Over His Dead Body

CHAPTER 43

ILOVEDHIMIHATEDHIM. ShouldIhelphimShouldInothelphim? Cassie's brain was whirling again. But now it was whirling around two men instead of one. The dead one whom she wished she could mourn, and the living one who wanted her to inform for the IRS. The breathing one was sexy. Even when he was threatening her she found him pretty devastating. But right now the dead one was going up in smoke and she didn't want confusion. She wanted the whirl to stop, and the world to be simple. There was no chance of that, so she left Charlie doing whatever he did when he was alone with other people's stuff, and went upstairs to bathe and dress.

As she climbed the stairs, she wished for a quiet moment in which to experience some emotion appropriate to the occasion. Whatever happened to basic values? A human being who happened to be a close relative had just passed on. She wanted that to be the primary event. She was still deeply caught in the myth of marriage and didn't want to give it up until the very last moment. Let me love Mitch for just a few moments one last time, so I can feel the loss, so I can mourn, she told herself.

She'd tried to pinpoint her feelings about the marriage a million times since Mitch had become ill, and she'd been hopeful until the day he'd keeled over. What she thought of now was the excitement with which she'd anticipated the arrival in the mail of each of her orchids. They came from Florida, California, Hawaii, the Philippines, Thailand. So many exotic places. She always ordered them in spike. When they arrived, she watched impatiently for the spikes to bud, and the buds to flower. The day a new plant fully unfurled its first bloom, her personal achievement felt as remarkable as the bloom itself, as if each were her very own creation.

Orchid societies preached the simplicity of orchids, and the growers all promised on the Web that the blooming-age specimens they offered for sale would definitely bloom. But the truth was, orchids were not so very easy. They were like the male member: not particularly attractive when dormant, unpredictable producers or unproducers, all according to whim. Orchids were pretty much Cassie's metaphor for life.

Sometimes she'd be busy outside or involved with some benefit she was planning. She'd look away for a week or two and when she'd look back, a bud would have appeared on a dormant-looking cattleya where none had been due for months. Propelling itself out of its green sheath, much more like an animal with a distinct personality than just a pretty flower, the magnificent botanical creature would burst upon Cassie's little scene silently but with a scent and a splendor that almost stopped her heart with joy. Every time an unexpected gift: happiness.

Other orchids, like her expensive and large cymbidium, would refuse, absolutely refuse, to spike no matter how carefully she treated them, gave them the environment and nourishment she thought they wanted, watched over, and tried to love them. Ugly, barren things, taking up space in the greenhouse and not giving a single pleasure back. Mitch's member, his whole self, had been like that from the day he'd shifted to Mona. And to think that Cassie hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings by complaining.

When Cassie reached the top of the stairs, she realized that even though the remains of her husband were going up in smoke, she still couldn't help thinking orchids. Maybe this was a problem of hers. She could hope, but not love. Inside her room, she noticed the empty bottle of red wine by her bed and threw it in the wastebasket. Didn't want to appear to be a drunk, even to herself.

Old habits die hard. She was a tidy person. She made the bed. As she made the bed, she couldn't help suspecting again that there might be another trick in here somewhere. Maybe Mitch wasn't really (really) dead. Maybe he was hiding and would rise up like Jesus, but not to go to heaven. This frightening thought led her back to Charlie. Surely the government had better things to do than send a cute bully to intrude and torment her with feelings of lust just when she was working so hard to have a noble feeling.

Cassie muttered to herself. Shouldn't she be allowed a tiny respite in this, her time of loss? For a moment, just a moment, please, couldn't she be spared from having to consider betrayal and money. (Lust.) Money and betrayal. Was that all there was to life? Wasn't there a certain lack of sensitivity being exhibited by the government here?

She asked herself, why should she help Charlie? If he had so many branches, shouldn't he be able to get the big picture for himself? And, by the way, who was the snitch who'd informed on Mitch? She peeled off her clothes and eased into the hot bath. She reminded herself that on Charlie's second visit to her she'd only said she'd think about it. She remembered the occasion well. She'd been in the kitchen. He'd been out in the greenhouse. She'd gone out to talk to him. On that occasion he hadn't mentioned juice or informers. He'd talked lilies and conversions. God help her, she'd been attracted to him then. She'd decided then that she would give him Mona's house and the Jaguar. She'd forgotten that the Jaguar was supposed to be hers, so maybe she could claim it now. Take the car back and drive it herself. Maybe she could take back all the things that were supposed to be hers. This was a new and exciting thought.

But now Charlie wasn't talking conversions, he was talking immunity. And still, Cassie thought that even though he had the power to break and send her to prison, he really liked her and wouldn't do that.

The hot water eased her headache and soothed old and new bruises. It was hard to stay focused on the subject. She was feeling better now. Under the water, her body looked pretty good. Hips and thighs could be worse. Her not-bad breasts still looked nice and full, hardly older than Marsha's. They floated alluringly in the bubbles. She kept her feet in the waterfall under the tap. She didn't have bad feet, either. Not that anyone cared about feet. Cassie let her head sink deep into the water, then scrambled rich shampoo into her hair.

"Personally, I think you're a very lovely lady," he'd said with his special little smile. "If the situation were different…"

Cassie massaged her scalp cautiously, exploring those terrifying little ridges on which she'd learned only postsurgery that no hair would ever grow back. If anyone with a brain ever played with her hair, he'd know in a second what they were. Did that mean she could never let anyone play with her hair? Her gut churned with anxiety.

And what did "very lovely lady" mean in this context, anyway? Did very lovely lady mean the sort of woman slightly past her prime who did good works like she did? Prayed regularly to God to keep them good, went to yoga at the Y, and did group casseroles for friends whose husbands had strokes. Did very lovely lady imply repressed, but sexy, as when Mark Cohen had called her a very lovely lady? Cassie suspected that Mark would actually get off on performing services of an intimate nature for her while charging her very high fees and thinking he was doing her a favor.

Cassie was not attracted to her married doctor. On the other hand, she was intrigued by her personal IRS stalker. Oh, the irony of the legacy her husband had left her. She rinsed her hair and squeezed on some conditioner and massaged it in. She got out of the tub and massaged everything she could think of with BabySoft, then considered her wardrobe, a depressing collection of marked-down mostly conservative Anne Klein and Liz Claiborne separates dating back to the stone age. Little jackets and skirts (not too short) and slacks (not too tight) and camp shirts, none of which did much for anyone but didn't wear out, and never went out of style. And were now way too big. Pink, baby soft, and fragrant, Cassie was thinking Anna Sui. Marsha had left behind her little black vamp dress that was skimpy but not too pushy about it, calf length. And her nice black sandals with a little heel. She put on a robe and snuck down the hall to borrow her daughter's clothes.

WHILE CASSIE WAS DOING HER BATH THING long before the cremation process would be over, Teddy came through the front door calling, "Mom? Mom."

Charlie was sitting in the dining room with two years of Mitch's American Express bills spread out on the dining room table in front of him. The record confirmed what Mona had told him over a drink in a fancy Italian restaurant in Manhattan last week (during which she'd denied having sent him any gifts): that Cassie was a major spender, using company assets to her own advantage à la Leona Helmsley. Charlie discovered the glamorous Mr. and Mrs. Sales trips all over the world and purchases therein. They presented a different picture of Cassie from the one Cassie presented. By then, he'd begun his investigation of the company. He located three Mona Whitman safe-deposit boxes. Unlike Cassie's, which had only receipts, Mona had cash in hers. A lot of cash. That had made him more hopeful about Cassie. Now he saw a not unusual situation. Often an unfaithful husband paid his wife off in booty for accepting the girlfriend, who got the cash. He was disappointed by what he saw. He would rather have had Cassie as thoroughly betrayed as he had been.

"Mom, where are you?" Teddy cried.

Charlie glanced up with no hint of uneasiness. "She's upstairs taking a bath."

Teddy ducked into the room and yelped when he saw who was speaking. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi. Teddy, right?"

Teddy stared. At the open filing cabinet, the piles of statements. He pinched his nose with thumb and index finger as if a dike had started leaking there.

"I'm Charlie," Charlie said.

"I know who you are."

"I'm sorry about your dad."

Teddy frowned. "Where's my mother? Did she let you in?"

"She's waiting for you. The police were here. Where have you been?"

"The police were here? Why?" Teddy sucked air.

"Police sometimes see sudden deaths as suspicious deaths," Charlie said mildly. "They had a few questions."

"Oh, no! Someone asked Mom questions?" Teddy stood frozen in the doorway.

"Yes, someone did."

"What did she say?"

Charlie shrugged. "I wasn't here. You'll have to ask her."

"Is she all right?"

"Oh, she's a little under the weather, but that's not surprising. She just lost her husband."

Teddy shuffled his feet in what Charlie interpreted as a guilty manner. He always knew when people were guilty. The twitching and quivering always took over. Eyes, lips, chin, hands. "What happened last night?" he asked.

Teddy's left eyelid did a little dance. "Poor Mom. I'm really sorry." He shook his head, then honed in on Charlie, the enemy. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked, frowning at the files.

"You know what I'm doing here."

"Me?" Now Teddy's eyebrow jumped up in alarm.

"You seem like a nice, honest kind of guy," Charlie said. "Very likable. The kind of guy the government can trust."

"No." Teddy turned and walked out of the room, muttering, "I don't want to hear this." Then he came back into the doorway a second later. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't know anything about this." He fanned his hands out at the piles on the table. "Nothing."

"It's just amazing how no one in this family knows anything," Charlie remarked. "Except the someone who knows everything. I'm guessing that would be you."

"No."

"Yes, Teddy, you know it all."

Teddy squirmed. "Look, I want my mom protected. That's all I want. I may be guilty, but she hasn't done anything wrong. Can you protect her?" Teddy said.

"Aw," Charlie said, tapping his chin.

"I don't care what happens to me." Teddy's tongue rolled around in his head. His mouth twitched. He was in way over his head. "Maybe I should call a lawyer or something," he said finally.

"Good idea, sure. I think you should. But let's talk options a little first. You said you want to help your mom."

"Well," Teddy hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do. Charlie was engaging him in some pretty heavy conversation. He was shaking pretty badly by the time the front door slammed.

"Tedddddie! You fucking idiot. What have you done now?" A very pretty girl came into the dining room and charged Teddy, arms flailing.

"Hey. Marsha, stop it." Teddy hardly had the strength to put his hands up to defend himself.

"You fucking killed Daddy. Are you crazy?" She tried to knee him in the groin.

"What are you talking about? I didn't kill him. He died, end of story. Stop that!"

"You didn't call me, you creep! You fucking creep." The knee went up. She couldn't get to his balls. "Goddamn it."

"Hey! Stop that." Charlie was on his feet. He moved around the table, pulled the girl away from Teddy, and took a punch on the chest for his trouble.

Marsha tried to punch him again, then stopped, confused by the stranger. "Who's this?"

Teddy shook his head. "Marsha, you just punched a Fed."

"Jesus." She was crying, trying to catch her breath. She hiccuped a few times, wouldn't meet Charlie's eye. "What's he doing here?"

"Are you all right? You look like your mom." Charlie was perfectly affable, but made a note to check out her savings account. This girl was trouble.

Marsha ignored him, snuffling back her tears. "Jesus, why didn't you call me, Teddy?"

Teddy shook his head. She'd left them to stay over at her boyfriend's.

"For God's sake, you're no help. Where's Lorraine? I want to know what happened," Marsha raged.

"I took her home." Teddy shuffled his feet.

"Praise the Lord. Is anybody else here?" Clearly she didn't count the Fed.

"Mom is upstairs." Teddy glanced at Charlie. "This is Charlie Schwab. He's with the IRS."

Marsha tossed her head in his direction, gave him a sharp once-over. Then she became aware of the nonedible spread on the table. Her forehead furrowed. "I'm sorry I hit you. I was aiming for my brother."

Very nice, she apologized. Charlie was impressed. Maybe he wouldn't arrest her for assault. "No offense taken," he murmured. He was acting like a prince.

"What happened, Teddy?" Marsha was back on the attack. "I leave you for five minutes and Daddy dies. What's the matter with you?"

Teddy shuffled his feet. "You took off for dinner and never came back, you and your M.D. boyfriend. Huh, how about that?" Teddy countered.

"You and that nitbrain were in charge. You were supposed to take care of him."

"We did. It's not my fault." Teddy looked guilty as hell.

"Come on. Did you leave, or what?"

Teddy's eye and mouth twitched at the same time. "Where were you all night, big mouth?" he said miserably.

Then Marsha got it. They'd been too busy to remember what they were there to do. Her eyes widened. "You forgot him. You were fucking, you and that fat nurse," she screamed. "Your fucking killed Daddy. Oh shit."

Charlie got it, too. Now he could see the scene, how it had played. Marsha was out. Cassie had been drinking. With all that grape in the cellar, she was probably a big wino. Big. Teddy and his girlfriend, in charge of the patient, had been fooling around somewhere out of sight. Mitchell Sales had another stroke. Charlie guessed he might have died anyway. But maybe not. No wonder the shuffling feet. The kid must think he killed his father just to get laid. Ouch.

Footsteps sounded on the parquet landing. Cassie the probable wino clacked down the stairs.

"Oh God. Mommy," Marsha cried wildly.

She hurried out of the room to meet her mother at the bottom of the stairs. "Oh God, I just heard about Daddy. I'm so sorry."

Cassie didn't say anything as she brushed past her and came into the dining room. She sent a stunned look in her son's direction, then turned to embrace her daughter. For a minute they rocked together, and she stroked the girl's hair. Then she said, "It's okay, honey. Whatever happens, it's okay."

Charlie was made uneasy by the intimacy of the two women. Their hugging hit him like a charge from a jumper cable. They looked alike. One was dark-haired and one light-haired, but both were slender and graceful, both easy on the eye, though the younger one had quite a mouth on her. Cassie's tenderness to her child knifed the old injury right through him. His little girl would have been a woman now.

"Mommy, I love you." Finally Marsha pulled away. Then she stared at her mother with horror. "You're wearing my dress!" she said.