Death at a Premium (15 page)

“We are not denying that fact. And we are aware that your benefit performance has been exceptional.”

“My what?”

“We have not been forced to pay out any large benefits to any of your employees . . . ever, as far as I can tell.”

“Which means you’ve made a lot of money from Island Contracting, right?”

“I don’t have those details here.”

“But let’s assume I’m right and your company has made a large profit from my company. Doesn’t that mean your company is obligated to continue insuring it—and my employees? I can’t run a business without providing health insurance.”

“I don’t see why not. More and more companies are doing just that. But that’s not the point here.”

“No, it’s not. I called to find out why your company is canceling my health insurance policy.”

“In the first place, if you had listened to all of our calls, you would realize that we are not canceling your insurance. We have raised your premiums and changed your coverage, although I see here that we have been forced to refuse to insure one of your current employees . . . a Miss Leslie Coyne.”

“That’s a Mr. Leslie Coyne,” Josie insisted. “I don’t see how you can decide not to insure him when you don’t even know his sex.”

“We have firm standards. We do not insure people with certain previous conditions . . .”

“I understand that Leslie . . .”

“. . . And we have no obligation to continue to insure you for the same premiums forever.”

“I . . .” Josie had no idea what to say, then she did. “You will be hearing from my lawyer.”

“Naturally, we will respond to all appropriate requests for information, Ms. Pigeon.”

“You damn well better,” Josie said, slamming down the receiver. Almost immediately, she picked it up and dialed Sam’s cell phone. But apparently he had turned it off for his meal with Tilly Higgins. She left a brief “call me immediately” message and hung up. Still furious, she began to pace the room, her work boots loud against the wood floor.

True to her red hair, Josie had a tendency to flare up in anger, but her passion could vanish as quickly as it appeared. The still flashing light on her machine attracted her attention so she sat down, pencil and paper in hand, to listen. The first messages, from her insurance company, caused her to flush with anger again, but she kept on. The next message was from her son. He was going to be busy all afternoon—not to worry, his summer project needed a bit of hands-on work. He would see her at dinner. Josie smiled as she always did when she heard Tyler’s voice, but the next message sent her straight back to reality. The call was from the police dispatcher, a woman Josie had known ever since she moved to the island.

“Josie, Chief Rodney wants to talk to you ASAP. He told me to tell you that this is important. To quote him, ‘ASAP means ASAP,’ whatever that means, but Josie, if you don’t call, you’d better avoid running into him. He’s really got a bug up his butt this morning. And here he comes . . . I’d better hang up.”

The final call was from Island Hardware setting up a delivery of wallboard. Josie made a note on her desk pad to call back and confirm the time as well as the date. Then, sighing deeply, she turned off the machine.

Josie had kept Island Contracting in business through difficult times. She had lived through more than a few murder investigations. But she had never been married, so perhaps it was bridal nerves that caused her to bury her head in her arms on her desk and begin to cry.

Unfortunately, she was still crying when Seymour Higgins entered her office.

EIGHTEEN

“I HOPE THE problem you are crying over is personal rather than professional, Ms. Pigeon. I have invited my entire family to celebrate Labor Day in my new beach house, and I assume it will be finished by then.”

Josie looked up and, through tears, saw a man wearing a three-piece gray flannel suit—surely the only man so attired on the island on a warm summer day. “Things have been difficult recently,” she explained, scrounging in the numerous pockets of her overalls for a Kleenex. She found a wad of dollar bills, some loose change, a broken plastic hair clip, two small Phillips screwdrivers, an old receipt from the local bakery, a handful of shiny brass brads, a lone house key that she didn’t dare throw away unidentified, a slip of paper with three phone numbers scribbled on it, a torn tube of dirty wintergreen LifeSavers, and a crumpled coupon for a free cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts. She tossed the coupon into her wastebasket—the closest franchise was over twenty miles away.

“Here,” he said, and Josie realized that she was being offered a monogrammed, hand-hemmed, immaculately pressed linen handkerchief. She looked up at Seymour and smiled. He did not smile back. “Take it. I want to look at the blueprints with you, and I certainly do not want them soiled.”

It was either his handkerchief or her sleeve. She took the handkerchief as anger replaced despair. “I’ll make an effort to keep my snot to myself,” she muttered, sniffling.

“Do that. Now, my dear wife is busy on the island doing something or other, and I want to see exactly what progress has been made at my house.”

“We could go over there,” she suggested, hoping he would refuse. Years of experience had taught her that owners were usually appalled by the sight of demolition.

“I was just there. Your crew was hard at work.”

“They’re a good crew,” Josie said, pleased that he had noticed—and relieved that they hadn’t happened to be on a break when he arrived.

“They’re paid to work and they were working. I wouldn’t have expected anything less. And I hope you don’t either.”

“I hire good people,” she said stubbornly.

He chose to ignore her comment. “I want to make sure Christopher has incorporated enough closet space in his design, especially in the master suite. My dear wife can’t imagine a week going by without at least one trip to Bergdorf’s or Saks. And everything that’s not on her back must be warehoused—preferably out of my sight.”

Josie got up, walked over to the large cabinet where blues were stored and pulled out the plans for the Higgins’s house. She doubted if he was impressed with her efficiency, but she was. She unrolled the papers across her messy desk.

“You need a large table to lay these out on.”

Josie looked around her small cozy office. “There isn’t a whole lot of room here.”

“And you should get rid of those stupid birdhouses. They probably collect dust and they give the wrong impression to potential employers.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Who wants to hire a builder who builds birdhouses?”

“Those aren’t just birdhouses. They are also replicas of houses that Island Contracting has either remodeled or built.”

“Really?”

He didn’t even bother to glance up at them, Josie noticed. “Really,” she answered firmly.

“You have done a lot of work, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” She was shuffling through the blues. “The closets in the master suite could be enlarged if they extended into the room a bit . . .”

“No, I like a lot of room. How about breaking through into the room behind them and appropriating some of that space?”

Josie frowned. “That’s possible, of course, but that particular room is already fairly small. See, there are three other suites—smaller than the master, of course—on that floor. We could, of course, make one even smaller . . .”

“Let’s try that. We can always give that suite to my youngest granddaughter and her husband—can’t stand the guy—and maybe living together in close quarters will encourage them to get divorced. She’s still young enough to find another husband, especially with the possibility of a large inheritance looming in her future.” That settled, Seymour made himself at home in Josie’s desk chair.

Josie was still staring at the blues. “I should run this by Christopher.”

“You do that. If he gives you any argument, tell him to remember who’s paying the bill for this damn thing.
Achoo
!”

“Bless you.” Josie looked over at her employer as he sneezed again. His eyes were watering and, as she watched, a large red hive appeared on his forehead.

“What the . . .” he roared, waking up the pair of kittens that had been sleeping underneath the desk. The little gold tabbies moved to the middle of the floor and stretched. “What the hell are those cats doing in here? I’m allergic to cats!” he yelled, leaping away from the animals as a series of sneezes filled the room.

“Then you may need this,” Josie said, handing him his handkerchief, now crumpled and filthy.

Josie was not in the mood for a festive family gathering, but she didn’t seem to be able to avoid this one. Sam appeared in the early afternoon to explain that his mother was making one of her specialties, and wanted to know if Josie was coming to dinner. Claiming a problem at his store, he left before Josie could think of a reason to spend the evening at home, or tell him about her meeting with Seymour Higgins, or ask about his lunch with Tilly. Then Risa left a message on her cell phone explaining that she had been asked to dinner and was bringing her shellfish risotto. Josie was still hoping to opt out of the evening when Tyler called and asked her to pick him up and take her to Sam’s for dinner. She still would rather be alone to think through her various problems, but an opportunity to be with her son wasn’t something she was going to miss.

But first she had to talk to her crew. She considered picking up a six pack of Coors Light, a bottle of wine— anything to deaden the blow—but finally, she decided to just explain the situation and see how everyone reacted. More important, she had to see if she actually had a crew after they were told that in a few weeks, they might no longer be insured.

“I can and I will, of course, protest their decision and I’ll certainly look for another insurance company,” she explained, “but . . . to tell you the truth, I don’t know if anyone will offer a policy that Island Contracting can afford. I honestly have no idea what is going to happen.”

Nic was the first to speak up. “Oh well, life’s like that,” she said, leaning down to retie a loose bootlace.

“Yeah,” Mary Ann agreed, getting up from where she had been sitting and unbuckling her tool belt. “Who’s gonna stop at the bakery tomorrow morning?”

“Leslie and I will,” Vickie volunteered.

“Yeah, and I can guarantee that all you beautiful ladies will get some bear paws,” he added.

Josie was astounded by their reaction. “I . . . I don’t think you understand. I promised you all benefits when I hired you. Now it’s possible that you won’t have health insurance.”

“Yeah, we get it,” Nic said, looking up. “And we get that it’s not your fault. Stupid insurance company is trying to screw you.”

“And us,” Leslie pointed out.

“Yeah, and us. So you’ll fight back and maybe you’ll win and maybe you won’t. But I’m in good health and this is a good job. I think I’ll stay on,” Nic said.

“Me too,” Mary Ann agreed.

“We’re with you,” Vicki said looking at Leslie.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “After all, I seem to have fallen into the uninsured group anyway.” A crooked grin appeared on his face. “Do you think I’ll get free medical care if I’m arrested?”

“You’re not going to be arrested!” Vicki cried.

“Of course you’re not,” Josie said. “Listen, Sam’s mother is cooking dinner and I need to shower and change, so I’d better hit the road.”

“One of us can lock up,” Vicki offered.

“Great.” Josie passed over the key, and after some discussion of the next day’s work, hit the road. But on the way home she made an important decision: she would spend her personal nest egg on the inflated insurance premium. She couldn’t change Leslie’s situation, but she could keep Island Contracting’s unspoken contract with its workers. She would make sure they were taken care of.

Dinner was a disaster.

Josie arrived late. And, by the time she arrived, Risa and Carol were barely speaking to each other and Sam had retreated to his computer screen claiming an urgent need to “check something out.” Then Tyler left early, explaining that he had an appointment.

“What sort of appointment?” Josie asked.

“I don’t believe he said who he was meeting, but I’m sure it has to do with that school project he keeps talking about,” Carol explained, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring the steaming contents of a large pot simmering on the stove.

“My risotto, learned at Mama’s knee, cannot be left for a moment. That the way the Italians do it,” Risa said.

“My risotto, which I learned to make from one of the most famous chefs in the world, must be eaten as soon as it is prepared.” Carol looked over at the heavy pottery casserole sitting in the middle of Sam’s nineteenfifties kitchen table.

“You both made risotto?” Josie asked.

“We both made seafood risotto,” Carol corrected her.

“We see which you and Sam like most—for your wedding party,” Risa explained.

“Oh . . . ah, I think I hear Sam calling me,” Josie said. If these two strong-minded women were feuding, she sure wasn’t going to get caught in the crossfire. Besides, she could use an explanation from Sam, and she demanded one.

“What the hell is going on in your kitchen?” she asked, appearing in Sam’s small study and flopping down in one of the Eames chairs he valued so highly.

“Lord, it’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but how did they happen to make the same thing? Carol doesn’t usually make Italian dishes. I was expecting her smothered brisket or rolled flank steak.”

“This is all my fault. I was on the phone with Mom last week, and I just happened to mention that you loved seafood risotto and were hoping to serve it at our reception. Apparently she thought I was asking her to cook.”

“You’re kidding! I practically promised Risa that she could cook for the reception. You know, Sam, she’s been helping me raise Tyler since his birth.”

“I wish I were kidding. You know, Josie, if we just firm up our plans we’ll be able to tell everyone what’s going to happen, and this type of thing will just be a bad memory.”