Phone call. Answer. Deep breath. I wished suddenly I had put on clothes. For a phone call? Why? Anyway I had to say something.
"Hello. My name is Claire Yates. You don't know me. But we need to talk, or at least I need to tell you something, and show you something. Are you married to Franklin Morris?"
This wasn't coming out well. I wish I knew how to do this. The response came, after a short pause.
"Yes, and I expect we do need to talk. Do you know where I live?"
I didn't want to go to that woman's house. Not on a bet. He might be there. I didn't want him to see me, or know that I had talked to his wife. I was breaking eggs with no idea what to do with them afterwards.
"Could we meet somewhere else, somewhere less public?"
"There is nothing public about my house, but if you're going to talk about what I think you're going to talk about, then I see why you wouldn't want to come to my house. Where would you like to meet?"
"I live in the desert, so maybe you can suggest a better place than I could. Somewhere in town, maybe?"
"I live in Las Vegas. Can you come there? A coffee shop or maybe a restaurant?"
"Yes, that would be best."
We exchanged information and decided on a meeting place. I arrived first by a few minutes, and got a look at her walking to my table. She was tall and thin, maybe 50, maybe not that old. She didn't have any great claim to beauty, but she was OK. I saw a pearl necklace that was probably real. I got the idea that she didn't mind being plain, but she did intend to look rich. She didn't impress me as being very intelligent, but then I've been wrong about that many times in the past.
Once seated, face composed, not to say actually angry, but not friendly either, she didn't look like she wanted to tell me very much. Well, maybe she wouldn't. But I had things to tell her.
"I'm glad you came. Thank you for coming."
"I'm always interested in my husband's activities."
The touch of sarcasm told me that she might be a bit more intelligent than I had first imagined. Normal, for me. I started, badly as it turned out. "You are Franklin Morris' wife?"
"I thought we had settled that. Yes, and I can probably guess who you are, or at least what you are."
Instant rage replaced fear, I took a deep breath and said coldly, "No, I'm pretty sure you don't know who I am. I have something to talk to you about and something to show you, but it isn't about me. It's about your husband."
The voice softened just a tiny bit. "I knew he would be involved somehow. Please continue."
I swallowed some of my anger and handed her a copy of the donor list. "I found this in a desk drawer your husband used in my home."
Now that was just about the worst way I could have put it. Way to go, Claire, I said to myself.
Frozen face responded, "Funny, I thought he lived with me. Still does most of the time for that matter." She looked down at the list.
"He doesn't, he didn't, live with me. I didn't live there then, when he did, I mean." She had in two sentences reduced me to a stammer. This wasn't coming out like I had planned it, but then, I hadn't really planned it at all. I just wasn't going to keep her in the dark about the plans I had made. I went on.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Yes, do you?"
"I can guess. It's a list of donors to some project or other, possibly friends of yours."
"Yes, that's what it is. How did you get it?"
"It was stuck in a desk drawer." Claire, you can't just leave it like that. You have to explain.
"That's how I found the list. I live in a big house out in the desert. I'm the caretaker, I don't own the place."
Rose and I had discussed what I was to tell Olivia but it didn't seem such a good story now. I went ahead with it anyway.
"He rented it before I became caretaker and lived in it apparently for some time. He left this behind accidently when he got thrown out, or evicted, I should say."
"So that's where he went. I wondered."
"I don't know how long he lived there, a few weeks, maybe a few months. I don't even know the dates. I know the house was partly remodeled when I was installed there and that was six months ago."
"And you don't know who lived there with him, of course. Well, it doesn't matter. It isn't news. So why give this to me? How does it concern you?"
I took a deep breath and made a start. "Your husband built and managed a treatment center for adolescents with drug and alcohol problems. I believe he built that center with money from this list of donors and probably from you."
"I know that. So what?"
"Somewhere along the way, he learned that he could cheat Indians, and that he could make a lot of money off of the government to treat Indians with drug and alcohol problems, importing them from reservations into his treatment center until the government money ran out, then dumping them.
"I suppose you know all this, and aren't just making it up."
"I can take you there. Would that help? I've been there, talked to people."
"So have I, when it first opened up. OK, I believe you. In fact, I already had hints that something was going wrong with the treatment center, but I still want to know why you care?"
This wasn't going well. She had to know more. We were going to have to talk about Indians.
"An Indian family lives near me in the desert. We're neighbors, as these things go in the desert. They have been farming their land for generations, maybe centuries. Then suddenly a few years ago, as a result of an earthquake, they got a water source on their land, a spring, which now runs from the middle of their squash field east onto the reservation, making their land much more valuable. This doesn't mean anything to the Indians, but it did to your husband."
"I'm still waiting to hear how you come into it. What does this have to do with you?
"I'm coming to that. I don't know how your husband found out about the land with the spring on it in the middle of the desert owned by a family of Indians, but he did. And he has been badgering them since then to sell him the land. We can probably guess why he wants that particular piece of land.
"They wouldn't sell so your husband tried a little extortion. He or his hired thug killed the little boy's prize goat and left it as a warning in front of the Indian's front door.
The little boy's name is Edward. He knew, or thought he knew, that your husband lived in the castle, never mind how, and thought Franklin Morris and company still lived in the castle so he dumped the goat on my driveway with a note asking me why I killed his goat. I traced the note to Edward and and talked to the Indians. That's how I learned about Franklin Morris. Then I did a little research based on a business card your hubby left with the Indians and came up with the story about the treatment center housing development. The list of donors gave me enough evidence to move on. So her I am talking to you."
"And I suppose you'll contact all of my friends and tell them your story unless I pay you money not to do that." She paused. "Well, I'll admit you'd get more money from me than you will from him."
The anger came back in a rush. "I don't want your money. This isn't blackmail. I just want Mr. Morris to stay away from the Indians. I contacted you instead of him because I'm afraid of him. I don't want any contact with him at all. He doesn't know about me and I want it to stay that way. I don't want him to ever know anything about me. You're married to him. That's your affair.
No response. Not even a facial expression. This wasn't working. I had to play my second card. "And there's more," I said.
I pushed the button on the cell phone and turned it around so she could see it. She looked at it. Then her eyes hardened and she looked more closely. After about a minute she shoved the phone back to me, still running. I shut it off.
"Is that you?" She asked, carefully controlling her voice.
"No it isn't. I told you I never met the man. I never saw him, with or without clothes. I don't want to hurt you or even him. I just want to protect the Indians from being cheated out of their farm by him."
"So why are you telling me this? Why me?"
"I didn't know until just this instant. I don't want to be a blackmailer. I just want him to leave the Indians alone. It isn't about morality or money. It's about Indians raising squash on their native land, what remains of it. I was going to blackmail him with the video and the donor list to make him leave the Indians alone, but I couldn't face doing it without you knowing about it. So now, I guess, you can tell me where to go with my grand scheme and I'll have to try some other way to stop him."
Olivia took a sip from her coffee cup, thought for a while, then spoke. "No, don't do that. Let me tell you my story."
"I never should have married the creep in the first place, I know that now. But I was young, wasn't beautiful, was afraid nobody would ever marry me, belonged to a church, and hadn't yet figured out what a lot of money meant to a plain looking woman. OK, I was naive. I was supposed to be at that age.
"I didn't really have any money when we got married, my parents were both still alive. I hadn't thought of being rich. I'll bet he did, the creep. He never intended to have a regular job, a trade, a profession, anything at all regular. Why would he want to, with me having all that money? He married me for my money. I just wouldn't believe it at the time.
"One by one, my parents passed away. Very soon after my mother died, my husband started hinting that I should put him on the bank accounts. For safety, he said. That's when I did quite by accident one of the smartest things I ever did in my life. I refused. I almost didn't, but when he suggested that if I had him on the accounts I wouldn't need the financial advisors my parents used and that I had inherited. Somehow, the little voice in the back of my head told me to think this over carefully before I started adding signatories to my financial accounts.
"It could have been worse than that. I could have still been entertaining the idea that I could change him, make him more independent, somehow.
"Our relationship was never the same after I refused to give him access to the accounts. He even went so far as to suggest that he was entitled, since the state we lived in was a common-law state. I went to my family lawyer on that one. He told me that anybody could sue anybody for anything, but that winning was another thing altogether. He convinced me not to worry about it, and I haven't since.
"But I have supported his causes, where I could without funding them myself. The live-in treatment center idea, far from the drugs and distractions of the city, appealed to me, and I talked a few of my church friends into supporting that idea. It hasn't amounted to much yet, but he might be on to something with it."
She looked up at me from her coffee cup. I took the opportunity to further her education. "Well, no, not the way you think. He built a treatment center but it failed after a year and a half. I went there and talked to the former manager. He told me a lot. It wasn't good. The treatment center was supposed to fail, and when it did the property went to the limited liability corporation that bought it with the money your donors put up.
"And guess who owns that LLC? You got it first time! Your husband owns the LLC. Franklin Morris owns the treatment center property, land and buildings. He's having a gated community built on the site. The building that was the treatment center is still there, but it won't be when the project is completed. Franklin Morris is going to make a lot of money from that little foray into do-gooding. A lot of government money went into that project as well, matched by your donor's funds."
She abruptly changed the subject. "Do you know the woman in the video? Will she keep quiet about the video?"
"No, I don't know her. But she made the video herself and she could be found if necessary. She hasn't committed a crime, not around here anyway. She will keep quiet about this, she's a professional."
"Then let me handle this. I think I can promise he won't be bothering your Indians any more. Who else has seen the video? Who else do you plan to show it to?"
"Nobody else has seen the video, and nobody ever will if Mr. Morris leaves the Indians alone. I have made copies of the video. They are all in safe places, and will be undisturbed forever unless they are needed. Here's yours."
I held out the tiny flash drive. She reached for it, then pulled back her hand. Finally, she reached for it again and took it. I had one final thing to say before she left.
"I'm sorry about all this too. I never want to hear about any of it again either."