CHAPTER 2:CALLIE

S

2

ix banks later, Shelby decided the luck may have run out for the day.

And her baby needed lunch and a nap.

Once she had Callie fed, washed and tucked in—and the tuckingin part always took twice as long as she hoped—she geared up to face the

answering machine and the voice mail on her cell phone.

She’d worked out payment plans with the credit card companies, and felt

they’d been as decent as she could expect. She’d done the same with the

IRS. The mortgage lender had agreed to a short sale, and one of the

messages was from the realtor wanting to set up the first showings.

She could’ve used a nap herself, but there was a lot she could get done in

the hour—if God was kind—Callie slept.

Because it made the most sense, she used Richard’s office. She’d closed

up most of the rooms in the big house, cut the heat back wherever she

could. She wished for a fire, glanced at the black and silver gas insert under

the black marble mantel. The one thing she’d enjoyed in the overwhelming

house was being able to have a fire—the warmth and cheer of it—at the

flick of a switch.

But that flick cost money, and she wouldn’t spend it just to have gas

flames when the sweater and thick socks kept her warm enough. She got

out the list she’d made—what had to be done—called the realtor back,

agreed to the open house on Saturday and Sunday.

She’d take Callie off somewhere, get them both out and leave that

business to the realtor. Meanwhile, she dug out the name of the company

the lawyers had given her that might buy the furniture so she could avoid

repossession.

If she couldn’t sell it in a swoop, or at least a good chunk of it, she’d try

doing pieces online—if she ever had access to a computer again.

If she couldn’t get enough, she’d have to face the humiliation of having

it repossessed.

She didn’t think the neighborhood ran to yard sales, and it was too damn

cold anyway.

Then she returned the calls from her mother, her grandmother, her sisterin-law—and asked them to tell the aunts and cousins who’d also called that

she was fine, Callie was fine. She was just real busy getting everything in

order.

She couldn’t tell them, not all of it, not yet. They knew some, of course,

and some was all she could share right that minute. Talking about it made

her angry and weepy, and she had too much to do.

To keep busy, she went up to the bedroom, sorted through her jewelry.

Her engagement ring, the diamond earrings Richard had given her for her

twenty-first birthday. The emerald pendant he’d given her when Callie was

born. Other pieces, other gifts. His watches—six of them—and his army of

cuff links.

She made a careful list, as she had with the clothes she’d taken to the

consignment shop. She bagged the jewelry with their appraisals and

insurance information, then used her phone to search for a jewelry store, as

local as she could manage, that bought as well as sold.

With the boxes she’d picked up while they’d been out, she began

packing up what she considered hers, and important to her. Photographs,

gifts to her from family. The realtor had advised her to “depersonalize” the

house, so Shelby would do just that.

When Callie woke from her nap, Shelby kept her entertained by giving

her little tasks. As she packed, she cleaned. No more housekeeping staff to

scrub and polish the endless miles of tile, of hardwood, of chrome, of glass.

She made dinner, ate what she could. She dealt with bath time, story

time, bedtime, then packed more, hauled boxes to the garage. Exhausted,

she treated herself to a hot bath in the soaking tub with its soothing jets,

then crawled into bed with her pad, intending to write out the next day’s

agenda.

And fell asleep with the lights on.

• • •

THE NEXT MORNING she headed out again, with Callie and Fifi and Shrek,

and Richard’s leather attaché case holding her jewelry and its paperwork,

his watches and cuff links. She tried three more banks, widening her area,

then, reminding herself that she had no room for pride, parked in front of

the jewelry store.

She dealt with a three-year-old cranky at having her movie interrupted

again, and bribed Callie into submission with the promise of a new DVD.

Telling herself it was business, just dollars and cents, she pushed Callie

into the shop.

Everything shone, and seemed as hushed as a church between services.

She wanted to turn around and go, just go, but made herself move forward

to the woman wearing a sharp black suit and tasteful gold earrings.

“Excuse me, I’d like to talk to someone about selling some jewelry.”

“You can speak to anyone here. Selling jewelry is what we do.”

“No, ma’am, I mean to say I’m selling. I’d like to sell some pieces. It

says you buy jewelry, too.”

“Of course.” The woman’s eye was as sharp as the suit, and carved

Shelby down, top to toe.

Maybe she wasn’t looking her best, Shelby thought. Maybe she hadn’t

been able to camouflage the dark circles under her eyes, but if there was

one thing her granny had taught her, it was that when a customer came into

your place, you treated them with respect.

Shelby stiffened a spine that wanted to buckle, kept her eyes direct. “Is

there someone I should speak to, or would you rather I take my business

somewhere else?”

“Do you have the original receipts for the pieces you’re interested in

selling?”

“No, I don’t, not for all, as some were gifts. But I have the appraisals and

the insurance papers. Do I look like a thief, one hauling her daughter around

fancy jewelry stores trying to sell stolen merchandise?”

She felt a scene rising up in her, a dam ready to burst and flood hot and

wild over everything in its path. Perhaps the clerk sensed it as she stepped

back.

“One moment, please.”

“Mama, I wanna go home.”

“Oh, baby, so do I. We will. We’ll go home soon.”

“May I help you?”

The man who stepped up looked like somebody’s dignified grandfather,

the sort in a Hollywood movie about rich people who’d been rich forever.

“Yes, sir, I hope so. It says you buy jewelry, and I have some jewelry I

need to sell.”

“Of course. Why don’t we go over here? You can sit down, and I’ll take

a look.”

“Thank you.”

She struggled to keep that spine straight as she crossed the shop to an

ornate desk. He pulled out a chair for her, and the gesture made her want to

blubber like a fool.

“I have some pieces my—my husband gave me. I have the appraisals

and all that, the paperwork.” She fumbled open the attaché, took out

pouches and jewelry boxes, the manila envelope holding the appraisals. “I

— He— We—” She broke off, closed her eyes, drew a couple of breaths.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never done this.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Foxworth. I’m Shelby Foxworth.”

“Wilson Brown.” He took her offered hand, shook it gently. “Why don’t

you show me what you have, Mrs. Foxworth?”

She decided to go with the biggest straight off, and opened the pouch

that held her engagement ring.

He set it on a velvet cloth, and as he took out a jeweler’s loupe, she

opened the envelope.

“It says here it’s three and a half carats, emerald cut, a D grade—that’s

supposed to be good, from what I read. And with six side stones in a

platinum setting. Is that right?”

He looked up from the loupe. “Mrs. Foxworth, I’m afraid this is a manmade diamond.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a lab diamond, as are the side stones.”

She put her hands under the desk so he couldn’t see them shake. “That

means it’s fake.”

“It simply means it was created in a lab. It’s a very nice example of a

man-made diamond.”

Callie began to whine. Shelby heard the sound through the throbbing in

her head, automatically dug in her bag, pulled out the toy phone. “You call

Granny, baby, tell her what you’ve been up to. It means,” she continued,

“this isn’t a D-grade diamond, and this ring isn’t worth what it says here on

this paper? It isn’t worth a hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars?”

“No, my dear, it’s not.” His voice was as gentle as a pat, and made it

worse. “I can give you the names of other appraisers, so you can ask for

other opinions.”

“You’re not lying to me. I know you’re not lying to me.” But Richard

had, over and over and over. She wouldn’t break down, she told herself. Not

now, not here. “Would you look at the rest, Mr. Brown, tell me if they’re

fake, too?”

“Of course.”

The diamond earrings were real, and that was all. She’d liked them

because they were pretty, and they were simple. Just studs that didn’t make

her feel awkward in the wearing.

But she’d prized the emerald pendant because he’d given it to her the

day they brought Callie home from the hospital. And it was as false as he’d

been.

“I can give you five thousand for the diamond studs, if you’d still like to

sell them.”

“Yes, thank you. That’d be just fine. Can you tell me where I should take

the rest? Is it best to go to a pawnshop? Do you know of a good one? I don’t

want to take Callie into someplace that’s . . . you know what I mean.

Sketchy. And maybe, if you don’t mind, you could give me an idea what it’s

all really worth.”

He sat back, studied her. “The engagement ring is good work, and as I

said, a good example of a lab diamond. I could give you eight hundred for

it.”

Shelby studied him in turn as she pulled off the matching wedding ring.

“How much for the set?”

She didn’t break down, and she walked out with $15,600—Richard’s

cuff links weren’t fake, and had given her what she thought of as a bonus.

Fifteen thousand six hundred was more than she’d had. Not enough to pay

off debts, but more than she’d had.

And he’d given her the name of another shop that would look at

Richard’s watches.

She stretched her luck with Callie, tried two more banks, then gave it up

for another day.

Callie picked a My Little Pony DVD, and Shelby bought herself a laptop

and a couple of flash drives. An investment, she justified. A tool she needed

to keep everything straight.

Business, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t think of the fake jewelry

as another betrayal, but as something that gave her some breathing room.

She spent naptime creating a spreadsheet, entered the jewelry, the

payment for it. Canceled the insurance policy—and that would help her

expenses.

The utilities on the big house, even with rooms closed off, were a killer,

but the money from the jewelry would help there.

She remembered the wine cellar Richard had been so proud of, hauled

the laptop down and began to catalog the bottles.

Somebody would buy them.

And what the hell, she’d splurge on a bottle for herself, have a glass with

her dinner. She selected a bottle of pinot grigio—she’d learned a little about

wines in the last four and a half years, and at least knew what she liked. She

thought it would go just fine with chicken and dumplings—a Callie

favorite.

By the time the day was done, she felt more in control. Especially when

she found five thousand dollars tucked into one of the cashmere socks in

Richard’s drawer.

Twenty thousand now in the fund for cleaning up the mess and starting

over.

Lying in bed, she studied the key.

“Where do you fit, and what will I find? I’m not giving up.”

She could maybe hire a private detective. It would likely take a good

chunk of that cleaning-up fund, but might be the sensible thing to do.

She’d give it a few more days, try some banks closer to the city. Maybe

go into the city.

The next day she added thirty-five thousand on the sale of Richard’s

collection of watches, and two thousand three hundred more for his golf

clubs, skis and tennis racket. It so boosted her mood that she took Callie for

pizza between banks.

Maybe she could afford that detective now—maybe that’s what she’d do.

But she needed to buy a minivan, and her research told her that purchase

would take a deep chunk of her fifty-eight thousand. Plus, it was only right

she use some of that to bump up the payments on the credit cards.

She’d work on selling the wine, that’s what she’d do, and hire the

detective that way. For now, she’d just check one more bank on the way

home.

Rather than haul out the stroller, she propped Callie on her hip.

Callie got that look in her eye—half stubborn, half sulky. “Don’t want to,

Mama.”

“Me either, but this is the last one. Then we’re going to go home and

play dress-up tea party. You and me, baby.”

“I wanna be the princess.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

She carried her now giggling daughter into the bank.

Shelby knew the routine now, walked to the shortest line to wait her turn.

She couldn’t keep hauling Callie around this way, every day, disrupting

routine, in and out of the car. Hell, she felt pretty damn stubborn and sulky

herself, and she wasn’t three and a half years old.

She’d make this the last one after all. The very last altogether, and start

seriously researching private investigators.

The furniture would sell, and the wine would sell. It was time for

optimism instead of constant worry.

She shifted Callie on her hip, approached the teller, who glanced at her

over the tops of red-framed cheaters.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I need to speak with a manager. I’m Mrs. Richard

Foxworth, and I have a power of attorney here. I lost my husband last

December.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. I believe he had a safe-deposit box in this bank. I have the

key here, and the power of attorney.”

Much quicker than fumbling around, she’d learned, telling bored bank

people she’d found the key, didn’t know what it went to.

“Mrs. Babbington’s in her office, and should be able to help you.

Straight across, to the left.”

“Thanks.” She went across, found the office, knocked on the open glass

door. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. They said I should speak to you about

getting into my husband’s safe-deposit box.”

She walked straight in—something else she’d learned—sat with Callie

on her lap.

“I have the power of attorney here, and the key. I’m Mrs. Richard

Foxworth.”

“Let me check on this. You have such pretty red hair,” she said to Callie.

“Mama’s.” Callie reached up to grab a hank of Shelby’s.

“Yes, just like your mother’s. You’re not listed on Mr. Foxworth’s box.”

“I— I’m sorry?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a signature card for you.”

“He has a box here?”

“Yes. Even with the POA, it would be best if Mr. Foxworth came in

personally. He could add you on.”

“He—he can’t. He was—”

“Daddy had to go to heaven.”

“Oh.” Babbington’s face radiated sympathy. “I’m very sorry.”

“Angels sing in heaven. Mama, Fifi wants to go home now.”

“Soon, baby. He— Richard— There was an accident. He was in a boat,

and there was a squall. In December. December twenty-eighth. I have the

documentation. They don’t issue a death certificate when they can’t

find . . .”

“I understand. I need to see your paperwork, Mrs. Foxworth. And some

photo ID.”

“I brought my marriage license, too. Just so you’d have everything. And

the police report on when it happened. And these letters from the lawyers.”

Shelby handed it all over, held her breath.

“You could get a court order for access.”

“Is that what I should do? I could ask Richard’s lawyers—well, my

lawyers now, I guess, to do that.”

“Give me a moment here.”

Babbington read over the paperwork while Callie shifted restlessly in

Shelby’s lap. “I want my tea party, Mama. You said. I want my tea party.”

“That’s what we’ll do, soon as we’re done here. We’ll have a princess tea

party. You should think about what dolls you’re going to invite.”

Callie began to list them off, and Shelby realized the nerves of waiting

gave her a sudden and urgent need to pee.

“The POA’s in order, as is the rest of your documentation. I’ll show you

to the box.”

“Now?”

“If you’d rather come back another time—”

“No, no, I appreciate it so much.” So much that she felt breathless and a

little giddy. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I should do.”

“I’ll walk you through it. I’ll need your signature. Just let me print this

out. It sounds like you’ll have a lot of guests at your tea party,” she said to

Callie as she worked. “I have a granddaughter about your age. She loves tea

parties.”

“She can come.”

“I bet she’d love to, but she lives in Richmond, Virginia, and that’s pretty

far away. If you’d sign this, Mrs. Foxworth.”

She could barely read it the way her thoughts were racing around in her

head.

Babbington used a swipe card and a passcode, accessed a kind of vault

where the walls were filled with numbered drawers. Number 512.

“I’m going to step out, give you some privacy. If you need any help, just

let me know.”

“Thank you very much. Am I allowed to take what’s in it?”

“You’re authorized. Take your time,” she added, and drew a curtain to

block off the room.

“Well, I have to say holy . . . s-h-i-t.” She set the big bag she used for

Callie’s things and her own, and Richard’s attaché, on a table, then,

clutching her daughter, stepped to the box.

“Too tight, Mama!”

“Sorry, sorry. God, I’m nervous. It’s probably just a bunch of papers he

didn’t want in the house. It’s probably nothing. It may even be empty.”

So open it, for God’s sake, she ordered herself.

With an unsteady hand, she slid the key into the lock, turned it. Even

jumped a little when it clicked open.

“Here we go. Doesn’t matter if it’s empty. The important thing is I found

it. On my own. I did it myself. I’ve got to set you down a minute, baby. You

stay right here, you stay right here with me.”

She set Callie on the floor, pulled out the box, put it on the table.

Then simply stared.

“Oh God. Holy shit.”

“Shit, Mama!”

“Don’t say that. I shouldn’t have said that.” She had to brace a hand on

the table.

It wasn’t empty. And the first thing that caught her eye was a stack of

banded money. Hundred-dollar bills.

“Ten thousand each, and oh God, Callie, there’s so many of them.”

Now her hands weren’t just unsteady, but shook as she counted the

stacks. “There’s twenty-five of them. There’s two hundred and fifty

thousand dollars, cash money in here.”

Feeling like a thief, she flicked an anxious look at the curtain, then

shoved the money into the attaché.

“I have to ask the lawyers what to do.”

About the money, she thought, but what about the rest?

What about the three driver’s licenses with Richard’s photo? And

someone else’s name. And the passports.

And the .32 semiautomatic.

She started to reach for the gun, pulled her hand back. She wanted to

leave it, couldn’t say why she didn’t want to touch it. But she made herself

lift it, remove the magazine.

She’d grown up in the Tennessee mountains, with brothers—one who

was now a cop. She knew how to handle a gun. But she wasn’t carrying a

loaded gun with Callie around.

She placed it and the two extra mags in the attaché. She took the

passports, the licenses. Discovered Social Security cards under the same

three names, American Express cards, Visas. All under those names.

Was any of it real?

Had any of it ever been real?

“Mama. Let’s go, let’s go.” Callie tugged on her pants.

“In a second.”

“Now! Mama, now!”

“In a second.” The tone, sharp and firm, might have had Callie’s lip

quivering, but sometimes a child had to be reminded that she didn’t run the

show.

And a mama had to remember that a three-year-old had a right to get

tired of being hauled all over creation and back every damn day.

She bent, kissed the top of Callie’s head. “I’m almost done, I just have to

put this back now.”

Callie was real, Shelby thought. That’s what mattered. The rest? She’d

figure it out, or she wouldn’t. But Callie was real, and over $200,000 would

buy a decent minivan, pay off some of the debt, maybe squeeze out enough

for a down payment on a little house once she got steady work.

Maybe Richard hadn’t meant to, and she didn’t know what it all meant,

but he’d provided for his daughter’s future after all. And he’d given her

room to breathe, so she’d think about the rest later.

She hauled Callie up, shouldered the bag, gripped the attaché as if her

life depended on it.

“Okay, baby girl. Let’s go have a tea party.”