“Monday mornings the managers meet upstairs in the conference room. Our floor is quiet with just us worker bees. Joseph will have to run the meetings with Faye gone, so it’ll probably go all day.”
“Perfect,” Tara said, thinking it through. “Joseph offered me a tour. I could check Faye’s office, then pop in to meet the managers and ask about the tour. That’ll be perfect.”
“I’ll help however I can. With Mr. Wharton gone and Faye so sick, we’re all scared about the future.”
“How about before the accident? Were people afraid then?”
“Some were. There was talk about another layoff. It was kind of upsetting when they fired Mr. Pescatore—he was the factory manager. It was because production got behind, but people said it was because he talked about Wharton closing down or outsourcing the factory to some plant in Kentucky. Some engineers left because of the rumors—took jobs in other states.”
“That would be alarming.”
“Yeah, plus Mr. Pescatore was so mad he ran a forklift with a palette of batteries right off the loading dock. He wasn’t on it and no one got hurt or anything. He kept yelling that he would sue Wharton, that he’d make them regret this. Everyone was pretty flipped out.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Mr. Goodman is calmer. He took Mr. Pescatore’s place. Some think he’s too calm, that he won’t push production. I try not to think about it and just do my job.”
So Faye hadn’t been kidding about tensions being high. What the company needed now was strong, stable leadership, and a clear communications plan to reassure employees, clarify the company’s status and counter false rumors. That would be a daunting job for anyone, let alone a man more comfortable with numbers than people, who was worried about his wife.
Joseph would need help—anyone would—and Tara could provide it. When emotions ran high, a neutral professional could be invaluable when it came to setting priorities and making crucial decisions.
“Will you confirm the meeting for me?” she said to Carol. Monday would be busy, if she intended to meet with the police chief, too, but it was a relief to have more to do than worry and wait at her sister’s bedside.
“Absolutely. Faye would be glad you’re here.”
“I hope so. I hope I can make a difference.” As they exchanged numbers, a terrible thought occurred to Tara. What if the car wreck wasn’t an accident? What if it was related to the troubles at Wharton?
The livelihoods of a lot of people depended on Wharton’s continued success. If her father and sister were seen as failing the company, would someone take action against them? What about Joseph? He’d been acting strangely. Could he have run the car off the road in a rage?
No way. Joseph was not a rash or violent person. What about the man they’d fired? Pescatore. He’d threatened a lawsuit and vandalized company property. He’d wanted them to regret firing him. Would he have forced her father into an accident?
It seemed far-fetched, but she would be careful about sharing her doubts with people. Every person she talked to raised her suspicions. She would find out what happened that night and do what she could to help her family’s company. She couldn’t imagine a better use for her talent and training.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Tara woke exhausted. She’d had a restless night full of worries and plans. She dragged herself out of bed to run, ate the freshly sliced peach and yogurt Judith had set out for her, then took her laptop to the hospital to work on new client proposals between visits with Faye. She missed Rita’s warmth, though the other ICU nurses seemed efficient and caring.
Joseph brought her mother in the afternoon for a short stay. The control her mother had marshaled for the funeral seemed to have drained her. She seemed shaky and small, the circles under her eyes darker than ever, her face gray and drawn. Joseph seemed equally exhausted. She knew he faced a huge challenge the next day at Wharton. The meeting would likely involve dividing up Faye’s and her father’s duties among the managers.
When Tara returned home late that afternoon, Judith was accepting delivery of a huge basket of food and wine. “From Bill Fallon,” she said to Tara, rolling her eyes. “Again.”
Tara jolted. Was the police chief hitting on her mother? Had her mother encouraged him? Tara couldn’t imagine that. Her parents had never seemed close, but she’d believed them to be faithful