“Alton, please.” Beacher gave Zach an odd smile. “I imagine we’ll have to get used to addressing each other by our first names if our little ruse is going to work.”
Zach cleared his throat. “Right.” He was no actor, but how hard could it be to feign interest in a guy you weren’t all that interested in? Hadn’t he managed to do it with Ben for those last six months while he struggled to steel himself to end things? Beacher was not his type, but he was handsome and rich, and maybe Zach would get a couple of nice meals out of their…dates. Pebble Beach for the weekend might even be fun. Maybe?
Nothing he could ever talk about, of course, because the first thing Alton Beacher had done when he walked into Zach’s office was have him sign an NDA. That had probably been the point at which Flint’s sarcastic smile had appeared.
Anyway, everything was contingent upon how far this ruse was supposed to go. If it was supposed to continue into the bedroom, then no.
As hard as it would be to pass up all those thousands of beautiful dollars. No. No way. Like Pop always said, a guy had to be able to face himself in the mirror every morning.
Zach repeated firmly, “About those threats?”
“They started two weeks ago. At first, I didn’t make too much of it. Silly jokes or hate mail aren’t unknown to a man in my position.”
Zach’s brows rose as he jotted down this information. It was hard to imagine what hate mail the owner of a toy company would receive. Still, given the current social climate, anyone whose circle of acquaintanceship stretched wider than their immediate family could probably expect to receive hate mail eventually. He’d received a couple of doozies from Ben, though Ben had never threatened him with bodily harm.
“Email or snail mail?” Both could be prosecuted as state or federal crimes. As could threatening phone calls. Funny how many people didn’t know that.
“Mail. Post. They always came by post to my home address in the shape of toys.”
“Toys?”
“Correct.”
“Did you—”
Zach didn’t have to complete the question. Beacher opened his leather messenger bag and produced a small gold box, no more than six inches tall, which he set on the desk.
Casting Zach a grim look, Beacher pressed a button, and a flimsy plastic clown sprang from the box, bouncing gently back and forth on springs. The clown held a business card in its tiny mitts. Printed in block letters were the words: YOU ARE DEAD.
Tiny clowns bearing death threats. Because this case wasn’t weird enough already.
“Cute.” Zach tossed his pen aside, pulled a pair of plastic gloves from the desk drawer—undoubtedly pointless, given that Beacher had handled the toy barehanded how many times? He picked up the little box. “This is how it started?”
The jack-in-the-box was a cheap, mass-produced novelty item manufactured by Old Timey Fun Ltd.
“No.” For the first time, Beacher seemed uncomfortable. “The first one was a crossword puzzle. The answer cells were filled in with words like murder, blood, pain, death, payback, etc. It was clumsy, lazy. Not a true crossword puzzle. The entries were unkeyed.”
“Unkeyed?”
“Unchecked. Uncrossed. The answers didn’t intersect.”
“Gotcha.”
Beacher sighed. “As I said, I get my share of hate mail. I simply assumed someone was being more creative than usual, and tossed both the crossword and the envelope it arrived in.”
Zach grimaced, but in fairness, he’d have probably done the same.
“A week later I received a doll’s severed head with the eyes gouged out and the hair burned.” Beacher propped Exhibit B on Zach’s desk. The doll’s ripped eye holes seemed to gaze accusingly at Zach. “Then two days ago, the jack-in-the-box arrived. I decided that level of…commitment should perhaps be taken seriously.”
“I think you’re right about taking this seriously. But why hire a private investigator? Why not go to the police?”
Beacher shook his head. “The police are better at prosecuting than preventing. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, not n—”
“I’m a businessman, Zach. I can’t afford the scandal of a police investigation. I need someone to handle this quietly, discreetly.”
“Sure, but—”
“Besides, there’s still the other thing.” Beacher raised his eyebrows meaningfully, reminding Zach of the part of this job he was least thrilled about. The part that took the case from weird to wacko.
“Right. The, er, dating game. I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing a wedding ring, Alton.”
For the first time Beacher’s smile reached his pale-blue eyes, briefly warming them. “Thank you for noticing.”
“Um, my pleasure?”
Beacher laughed. “I admit, the idea of hiring an investigator who could also pose as my companion only occurred to me a little while ago.”
Zach asked warily, “How little a while ago?”
Beacher shrugged. “When I was sitting in your waiting room, listening to you argue with your former boyfriend.”
Zach winced. Their Del Sello Center office space was not just small, the walls were practically see-through. They were definitely hear-through, and had he realized they had a prospective client waiting, he’d have declined to take Ben’s call.
“Of course, it’s rude to eavesdrop, and I apologize, but I do think our little…charade will work to both our advantages.”
Zach opened his mouth, but his gaze fell upon the mutilated face of the severed doll head. He pressed his lips together.
“Granted, I could only hear your side of the conversation, but that was enough to persuade me that you’re a patient and…empathetic young man. Too much so, I imagine. I’m neither of those things.”
“Good to know.”
“It’s difficult to explain without making myself sound worse than I am.”
Yeah, probably not. It wasn’t just about what Zach wanted. He had to think of what was best for Brooke and for his mom as well. This scheme sounded shadier by the second.
He reached to push that little stack of temporary solutions back toward Beacher, but Beacher covered his hand with his own.
He said quietly, “Please hear me out.”
Zach stared down at the well-shaped hand gripping his own with surprising strength. Beacher’s nails were trimmed and buffed, his palm soft and well-cared for. A platinum Rolex gleamed on his tanned wrist.
Zach withdrew his hand, sitting back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
Beacher’s pale gaze bored into him. “I want desperately, desperately to divorce my wife. But it’s complicated.”
It always was, as Zach, working in an industry where more than fifty percent of the business had to do with divorce and marital discord, could have told him.
“Zora is truly…unstable. For years she’s accused me of having affairs with other women and done her best to punish me accordingly.”
“Have you had affairs?” Zach wasn’t judging. He just needed to know the score.
“No. I’ve never been unfaithful. Frankly, I wouldn’t dare. I have been miserably unhappy. As has Zora. That’s the most ridiculous part of this. She’s an unhappy as I am. I honestly believe she hates me. But anytime I try to bring up the topic of divorce, she threatens to destroy me. Destroy me personally and financially.”