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“He seemed especially interested when you were talking to Mrs. Bignell-Sax,” I said.

  “Short gray hair?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Brian Sax. Marilyn’s husband, Randy’s father; first in line to take over the company when Bruce steps down. Take my arm and lead me toward the house. Try not to make eye contact.”

  I did.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “What makes you think something’s going on?”

  * * *

  Bruce Bignell had a full head of white hair; how much of it was real, I couldn’t say. He was tall and thin and used a cane to help propel him along a stone path that sloped gently from the terrace in back of the house to where his guests were gathered in the leveled area at the base of the hill. He held the hand of a little girl dressed in one of those pink party dresses with a ruffled skirt that parents love but kids hate. The child wasn’t smiling, but then neither was Bignell.

  He halted at the edge of three carefully carved stones that served as a stage. An entourage consisting chiefly of family members and men dressed in gray and black suits clustered in front of him; they were careful to stand a few feet down the slope so that their heads were below his. The girl kept glancing to her left at a handsome woman who stood apart from the group. The woman wasn’t smiling either.

  Bignell introduced the girl as his beloved great-granddaughter, without mentioning her name. He said the party had been arranged to celebrate her tenth birthday and to impress upon her what it means to be a member of the fourth generation of the great Bignell family, which apparently began with him. He actually used the word “great.” The girl curtsied. The people applauded.

  Erin whispered, “They throw themselves a parade every Fourth of July. A high school marching band. Floats. The old man sitting like Santa Claus and waving to the crowd. I’m not exaggerating.”

  Bignell released the little girl’s hand, and she dashed toward the handsome woman. They smiled once they were in each other’s arms and wandered off together.

  “Let us pray,” Bignell said.

  I thought he was going to pass the chore to a padre of some sort who would say a few words before leading the congregation in grace. But no, Bignell did the honors himself.

  “Everything I have today comes from God. It is His. I own nothing. David said the world and everything in it belongs to God. I am not the owner of the things in my life. I am merely the manager whom He has trusted with His property. I must learn to think, therefore, like His manager. A manager oversees the Owner’s assets for the Owner’s benefit. The job of manager is to find out what the Owner wants done and then carry out His will. I am held accountable to God because He, as the Owner, has expectations of the manager. The Owner has complete right to full disclosure of what’s being done with His property. As His manager, I will undergo a job performance review. So will those of His managers in government who are wasting God’s money on bailouts and job stimulus programs, on healthcare bills and welfare subsidies, on food programs and housing assistance that rob God’s children of ambition and drive and the gift of hard work. But as Christians, can we sit idly by and wait for God to judge these people who squander His gifts? The Lord helps those who help themselves. It is up to each of us to make sure that these elected officials face a harsh job evaluation on Election Day. It is our task to see to it that officeholders realize that the time and money they spend belong to God. That they must be managed according to His will. That is why I pray that all of you give much of the wealth that you manage in God’s name to Christians for a Fiscally Responsible Government so that we can pressure these government officials to do what’s good and right with the property that God has entrusted to them. Let us pray…”

  I looked around. The crowd was equally divided between those who nodded their heads in agreement and those who glanced surreptitiously at their wristwatches and cell phones. No one seemed outraged that Bruce Bignell was using prayer to promote a PAC but me.

  “O God,” he said, “You know my weakness and failings, and that without Your help I can accomplish nothing for the good of souls, my own and others. Grant me, therefore, the help of Your grace. Grant it according to my particular needs this day. Enable me to see the task You will set before me in the daily routine of my life, and help me work hard at my appointed tasks. Teach me to bear patiently all the trials of suffering or failure that may come to me today. Amen.”

  There were plenty of “Amens” spoken in response to Bignell. Afterward, several people moved forward to seek audience with the great man. The rest of us turned and moved toward the bartenders and caterers under the white canopies, but slowly, as if no one wanted to be first in line.

  “I thought you were supposed to have a conversation with Bignell,” I said.

  “He’ll summon us when he’s ready,” Erin told me.

  I surveyed the food tables. There was plenty of everything—beef, pork, chicken, fish, and an assortment of vegetarian and side dishes—yet no pasta and no spaghetti sauce. I filled a plate and sat with Erin and several other guests who seemed consumed with the weather. No one spoke politics. No one mentioned Bignell’s prayer.

  I had nearly finished my chicken when the man Erin had identified as Brian Sax appeared at the table.

  “Excuse me,” he said. Seven people looked up to see if he was speaking to them. “Ms. Peterson?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sax.”

  “My father-in-law would like to have a word if you are finished with your dinner.”

  “Of course.”

  Erin stood. Sax turned toward me.

  “Are you McKenzie?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You, too, then.”

  Erin and Sax strolled side by side to the stone path and then up the path toward the veranda. Sax walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and Erin crossed her arms over her chest, as if they were afraid they might reach out and touch each other. I followed several paces behind, close enough to listen to their conversation without looking like it.

  “I’ve missed you,” Sax said.

  “You tell me that now with your entire family here to see?”

  “It’s torture when you’re near and torture when you’re not.”

  “I know.”

  “What were you discussing with my son?”

  “Business.”

  “As long as that’s all you talk about.”

  “I don’t understand or appreciate this jealousy.”

  Sax’s head snapped toward Erin. He quickly righted himself, but not before tossing a glance over his shoulder to see if I noticed. I pretended that I didn’t.

  “I have an early flight tomorrow,” Sax said. “I’ll be spending the night at the apartment in Minneapolis. Come see me.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Please.”

  By then we were approaching Bruce Bignell. He was sitting on the veranda in a high-backed chair, the king on his throne. Why he didn’t greet his guests inside his enormous house—I guessed it was because he wanted to be seen greeting them. He held his cane next to his leg like a staff.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bignell.” Erin’s voice had a youthful bounce to match her appearance. “It’s such a pleasure seeing you again.” She crossed the stone floor in a hurry. Instead of offering her hand to shake, she rested it on top of the old man’s hand, the one holding his cane, and squeezed. “How come all of us get old except you?”

  “The Lord has been very kind to me. But Erin, sweetheart, how many times must I tell you to call me Bruce?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, sir.”

  “Try.”

  Erin smiled brightly. She moved a chair so near to the old man that when she sat their knees touched. Up close I noticed that he looked every minute of his eighty-plus years.

  “Bruce,” she said, followed by a girlish giggle. “Oh, Mr. Bignell, you’re always teasing me.”

  Bignell glanced up at his son-in-law. There was a tightness around Sax’s lips; ot
her than that his face was impassive. Bignell dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. Sax bobbed his head toward Salsa Girl.

  “Ms. Peterson,” he said.

  He turned and walked off the veranda toward the other guests. Give him credit, he never once looked back.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” Bignell said.

  “Sir?”

  “I am led to believe that you are our darling Erin’s protector.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I want you to stay and listen carefully to what I have to say. Erin, I have been reliably informed that you are experiencing difficulties with your employees.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said.

  “How would you then explain the series of mishaps that have befallen you?”

  “We’re taking steps—”

  “You brought this on yourself. You know that, don’t you? Hiring Asians and Mexicans—”

  “They’re good people, Mr. Bignell.”

  “Don’t interrupt, young lady.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “They all came to this country, or they’re descendents of people who came to this country, looking for a handout, looking for a free ride; either way it’s the same thing. I understand how it happened. They saw how good-natured you are, how kind and generous, and now they’re taking advantage. Erin, there are a million swindlers out there, and if you are going to take your place among serious business people, you must learn to recognize and deal with them.”

  “It’s so hard.”

  “I know it is, sweetheart. However, you must be firm. You. McKenzie. What are you doing about this situation?”

  “What I can.”

  “It must not be very much if someone is pouring Krazy Glue into Erin’s locks and dumping rat excrement on her desk. If you’re allowing some welfare cheat who doesn’t have the backbone to support himself and his family to tear down everything this young woman has built…”

  Wait. What? my inner voice said. Welfare cheat?

  “What exactly do you think is going on at Salsa Girl?” I asked aloud.

  Bignell refused to answer. Instead, he returned his attention to Erin.

  “Say the word,” he said, “and I’ll have a management team down there by the day after tomorrow. Let me take care of you.”

  “No, Mr. Bignell. It’s my company. I want to run it.”

  “I appreciate your ambition, my dear. The hard work you’ve put into Salsa Girl. That’s one of the reasons I agreed to distribute your products. Only now your company has reached a size where it’s too big for a young woman to control.”

  “But it’s mine.”

  “It’s also Randy’s company. That makes you part of the family. You must understand, dear girl, this is not just about you anymore. Minnesota Foods has added a number of product lines to complement yours—tortillas, tortilla chips, taco shells, dried beans and rice. Your success is our success. Your failure—we simply cannot allow you to fail. Otherwise, we will need to reach out to someone else to anchor our Mexican brands, a different vendor, perhaps.”

  “Please, Mr. Bignell, I can fix this.”

  He was glaring at me when he replied, “We’ll be watching.” He looked back at her. “Erin, you must know how very much we care about you, about your welfare. Randy’s, too. We would love to see your partnership grow even stronger. Please remember that we’re here to assist you in any way that we can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bignell.”

  “Erin, please.”

  “Bruce. Thank you, Bruce.”

  He smiled. It was the first time I saw him do it, and it must have hurt, because it didn’t last more than a second or two.

  “You’re such a pretty little thing,” Bignell said. “You run along now and enjoy the party.”

  “Thank you, Mr.… Bruce.”

  Erin smiled brightly and lightly caressed Bignell’s hand, still gripping his cane. Then she and I walked back toward the party.

  Halfway there she took my hand. She squeezed it so hard that I was afraid the other guests would notice the pain it caused me.

  “I am not a screamer.” Erin was again speaking with what I was beginning to recognize as her mature voice. “I do not engage in public displays of agitation.”

  “I, on the other hand, have been known to weep and wail in front of whole crowds of people.”

  Erin released my hand.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t you think you’ve taken this ‘helpless little girl lost’ routine far enough?”

  “As long as I get what I want.”

  “What do you want that’s worth putting up with that asshole? I’m amazed you let him talk to you the way he did.”

  “Being an asshole isn’t reason enough to make someone your enemy. If you start doing that, pretty soon you’ll be at odds with half the people on the planet. Besides, even assholes have their uses.”

  * * *

  We returned to our table but didn’t sit. Erin said she needed to mingle. I asked her if she wanted me to mingle with her. She said that would conflict with the brand. She was smiling when she said it, and in that moment I understood her more clearly than ever before. Erin used her sexuality like a Swiss Army knife. She had a tool that could be made to fit any task, to influence any individual, from the naïve sex kitten for Bignell to the caring older woman for Randy to the just-out-of-reach goddess for Ian Gotz to—how did she present herself to Sax, I wondered. A femme fatale, a full-blown “fatal woman”? She was the affectionate older sister for Alice, the rowdy drinking buddy for Maria, the sensual possibility for Marshall Lantry.

  How is she playing you? my inner voice asked.

  The honorable yet sorely tempted woman desperate to keep an alluring man at a distance for fear of betraying her friend, I told myself. Yeah, there was something enticing about that.

  She’s certainly got you thinking, hasn’t she?

  I went into one of the catering tents and built a steak sandwich out of the provisions I found there. After stopping in a bar tent for an ale brewed in Ireland—no domestic beers for the Bignells—I returned to the table. The sun was setting. Without it, the air turned cold and reminded me of winter. Lights went on, giving the party area a soft glow but no warmth.

  I had nearly finished the sandwich when Marilyn Bignell-Sax arrived. She was wearing a cashmere sweater over the tight-fitting top.

  “May I have a moment?” she asked.

  She sat next to me without waiting for a reply.

  “Mr. McKenzie…”

  “McKenzie is fine,” I said.

  She smiled. “You may call me Marilyn.”

  “Thank you, Marilyn.”

  “I wish to apologize for my behavior earlier. Randy was right. I was very rude.”

  “Fine. But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

  Marilyn turned her head as if she were searching the crowd for Erin. I did, too. Neither of us could find her.

  “How well do you know Ms. Peterson?” Marilyn asked.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Yes, but how well do you know her?”

  “What do you want, Marilyn?”

  “I know you, McKenzie. I Googled your name.” She held up her smartphone as if to prove it. “There are stories about you. Some of the people you’ve helped. Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin—I don’t know her but I know the Muehlenhaus family. You seem capable.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead I waited for the fabled shoe to drop, wondering where it would land.

  “Now you’re assisting Erin,” Marilyn said. “But do you know anything about her?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. She’s never told me anything about herself.”

  “Why would she?”

  “McKenzie, my son is not a serious boy.”

  Maybe if you stopped calling him boy, my inner voice said.

  “Randy lives only for the joy of the moment. He’s what my father calls a wastrel. After he
was dismissed from his fourth college in three years, Father insisted that we cut him off. No money. No sustenance of any kind. It was the only way he’d grow up, Father said.

  “Then, out of the blue, this beautiful creature ten years his senior decides to make him her partner, decides that Randy is exactly the man she needs at her side as she builds her company. Suddenly he’s mature? Suddenly he’s a sober businessman? He lends her the money to make her dream a reality. Her dream. Not Randy’s. He never once talked about going into business. We don’t even know where he found the money. The family had cut him off completely from financial assistance. My husband believes that he convinced a bank to make him a loan using the Bignell name as collateral. How else could he have secured the necessary funds?”

  “However he managed it, Randy and Erin seemed to have done quite well,” I said.

  “Oh yes, I can’t argue that. The company quickly made serious inroads throughout Minnesota and Wisconsin. Then it entered some competition in New Mexico and won best salsa of the year, or something like that. Based on that exposure alone, they were able to get Salsa Girl Salsa into stores there and in Texas. That’s when Randy and Erin approached Minnesota Foods to distribute Salsa Girl throughout the Upper Midwest and Great Lakes Region. Both my father and my husband were delighted to partner with them. They were so pleased with Randy. By then Erin had repaid the loan, and he was a ten-percent owner of the company. I don’t know how much that pays him, but it’s enough that he no longer asks us for money. And Erin—she just charmed the socks off my father and Brian. They were so pathetic.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t believe it. McKenzie, I know I should be grateful. Randy talked back to me, today; you heard him. He’s never done that until recently. I actually enjoyed it.”

  “Yes, I could tell.”

  “It’s the stories that bother me. Or I should say, the lack of stories. McKenzie, who do you know that doesn’t have stories to tell about their lives, their family; about where they went to school, their first job? Oh, Erin’ll tell you things if you push, but nothing you can put a finger on, not one verifiable fact. I asked her once where she was raised and she said the suburbs, and I asked which suburb and she said, ‘You wouldn’t like it there. Too many people of color.’ I’m not a racist, McKenzie. Erin answers questions that way so I’ll stop asking.”