Following Rain Page 5

  “How’s the hip doing?” Paul asked, returning the embrace.

  “I feel like a new woman.”

  Winking at her, he asked, “Is Kaz able to keep up with you now?”

  Sumi laughed and reached for her husband’s hand. “I make sure he doesn’t get too far behind.”

  They talked for a few minutes longer. Paul asked about their three children and two grandchildren and got an update on everyone. Then Sumi excused herself and exited the room, closing the door behind her. Paul was glad to see that she now walked without her familiar limp.

  Once they were alone, Paul sat down in an easy chair across from his host and turned on his digital recorder. “So what can you tell me about the medical center?”

  Kaz sipped the last of his iced tea and set his cup aside. “Funds are being mismanaged. Money earmarked for capital improvements is going into salary bonuses. Board meetings have become mini banquets, and thousands of dollars have been lost in something called Miscellaneous Expenses. Medical drugs are purchased but never recorded. The accountability is poor. But our consortium’s biggest concern is the money we donated for the MRI machine. It has disappeared and the administrator isn’t returning our phone calls.”

  “Do you have any documentation?” Paul was careful to ensure that there was no hint of doubt in his voice.

  Kaz reached into an attaché case that sat on the coffee table and produced a single sheet of paper. “This is a copy of a receipt for $1.3 million. I personally handed the check to Frank Tolley, the director.”

  Paul whistled softly. “An MRI machine costs that much?”

  “Indeed. And that’s why our consortium of concerned citizens, which of course includes your father, is anxious to get answers. And so we’re turning to you for help, Paul. You’re a man who gets results.”

  Nodding appreciatively, Paul asked, “Would you be willing to appear in the news feature I’ll be presenting?”

  “Certainly. Anything I can do. Good people are not receiving the care they need. And we demand an accounting of the money we donated.”

  “I know you’ve contributed to other charitable and humanitarian causes before. It’s important to establish that fact in the viewers’ minds. Your track record will add credibility to your allegation. What are some of your past contributions?”

  Kaz hesitated. “Many of them have been made anonymously and that’s how we would like to keep it. But I understand what you’re saying. We need the public to realize that we do have a track record and in the case of the Noxby Medical Center our donation has been abused.”

  “Absolutely. We want other organizations to realize that this could have an impact on them should you decided to stop making donations.”

  Kaz sat back in his chair and folded his hands. “Okay, I’ll give you the names of our charitable donations that are public record. Hopefully, that will suffice.”

  Paul smiled in satisfaction as Kaz enumerated a significant list of contributions. It would more than suffice. It would add the ammunition Paul needed to blow the lid off the scandal. He pocketed the digital recorder and said, “I think that will do nicely. You’ve given me plenty to work with.”

  “Wonderful,” Kaz replied, bowing his head slightly. “We appreciate what you’re doing. We wouldn’t have gone this route if the medical facility had been open and honest with us. But they’ve left us no choice.”

  “Well, this will definitely get their attention.”

  “That’s what we’re counting on.”

  The two men shook hands, and Kaz accompanied Paul to the front door. Sumi came in from the kitchen to hug Paul good-bye. Then she and her husband stood and waved politely as Paul climbed in his car and drove away.

  Paul made his way through heavy traffic and was back at the office by four o’clock, in time to meet Grunge Farantino, the cameraman assigned to work with him on the feature concerning single-cup coffee makers.

  Because he was already booked to do the story with Grunge, Paul needed to complete it first in order to turn his attention to the story of the Noxby Medical Center. He couldn’t wait to get enough information so he could invade the Medical Center, unearth the skeletons hidden in the closet, and rattle the bones in the public’s eye.

  But first things first. He also needed to shoot some footage of the homeless shelter, interview Maria on camera, and pull some footage on past fundraisers. The feature needed to air in time to accompany the advance publicity campaign the shelter was preparing to launch.

  That was the nature of the business—juggling stories that were as undeveloped and fragile as raw eggs, and making sure you didn’t drop any.

  And so far . . . no scrambled eggs.

  * * * * *

  Rain stood at a large bulletin board near the front desk, posting several upcoming job opportunities and removing old announcements and posters. Several guests were straightening the room, and Charlie was mopping the floor. She smiled as she listened to him hum as he worked.

  Charlie noticed her watching him and turned the mop upside down, allowing the long cotton strings to hang like flowing hair. He held it as he would a partner and danced in a small circle, swinging it around in an effort to make her laugh.

  He was a good worker, especially at physical tasks. He mopped conscientiously and didn’t miss a spot. Any stain on the floor received a double treatment as he tried his best to remove it. But he was easily distracted and loved an audience, especially if she was part or all of it.

  She obliged him for a moment and lightly applauded. Then she turned back to the bulletin board as a cue that the dance was over. She watched from the corner of her eye as he returned to work and continued humming happily to himself.

  Maria came out of her office and approached the bulletin board. “Rain, I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  Rain noted Maria’s solemn expression. “Okay.”

  “Let’s go into my office.”

  Feeling her chest tighten, Rain dutifully followed.

  Once in the office, Maria sat at her desk and opened the top drawer. “I just received this letter.”

  Rain sat in the chair facing the desk and reached for the letter. Removing it from the business envelope, she unfolded it and read:

  Dear Maria:

  During the past three years, it has been The Appliance Superstore’s privilege to be a participating sponsor of your annual fundraiser. It is a worthy cause and we have enjoyed our association. However, this year budget constraints have impacted us more than anticipated. We are not, by any means, withdrawing our sponsorship. But we are forced to reduce our financial support to half of what we offered last year. We hope this still gives you time to find other sponsorship money to compensate. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

  Sincerely,

  Jim Rogers

  The Appliance Superstore

  Rain looked up at Maria. “It’s not all bad news, I guess. At least they’re not pulling out completely. Half is still better than nothing.”

  Maria nodded in agreement. “Every bit helps.”

  “And I’ll find other sponsors to make up the difference.”

  Maria reached over and patted Rain’s hand. “I know you will, and I will, too. We have to make this work.”

  Rain pursed her lips determinedly. It was vital the shelter find enough financial support to hold their Super Saturday because of major upgrades that were needed. But despite her resolve, Rain sometimes felt that the shelter was nothing more than a house of cards, held together by string and wrapping tape. And all it would take to bring the structure tumbling down was for one strand to break or one edge of the tape to lift.

  She returned to the bulletin board and tried to remain positive. But a sense of foreboding seemed to hang over the shelter like a gathering storm cloud. Welcoming Hands was a humanitarian organization and existed to serve the needy and downtrodden. So if it was such an important work, why was it such a difficult challenge to keep it going?

  CHAPTER 8

/>   Kerry View Point Park overlooked Elliot Bay harbor and the downtown office towers. The Space Needle glistened in the sunshine and was featured prominently front and center. The backdrop was breathtaking, and the park was a regular place for location shooting. And since it wasn’t too far from Paul’s parent’s home in Queen Anne Hill, he and Grunge often dropped in when they were in the area. Pricilla Blakely’s chocolate chip cookie recipe rivaled Famous Amos’s, and Grunge loved to feast on them.

  As Grunge parked the station van alongside the curb, Paul opened his laptop. “I need to glance over a couple of things while you get set up,” he said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “I’ll give you an hour,” Grunge replied, hiding a grin. “It’s going to take me that long to make you look good.”

  “Ha, ha,” Paul laughed humorously. He liked bantering with Grunge. They both had attended West Seattle High and had worked on the yearbook committee together. Grunge’s nickname came from his fanatical love of grunge rock, and he possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the genre.

  Paul remained in the passenger seat and worked on his laptop.

  As Grunge rummaged in the back of the van and then ran the power cable and set up the portable light, Paul glanced at him and smiled. Grunge sported a bushy beard and had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore shorts no matter the weather, and his T-shirts always looked like he slept in them. But despite his rumpled appearance, he was Paul’s first choice for cameraman. Grunge’s set ups were excellent and his camerawork was everything his personal appearance was not. Neat and clean.

  When Grunge was ready, he signaled to Paul.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” Paul said, closing the laptop and grabbing the microphone. He walked over to the railing that bordered the cliff side edge of the park and stood facing the camera.

  Grunge motioned for him to take one step sideways, to ensure Paul was centered in the light, and then gave him the thumbs-up.

  Paul looked squarely into the camera, a concerned expression on his face. “Seattle, the home of Starbucks, is a city famous for its gourmet coffee and its hundreds of coffee shops,” he began. “It’s normal to see Seattleites with a cup of coffee in hand, making their morning commute to work. It’s customary to see them sitting on coffeehouse patios at lunchtime. And it’s familiar to see them clutching a Styrofoam cup as they make their homeward journey at the end of the workday. Coffee is the ubiquitous brew of choice for Seattleites.”

  Paul grew more solemn. “In 1998, single-cup coffee makers first appeared on the market. Since then, they have grown in popularity. Sales this year have more than doubled the year before. So what is the issue here? In a word: green.”

  Glancing over his shoulder briefly to bring attention to the city scene behind him, Paul continued, “The cartridges used in the single-cup coffee and tea maker systems are made of plastic and topped by aluminum foil. They’re difficult to recycle and are not biodegradable. Landfill sites can’t be created fast enough as it is, and the cartridges are turning up in increasing numbers. As Seattleites, we are proud of our city and we must continue to put pressure on manufactures to produce green products to reduce pollution and waste. We must make every effort to keep our city”—here he motioned toward the background once more—“the beautiful place that we call home. This is Paul Blakely, KNEX-TV News, Kerry View Point Park.”

  Grunge turned off the camera and lowered it.

  “Let’s get back to the station and finish the feature,” Paul said. “I’ll download some pictures of the single-cup coffee maker system, interview an environmental watchdog at the university, and get this baby ready for the Friday deadline.”

  As Grunge began packing away the camera and the light, he cleared his throat and said, “Since we’re in the area . . .”

  Paul grinned. “Yeah, we can stop by my parents’ place. I’d like to talk to my dad, anyway. But just for a minute, okay? No pigging out this time.”

  Grunge tried to look offended.

  * * * * *

  Pricilla Blakely sat at the kitchen table sorting through some papers that lay in several organized piles. A metal cane hung over the back of her chair, within easy reach. She wore a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of beige pants. Other than her wedding ring, she wore no other jewelry and very little makeup. A pair of reading glasses sat beside her on the table.

  Rosalie, the housekeeper, stood at the oven, placing a cookie sheet filled with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the countertop. She had been with the Blakely family ever since Pricilla’s health had taken a turn for the worse seven years ago and Pricilla could no longer manage the large home on her own. Since then Rosalie and occasional cleaning staff maintained the daily upkeep of the home, but they still answered to Pricilla.

  “Hi, Mom,” Paul said, greeting her with a kiss before walking over and embracing Rosalie.

  “Hey, Mrs. B,” Grunge said, his eyes wandering over to the oven. “Hey, Rosalie. Something sure smells good.”

  “Rosalie just made a fresh batch of cookies,” Pricilla said. “Help yourselves.”

  “You might regret the open invitation, Mom,” Paul said, glancing slyly at Grunge.

  “I can always make more,” Rosalie said, laughing.

  “In that case, let me grab one first before the Cookie Monster starts in.”

  Paul managed to get a cookie before he was playfully nudged out of the way. As he clutched it protectively, he glanced at the pile of papers on the tabletop. “Looks like you’ve got another project on the go.”

  Pricilla nodded. “These are from the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I serve on the board, as you know, and these requests just arrived.” She picked up a letter. “A little boy, four, wants to ride in a fire truck before he—well, you know?” She picked up several more letters. “A girl, ten, is rapidly losing her hearing and wants to meet Taylor Swift before it’s too late. A boy, seven, wants to go to Disneyland . . . Another boy, thirteen, wants to see Yankee Stadium and meet the team. . . A girl, five, wants to see her father, who divorced her mother last year and moved to Denver.” Pricilla sighed. “All of these requests have an expiry date, if you know what I mean. It’s positively heartbreaking. I know life is filled with challenges, but it’s so hard to see little children suffer. Still, we have to do the best we can.” She placed the letters on the table. “If it were up to me, every child here would have his or her wish granted. But I know these letters represent only a tiny fraction of the needy children in the world.”

  Paul thought of Jayden, at the homeless shelter. At least the little five-year-old was healthy and had his mother. Still, there wasn’t enough money in the world to meet every need and fulfill every wish. “Where’s Dad,” he asked, glancing around the room.

  “Where else? He’s in his workshop. I’ll walk you there.”

  As she struggled to her feet and reached for her cane, Paul said, “It’s okay, Mom. Grunge and I’ll just go out there and see him.”

  “I need to stretch my legs, anyway,” she said. “The exercise will do me good.”

  Rosalie made an effort to assist her, but Pricilla just shook her head. “I’ll be okay. Everyone stop worrying so much.”

  Paul and Rosalie exchanged tentative glances and backed off. Pricilla supported herself on her cane and took several unsteady steps. Grunge hovered as though preparing to catch her if she fell, but after a moment she got her rhythm and exited the kitchen. Paul and Grunge followed at a snail’s pace as she led the way to the workshop.

  Stan had the outer shell off an IBM computer and was tinkering inside when they arrived. “Hey Jude,” by the Beatles, was playing softly in the background through a set of ultra-thin speakers mounted on the wall. Stan’s hair was streaked with grey, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore sandals and faded jeans, and his thick glasses magnified his eyes, giving him the appearance of a wise, old owl.

  When he saw Pricilla, he jumped to his feet and hurried toward her. “You shouldn’t be out here without your wheelchair,�
� he said, gently chiding her. “Or at least your walker. Where’s Rosalie?”

  “I’m all right,” Pricilla said, patting his hand and kissing him on the cheek.

  “Well, sit down on this chair while I see what these two troublemakers are up to.” When Pricilla was situated to his satisfaction, he pointed to Grunge and said, “Quick, the lead singer of Pearl Jam.”

  Grunge chuckled. “Too easy, Mr. B. Make it a hard one.”

  “Okay, what’s his real name?”

  “Tony Vedder was born Edward Louis Severson the Third.”

  “Birthdate?”

  “December 23, 1964.”

  Stan shook his head and made a face. “I’m going to stump you one of these days.”

  Grunge just shrugged modestly and asked, “What you working on, Mr. B?”

  Glancing toward the disassembled computer, Stan replied, “Just fixing a hardware issue.” He sat back at his worktable and reached for the long-necked screwdriver. “So what brings you two by?”

  “I received an interesting e-mail yesterday, Dad,” Paul said.

  “Oh?” Stan replied, using the screwdriver to make an adjustment inside the computer.

  “From Kaz.”

  Stan’s magnified eyes crinkled as he glanced over at Pricilla, who returned his smile. “And?”

  “And I went to see him today. We’re going to stir things up!”

  Stan set the screwdriver aside and pounded the table enthusiastically. “Knew you would. So when is show time?”

  “Soon. I’ll let you know the date.”

  “Good. We’ll have Kaz and the other guys over when it airs.”

  “Any excuse for a party, huh, Mr. B?” Grunge said.

  Stan sighed and glanced in mock displeasure at Pricilla. “Paul’s mother doesn’t let me drink anything stronger than fruit or vegetable juice anymore, but we’ll barbecue some steaks and”—he glanced at the cookie in Grunge’s hand—“finish off with chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”