The Dead Key Part 11

"I mean, it's gorgeous but kind of messed up. Like the rich guys needed to be separated from the filthy ma.s.ses or something." She was babbling again.

Nick took a couple pictures.

"Okay. I'm going to . . ." Iris paused, realizing she would have to squeeze past him to get to the door. The room was narrow, and Nick was right in the way. She took an awkward step toward him, hoping he would get the hint. "Go get back to my drawings."

He just stood at the sink, not budging. He had stopped taking pictures and was watching her with an amused grin. She would have to practically rub against him to get past. Maybe that was the idea. His eyes held hers for too long.

"Um. Are you gonna . . . ?" The word "move" got caught as his smile faded and his eyes fell to her lips. The room was suddenly quite small and hot. They were completely alone. No one even knew where they were in the empty high-rise or that they were together.

His gaze fell to her T-s.h.i.+rt, which now seemed too tight. Iris's pulse jumped. This was beyond flirting or joking around. s.h.i.+t. She took a step back and nearly tumbled into the shower behind her. He caught her by the waist.

"Whoops! Thanks, I . . . I'd better go." Her voice fell to a whisper.

"I don't think so." He pulled her to his chest and kissed her squarely on the mouth. Her lips had a mind of their own and kissed him back. When they came up for air, she felt drunk and dizzy. Even the voices in her head were speechless. He kissed her again, harder, and she felt her knees buckle beneath her. Oh G.o.d. She wrenched herself away. Iris had strict rules. She never took guys home from the bar. She never slept with a boy on the first date, not that she ever went on dates.

"Wait. Nick. What are we doing?"

"Something I should have done the other night," he breathed, pulling her back and kissing her again. The kiss was deeper. Her blood was madly rus.h.i.+ng everywhere but her brain. She'd never been kissed that well before.

She barely broke free. "What? But we can't."

"Sure we can. Who's going to know?" His fingertip traced her breast as he kissed her again. A tidal wave of heat rose up inside her.

"Nick. I don't . . ." But his lips found her neck, and it was all over.

Her knees and everything else rigid and principled in her entire body melted to the floor. She couldn't string two thoughts together, it all happened so fast. They were on the ground. His hands and lips stripping her defenses one by one along with her clothes. His naked skin pressed hot against hers. He was relentless, until every thought in her head shattered into a million blinding pieces.

When she came back to her senses, they were lying side by side on the ground, struggling to catch their breath. Iris pulled herself up on one elbow. Their clothes were scattered around the dusty floor like a bomb had gone off. Her thighs were still trembling. Jesus. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. None of the three college boys she'd been with had done anything close to that. She was mortified. We have to get dressed. What if someone at work finds out? What if Ramone finds us like this? What if he heard us? She might have been screaming; she had no idea. Blood flooded her cheeks. She laughed nervously, teetering on the edge of hysterics.

"What's so funny?" Nick was lying peacefully with his eyes closed.

She had to say something. "Oh, I was just wondering if this is what the company had in mind when they said they were looking for 'synergy' in the younger staff."

"Maybe we should make a suggestion. I know I'm feeling like a real team player right now." He stretched and ran a leisurely finger down her back as she struggled with her bra. Had this been his plan the whole time? She swatted his hand away.

They pulled themselves to their feet and peeled their clothing off the floor. She stopped b.u.t.toning and stole a glance at him. He was at least five years older than her. He'd probably done this before. He caught her looking and tousled her mussed hair. It was something a big brother would do. She glared at him for a moment while he tucked his s.h.i.+rt into his jeans.

Of course he's done this before, she thought, eyeing the torn wrapper on the floor. He walked around with condoms in his wallet. He had done things to her that no one had ever done. He was a grown man. And she suddenly felt like a stupid young girl.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You look p.i.s.sed."

"I . . . uh . . . don't do stuff like this."

"Me neither." He winked and kissed her on the cheek.

Liar.

She went to the gilded mirror to smooth down her hair. Little gold cherubs were watching from their perches. They'd seen it all. She turned her back on them and wondered how many other women had been in the room and under what circ.u.mstances.

CHAPTER 21.

Monday, November 27, 1978 It was past noon when Max and Beatrice stumbled out of the Theatrical and into the winter sun. Fresh snow sparkled blindingly between the long rows of plowed slush. Beatrice recoiled in the light.

"Let's go back to your place for a little while," Max said, leading Beatrice to the bus stop at the corner. "We'll swing back by the office later tonight and see what we can find out about your aunt's deposit box."

Beatrice was already reconsidering the idea but was too drunk to argue. As much as she wanted to know why Doris had letters from the bank and what was in Box 547, she knew it was wrong. Doris would never forgive her. She'd have to tell Max, but not now. Later.

By the time they reached Doris's one-bedroom apartment, Beatrice was dead on her feet. She dropped her bag next to the door and collapsed on the couch. She hadn't slept much since her aunt was admitted to the hospital. Alone at night in the apartment, Beatrice jumped at every little noise. The last thing she remembered was offering Max a beer from the fridge.

Beatrice had no idea how long she'd been sleeping. The apartment was dark and quiet when she opened her eyes. The clock on the stove read 5:15 p.m. It was the sound of papers rustling that snapped her awake. She pushed herself up, becoming increasingly alarmed.

"Who's there?" she whispered into the dark room.

The front door was closed. The light in the kitchen was off. The only light was spilling out from Doris's bedroom, along with the sound of paper being pulled from a drawer.

She jumped off the couch and raced to her aunt's door. The closet door was open. The bottom drawer of Doris's dresser was empty. Max was sitting on Doris's bed, surrounded by piles of doc.u.ments.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked.

Max dropped the sheet she was reading.

"Who said you could be in here?" She rushed over to her aunt's closet and slammed the door. She spun back around, eyes darting from the stacks and stacks of papers piled on the bed to the empty drawer. She would never be able to put them back the way they'd been. "How could you? How could you do this?"

"Honey, I'm sorry, I just . . . I didn't mean any harm," Max stammered. "You fell asleep and, well, I got bored."

"I'm not even allowed in this room!" Beatrice screamed. "These are her things! How could you touch her things? Get out!"

"Come on, Bea," Max argued, backing away from the bed.

"I mean it! Get out! You can't be here!"

Max hurried out of the room and grabbed her bag. She threw it over her shoulder and opened the front door. She turned back to Beatrice. "I'm sorry, kid! I really meant no harm. I had no idea that . . ." Max almost said more but seemed to change her mind. She stepped out into the cold stairwell and softly closed the door.

It took Beatrice over an hour and a long, hot shower to unclench her fists. She combed her hair until her scalp was raw. She put on her best sweater and wool pants. She had to see Doris.

Beatrice navigated the sterile hallways and elevators of the hospital without looking up from the ground all the way into Doris's tiny room. The woman lying on the bed didn't even look like her aunt anymore.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

She stood next to the bed and watched a machine move her aunt's chest up and down rhythmically, waiting for some change at the sound of her voice. It was the first time Beatrice had tried talking to Doris since the stroke, but nothing happened.

"I didn't know she would look through your things."

Beatrice studied Doris's face, half hoping it would twist with rage. Her cheekbones jutted from her gray face, and the orbits of her eyes were sunken and dark. Jowls pooled around her neck. Even her hair looked worn thin. It had only been five days, and the Doris she knew was already gone. She reached over and touched her aunt's hand. It felt cool and still.

"It's just that it's been so nice having a friend. I needed a friend. I used to have friends, you know. I did. Back home." Her voice broke as she stifled a sob. "I wish you were here to tell me what I should do."

She stood up from the chair and wiped her tears. Doris hated to see her cry. Beatrice struggled to control herself until she could say in a clear, strong voice, "I'll come back and see you tomorrow."

Beatrice was waiting for the elevator when a nurse at the front desk waved her over.

"You just missed your uncle!"

"My uncle?" Beatrice repeated, and was about to say she must be mistaken when the nurse interrupted.

"Yes, not five minutes ago. If you hurry, you might catch him in the lobby. We were all so relieved to see that your aunt had another visitor."

Beatrice frowned.

"It's just that you seemed so young and were always alone. I hate to admit we almost called Child Services." The nurse chuckled.

Beatrice's blood froze in her veins. Child Services. She hadn't considered until that moment that she was still technically a minor-a minor without a guardian. She swallowed hard and nodded.

"The timing couldn't have been better-with your uncle, I mean. We really needed to speak with the next of kin regarding your aunt's wishes." The woman in the white uniform glanced up at Beatrice's face. "Oh, don't worry about it, hon. You just pull yourself together, okay? Your uncle took care of everything."

"What uncle?" she wanted to shriek, but she was too terrified to stand there for one minute longer. The elevator dropped her off at the lobby, and she rushed through, half hoping and half terrified she would catch a glimpse of this "uncle." There was no one but an old woman in a wheelchair. She was crying.

Beatrice practically ran all the way back to Doris's apartment. Her aunt had never been married, at least not that she knew about. Had the hospital even asked for a marriage certificate? They had only asked that Beatrice sign the book every day. The book, she realized. Her "uncle" must have signed the book too.

When Beatrice finally made it back home from the hospital, she felt like she might need medical attention herself. Between her "uncle" and Child Services, she might just have a heart attack. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and pulled open the tiny fridge. She hadn't eaten in hours, maybe days. She couldn't remember. A can of beer was sitting next to an open box of baking soda. There was some ketchup, a slice of bread, and half a carton of orange juice. She grabbed the juice. What uncle?

With the sudden rush of sugar, Doris's recent late nights away from home came into focus. Maybe she was seeing someone. Maybe that someone visited her in the hospital. The light was still on in her aunt's bedroom. Piles of paper were still arranged into neat stacks on the bed. Beatrice walked over and sat where Max had been sitting and looked at them.

One stack was all typed on First Bank of Cleveland letterhead. They were carbon copies. Beatrice had struggled to type letters similar to these at work, piling sheet upon sheet with carbon paper in between. She picked up the letter that sat on top of the stack. It was dated January 5, 1962.

Dear Mrs. Howell, We regret to inform you that your account for Deposit Box No. 815 is delinquent. If you do not remit payment, First Bank of Cleveland will have no choice but to close your account. Unclaimed property will become the ward of the State of Ohio. You have fifteen days to comply.

Sincerely, William S. Thompson, Director of Audits Beatrice raised her eyebrows, looking at the letter. Max had just been talking about this over drinks. She leafed through the stack of papers. They were all similar. Beatrice counted them up and found twenty-six. She set the stack down and puzzled over them. She couldn't think of a reason why Doris would keep copies of things like this, especially after all of these years.

The typist signature read "DED" for the first several letters, but then it changed. The dates grew more recent as Beatrice sifted through the pile. The most recent letter was dated June 12, 1977. It was signed like all of the others by Bill Thompson. The typist was MRM. Beatrice scowled. Max?

She eyed another stack. It was a pile of steno pads, each one of them covered in pages and pages of shorthand. Beatrice squinted at the top sheet and found she could only make out every third or fourth word of her aunt's sloppy style-"sale," "locked," "gold," "Cleveland."

She set them aside and moved on to the stack of handwritten letters. A nerve twitched up her back in protest. This was trespa.s.sing into her aunt's private affairs, but her eyes got away from her.

My Dearest Doris, Nothing is the same since you left. The charade at work and home is killing me. I want to shout my love from the rooftops and d.a.m.n the consequences. I want to spend every night with you. One day soon we will be together, and all of the lying and sneaking around will be over. Just be patient, baby. Remember our plan and how much I love you. Meet me Sat.u.r.day at our place.

Forever Yours, Bill Beatrice's eyes bulged as she read the last line. A man named Bill was having an affair with Doris. There was no doubt about it. She leafed through letter after letter, all written in the same scrawling hand, and all signed by Bill. There were at least fifty letters. Her eyes darted back to a bank letter signed by William S. Thompson. She picked it up and compared it to the love letter in her hand. The penmans.h.i.+p matched.

The papers fell from her hand. Doris once had an affair with Bill Thompson. The mystery man who had visited Doris in the hospital might have been Bill. Beatrice stumbled out of the room in a daze. She fished the lonely can of beer out of the fridge and cracked it open. It tasted awful.

Doris had a pile of old bank records in her bedroom and a safe deposit box. None of it made sense, but Box 547 might hold the answers. Beatrice rifled through her purse until she found her aunt's keys. She fanned the key ring out in her palm, searching for the right one. The beer can hit the ground. Key 547 was gone.

CHAPTER 22.

Beatrice marched into the office Tuesday morning, spoiling for a fight. Max had simply gone too far. She tried to convince herself that Max had stolen the key to help Beatrice access the box, but her stomach didn't buy the explanation. How could she just take it like that?

Of course, Max was nowhere to be found on a Tuesday morning. She always came in late. While that had never bothered her before, suddenly Beatrice was enraged by the inequity. She looked up at the Sisters Grim, the old crone, the mousy girl in the corner, and Francine clacking on her typewriter next to her. They all worked hard. They kept their heads down. They didn't sneak off to the bathroom to smoke, and they certainly never came to work two hours late.

As if on cue, Francine nodded a terse greeting.

"Good morning, Francine," Beatrice muttered.

Beatrice tried to busy herself with some filing Mr. Rothstein had given her, but she found herself looking over her shoulder for Max all morning. When the lunch hour came and went with no sign of Max, she became even more infuriated. Was Max avoiding her? Did she call in sick? She tapped her foot against the floor. Francine glared at her, clearly annoyed. Beatrice stopped and got up, exasperated.

In the restroom, she checked her hair and makeup in the mirror and paused. Maybe her aunt's illness had aged her, because the woman staring back at her in the mirror looked much older than the girl she remembered. Her blond hair was swept up, and she'd taken to wearing red lipstick, just like Max. She grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed her lips until they were pink again.

She was just sitting back down at her desk when Mr. Halloran opened his door and motioned her to his office. Her stomach sank a little as she grabbed her notepad. He always crowded the door so she had to brush against him to get by.

"So Beatrice, how is your special a.s.signment working out?" he asked, staring at her legs.

She kept her knees and ankles pressed together tightly. "I'm sorry?"

"What are you finding out about Mr. Thompson's project?" His long, manicured fingers softly traced the edge of his leather blotter. His eyes traced the line of her neck. From the droop of his eye, she could tell he'd been drinking again.

She cleared her throat and s.h.i.+fted in the chair uncomfortably. After a moment's hesitation, she decided that she didn't owe Max her loyalty any longer. Max was a thief. "Well, apparently Mr. Thompson has been performing a secret audit of the safe deposit boxes. Maxine McDonnell says she's been following up on the records and calling customers."

Mr. Halloran stopped gazing at her neck. "Is that it?"

"Yes . . . Well, except that some of the records are missing altogether."

"Missing?" He raised his eyebrows.

Beatrice knotted her hands, wis.h.i.+ng she hadn't said so much, but it was too late. "All I know is that a few years ago a customer claimed the State of Ohio had no record of repossessing her safe deposit box . . . That's when the audit started."

A wide smile spread across Randy's face. "Well done, Beatrice. I'll be sure to let Ms. Cunningham know what a valuable a.s.set you're turning out to be. I'm going to be giving you all of my a.s.signments from now on."

Beatrice didn't know whether to smile or frown and did neither. For better or worse, she was working for Randy. If anything Max had said could be trusted, Beatrice's job at the bank was safe.