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  Geri could still see that look in Gloria’s eyes, like Geri had killed Bambi or something, when she suggested they put Grandma Quinn into a nursing home. She just couldn’t catch a break, not even from her own daughter. Why couldn’t Gloria understand?

  Geri carefully screwed the top back onto the little green jar of cream and returned it to its place in the medicine cabinet beside the skin toner. She didn’t know why she was getting ready for bed so early. It was barely dark. Maybe it was more about routine and occupying her time. Eating, dressing, cleaning the house, shopping, getting ready for bed, all testified that the old heart was still ticking and the lungs still inflating. Movement told you you were still alive.

  Sometimes it was the only proof you had.

  The click click click of her high-heeled slippers broke the crypt-like silence in the house as Geri made her way to the living-room window and carefully peered through the Venetian blinds. The street lamp caught the shiny reflectors on the pedals as a neighbor’s child rode by on a bike. Parents nowadays let their kids stay out till all hours, then wondered why they turned into juvenile delinquents. Like that Nick Cervantes. He was probably prowling the streets right now peddling his drugs. Rumor had it that he and Tracy had been seeing a lot of each other ever since he’d gotten out of Dolby. Tracy. Geri always did think that girl was trouble—a bad seed—just like that girl in the movie The Bad Seed, only Tracy wasn’t a blonde and she hadn’t killed anyone, God forbid. But imagine, hanging around the likes of Nick Cervantes. Geri would rather see Gloria a spinster forever than take up with someone like that. Now this was one more thing for Geri to worry about. Tracy had always exerted a negative influence on Gloria. How in the world was she going to keep Gloria away from Tracy and that awful boy?

  She spread the two slats farther apart and studied the now-quiet street before letting them snap back into place. Seems the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket. Oh, Gloria, Gloria. Will you ever understand? I wanted to keep you safe and help you achieve some measure of happiness. And oh, how I wanted to save you from your own expectations. Nothing is ever the way you want it, Gloria. Nothing.

  Geri’s heels tapped across the hardwood floor like a woodpecker as she headed for the living room and her only nighttime companion, the little fifteen-inch Zenith. At least Gloria’s expectations, like her looks, were meager. And at least Gloria didn’t have to live up to the expectations of an entire town. Sometimes Geri wished she had never been a Miss America contestant. Appleton never forgave her for not going all the way and winning the title. At least that’s how she saw it.

  Whenever Geri got on that kick, Virginia told her it was utter nonsense and to stop being so self-absorbed—this from the queen of self-absorption. But brains, not beauty, had been Virginia’s ally. How could Virginia possibly understand what kind of expectations a thing like beauty could generate? Besides, Geri had long suspected that Virginia held a secret contempt for the beautiful. People could say what they wanted, they could say they valued a keen mind, but when one of those so-called brilliant businessmen finally got around to dumping the little wife, it was never an ugly woman who became her successor.

  Oh, Gloria! Gloria! How can I make you understand?

  All the way home Cutter whistled along with the music blaring from his car radio. He didn’t know why he was so happy, why he felt as light as a marshmallow. He flipped off the radio. No use acting like an idiot. But there, in the silence, he felt his lips pucker and heard a poor rendition of Barry Manilow’s “Looks Like We Made It” twittering from his mouth.

  Don’t be a fool, Press.

  What was the big deal, anyway? He and Gloria had finally had a normal conversation. So what? But she had actually shared her thoughts with him, had actually let him into her very private space.

  But it was only for a minute. Then she clammed up.

  Cutter pulled his Saab into the driveway of his friend’s sprawling Tudor and got out. The house was much too big—made him feel like the lone occupant of a hotel. But he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, especially Virginia. The rent was cheap, and that was the main thing, since all his extra cash these days was going to pay legal fees. He and his two partners had finally retained a high-powered attorney to fight the EPA for the right to build on The Lakes, and that was costing plenty. Still, he’d be happy when the lease on the Tudor was up. Then he’d find some modest condo somewhere.

  Actually, if the truth were known, it really wasn’t the size of the house that bothered him. It was being alone. He wasn’t used to it. Virginia had always crowded him. He unlocked the door, then flipped on the light.

  His footsteps tapped out a ragged tune as he walked down the marble hallway into the kitchen. At the touch of his fingers the overhead high-hats went on, flooding the room with light.

  What’s the matter, Press? Trying to chase away the boogieman?

  No. Boogiemen didn’t frighten him. Only thin, shy girls who seemed to get prettier every day. Knock it off, Press. You blew it. Gloria Bickford hates you. Has hated you since you both were kids. And you have only yourself to blame.

  The keys made a clinking sound as he tossed them on the counter. A few steps more and he was by the little built-in desk tucked between the kitchen and laundry room. He checked the answering machine. No messages.

  Just look at the grief he’d given Gloria over Santa Claus, as if it were her fault he was dead. The fact that someone killed the guy before he could talk should have raised a red flag. Made Cutter take the whole thing seriously. On the other hand, characters like that had lots of enemies. Santa Claus could have been killed for any number of reasons. Still, he could have been kinder to Gloria about it. Why was he so obnoxious with her, anyway? Always giving her a hard time? He never seemed to say the right thing.

  It was time to change. Time to stop being so all-infernal … rough? opinionated? obnoxious? unreasonable? Okay … okay, all of the above. It was time he stopped worrying about Gloria getting the upper hand. Gloria wasn’t Virginia Press. She wouldn’t try to manipulate him, control him. At least, he didn’t think so.

  He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out the phone book, then flipped to “Private Investigators.” See Detective Agencies. A few seconds more and he found the right page. When Gil Crestmore’s name was the only one that appeared, Cutter closed the book. What did he expect in a town the size of Appleton? Gil handled mostly domestic stuff: infidelity, locating deadbeat dads, and the like. He’d have to get a PI from somewhere else—Eckerd City, maybe—and have him check out this Santa Claus. Maybe have him check out Eric Slone too.

  Then he’d have to apologize to Gloria and tell her he was taking all this a little more seriously.

  Chapter Six

  GLORIA FLIPPED OPEN her bankbook and looked at the total. Almost $3,000. She couldn’t believe she still had that much in her savings considering her recent relocation, which included furnishing Sam Hidel’s apartment. And she’d need every penny. Already she had put feelers out around town regarding a good used car.

  Only …

  Grandma Quinn was running up high grocery bills, and Mother seemed bent on using that as an excuse for putting her into a nursing home. Gloria couldn’t let that happen.

  Geri Bickford smiled at the overweight matron taking her through the winding halls of Clancy County Home for the Aged and tried to ignore the overpowering smell of urine and rubbing alcohol. Already she had seen the cafeteria and rec room, both of which would benefit from a gallon of Lysol and some paint. Now the matron was taking her to one of the women’s wards, and Geri found herself slowing her pace. Groans and unintelligible words, mingled with muffled sobs, wafted through the halls, and suddenly Geri wasn’t sure she was up to it. It was nothing like she’d expected. Where were the army of smiling, helpful nurses and aides? The carts full of candy and flowers and greeting cards? The clean, happy patients?

  Down one end of the hall, Geri watched with a sick, fluttering stomach as an orderly the size of O.J. Simpso
n strapped an old, shriveled woman into a chair.

  “We have to restrain some of our patients; otherwise they’d fall—just slip right out of their seats,” the matron said as though sensing Geri’s revulsion.

  Years of practice enabled Geri to widen her smile as she saw the old woman, limp as spaghetti, offer no resistance. Geri had not stopped smiling since she’d entered Clancy County, and her cheeks ached. The endless cycle of beauty pageants had helped her develop that stock smile, the one she had been wearing for ages and ages—ever since she had returned home from the Miss America pageant a loser. But now, even her stock smile was hard to keep on. Maybe she was getting old. Maybe gravity was sagging more than her skin.

  Her lips had never felt so heavy.

  “We take pride in our patient care.” The matron, dressed in a gray two-piece suit with a light-gray silk blouse and neat, short gray hair apparently thought Geri was enjoying the tour because she kept glancing over at her and smiling approvingly. “Safety is number one with us. You’re lucky your mother lives in Clancy County. We’re one of the best nursing homes around. Not like some of those other meat warehouses that pass themselves off as homes for the aged. But see for yourself.” The matron swung her arm in a wide arc as if she were a tour guide for the Metropolitan Museum of Art showing Geri a series of Rembrandts. Geri peered through the open door of the ward, where twenty beds formed two rows and were filled with women in various stages of coherency. Only one bed was empty, and Geri guessed it belonged to the little shrunken woman strapped in the chair at the end of the hall. The smell in the room was overwhelming—a noxious mix of body odor and body waste and antiseptics and vomit.

  Geri was sure she was going to vomit too and pushed past the matron.

  “Your mother’s fortunate we have a few vacancies in the next ward.” The matron trotted behind her. “She won’t have to sleep in the hall. But I suggest you get your application in quickly. Our beds fill up fast.”

  Geri clutched the packet of papers to her chest, forced that smile back on her face, then made her way to the lobby as fast as she could.

  How was she ever going to convince Gloria to leave her grandmother in this place?

  “What do you mean, someone’s trying to buy Clive McGreedy’s farm?” Gloria swiveled in her chair so she could face Wanda, and what she saw told her this wasn’t a joke.

  “Yeah. Can you believe it? Now everyone’s trying to figure out why. Guess they think it could make their property worth something too. Paul says he heard it was for a new 725,000-square-foot super-mall that’s gonna have all kinds of shops and a huge movie complex, plus some restaurants. But Pearl Owens says someone told her it’s for tollbooths and a new interstate. So looks like no one knows for sure what’s going on.”

  “I can’t believe it. Clive’s farm … that’s like saying we’re selling Appleton High, or Town Hall, or—”

  “Gloria, it’s only a farm.”

  “It’s more than a farm. It’s an important community institution, it’s a … a memory maker.”

  “A what?”

  Gloria shrugged. “I can’t explain it. All I know is that Appleton wouldn’t be the same without Clive’s farm. He’s not selling, is he?”

  “Can’t say.” Wanda’s huge hips rolled from side to side like an ocean liner in rough seas. She anchored beside Gloria’s desk and patted her teased hair that didn’t move an inch. “Hugh Bascome at the Gazette said it would be good for our town—bring some money in.”

  “How does he figure that?”

  “Hugh’s smart. Can sniff out the whys and wherefores of a thing. Guess that’s what makes him a good newspaper man. Anyway, he said Clive’s farm, the way it’s situated on the Old Post Road, is pretty centrally located between the Four Towns.” Wanda was referring to New Canterbury, Shepherd’s Field, Dolby, and Appleton. “He said if you drew a circle around Clive’s farm on a map, you’d see it’s like the hub of a four-spoke wheel with the Four Towns radiating outward. It’s the perfect place for a shopping mall. A central location like that could make it lucrative for some of those big chain stores.”

  “Yeah, and kill Main Street businesses.”

  Wanda placed both hands on the sides of her head and pushed up on her hair, making it rise and look like an inverted bird’s nest. “Well, people would come from miles away. Hugh said he always thought Clive’s farm would be a great place for commerce. Guess someone else thinks so too.”

  “Well, I for one hope it never happens. And for now, I’m happy it’s all just speculation.”

  “Not all. The shopping center thing is speculation, and the interstate. But not the fact that Clive was offered good money for his land.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Clive. And he said it was so much money he’d be a fool not to think about it.”

  Gloria turned to her computer and tried to tune out Wanda’s dissertation on how smart Hugh Bascome was and how he was never wrong. Instead, she began to think about what life would be like in Appleton without the McGreedy farm, and she decided she didn’t think she’d like it.

  Cutter Press dialed the number he’d gotten from searching Google and felt stupid. Who hires a private detective off the Internet? He had never ordered anything off the Internet, not even that pair of Kenneth Coles he liked so much and could have gotten for half price. But he had been impressed with what he’d seen on the Web site. Looked like the agency covered everything from IT security to full-blown investigations and intelligence, with an emphasis on corporate whistle-blowing. If the agency did half of what it claimed, it might just be the perfect vehicle to uncover the identity of Santa Claus and any possible connection he might have had with Eric Slone.

  “Hello?” A soft, almost girlish voice sputtered over the phone line, and Cutter was about to hang up when the voice followed with “Bryce Detective Agency.” It had to be Bryce’s secretary.

  “Ah … is Mr. Bryce there?”

  “Speaking.”

  No way. This feminine-sounding person couldn’t possibly be a detective. This had to be a hoax. Way to go, Press. Want to buy the Brooklyn Bridge? Off the Internet?

  “This is Sam Bryce,” the voice said, sounding a bit impatient. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a detective … a real detective …”

  The soft voice chuckled. “I am a real detective, with a license and everything. It’s posted on my Web site. You can check it out if you want.”

  “Sorry … I’m just a little uncomfortable … about using the Internet, I mean. And you don’t exactly sound like a detective.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. I guess people are expecting Humphrey Bogart. Anyway, if you read my Web site, you’ll see that I take on only a handful of cases a month, and I’m pretty booked. Besides, I don’t do divorce or that kind of thing. So if your wife’s cheating and you want a nice big photo to prove it in court, I’m not your guy.”

  “What do you do?” Cutter asked, even though he had read every word on that Web site and already knew.

  “Fraud, mostly. But also bribery, extortion, industrial espionage, money laundering, stuff like that. I’ve got access to a load of databases and can find out how to get access to more if I need to. We’re very high-tech here, Tallulah, Christine, and me.”

  “Tallulah?”

  “My computer, and Christine is my wife.”

  It defied reason, but Cutter was beginning to take Sam Bryce more seriously. “Do you have much experience?”

  Laughter wafted over the phone. “Been in the business fifteen years. Ever hear of the Knickerbocker case?”

  “You mean the one about the guy who embezzled millions from his company?”

  “That’s right. That was us. We cracked the case wide-open.”

  Cutter whistled softly. Charles Knickerbocker, a purchasing agent for Xavier Corp., had funneled small amounts of money from hundreds of accounts into a dozen bogus companies—all his. The embezzlement had covered a period of ten years, at the end of wh
ich Knickerbocker had amassed 2.3 million dollars. The case caused a big stir because, unlike the arrogant and outlandish crooks in the Tyco and WorldCom scandals, Charles Knickerbocker had been a most patient and unobtrusive thief. Cutter vaguely remembered that the case had been cracked through a series of small, unrelated details that finally led to Knickerbocker’s Swiss account. “Maybe you are the right guy after all.”

  “Like I said, I’m pretty booked, but tell me your problem, and if it interests me, maybe I’ll stretch a bit and take you on.”

  For the next half hour, Cutter told Sam Bryce about Tucker Mattson, The Lakes, Spencer Jordon, the EPA, the newsletters, the picketers, and finally Santa Claus. When he was finished, there was a long silence.

  “Well. Does the case interest you?”

  “Yes, Mr….”

  “Cutter, Cutter Press.”

  “Yes, Mr. Press, it interests me very much.”

  Gloria ignored the tinkling of the hanging overhead bell as she entered Sam Hidel’s Grocery. It had been a long day, and before she headed for her apartment in the back, she needed to take care of some business.

  Sam Hidel was behind the cash register, as usual, and Minnie, his wife, was on the floor stocking shelves and talking to the customers, making sure they found everything they needed. The store was nearly empty, with the dinner hour approaching, and Gloria was pleased when she saw that Sam was alone at the register. She headed straight for him.

  “I’ve come about Grandma’s account,” Gloria said quietly, not wanting Pearl Owens, who was down aisle two by the Doritos, to overhear. Appleton’s saying “Tella Pearl, tella world” wasn’t without foundation. “I’d like to see how much she owes.”