The Concealers (17 page)

“I'm sorry to hear that. Tell her I asked about her.”

Katherine drove along the shoreline of Lake Ontario as they continued to catch up, and Katherine knew her mother was enjoying the day as much as she was. Hopefully, she'd struck the right tone in their earlier discussion, and was glad that her mother seemed to be more at ease. On the way back from the Point they stopped to let Hailey leave a few messages and run around a bit, had a good lunch at a small bayside restaurant, where Beth indulged in two glasses of chardonnay before they began their trip home.

The rest of the day Katherine played with Hailey, did laundry, sorted what she would take to her new apartment, packed a small bag for her trip to Braydon, and talked some more with her grandfather. Beth was busy marinating the steaks and preparing Katherine's favorites, garlic mashed potatoes and green bean casserole.

After dinner, with their bellies full and the dishes in the dishwasher, the three generations of Kellys repaired to the porch. Adrian, Beth, and Katherine sat in rocking chairs, Hailey spread out on the floor close to her best friend, enjoying the cool breeze. For Katherine, it was just the rest she needed. She hoped it had done them all good.

“Goes good with coffee. You should try it. Might keep you from being so grumpy,” Casey said.

“Goes well,” Preston snapped.

“Who cares? Why'd you call me in here?”

“I'd like you to book me in at the NADA and JD Power meetings in Vegas next week.”

“I thought you were done going to those.”

“It's been a while. I think I should join our team—good for morale.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, do you have Missy's contact details?”

“All I have is the e-mail for Mr. Greco.”

“Forward that to me.”

“Okay.”

“How's Austin doing?”

“He's a regular tornado.”

“What's that mean?”

“He's your buddy, Preston.”

“Is he being helpful to you?”

“Not really,” said Casey, between bites of candy bar.

“Why not?”

“Why are you drilling me on this?” demanded Casey, who was generally not easy to rile. “You bring this guy in a half a year ago, supposedly to help me. If you want him to be CFO, be my guest.”

“Whoa. What's that all about? I thought you'd come around.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Why don't you like him?”

“How long you got?”

“Give me the short version,” said Preston.

“He's long on the salesman, short on the brains.”

“You're hopeless.”

“Maybe this will help: he's gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”

“Have you got any specifics?”

“Yeah. You got time to actually listen to this?”

“Yes.”

Casey launched into the story he'd been holding back on. “He comes into our sales meeting yesterday, twenty-five minutes late.” He described the scene with Bill Lamb, their new car sales manager; Antonio, their parts manager; Loreen, in charge of F & I; and Sam, their used car sales manager; all seated and waiting.

“Disley asks them for their reports,” he continued. “They give them. He doesn't listen. Tells them his meeting with the folks at Mercedes could not have gone better, that they love us. He stresses we're a team—united—on our way to the moon. All the guys are rolling their eyes.”

“And that's what's bothering you?”

“No, that's what should be bothering you. What's bothering me is, he comes into my office after the meeting—tells me he ran into Teddy Thomson, Bank North America's lease manager, at the New York City Athletic Club playing racquetball. That Teddy wants some kind of financial backup to support the next extension of our lease. And he wants my file.”

“What happened to Brad Whitestone, BNA's loan officer in the commercial real estate division? He's handled our account for more than twenty years.”

“Exactly. I told Disley that we leased the building from General Contractors and Holdings, and we sublet six thousand feet to BNA. General got in trouble, BNA took the building, and we became the Bank's tenant—that I figure Thomson probably wants our year-end operating statements—and that I'd handle it,” Casey said.

“And?”

“He pushes back—wants to take it to Teddy—says it fits in with his sales outreach, and Thomson's a heavy hitter—I told him that was not a good idea. I'd handle it. He says he wants to look over the statements. I told him I'd send him copies.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Yeah, other than his views on how the Packers are doing and telling me I need a big flat-screen television in my office.”

“I don't get it,” Preston said.

“I'm not done. I pulled the most current operating statements for the four franchises being run out of the Mercedes store. Seeing they were not consolidated and in their present condition failed to accurately reflect our true financial condition, I tossed them on my credenza and called Jane for updated, accurate, consolidated statements. She said they'd be on my desk the next morning.”

Now Casey had his boss's undivided attention. Preston knew how carefully Casey had trained Jane, the company's bookkeeper, and how Casey stressed the necessity for all reports to portray the company's situation—good or bad—as precisely as possible.

“What happened?”

“When I got back from lunch, the statements on my credenza were gone. I immediately called Disley and asked him if he'd taken them. He said he'd picked up the copies to save me the trouble. I reminded him that I'd told him I'd handle it. I told him he'd picked up the wrong statements.”

“Not good,” Preston said. He buzzed Austin on the intercom and asked him to come down. A few minutes later, Austin sauntered into Preston's office, nodded at Preston, and sat in the chair next to Casey without looking at him.

“Hey guys, what's up?” Austin asked.

“You picked up copies of our operating statements last week? What did you do with them?” Preston asked.

“Yeah. I got them from Casey.”

“No. You took them from my office,” Casey said.

“You told me I could have them,” Austin said.

“You picked up the wrong papers. I told you I'd handle it.”

“Hang on,” Preston said. “Austin, I asked you what you did with them.”

“I gave them to Teddy Thomson, BNA's lease manager.”

“Thanks for coming in, Austin. I'd like to talk to Casey alone.”

Austin left the office, and Casey closed the door.

“Fix it,” Preston said.

“You mean I can fire him?”

“He didn't know they were wrong. Fix the statements and get them to the bank.”

“I've already corrected the statements, Preston, and sent them to the bank—with copies to you. Have you ever looked at them?”

“That's your job. I'm glad you straightened it out.”

“You don't get it. What I'm worried about—and what
you
should be worried about—is not what I've corrected, but what I don't know and can't find out. What has Austin done that he shouldn't, or not done that he should? This has to stop.”

“I agree. It's just that I have a lot on my plate right now. I know this is difficult, Casey, but do the best you can.”

Casey scratched his head, took off his glasses, polished the lenses with his handkerchief, and reached in his pocket for another Snickers bar.

It wasn't just the outing. It was being with her grandpa. Feeling his presence. Talking to him in his truck, a sanctuary where, looking back, the conversations were deeper, protected, and had exceeded the test of time.

The club was on the outskirts of the small village of Newark, some fifteen miles from home. Katherine was pleased that her grandfather was driving slowly through the winding country roads—she wanted the time with him to last as long as possible.

“I had a chance to spend some time with Mom after we talked.”

Adrian looked at her, not saying anything but saying everything.

“You knew I would,” she said.

He smiled.

“Thanks for taking me to the cemetery.”

“Thank you for going with me. It gets a little lonely sometimes.”

“There is something I would like to ask you, Grandpa, if you are by chance in the mood for any questions.”

“I'm always in the mood for talking with you, Kitten, and that usually includes a lot of questions.”

“Thanks. When we were at the church, you went in. You're Presbyterian. Why did you go in there?”

Adrian was quiet for a while.

“Your grandma was a serious Catholic. She worried about me—wondering whether I was getting enough of what I needed in the religion department. She talked me into going to church with her a couple of times. She always lit those candles . . . votives, she called them.”

Katherine knew her grandfather was getting around to the answer, and she wasn't sure what it would be. She was intrigued by the candles comment, but didn't want to rush him. After a few minutes of silence, just riding along, her patience was rewarded.

“Lighting those candles,” he said. Katherine pondered the neutrality of his tone.

“What did you feel when you did that?”

“It's something I can do. It's what she always did. I'm just giving her a hand.”

Katherine pondered his words as she stared out the window at the muddy water in the winding creek on Hydesville Road. She saw turtles on the banks basking in the sun, birds darting in and out of the foliage and trees, searching for food. The scene was bittersweet for her.

“Do you feel, then, that you're fulfilling her commitment?”

“No, she's fulfilled that. She's home free. I'm just keeping her alive for me.”

“I think I understand,” Katherine said softly.

“It wasn't just for her yesterday.”

“Mom?”

“And you, Kitten.”

“I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you, too,” Adrian said, as he drove through the village of Newark and turned onto Tellier Road. “What'd ya say we shoot some clay birds?”

The old Ford truck grunted and creaked as it passed an old henhouse on the left and made its way over the quarter-mile dirt road extension leading to the club. Getting closer, they saw a few men shooting at a trap and then a skeet field on the left. Adrian parked on the gravel bed about thirty feet from the forty-by-twenty-four-foot raised ranch building. They could see another trap field followed by a skeet field on their right.

Adrian lifted the first and then the second Remington twelve-gauge shotguns off the rack in his truck, collected two earmuffs and two eye protectors from the floor behind the seat, and then grabbed his old deerskin ammo pouch.

“They're using eleven-eighty-sevens today, but I brought this eleven-hundred for you. It's the one you fired at this club when you were fourteen.” He handed Katherine the 1100, one of the eye shields, and an ear noise protector.

“I don't remember the gun, but I sure do recall being here,” she said, taking the gun and protective equipment.

They walked in the door and over a vinyl floor to the first of four eight-foot metal folding tables and chairs, set down their guns and gear, and proceeded to a coffee bar where they were greeted by a burly, round-faced man in his fifties wearing green-and-grey hunting pants, a red-and-white checkered shirt, and a big smile.

“Adrian. Good to see you again. When you going to join the board?”

Adrian laughed. “Meet my granddaughter, Katherine. Kitten, this is Ronnie Randell, one of the big shots running this club.”

“I'm pleased to finally meet you, young lady,” Ronnie said, shaking her hand. “Your grandfather and I go way back. He talks about you all the time. You're in the big city now, aren't you?”

“Thank you. It's good to meet you as well. Yes, I'm working in New York, or will be soon.”

“Katherine's going to be a journalist,” Adrian said, with obvious pride. “Today we thought we'd shoot some trap for old times' sake.”

“Sounds like a plan. Can I get you a coffee, soft drink, or anything from the fridge?” Ronnie asked.

“No thanks, we're all set there,” Adrian said. “Where you got us set up?”

“The first trap field on the right. Gene's over there now and ready to go whenever you are.”

While Adrian and Ronnie were talking, Katherine had wandered over to the wall on her left, where she was studying the trophies and pictures. Adrian thanked Ronnie and joined her.

“That's a picture of Harold Contant. He's in the Skeet Shooting Hall of Fame. Over there is Craig Parsons, a national skeet shooting champion. He shot thirteen hundred and fifty straight and never missed a bird.”

“Grandpa, here's a great picture of you. Who's the man with you?”

Adrian looked at the picture for a minute. “That's Harry Klaskowski. He's a good friend and a great shooter. He shoots real good with a camera, too. Harry took the Trap and Skeet Night title a while back and was a state champion skeet shooter. He's from the Buffalo area but has been a member of our club for years.”

“May I take a picture of this wall?”

“Absolutely,” Adrian said. “Then let's go to the field so we don't keep Gene waiting. These fellows help out, and I don't want to abuse their kindness.”

“Sorry, Grandpa. Guess I got carried away with the wall.” Katherine took a few shots of the pictures and trophies with her iPhone, thanked Ronnie, and said good-bye. Then she picked up her gun, went outside, and joined her grandfather walking toward the trap field with his shotgun and pouch and protectors.

Adrian and Katherine could see the green wood house with a rubber roof slanted upward, from which the clay targets would automatically be ejected into the air upon the voice command of “pull,” transmitted through the small microphone in the shell a foot or so in front of their shooting station. Behind them, sitting on a stand like a lifeguard at a beach, was the scorekeeper who would oversee the shoot, ascertaining when the shooters were ready and giving the command to proceed.

Adrian set a box of shells on a small wooden table in front of where Katherine would be starting, and they took their places at the field, Adrian at position one, Katherine at position two.

The scorer asked, “Shooters ready?” Adrian replied, “Yes.” The scorer directed, “Commence firing.”

Adrian took one shell from the box lodged in the pouch in his belt, opened the receiver, placed it in the chamber, pressed the latch to close the chamber, and adjusted his stance.

Adrian yelled, “Pull.” A clay bird sailed into the air. Adrian tracked it and pulled the trigger, and it burst into pieces. He repeated the process four more times, hitting the bird each time, and then it was Katherine's turn.

Katherine was watching her grandfather carefully. She put a shell into her gun, wiggled a bit into a comfortable position, yelled, “Pull,” and missed the bird. She looked at her grandpa, who nodded slightly and winked at her. She took a deep breath, reloaded, and said, “Pull.” Katherine took her time tracking the bird this time and then squeezed off a shot. The clay target scattered. She took her next three shots, hitting two out of three. Adrian smiled, giving her an okay sign. Adrian moved to position two, Katherine to position three, and the shoot continued.

When Adrian finished shooting at station four, he asked Katherine how she was feeling and whether she wanted to keep going. Katherine's face gave him the answer, and they continued until each had completed the entire round of five shots at each of the five positions.

Adrian began to pick up the spent shells, but the scorer told him to leave them, he'd take care of everything. Adrian thanked the scorer for the shoot. He gave Katherine a warm hug, and they walked together to Adrian's truck, where they placed the guns in the rack and their earmuffs, eyeglasses, and Adrian's pouch on the floor behind the seat.

“That was so much fun, Grandpa. Thanks,” Katherine said giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“How 'bout a turkey burger?” Adrian asked.

“I'd love one.”

Grandfather and granddaughter ambled inside arm in arm. Ronnie greeted them warmly. They ordered turkey burgers, which Ronnie grilled outside and served to them along with a couple of Cokes. Before long, the scorer came in and handed a sheet to Adrian and Katherine showing the results of the shoot: 23 hits and 2 misses for Adrian, 20/5 for Katherine.

“Look at that,” Adrian said, studying the sheet. “You really shot well, Kitten. Unbelievable, given how long it's been.”

Katherine beamed. “Just got lucky, I guess. You make me feel that way, Grandpa.”

As they headed back to Marion, Katherine was bursting with enthusiasm. “Is there such a thing as shooter's high?” she asked.

“I think so,” Adrian replied. “Just like smoking a good cigar.” He reached in his glove compartment, pulled out a Romeo y Julieta, and lit up. They laughed, Adrian told her stories, and Katherine shared her dreams with her grandfather all the way home.