gus's business, and half if not all of everything in the Hollister coffers. Even his inheritance down the line, when the old battle-axes finally kicked the bucket.

An evil smile on her face, Elaine made her way to the second floor and pulled down the ladder that would take her to the attic, where she would perform one of the daily rituals guaranteed to make her rich beyond her wildest dreams, all thanks to Initial B Enterprises.

 

Gus Hollister woke with a raging headache. He knew instantly why his head was pounding like a bongo drum. Phil Ross's report on his wife. And his meeting with Jill Jackson and her less-than-encouraging assessment of his current predicament. Then there were the two bottles of wine he'd consumed.

Gus swung his legs over the side of the bed, appalled that he was still wearing the same clothes and shoes he'd worn yesterday. Damn, he must have really been out of it. He hadn't fallen asleep in his clothes since his college days. He wondered if he was on his way to becoming an alcoholic.

That's when he squinted to look out the bedroom window. Shit! It was raining, thundering, and lightning like it was the Fourth of July. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tottered toward the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help, followed by aspirin and coffee. Lots and lots of black coffee. Maybe.

His head pounding like the thunder outside, Gus turned on the water and waited for all the showerheads to bombard his body. He felt like he was participating in a paintball exercise. He hopped and danced around the massive shower as his head continued to pound. He had to get out of here before he exploded.
Now!

He obeyed his own instructions and barreled out of the shower. He yanked at a thick, thirsty robe hanging on the shower door and put it on. He toweled his wet head, the hair standing straight up. He tried to smooth it down as he made his way gingerly down the hall to the staircase that would take him to the kitchen, where, hopefully, coffee waited for him.

The first thing he noticed was a place setting at the kitchen table. Obviously, Maggie planned to cook breakfast for him.

Gus looked at the neatly stacked papers that made up the background check on his wife and felt sick to his stomach. If Phil Ross had been standing next to him yesterday when he'd read the report for the first time, he knew without a doubt that he would have pummeled the man into the ground. By the time he'd read it six or seven times and had it committed to memory, he knew he would have pummeled himself into the ground for having been so damned stupid. His head continued to pound.

Maggie entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He shook his head and said, “No breakfast, thank you. Just coffee.” Gus looked around the kitchen, but it was neat and tidy, the two wine bottles gone. If ever there was a time for a cigarette, this was it. He'd given up the disgusting habit when he married Elaine, because she said she wasn't sleeping with a chimney stack. But Barney smoked on occasion, usually when he was under the gun on something or other.

Gus rummaged through the kitchen cabinets until he found a pack of Marlboros. He could hardly wait to light the cigarette in his hands. It felt unfamiliar. But at that moment, he didn't give a good rat's ass about the Surgeon General's report or all the horror stories he had read about smoking. This was
now,
and he needed
something
to get him through the mess he was wallowing in. And if it was a cigarette or multiple cigarettes, then so be it.

Maggie had disappeared somewhere in the house, leaving him alone in the kitchen. A good thing, Gus decided as he fired up still another cigarette. He was on his third cup of coffee, surprised that it had stayed in his stomach, and on his fourth or fifth cigarette as he tried to come to terms with the stack of papers on the table.

What really got to him, aside from the in-depth report, was the detective's personal note to Barney saying he'd done a background check on the same individual for someone else and, at Barney's insistence, had included it in the report, which he followed up with a current update. The previous client's name was Rose Blossom. His grandmother had hired Phil Ross to check out Elaine before the wedding. Granny had known all along, had tried to tell him, to warn him without actually telling him about the report, and he had pretty much told her to mind her own business. No, not pretty much told her, he
had
told her to keep her nose out of his love life. Talk about being a total screwup.
If they gave an award for biggest chump in the Commonwealth of Virginia, I'd take that prize hands down,
he thought.
Hell, I'd probably win if the territory expanded to cover everything east of the Mississippi.

How disappointed his grandmother must be in him, deservedly so.
I am never going to be able to make this right. Never.
Gus massaged his temples, hoping to ease the pounding headache.
Why hasn't the aspirin kicked in?

Gus reached over to the counter for his reading glasses. Like he really needed to read this crap again. He'd memorized it, every single word, last night. What he couldn't remember was if it was before the two bottles of wine or after he'd emptied them.

Gus eyed the ugly, hateful dossier on his wife. His stomach crunched itself into a hard knot. Maybe it was better to think about the powerhouse lawyer Barney had presented him with, Jill Jackson. He hadn't been impressed at first. Nor had he been impressed midway through dinner. It wasn't until the end of dinner, when he'd started to really listen to her and look at her. He'd always gone for the flash when it came to women, much to his own detriment. He liked eye candy, he really did. He liked it when other guys looked at him with envy, which didn't say a whole heck of a lot for him. Hell, it didn't say anything about him other than that he was nuts. What good was a pretty package if the contents were downright ugly?

Right up front, the minute he'd shaken hands with Jill Jackson, Gus knew she despised him and the situation he was in. He'd cringed at the look in her eyes, which said he was worse than gum on the bottom of her shoe. To his credit, he'd done nothing to change her opinion of him. Probably because, if he was honest with himself, it was that Jill Jackson was not a looker, not even close to eye candy.

Gus drank more coffee, fired up another cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring as he let his mind wander back to the meeting with his brand-new attorney. His headache was now a drumlike throb. He tried to ignore it.

Jill Jackson. Short had been his initial assessment. Good things come in small packages. Sometimes. Not this time, though. Then the word
squat
came to mind. Then another word,
fireplug.
A short fireplug. Based, of course, on the clothing she wore. Cargo pants with stuff in the pockets, a Harvard sweatshirt that had seen years of wash and wear. Hair skinned back into a tight ponytail. No makeup. Granny glasses.

His spirits had plummeted during dinner, when he realized she wasn't all that great at small talk or conversation in general. He cursed Barney then for hooking him up with such a dud. He remembered her healthy appetite. He'd struggled to keep the conversation going, but he knew that he had failed. Jackson had cleaned her plate and had two helpings of baked Alaska. He'd only picked at his food, preferring the vintage wine, which she had only sipped. And to think she'd been given the task of getting him out of the mess he was in.

What bothered him more than anything was that this plain Jane fireplug hated his guts on sight. You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to see the lack of respect she tried, though not all that hard, to hide. She had spent a lot of time extolling Barney's wonderful qualities, saying how admirable, how smart, how kind and generous he was, and how
he would never get himself into a mess like the one you find yourself in, Mr. Hollister
. He'd bristled over that zinger, but he'd bitten his tongue, because it was true.

After that, it had been one zinger after another, her mantra being, you need to get over yourself, Mr. Hollister. Twice she'd said, you reap what you sow. And then she really went at it about his grandmother and aunts. She'd told him in no uncertain terms she could never respect anyone who was unkind to old people or animals. She called him pond scum. He had almost leaped across the table to strangle her, but that statement was true, too. Except for Wilson. The only time he'd been unkind to his dog was when Wilson wanted two Pop-Tarts or when he gave him blueberry when he wanted strawberry. Surely that didn't count. Bullshit; she'd send him to the gas chamber, if she could, for the Pop-Tarts.

When they'd finally called it a night, at nine-thirty, his new attorney hadn't bothered to shake his hand. Instead, she'd looked him in the eye and said, “I detest you and people of your ilk. I'm only representing you as a favor to Barney Beezer, whom I happen to adore. You will get the best representation I can possibly give you because of Barney. Just so you know, Mr. Hollister. One last thing. I am in control, not you. If I tell you to jump, you
WILL
jump. Are we clear on that, Mr. Hollister? And do not ever be presumptuous enough to call me Jill, because if you do, I will cut off your balls and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. Thank you so much for dinner. You also need to stop drinking. I refuse to defend a drunk. If I ever again smell alcohol on your breath, I will tell Barney to get you a new lawyer. Not to mention the word
free
representation. That alone should tie you in a knot. Now, Mr. Hollister, tell me you understand everything I just said, and we can say good night.”

Gus had offered up a sloppy salute.
People of your ilk.
Now, that really hurt and was a shot below the belt. “Yes, ma'am, I understand everything you just said. And, for the record, I already hate
your
guts, and I just met you. I think that levels the playing field.”