Over His Dead Body

CHAPTER 48

BY TEN O'CLOCK, Cassie was standing at the front door saying good night to the l ast of her condolence callers. Marsha had finished putting the dirty glasses and cups in the dishwasher, the leftover casseroles in the refrigerator, and was now bundling everything made with sugar, flour, and butter in the garbage. The platters of half-eaten quick breads, cookies, pies, and coffee cakes filled nearly a whole garbage bag.

"What are you doing?" Tom cried.

"Mom shouldn't eat any of that," she explained to him. "I know she's depressed, and I don't want her getting fat again."

"Sweetheart, at a time like this, fat is the least of her problems."

"Uh-uh. You don't understand. She needs to be protected from herself."

"Honey, but this is unkind. She should eat if she wants to."

"Oh no. This is tit for tat. You know what she used to do to me? She threw away all my trick-or-treat candy. Every single piece, right in the garbage, year after year. I used to forage for it in the middle of the night. Believe me, I'm only thinking of her best interests."

"Then you should stay here with her tonight." Tom leaned against the counter, looking grave.

"Absolutely. She's lost without me. Look what happened last night. I'll never forgive myself. Sweetheart, why don't you go home. I'll call you in a little while." She turned to give him a hug.

"I'll stay here with you, if you want me to," he murmured, squeezing her bottom. "Don't want you foraging, either."

She laughed. "I don't do that anymore."

"Are you going to be that kind of mother? Hiding the sweets?"

"No, it doesn't work at that age."

"I think I'll stay."

"No, no. You'd hate it. Two gloomy girls. And my bed is so tiny." She nuzzled his neck.

"I'd be happy in a closet with you," he whispered.

Cassie came into the kitchen yawning, and the couple pulled apart quickly. "I'm beat," she said, ignoring the clinch.

"Where's Teddy?" Marsha asked, repairing her hair.

"He took Edith home." Cassie glanced around the kitchen. "You did it all," she said, surprised.

"Of course." Marsha closed the garbage bag quickly and tied the top to hide the goodies inside. "Is he coming back?"

Cassie shook her head. "I told him to go home and get some sleep. Is the coffee gone?"

"No more coffee for you. What about the monster? Honey, would you take this outside?" Marsha handed Tom the garbage bag and pointed the way. He went out the back door with it.

Cassie raised her eyebrows at the obedience. "Which monster?"

"The Lorraine monster."

Cassie shook her head. "Let's not go into it now, Marsha. Teddy says she's history. I'd really like a cup of coffee." She opened a pantry door, looking for the bag of beans.

"No, Mom! You need your rest." Marsha closed the door and kept on about Lorraine. "Do you believe him?"

"Who?" Cassie rolled her eyes heavenward on the coffee issue. They were so resistant to letting her make her own choices. Okay, she'd wait until Marsha and Tom were gone, then she'd drink whatever she wanted. Tom came back into the house.

"You know I'm talking about Teddy! He's gotten us into all this trouble. Mom, I'm just so-"

"Shhh, Marsha, not now." Cassie indicated Tom with her head.

"Oh, Tom knows everything."

Tom frowned at Marsha and chose this moment to interject. "Mrs. Sales, I know Dr. Cohen and his wife were here earlier. Did he take care of all your needs?"

"I beg your pardon?" Cassie glared at him. It distressed her that Marsha told him everything. Now she had to worry about gold diggers, too. And this particular question of Tom's seemed to imply he knew that Mark was a creepy womanizer who'd exploit anyone. Mark had patted her ass four times, each time she'd come his way with the tray of coffee and dessert for the throng of mourners who'd probably come for the fabulous grape and foie gras she hadn't served. Almost a billion-dollar company, she'd had no idea.

"Do you need anything, you know, to sleep?" Tom asked, trying to clarify.

Cassie didn't think she'd ever sleep again. The serious young man was holding Marsha's hand in a decidedly possessive way, and she didn't know whether to be happy for her daughter or not. He looked too austere for Marsha. On the other hand, he had put out the garbage when asked, and he certainly seemed remorseful about the way things had turned out. Mark had been pretty miserable, too, even though he'd been game for action. He'd whispered in Cassie's ear the little fact that Mitch had promised the hospital a million dollars a year for the next ten years, and wanted to know if she was going to honor that pledge.

Cassie had almost laughed in his face. Mark had released the patient, and he'd died instantly. Parker Higgins had been so upset about the way the situation had been handled that he'd visited the liquor cabinet enough times to require three people to carry him to his car and his wife to drive him home. He had good reason to be concerned. He'd lied about everything.

"No, I don't need a thing. Good night, I'm fine." Cassie tried to shoo Marsha down the hall to the living room and out the front door.

"No, Mom. I'm staying, really. Tom will stay, too, won't you Tom?"

"Of course," Tom said staunchly.

Cassie didn't want Tom to stay. She didn't want either of them. She'd been good all day. No stimulants or tranquilizers. The fortified wines that were so favored by the English and could last virtually forever, along with Mitch's finest liqueurs, were in the bar. Literally hundreds of dollars a bottle. Cassie knew that several bottles of 1908 Cossart Baul Madeira were in there, and two bottles of 1970 Taylor Fladgate Porto, in addition to a lot of other really costly stuff.

The bar had been open to all who knew where to find it and couldn't resist helping themselves. But Cassie hadn't wanted to break out any of the famous cases of wine, mostly the famous reds, the Rhones, Burgundies, Bordeaux from France, the Chianti Classico Riservas from Italy; some famous Spaniards, among them Gran Coronas Black Label and Bodegas Montecillo; the French Champagnes, more than two dozen cases of those, mostly '90 and ' 93. A fine selection of whites and dessert wines, Rieslings, and Zinfindels Cassie knew next to nothing about. The ancient Portos and Madeiras. And, just for sport, the garagists, the new boutiquers, start-ups from old wine families, children taking a few acres of their own and making overblown wines in the California style in very small quantities in Médoc, in Graves on the right bank of the Garonne River, with names like La Mondotte, La Gomerie, Gracia, Grand Murailles. And other newcomers from France, Italy, Spain, Chile, and Argentina. Mitch always had to have the latest, most prestigious thing, wines too expensive for most people to even think of drinking.

All those beauties were in the cellar, from about $300 a bottle to $500, right up to $6,500 a bottle. She didn't serve them because she wasn't really sure to whom those bottles belonged or what she should do with them. But she also resented the fact that everybody who'd come to mourn Mitch had asked which wines she was going to serve for the occasion. It was something he would have cared about, planned meticulously.

Cassie wouldn't consider breaking them out. There had always been such hope for her in that cellar, the promise of many joyous occasions in those bottles down there. Mitch had purchased the magnums of 1990 pink Cristal Champagne at about $400 a bottle in anticipation of Marsha's wedding. They were worth a lot more now. She knew the very best in the cellar were the two cases of 1945 Chateau Petrus Pomerol, the legendary vintage of Bordeaux that marked the year of Mitch's birth and the first production of wine following World War II. He'd lectured her the day he'd acquired it how the '45 Petrus had been blessed with some formidable tannins that had encouraged a particularly fine evolution of flavors. As advertised, the Bordeaux had aged magnificently, tasted of summer fruit, licorice, smoke, and truffles. She'd had some last night. Cassie also knew that the wine would be drinkable only for the next few years. Those aged Bordeaux had almost a Port-like richness that, properly cellared, could be kept as long as sixty years. Mitch had always claimed he was saving this one for his sixtieth birthday party. Unfortunately for him, his number came up short.

In any case, Cassie had carried off her first day of callers cold turkey. No vino. But now she thought maybe she'd have a little sip of something. She gave her daughter a reassuring hug and a little push to get her going.

"Marsha, you've done so much already. I'm fine, really." She wanted to open another one of those off-the-wall Pomerols, or maybe a good heavy Côtes du Rhône. She loved the reds, the deepest, plummiest, earthiest ones, made with the top-quality grapes, Grenache, Mourvedre, Syrah, Cinsault, to be drunk with foods like the ripest cheese, foie gras, truffle-stuffed chicken or squab, venison with wild mushrooms, beef ribs and rice. Roast quail.

"No, Mom. I left you last night," Marsha said. "I can't leave you again. I can't. It would be-"

"Honey, I'm so tired."

"But what if you feel bad later?" Marsha argued.

Cassie clicked her tongue. "Sweetheart, do you know how many nights I've been alone in the last, say, ten years?" And never had a sip, not a slice of wild boar, very little smoked salmon. It was terrible to think about it.

"I know, but this is different."

"Uh-uh. Tom, honey, you're a doctor. Tell my baby I know what's right for me. Take her home. I think she needs comfort right now more than I do."

"Yes, ma'am." The man Cassie thought was a prig almost saluted, and Cassie was moved to give him a kiss. Maybe he'd be all right, after all.

She got them out the front door with many protestations of love on Marsha's part. She'd had quite a bit to drink, but Cassie appreciated it, anyway. Then suddenly they were gone. She appreciated that even more. She closed and leaned against the door with a sigh. Ha. Now the precious grape. Sex would have been first on her list, but one had to work with what one had. Almost guiltily, she headed around the house to lock all the doors and windows. She felt as if she were going to perform some secret self-abusing sex act. She was going to open the bottles and savor the wine alone. Get dead drunk a second night in a row.

In the kitchen, however, something outside caught her attention. She stopped short and hit the light switch, holding her breath until she saw what it was. From the shadows, she watched the other monster climb out of a deck chair and head for the garbage. The words "unstoppable," "unflagging," "indefatigable" came to mind. She switched on the spotlight that had been rigged to discourage the scavenging raccoons. It exposed Charlie Schwab's hunkered form. He jumped sheepishly to his feet.

"Cassie, you scared me to death."

"Jesus, Charlie, you don't have to eat leftovers. If you're so hungry, why didn't you come in when I was serving?" she asked.

"No, no. This is not what it looks like."

"Yes, it is," she said. Cool, Cassie had gotten very cool in her responses. "What's in there, anyway? Let's see what you're looking for. All the missing millions?"

Cassie crossed the patio to the corner of the garage, where the garbage cans were neatly housed in a wooden cabinet. "Oh my God, baked goods!" Cassie stared at the bag of food, stunned by Marsha's treachery. And wastefulness! Then she opened the other cans one by one to see if anything else had gotten there without her knowledge. Oh yes, two cans full of empty soft drink, single malts, port, oh yes, the Madeira, vodka, and Perrier bottles; one and a half cans containing Mitch's National Geographic and Gourmet collections going back twenty-five years. Four old computers, broken printers, and other worn-out gadgets that Mitch had intended to save forever.

"Do you have a shredder here?" Charlie asked.

"No. What's with you? Do you always work this hard? Doesn't your wife complain?"

"I'm not married."

"Figures." Wow! Cassie's heart soared. No wife. She was actually truly excited by the news, even as she realized that what interested Charlie in the garbage were Mitch's old computers. It hit her that that's where her husband may have hidden his foreign bank account numbers.

"When does the garbage truck come?"

"Not till Friday."

"Good." Charlie had his briefcase with him.

Cassie wasn't good enough at this spy stuff. She should have thought of this sooner. "What's in the bag?" she asked.

"Price lists."

"Oh, gee." She shook her head. This guy was a maniac. "There's not enough in two hundred cases of wine to make up your missing millions," she said. A few hundred thousand, maybe.

"You never know." Charlie smiled. "You could hide anything in those cases. Cash, diamonds, cocaine." He shrugged.

"Oh please. Now he's a drug dealer. Why are you doing this tonight? Do you really think I'm like Mona, that I'd move anything today?"

He pointed at the computers.

She pointed at the National Geographics. "I was just cleaning up. Really."

"Well, you might have thrown out something important. Sorry, Cassie. I really am."

"Oh, go to hell." He was here for the spy stuff. Disgusted, she turned and went into the house, wanting to kick herself for not thinking of those computers first. Numbered accounts. If she'd had a brain, she could have found them herself. Cash in the cases, she'd never thought of that, either.

He followed her in, the suddenly unmarried man. "Was it a rough night?"

"Yes, Charlie, it was a rough night. Everybody loved him. I'm really tired."

"Me too." Charlie sat down at the table in the kitchen.

Cassie pressed her lips together. "Really tired, Charlie. I can't do this tonight."

"Me too," he repeated. He got up for a moment and she thought he was going to leave after all. Her first real prospect in thirty years was taking a powder. Suddenly she felt terrified, let down, as if she'd messed up an important date. But he just took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair. Loosened his tie, unbuttoned the button-down collar of his shirt, pulled the tie over his head, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Charlie was pretty obsessional. Almost as an afterthought, he unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, too, then sat down again.

What was going on? Cassie was barefoot now. She was wearing black silk pants, a little black sleeveless knit top. Nothing too dressy. Her old Sublime perfume. Her plain gold wedding ring. She felt a little sick, wanted that wine, the food Marsha had put in the refrigerator. She didn't want to think about cash or stock or company woes, or anything else. She wanted to go to bed with her spy. The thought struck her suddenly: Sex was her very first choice.

Charlie had something else in mind, though. From his briefcase he pulled out the stack of credit cards he'd taken from Mona's jewelry box. He removed the rubber band and examined the receipts folded around them. Barneys, Bergdorf's, Armani, Sulka. He smiled, then picked up the phone.

"What are you doing now, Charlie?" Cassie's heart was beating in her cheeks again. She had these ideas. They made her stomach ache and her head spin.

"What's Mitch's date of birth?" he asked, producing his PalmPilot.

"Eight, eighteen, forty-five." She was nothing if not obedient. Touch me, she thought.

"Social Security number?"

"034-98-8441."

"Mother's maiden name?"

"Charles." She blushed.

"No kidding?" Charlie laughed. He responded to a few prompts and finally spoke to a human. "Oh yes, hello, Rita, this is Mitchell Sales, account 3458-93-67-0112. Uh-huh. Charles. 8441. Zip code…" He turned to Cassie. "Darling, what's our zip?"

Cassie gave him the zip code of the warehouse. Her heart was beating, beating. The spy had called her "darling." She liked it. Him. Really liked him. She could smell the starch in his shirt, still there after the long day. She wanted to taste him, to kiss the blue eyes. What was she thinking?

Charlie passed Mitch's privileged information along to Rita at American Express. "Uh-huh. Thank you. I'd like to close down the account… no, no. There's no problem, Rita, none at all. I just don't want any more charges to the account until it's paid off. Thank you. I know it's a revolving account. I still want to close it." He put the black American Express Centurion card on the table and picked up the platinum one.

"Yes, Rita, there is something else you can do for me. I have another AmEx account. Yes, that's it. I want to close that account, too." A few minutes later he put the platinum card on the table. He went through the exercise with all the major credit cards, speaking to Ronnie, Roberta, James, Alfred, Betty, Sandra, and Tim.

While he was working, Cassie ran downstairs to the cellar for a bottle of wine, which she promptly opened. She took out two balloon glasses. Huge ones. The wine was supposed to breathe for a while, but she couldn't help herself. She poured some into both glasses, swirled hers, stuck her whole face into it, and breathed deep. The passion of her whole long-lost life filled her with its bouquet. Gimme that wine, she thought, just like Bob Marley. She couldn't wait a second longer. She took a sip, rolled it over her tongue and around her mouth, allowing the complex flavors to fill her palate. She swallowed and savored. The plummy earthiness lingered on. Wow. This was a big wine. Next to her was a big man, too. Both were very good vintages. She nodded at his glass and he sampled, nodded.

"Good, huh." She continued sipping and swirling and savoring while Charlie worked. She marveled at the way men could get away with anything. Anything at all. She hadn't even been able to change her own telephone number. Mitch had been the account holder of that, too.

Charlie poured himself his second glass and made a pile of department store cards with customer service departments that were open only between nine and five. "Tomorrow," he promised her. "Feel better now?"

"Very impressive. Thank you. Tomorrow? Really?" Cassie was inflamed, seriously aroused, by the wine, the show of power, and goodwill.

"See, I'm not such a bad guy." He gave her one of his smiles, patted her hand, left his hand over hers, raised an eyebrow. Was it all right?

Sure. She turned her hand over so their palms met. Sure, it was all right. He had a warm hand, strong, with long, slender fingers. He laced their fingers together, and heat flamed through her. Oh my, where did that huge feeling come from?

"What?" he asked.

Cassie shook her head, wondering if he knew that she hadn't kissed another man since Mick Jagger couldn't get Satisfaction, since the Beatles had left Abbey Road. Oh, God. She wanted to slide down onto the kitchen floor where she'd been with this man in his blue oxford button-down shirt only… this morning in quite a different situation. Her face was hot, her eyes wide. "Oh my."

Was it the wine? She'd drunk only one glass. She could see his chest hairs, light brown, curling out of his shirt, the hollow at the bottom of his throat. His shoulders and arms, very… attractive. She was like a teenager, burning up. Worse. She was over fifty like a teenager, burning up. A frown appeared on her brand-new forehead.

His blue eyes questioned. "I don't know what it is about you. I really like you."

"I'm old, probably older than you," she wanted to say but held her tongue. Don't go there, she told herself.

"It's always so hard to leave you. Right from the first day we met, I hated to leave. What is it about you?" He sat back and looked at her, trying to figure it out.

Well, that day she'd had a black eye, stitches, had been covered with bruises, and was ugly beyond belief. He was kidding, right? She licked her lips, nervous.

"I don't know what it was," he murmured. Their knees touched and the heat spread upward. Uh-oh.

The sound escaped Cassie's lips. She clamped them inside her teeth to keep silent.

"You're so cute. And funny! This is very good wine. I've never tasted anything like it. Have you always been so sexy? It's, I don't know, really getting to me. Maybe I'd better…"

Cassie released her lips from their prison, licked them, leaned over, and gave him a kiss. A little one. It caught him by surprise, hit him on the chin. The next one was better centered, soft, but quick.

"Uh-oh," he said, but took the lead on the third one. It was exploratory, went on for a while.

Cassie was stunned. She had no idea kisses could be like that, so full, so deep, and hungry. Wow. She closed her eyes and forgot herself as his hands became soft, fingers and palms grazing her neck, her chest. The backs of his hands skimming her breasts and sides. He touched a little, here and there, just a little, not letting her grab him and hold too tight the way she wanted to. She had to say he was thorough in his exploration of her fully clothed body, sitting at the table spread with the credit cards. They kissed for a long time, tasting of Pomerol. Not saying anything. Feeling each other up. Knees encroaching between knees. Cassie would have moved faster, but Charlie was thorough. Oh, he was thorough.

Then they did slide down, but not on the kitchen floor. Together they got up and moved toward the stairs, but didn't make it up. Cassie didn't know how it happened, where the volcano of feelings came from. They were halfway up the stairs, then sliding down on the stairs, him on top of her while she was wild to unbutton his shirt, to get to that bare chest and the bulge in his pants. This wasn't like her. Her sweater was over her head, her silk pants around her ankles. She was moving under him, fully alive and overcome by burgeoning the likes of which she'd never thought she'd see again.

"Wow." But he was the one to say it first.

And the volcano kept on; they were panting and the lava was flowing. It didn't stop. They slid down to the first floor, scrambling out of their clothes, feeling each other's arms and legs, chest and backs and insides. Old, old feelings returned, but all new. That thing of making two people one.

"Let me try it," Cassie murmured when he rolled over on his back on the carpet, still burgeoning beyond belief in front of the Federal sofa where no love had ever been made before. "You're very big. Did anybody ever tell you?"

"It's a feature," he admitted.

"Nice. Let's see if I can do it." She was enthusiastic, she was curious. She climbed on, panting with excitement.

"Wow. You're so natural, Cassie!" Charlie groaned and gripped her back and bottom. "Oh my God, darling, you can do to me whatever you want."

TWO HOURS LATER, when they were so sore, they could hardly stand, Cassie realized she was starving and went into the kitchen to put their first real meal together. She pulled a few items from the refrigerator and the pantry. She arranged a thick slab of Petrossian's best truffled foie gras on a platter with tiny cornichons and sour cherries. She took a handful of walnuts and toasted them for a few seconds in a hot skillet to bring out the oils and flavor. She brought out the cheeses.

Marsha had bought seven. A Brillat Savarin, Mitch's favorite triple cream, best served with ripe figs and pink champagne. Cassie thought if this was what killed him, just today she, too, would ingest the poison.

Ah, Marsha had bought her own two favorite blues, the rich blue-streaked French Saga and the highly molded English Stilton (best served with a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape). For simplicity, Marsha had chosen Morbier, the semisoft mountain shepherd's cow's milk cheese with its stripe of edible ash running through the center (best served with a Mâcon-Villages). For diversity, the Mimolette, one of the few cheeses of France with color. Only a tiny piece of the orange ball with the nutty flavor was left, not enough, Cassie thought, to merit opening a bottle of Beaujolais to go with it. And last, a Coulommiers, not so easy to find outside of gourmet shops. The Brie-ish, soft-ripening cheese from the Ile-de-France region was yummy. When fully ripened, it had an even larger taste than a Camembert. Best served with ripe South of France peaches or plums. Marsha hadn't bought any of those, but there were grapes. There were slices of pumpernickel with raisins, Carr's water biscuits, and apples.

She set the kitchen table simply, for two, then went down to the cellar for the wine. The cases were stacked on metal shelves in a room about the size of the living room. It was separated from the furnace and water heater by the laundry room. The cellar was temperature controlled and usually locked. But Charlie hadn't been about to resist. He was sitting on an upended empty crate, naked but for his shirt, checking the case names against one of the many price lists he'd collected from the Internet and other sources. It was quite a sight.

"A few of these seem to be missing," he said, pointing to the opened case of Château Petrus Pomerol '45, clearly not familiar enough with wines to recognize the label.

"Yes." Cassie kissed his ear.

"Sold?"

"No, drunk."

"Who would drink a $6,500-a-bottle wine?" he wondered.

She straightened up, ruffling his hair. "You would, honey. Grab a few more. Dinner's ready."

The party was over. The party was just begun.