Over His Dead Body

CHAPTER 35

CHARLIE WAS NOT IN HIS OFFICE the many times Mona called him there to apologize for her asthma attack and to thank him for the most wonderful day of her entire life. He was not at home when the baskets of gourmet soft foods were delivered for his father, or the new wardrobe from Polo and Armani and several other expensive stores arrived at the house for him. Since he hadn't acquired any new clothes in the last decade or so, he couldn't resist trying on the suit, four jackets, and coordinated trousers that had been magically altered to fit him-he couldn't imagine how or when.

He opened the door of the closet in his room where his mirror was and turned this way and that to see what Ralph Lauren did for him. He was stunned to see that good clothes made a difference. Very nice; he got the point that he had not been well enough dressed in his own style for even a mob girl like her. He got the point and he was stung. Not only was he the fake Charles Schwab, but he was no snappy dresser. Now he could see that snappy dressing improved his image. He felt like a jerk for not having thought about it before.

He felt like a jerk having to pack up the outrageous sartorial bribes and take them back to the stores from which they were labeled and he thought they had come. He was further bamboozled when no salesperson in the stores where he tried to return the stuff could find a record of any purchases made in Mona's name, or addressed to him. That meant a big investigation would be required to figure out how she'd done it. He took the boxes home and conferred with Gayle on the subject late in the week. After he told her the story, his boss's face flamed with rage.

"If you touched that woman, I'll have your ass, Schwab" was her response. She fell into some kind of instant jealous fit about it.

Charlie stood in front of her desk and swore up and down that he hadn't touched Mona Whitman, and he hadn't even taken a sip of her champagne.

"I don't want a hint of collusion or harassment or anything like that down the road." Her fingers dug into her thick curly dyed black hair, and a light dusting of dandruff drifted down onto her desk.

Charlie pretended not to notice it. "Don't worry about it, Gayle. It's not going to happen. What do you want me to do?"

"Did the stuff come with a card? A letter? Anything we can use against her?"

"Nope. Nothing at all. The woman is very smart. As far as I know, Santa sent it. But I can dig. Who knows, she might have had it sent from out of state. You ready to number this one? The woman knew what side I dress on, for Christ's sake."

Gayle shook her head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The inseam."

The face of the woman who, as far as he knew, loved only her cat, froze with understanding. "Jesus, spare me the dirty details, Charlie. And don't number the account yet. Find the juice first, then we'll number and let go of it."

"Okay, if that's the way you want it." Charlie shrugged, thinking of Cassie. "How do you want me to handle it?"

"Your usual will do nicely. Just hurry it up. I don't want to get stuck in this."

"How about the clothes?" he asked innocently.

"If their source can't come back to bite you on the ass, do what you want with them. Toss 'em, wear 'em, bring them into the office and display them. I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, I don't know anything about any clothes. But everybody knows I have a faulty memory," she said, waving him off.