Anyone But You Page 8

  “Oh, dear. If I don’t pass on the first try, will you let me take the test again?”

  Cate used her thumbs to part the folds. “Well, hello. Someone’s glad to see me.”

  Trips to her gynecologist would never be the same.

  “Are you sure you didn’t put syrup on this already? It’s awfully wet.”

  “I can’t remember. You’ll have to taste it to find out.”

  “Oh, I intend to. But first I’m going to suck on this ripe red raspberry.”

  Stacie closed her eyes as the warm lips took her in. She’d had lots of lovers but there was something special about women in their forties. They understood sex was more than having a climax or even expressing undying love. It was a celebration of the female body and the many ways it came to life under a nuanced touch.

  The temptation to watch Cate work was irresistible, but then she stifled a laugh to see the reading glasses were still in place and completely fogged over. Proper inspections were very serious business.

  * * *

  “I don’t understand movies anymore,” Cate said gloomily. “It’s like the whole purpose is to make you feel hopeless.”

  While sharing pasta with marinara sauce and a fruit plate, they’d watched two films on the hotel’s pay-per-view. The last one, an acclaimed story about debauchery among hucksters on Wall Street, was as depressing as any Stacie had ever seen.

  “You realize most of the writers and directors in Hollywood are men, and their fantasies are making a lot of money and screwing a lot of women,” Stacie said.

  “Teenage boys and young men are going to watch that and think they’re entitled to trick everyone out of their money and treat women however they want. There’s no punishment at all and the worst part is that it’s based on a true story.”

  Needing a dose of silliness, Stacie flipped over to the cartoon channel. “This will be better. It’s just talking animals that blow each other up.”

  “I almost asked you to turn off that movie before it got to the end. I had a feeling he was going to get away with it and I wanted to pretend he didn’t.” Cate’s voice was genuinely bitter, as though she were talking about more than a film.

  “That bothered you a lot, didn’t it?”

  She thinned her lips, obviously taking pains to decide whether or not to talk about what was really on her mind. Finally she sighed. “It hit a little close to home. My father was one of the worst people who ever lived…still is, if he’s even still alive. He’d get drunk a lot, always scotch, and then he’d beat on us, my mother and me. She divorced him when I was twelve and I only saw him a couple of times after that. He had this girlfriend, a woman who worked at the bar where he hung out. One day she told a friend of hers she was pregnant and then all of a sudden she went missing. No one ever saw her again. I know the son of a bitch killed her and so does everyone else in town, but the police couldn’t prove it. I’m not even sure they tried. If they were anything like those guys in the movie, they probably thought he was justified to save his skin.”

  “God, that’s awful. And to think, that could have been you or your mother. Must have scared you both to death. I bet it made you the toughest kid on the block.”

  “I was. To this day I can’t stand the smell of scotch, and there’s this guy I work with—also an asshole—who drinks it all the time. Makes me want to throw up every time he comes around.”

  Stacie’s life hadn’t been easy either, losing her mother to bone cancer when she was barely out of elementary school. Unlike Cate, she’d had her father’s love and support until he died three years ago, and their family was well respected in the community. “I think there’s truth to the saying that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

  “So has my mom. She married a really nice man on the next go-around. He has a huge ranch with lots of horses, and they go riding practically every day. There’s that other saying about living well being the best revenge.”

  She propped up against the pillows and tucked Cate’s head to her chest. Then she grabbed the remote and scrolled back to the movie menu. “Screw these bastards and their misogynist crap. I’ll take a chick flick any day of the week.”

  Chapter Six

  From her desk by the window, Cathryn watched as the parking lot filled. There were more cars than usual, including several satellite trucks, which made her uneasy. An oil spill wasn’t sexy enough for television news, not since the initial excitement right after it was discovered over a week ago. The accusations that Nations Oil was interfering with reporters and activists had gotten more play in the papers on Saturday, and there was an ad in Sunday’s paper about a rally on Wednesday, but there was nothing to explain this sudden turnout. Unless…

  “Did somebody schedule a press tour for today? I’ve got nothing on my calendar.”

  Woody walked to the window and peered through the blinds. “Wow, you don’t think operations would have arranged something without letting us know?”

  Operations wouldn’t but Cathryn couldn’t say the same about Depew. She wouldn’t put anything past that SOB, least of all an opportunity to jerk her around. “Go see if you can find out.” She was all in favor of letting the press inside the barricades once in a while to verify their progress, but she didn’t appreciate being blindsided by Depew.

  There was quite a bit of progress to report, and she’d included it in her press release, which had gone out over the wire an hour ago. Repair crews had made significant headway over the weekend, putting them ahead of schedule for getting the pipeline up and running again. Even better, two grab dredgers had arrived at the spill site on Sunday afternoon, which meant they were in the final phase of cleanup. The only bad news was the report she’d gotten from the Department of Natural Resources—thirty-seven fish and four birds had been killed by the spill. By disaster standards that wasn’t horrific, but the animal rights advocates would be outraged. Nations Oil had already promised to restock the lake and give a grant to local biologists to monitor the wildlife populations going forward. All part of their plan to leave Lake Bunyan even better than they found it.

  She’d committed the talking points to memory. If in fact Depew had arranged a press tour today, it would allow her to reinforce her message. Still, he was a first-class jerk for not letting her know about it in advance.

  Amy finished collating the handouts for the press release. “I made a few extra copies. We’ve never had this many people before. Anything else you can think of?”

  Cathryn peeked out the window at the refreshment table they set up each day for the press. “All the cookies are gone. Do we have another bag?”

  Woody bustled back into the trailer, out of breath from running across the compound. “Depew isn’t in his office, but they told me he didn’t schedule anything for the press today. Something’s definitely up, though. There must be twenty reporters out there.”

  The sight of such a large press contingent was unnerving but her only option was to walk out there and find out what was going on. Business as usual. Maybe this was just a show of force because one of their own, that kid from the school newspaper, had reported being intimidated. She could hardly blame them for that, and if Depew had anything to do with it, she secretly hoped they could prove it. He was a public relations nightmare and nothing would please her more than to see him sent packing.

  No, that wasn’t true. She’d be even happier to see him arrested.

  She touched up her lipstick on the off chance of ending up on the evening newscast, and went out to face the media.

  “Good morning, everyone. I thought we’d break tradition and start on time for a change. Did you all get coffee?”

  Amy passed out copies of the update while Cathryn ran down her list of bullet points. Response was muted until she reached the wildlife report. That set off a surprising din of paper shuffling, and also a bustle in the crowd as those with cameras and microphones jostled to get closer. Apparently Minnesotans cared a grea
t deal about their fish and birds, and she wasted no time detailing their plans for replenishing the stock once the lake was returned to its pristine state.

  “And that’s all I have for the briefing. I can take a few questions.” She made it a point to call on the young man from the college newspaper as if to prove Nations Oil wasn’t out to get him.

  “Ethan Anders, The Statesman. How would you describe this fish and bird kill relative to other environmental disasters involving oil pipeline ruptures?”

  Though she took issue with his use of the phrase “environmental disaster,” she didn’t dare call him out, not after his arrest accusation. “That’s a very good question, and I happen to have that information handy. It’s comparable to the Talmadge Creek spill, but it’s important to remember that was flowing water, which meant the fish weren’t contained within the spill area the way they are in a lake. However, the booms we put in place within a few hours after discovering the spill are specially designed to prevent fish from swimming into the containment area, and we made every effort to rescue all the wildlife—I’m referring to fish, turtles, muskrats, birds—whatever might have been nesting inside. Those animals were relocated to other parts of the lake, and in some cases, to other lakes in the area. Even now we keep a guard in place at all hours to sound a horn when birds or other animals stray into the containment area.”

  “Colleen Murray, Star-Tribune. How many people are actively involved in wildlife rescue and who is taking the lead in directing these efforts?”

  “I don’t have an exact number for you. We’re working closely with the Department of Natural Resources. They’re spearheading the effort because they’re the experts, but Nations Oil is assuming all financial responsibility.”

  Gerry Simmonds, her ace-in-the-hole financial reporter, had skipped today’s briefing, leaving her no choice but to end with a query that might be less than friendly. Only one hand was up, that of a woman from one of the environmental blogs whose pointed questions were barely shy of being rude.

  “Jennifer Kilpatrick, Clean Energy Action Network. Two questions. Did you personally witness the collection of any of these wildlife that were killed in this environmental disaster, and what can you tell us about the process?”

  Again with the loaded words. At least her question wasn’t as churlish as usual. “I did not personally witness it, and therefore I’m afraid I cannot describe the process. I would direct those questions to Natural Resources.”

  “Are you confident the numbers you’re reporting are accurate?”

  A ridiculous follow-up that tested her patience. Did anyone actually think she’d stand up here and lie? “I can’t tell you the exact species, but I’m confident of the count—thirty-seven fish and four birds.”

  As the reporters dispersed, she began planning her afternoon call with Hoss. She’d greatly underestimated the press’s interest in the loss of wildlife, but now that she knew it was a critical issue, she could suggest ways to address it. Locals would probably appreciate extra funds for education or sporting and nature clubs, programs that would win back public confidence. If she could get Hoss on board, tomorrow would be a great day.

  * * *

  The farmhouse was teeming with nearly three dozen volunteers, most of them seated on the floor in front of the television. The anticipation was palpable. Catching oil companies in their brazen lies was as common as ants at a picnic, but today’s takedown would be one for the ages. According to Jenn, the press had played its part perfectly, following their tip to document the wildlife report with the promise of a major breaking news story later in the day.

  Most of the mainstream news outlets had lost their drive for investigative stories. It was far easier to send a reporter to a press conference, have them write down what was said and report it as the “news.” God forbid they check out the information to see if it actually was true, or ask around in case there was a countering point of view. When the press failed to hold corporate or government feet to the fire, the public got only one side of the story—the powerful side. It was up to groups like CLEAN to speak for the little people.

  Stacie squeezed onto the couch next to Jenn. “Did you get any grief over whether or not the video was authentic?”

  “It was geocoded and time stamped. I also sent a copy to Nancy Collier at the EPA in Washington, and I bet she’s sent someone out there to dig up that dump site by now.”

  Today’s video was certain to go viral, shared at least a million times around the world by citizens fed up with companies covering up their crimes and irresponsible exploitation. By the end of the week, Nations Oil would be a laughingstock, the corporate symbol of greed for oil profits at the expense of the planet.

  “Did Nations Oil get caught telling fish stories? Details next on News at Six.”

  Marty rolled his eyes. “Fish stories. Who writes this stuff?”

  Jenn jabbed him with her elbow. “You should talk. Your jokes are a lot worse.”

  “Both of you hush,” Stacie snapped. “I don’t want to miss this.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m recording it, and the other local channels too.”

  “We have breaking news tonight from Lake Bunyan, where Nations Oil reported today on wildlife killed as a result of last week’s devastating pipeline rupture, which we’ve been following here on News at Six. We go live to Peter Coleman, who’s reporting from the spill site. What can you tell us, Pete?”

  “Don’t you love it?” Stacie asked. “Yesterday it was barely on their radar but today it’s devastating.”

  The reporter, dressed in a plaid shirt and Windbreaker, had one finger to his ear while his other hand held a microphone. In the background was the barricade on Lake Bunyan Road, and an overlaid seal of the EPA.

  “We’ve got a real mess here, Chris. Hundreds—maybe even thousands—of oil-covered fish and birds were discovered buried in a massive hole near the site of the Lake Bunyan pipeline break, and personnel from Nations Oil and Minnesota’s Department of Natural Resources are pointing fingers at each other. A statement released by Nations Oil this morning reported wildlife casualties as three dozen fish and only a handful of birds, but as we’re finding out, the damage is far worse. Here’s company spokesperson Cathryn Mack talking to reporters today.”

  “That’s me!” Jenn exclaimed. “That’s my question. Now just listen to this bald-faced lie. Priceless!”

  “I can’t tell you the exact species, but I’m confident of the count—thirty-seven fish and four birds.”

  Stacie felt as if she’d been whacked with a side of beef. “Ohhhhh, my God.” Cathryn Mack was her Cate. In town for a couple of weeks working on a public relations project. How had she missed something practically staring her in the face?

  “I know, unbelievable,” Jenn said, giddy with excitement. “They’re probably talking that woman off the ledge right now. Can you imagine anything more humiliating? She’s in ‘Heckuva job, Brownie’ territory.”

  This was the same woman with whom Stacie had spent the past two days in intimate pursuits, whose touching story of a difficult childhood had triggered sensitivities that bordered on genuine attraction, not just the lustful cravings she usually felt for women she met on SappHere. “She was probably lying the whole time,” she mumbled.

  Jenn sat up straight and looked at her quizzically. “Of course she was lying. That was the whole point.”

  Stacie shook her head and pushed herself off the couch. “I’m feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. I’m going to watch the rest from the back of the room.” Where no one could see her growing pale and sweaty.

  “Not long after that statement, News at Six received this video, taken early this morning by a spy drone operated by a hobbyist near Lake Bunyan. The Clean Energy Action Network, a national environmental group, is taking credit for the film. I want to warn viewers, what you’re about to see is graphic.”

  The station had sharpened the video and spliced it to show the key elements—workers wearing camouflage fatigue
s skimming the lake, harvesting a small sample for the official count and burying the others. The shortened version was even more impactful than the original.

  “We tried to reach Nations Oil for comment. Their spokesperson refused to appear on camera again but did release this statement: Disposal of wildlife losses is the joint responsibility of Nations Oil and the Department of Natural Resources. In our earlier report, we inadvertently failed to combine figures from both disposal teams. We regret any confusion this error has caused and will issue a new report when it becomes available.”

  “Epic!” Jenn shouted, and the volunteers erupted in congratulatory cheers. “When Ricky comes out of hiding, we need to give him a medal.”

  Stacie’s head was reeling. How on earth had she gotten herself into this mess? She was sleeping with the enemy, for God’s sake. Of all the quirky risks associated with anonymous dating—she could have ended up with a cattle rancher or a Republican governor—this one took the cake. Could anything be more ironic?

  Marlene dinged in her pocket, the sound she made when Cate contacted her through the SappHere app. Not only were they still using fake names, they hadn’t even traded phone numbers.

  “Worst. Day. Ever.”

  Stacie stepped out on the porch and tapped out her reply. “Same here. Need 2 see u.”

  “Busy tonite.”

  “Pleaz.”

  Several minutes passed before Cate answered, agreeing to meet at Boomer’s at the mall at ten thirty. That gave Stacie four hours to plan her coming out party, whether she wanted one or not. She was the public face of CLEAN and would be leading the rally on Wednesday night, giving interviews to every news organization that came to cover it. If she didn’t reveal herself in the next two days, Cate would meet Stacie Pilardi the same way she’d met Cathryn Mack.