“No, I—” A pause, then a sharp huff and she went on more firmly, as if she’d finally made up her mind about something. “I’m at the museum, and there’s a gentleman here by the name of Wrob Barney talking to Bob Tierney right now about your project.”
For a moment, my mind still half on the Whitcombs and their tragedies, I couldn’t process this. “What?” I finally said. Simon nodded, mouth tight.
“He came by the museum a little while ago and started right in with Bob about Mrs. Whitcomb, the films, the documentary, that book you wanted to write. Well, Bob’ll give away his own grandmother to anyone interested enough in town history, so it never occurred to him to think twice, I imagine. But something just didn’t ring right to me about this fellow, and at last I thought, you know, maybe I should check with Ms. Cairns myself. Do you know him? Is this on the level?”
“Oh, yes, I know him, and no, this is absolutely fucking not on the level.” My jaw clenched hard enough to bring on a headache. But the anger itself felt liberating, so much like my old self that even that pain was welcome. “Actually, Val, can you do me a favour? Put Wrob on the phone with me, and tell him who it is before you do.”
Val paused. “Think that’s a good idea?” she asked, finally.
“Probably not, but I want to see what he does. Okay?”
“. . . All right.”
Simon, apparently realizing what was going on, straightened up. “Are you sure?” he said in a low voice. “Might be worth not letting him know we know.”
“Don’t care,” I replied, covering the phone’s mic. “If it turns out he hasn’t got the balls to talk to me directly then I’ll get hold of him some other way, but I’m sick of his crap. This is the last fucking straw.” I turned back to the phone and waited. The pause was just long enough I started to grind my teeth again with frustration; of course he wasn’t going to—
“Hey, Lois. How ya feelin’?” As casual as if we’d just bumped into each other in Starbucks, making half a laugh escape me, thin with disbelief. “Oh, better than I was, Wrob, but still pretty pissed off,” I said. “Seriously, what part of ‘You are not involved in this project’ do you not get, exactly? I mean, it’s one thing you got Chris Coulby to stake me out when I was in the hospital, now you can’t even do your own research?”
He didn’t even bother to deny it, which just made me angrier. “Oh, there’s nothing here that isn’t available to the public . . . and considering you’d never even have gotten started on this without what I gave you, this is really more like my research. Isn’t it?”
“What you gave me?”
“In our interview, yes.”
“Oh, uh huh. What you stole, you mean, and what I caught you stealing after Jan caught you first, which is why you don’t have a damn job anymore—”
“I wasn’t aware Mrs. Whitcomb belonged to anybody, actually,” he shot back, loftily, to which I just had to snort.
“Ex-fucking-actly. Jan know you’re up there?”
“No, but so what? Like you say, he already fired me; only gets to do that once. Besides which, you really think either of you learned anything I didn’t already know? Above and beyond what it feels like to have a stroke, I mean.”
“Seizure, and that’s debatable.”
“Same difference, and the question stands.”
I drew a calming breath. “Oh, I kinda think I did . . . but if you want to find out what, you can just go on and buy the book when it comes out, like everybody else. Now give Val back the phone.”
“Goodbye, Lois,” he said, and hung up on me.
I put the iPhone down, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall, and struck my knee with my hand instead. “Fucking pretentious, gay-ass turd-bucket!” I exclaimed.
Simon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I’m beginning to agree with you,” he said flatly, which made me raise my eyebrows; I hadn’t heard him sound this angry in a long time. “Did he seriously get somebody to stake out St. Mike’s?”
I blew out, hard. “I don’t know. I mean—I can’t prove it. But why else would Chris have been there? Jesus.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Simon tilted his head. “We could try to get a restraining order, for a start—”
“No, we couldn’t. He’s nowhere near me, man; he doesn’t need to be. And he’s richer than either of us, so if we go to court, who do you think is gonna win?” I waved my hands, anger collapsing into exhaustion. “Too bad it’s not against the law to be an asshole.” Simon’s jaw tightened. I leaned forward and put my hands on his. “Look, I love that you’re pissed on my behalf, but I haven’t got the time or the energy, and it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. I just have to make sure he doesn’t get to fuck this up for me, long distance or otherwise; get it done, finished, in the can. Just . . . bear with me till that happens, okay? That’s all I need.”
Simon closed his eyes and sighed heavily, but his hands tightened on mine. “All right,” he said at last, then let me go and stood. “Tea?”
“Please.”
While Simon busied himself in the kitchen, I took a moment to text Jan at the NSA, telling him what’d just happened; didn’t mention Chris Coulby, or the fact that Wrob’d all but admitted he was a mole—that sort of shit should probably be said face to face, if at all. My pulse started to soften. But then, just as I hit send, the iPhone began to ring. I checked the number: Mom, it said.
“Big surprise,” I muttered to myself, hitting accept.