Honeymoon

Chapter 51

THE BLUE RIBBON wasn’t going to win first place for anything in the categories of food, decor, and service, but as suburban diners went, it was pretty decent. The eggs were never runny, the ketchup bottles were almost always filled, and the waitresses—while hardly a threat to win any congeniality contests—were nonetheless professional. They got your order mostly right and were quick on the coffee refills.

When I walked in a few minutes shy of four, the host gave me a nod of recognition. In my short time in the area, the Blue Ribbon had become my go-to eating place. Though I was sure there were better haunts around, I didn’t care enough to go find them.

“Actually, there’s going to be two of us,” I told the host, who’d automatically grabbed a lone menu upon seeing me. He was Greek and wore a stained black vest over a wrinkled white shirt. A walking cliché, yes, but the good kind, as far as I was concerned.

Nora arrived a couple of minutes later. I waved from my seat, which was in a red-upholstered booth by the back. She was wearing a dark skirt, cream-colored blouse that looked like silk, and heels. For me, Nora? You shouldn’t have. As it was postlunch and predinner, the diner was only half filled. She spotted me easily.

Nora walked over, and we shook hands and said our hellos. I thanked her for coming. I also noticed that she smelled nice. Watch it, Craig.

As Nora took a seat, a waitress immediately appeared at the table. In a small bit of mirth amid her otherwise all-business demeanor, her name tag read, HEY, MISS.

The two of us ordered coffee, and I tacked on a slice of apple pie. My waistline didn’t need it, but I figured it was a good strategic move. I mean, how can you not trust a guy who orders apple pie?

To look at Nora as the waitress left was to know I should keep the small talk to an absolute minimum. Her body language spoke loud and clear. Tight, controlled, on edge. She was there to hear some bad news and had no interest in prolonging the suspense.

So I cut to the chase.

“I feel awful,” I said. “All along I’ve been talking about this inquiry like it was totally routine and nothing to worry about. Then the other day…” My voice trailed off as I shook my head, exasperated.

“What? The other day what?”

“It’s this goddamn O’Hara!” I said. I didn’t scream it, though my volume was enough to turn a head or two at other tables. I took it down a notch. “I don’t know why they let a guy like that be in charge of investigations. It’s just not necessary.”

Nora looked at me, waiting, which I could tell, she wasn’t used to doing.

“He’s apparently contacted the FBI,” I said.

She squinted. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, Nora. O’Hara’s got to be the most suspicious guy I’ve ever met. As far as he’s concerned, the whole world is a conspiracy. O’Hara can definitely be a head case.”

“Great.” Nora leaned back in the booth, her shoulders slouched. Her green eyes blinked in confusion. I almost felt sorry for her. “The FBI? What does that mean?”

“Something that no one who’s suffering a loss should ever have to endure,” I said. Then came a short, sweet dramatic pause. “I’m afraid your fiancé’s body is going to be exhumed.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s terrible, and if there was anything I could do about it, I would. I can’t, though. For whatever reason, this idiot O’Hara refuses to accept that a forty-year-old guy can naturally have a heart attack. He wants more tests performed.”

“But there was an autopsy.”

“I know… I know.”

“This O’Hara guy doesn’t believe the results?”

“It’s not so much that, Nora. What he wants are more thorough tests. General autopsies are… well, they’re general; they don’t always uncover certain things.”

“What do you mean? What things?”

Nora’s question hung in the air as the waitress returned. As she put down our coffee and my apple pie, I watched Nora get more and more worked up. Her emotions struck me as genuine. It was the motivation that seemed less clear. Was she the grieving fiancée, or the murderous woman grappling with the sudden risk of being exposed?

The waitress left.

“What things?” I said, repeating her question. “Any number of things, I suppose. For instance, and I’m only speaking hypothetically, if Connor was an abuser of drugs, or perhaps there was some preexisting medical condition that went unreported on the insurance application—both these things could possibly void the policy.”

“Neither was the case.”

“You know that, and to be perfectly candid and off the record, I know that. Unfortunately, John O’Hara doesn’t.”

Nora pulled back the paper lid on one of those oversize thimbles of half-and-half. She dumped it in her coffee. Added two sugars.

“You know what?” she said. “Tell O’Hara he can keep the money. I don’t want it.”

“I wish it were that simple, Nora. Centennial One actually has a legal obligation to pay off the policy, barring any discrepancies. Strange as it may sound, you don’t have a choice in this matter.”

She lowered her elbows onto the table. Then her head dropped into her hands. When she lifted it back up I could see a tear rolling down her cheek. She whispered: “You’re literally going to dig up Connor’s coffin? That’s what you’re going to do?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and actually I did feel bad. What if she was innocent? “You can see why I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone. The only thing I can tell you is that if I were O’Hara, I’d never do something like this.”

As I said those words, watching as she dried her eyes with her napkin, I couldn’t help thinking about my father and his words.

Things aren’t always as they appear.

I still couldn’t tell if Nora’s tears were real or fake, but this much I did know. She’d come to despise John O’Hara. And the more she hated him, the more I could gain her trust.

Pretty ironic, I had to admit.

For John O’Hara wasn’t out in Chicago at the home office of Centennial One Life Insurance.

Instead, John O’Hara was sitting in a booth at the Blue Ribbon Diner, eating a slice of apple pie and answering to the name of Craig Reynolds.

And insurance wasn’t exactly my game.