Over His Dead Body Page 20

  Then on Friday, a full week after Mitch had his stroke, Cassie received a letter from Carl Flauber, a lawyer whose name she had never seen before. Carl Flauber wrote to inform her that he was representing Ms. Mona Whitman in the case of Whitman versus Sales. He had obtained an Order of Protection from a judge in Nassau County against Mrs. Cassandra Sales to keep her more than five hundred yards away from Ms. Whitman. In addition, he was preparing a civil suit against Mrs. Sales for harassing Ms. Whitman in her home Monday, June 3rd, and for kidnapping and driving Ms. Whitman around for two hours while she was having an acute asthma attack, thus recklessly endangering her life. Ms. Whitman was seeking ten million dollars in damages for injuries incurred during the incident. In addition, Carl Flauber advised Cassie that if the life support for Mitchell Sales was terminated prematurely, Ms. Whitman would sue the hospital and doctors for malpractice and Cassie for wrongful death.

  Cassie read and reread this letter and chewed some more on the inside of her lips. She folded and unfolded the single sheet so many times in the next few hours that the creases wore thin. It was both absurd and masterful and felt a little like being checkmated in the game of life. The situation reminded her of Nino Palucci's case. A year ago, Rosa Palucci's son, Nino, hired a limo to take him and some friends into the city for an evening of safe drinking. The driver followed them into a friend's apartment where a party was in progress and attacked Nino, knocking him down. While attempting to get the man out of the apartment, Nino punched him in the nose. The limo driver called 911. When the cops arrived, they arrested Nino for assault. The limo driver pressed charges, and when Nino refused to plead guilty to a misdemeanor, the judge and jury convicted him. At his sentencing the judge changed his mind about sending Nino to jail for a year. He got a suspended sentence, but had to pay a fine of five thousand dollars to the complainant. Defending the case cost the Paluccis twenty-five thousand dollars, and the limo driver, flushed with success, filed a civil suit for an additional hundred thousand dollars in damages for post-traumatic stress disorder. Nino was twenty-three, white, and had never been in trouble before.

  Cassie Sales was fifty and had never been in trouble before, except unknowingly as a wronged wife. Now she was in the wrong in every respect. She had been wrong to drive to Mona's house and scream at her. She had been wrong to let Mona get in her car. She had been wrong to engage with the enemy in any way. She had learned a lot since then. She did not answer the letter.

  That day she had the very last stitches removed from her scalp. When the last one was out, she felt if not entirely whole, at least human. For the first time she looked at herself in the mirror in the surgeon's office and actually saw that the sagging skin and complacent chubbiness of the constantly nibbling caterer were gone. She now resembled an earlier version of herself, an attractive person of indeterminate age with an oval face (just a little on the full side because her cheeks and jaw were still swollen), nice strong chin, bee-stung lips. No wrinkles at all. While her skin was still quite pink in places, the area around her eyes had passed the telltale blue-and-yellow stage. At the two-week mark, the period of pain was over. The tightness and numbness that remained made Cassie feel as if she had the armor of a gladiator. From the doctor's office she went to the hairdresser, where everyone said she looked amazing. There she had her hair color adjusted from the horrendous daffodil to a tasteful golden honey, and then she was in condition to drive to Garden City to confront Mitch's lawyer and best friend, Parker Higgins.

  At quarter to two, without first calling ahead, Cassie arrived at the mirrored building Parker owned and where he had his office. She announced herself to the receptionist, and he had the good sense not to make a fuss about seeing her on no notice at all. He fit her in at two. As soon as she walked into his glass-and-chrome office and sat in one of his leather-and-chrome chairs, she could see that he'd imbibed a martini or two at lunch. He lurched across the room to kiss her fondly on the cheek. She tried not to wince in pain.

  "Cassie, what a nice surprise. You look wonderful. Have you lost weight?" He gave her a puzzled look as if to make sure it was really her.

  "Thank you for seeing me without an appointment," she replied.

  "No need to thank me. I'm delighted." Parker's attitude seemed to have changed since his visit to Mitch. He threw his bulk into the chair next to Cassie's and raised an eyebrow that was so thick, it extended from one side of his forehead right over to the other without a break. He was black Irish, and generally a delightful kind of guy.

  "I thought it would be a good idea to sit down and go over a few things with you," Cassie murmured, thinking with some satisfaction that he'd lost a lot of hair and had run to fat since they'd last met.

  "Of course, no problem. I hope I didn't leave you with the wrong impression when we talked the other day. I was caught by surprise."

  "I understand," Cassie murmured, her voice smooth as the color of her hair. She couldn't help noticing that he wasn't offering her coffee, or even a glass of water.

  "You look different, Cassie." Parker frowned, trying to figure out what was so different about her.

  She was wearing an old navy and white designer knockoff that had been in her closet since the eighties. The skirt was short, and the blouse was a tiny shell of pink silk. The size six was almost loose in the butt. It fit her perfectly, which was a nice feeling.

  "Parker, I'm in an interesting situation in which you have the better of me," she said with a self-deprecatory smile.

  "Oh, please, don't demean yourself. You're a fine, wonderful woman," he protested. He opened his manicured hands. "You'll get over this. You'll find someone else and get married."

  "I'm already married. I'm married to Mitch. And whatever he intended for the future, he can't cut me out of his will without a divorce. New York State Law."

  "Oh ho ho, Cassie! There's no question of that. Whatever happens, you're going to be all right, I promise you."

  "That's nice to hear. But with everything that's happened, how can you give me assurances like that? How am I protected?"

  Parker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, I understand what you're saying. Men can be little more than monkeys sometimes. They age, they make fools of themselves-"

  "They die," Cassie finished the sentence for him. "What I want to discuss with you is your involvement with Mona and the deals that were made with her."

  "I have no involvement with Mona." Parker's tongue suddenly failed him. He slurred over the sentence, hardly able to get the word "Mona" out at all.

  "Well, good for you, because Mona is suing me for ten million dollars," Cassie told him, still very smooth. She plucked a thread off her skirt.

  "What?" Parker's mouth turned into a little O of surprise.

  "She has an order of protection against me."

  Parker was either dumbfounded, or a good actor. "Cassie, this is very serious. Why?"

  "I'm just wondering, did you give her the name of a lawyer to use against me?" Cassie had no sunglasses on now. She looked him in the eye and could see he was shocked.

  "Good God no! Do you think I'm crazy?" he cried.

  "We'll leave that for another time." She crossed her legs the other way.

  He watched her anxiously, trying to figure out what was going on. "You appear to be misinformed," he said after a beat.

  "Oh well, that's true. No one informed me that Mona opened charge accounts in my name and charged up a storm, nearly a million dollars. I gather the idea was to leave me with the debt at the time of the divorce settlement."

  Parker's wet lips that had been pursed in shock now dropped open altogether. "What?"

  "Mitch and his girlfriend bought a house and furnished it on credit acquired in my name. I don't know the law in this area, but I would say either it's my house and my furnishings or else a fraud has been perpetrated against me."

  Parker heaved in some air. "Ah, Cassie. All this is news to me."

  "You didn't know about the house?" she demanded.

&n
bsp; "Well, Mitch didn't share his private life with me."

  "Yes, he did," she countered. "He consulted you about everything."

  "I may have heard something about a house," Parker admitted. "Mona bought a house; Mitch could have helped her with credit."

  "Parker, I'm not going to ask you about details at this time. I just want to make it clear that I have documentation on purchases of silver, china, jewelry, furnishings, and a bunch of other stuff that Mona made in my name."

  "Wow, are you sure, Cassie? This doesn't sound like the Mona I know."

  Cassie made an impatient, who-are-you-kidding? noise. "Who's in on this? Mitch, Mona, you, Ira, and who else-everybody?"

  "Cassie, there's no conspiracy here, I promise you. You're overreacting." He opened his nice big hands with black hair all over the backs. Women get so worked up, he seemed to be saying.

  "You know Mitch was divorcing me. That was the reason you wouldn't talk to me on Monday," Cassie said softly.

  "Just take it easy, you're going to get through this just fine. Are you going to trust me, or not?" Parker asked.

  "You must really think I'm an idiot. A forgery of my signature is on every receipt. Whose idea was this? Yours, hers?"

  "Look, slow down and consider your accusation. Just consider it. Proof is the issue here. I'm not taking sides, I'm just saying that you can make things very difficult for yourself taking on an enemy as litigious as Mona."

  "Parker, she's already sued me. I have nothing to lose." Cassie wondered how much he had to lose.

  His hands did a little dance, soothing the air around her. "She's threatened to sue, Cassie. It's not the same thing. She's a negotiator. She's negotiating, that's all. Don't take it personally. There's a lot at stake here."

  "Well, I'd like her to sue me. We could have discovery and then everything would come out in court."

  "Cassie, Cassie, think of the cost. Think of what's at stake here. We're in the middle of an IRS investigation. You don't want things to get muddled, do you?" Parker was very alarmed.

  "Muddled?"

  "She'll claim he gave her everything, then when you lose, there will be gift tax to pay." Parker clenched and unclenched his fingers, drunk no more. "You see. Culpability can get mixed up, and other things could come out."

  The ground was shifting under Cassie again. She knew he meant Mitch's moving cash out of the country, but what was this gift tax thing?

  "I'm your friend. I've always been your friend. I'll help you find a way out of this. Trust me, will you?" Parker urged.

  Suddenly queasy, Cassie rose to go. "I'll think about it." As she put her sunglasses back on, she wondered how many ways his actions were unethical and whether he could be disbarred for conflict of interest.

  CASSIE DID NOT DRIVE to the hospital to see how Mitch was doing as she had planned. It was clear that she and Mona were in a deadly game of chess, and she had a disturbing premonition about the files and the credit card receipts with her signature on them in Mitch's office, as well as all those folders in the computer dating back years that she hadn't had time to go through. If Mona felt strong enough to threaten to sue her, then she wasn't afraid of prosecution. And if she wasn't afraid of prosecution, then she must have some plan for acquiring the evidence.

  The sun was high in mid afternoon as Cassie raced home. Even with the air conditioner on in the Mercedes, she was uncomfortably hot, sweating in the straw hat and sunglasses she wore to protect her new face against dangerous ultraviolet rays. She was sweating in the pseudo fancy nubbly suit and pink silk blouse she hadn't fit into in years. She was sweating buckets. When she got home, she was alarmed by the battered black Buick that was parked in front.

  CHAPTER 31

  CASSIE DROVE PAST THE BUICK, puzzled by the trunk wired closed. Maybe there was a body in it, maybe her files. Chewing on her lip, she crunched onto the only drive in the neighborhood whose asphalt was covered with gravel, a landscape feature that she'd always thought gave her home a nice little rural touch. She pushed the automatic garage door opener in the Mercedes, and the garage door rumbled up. Inside, the Porche was resting comfortably all alone, but something didn't feel right. A strange car was parked outside, and even her garage was giving her the willies. She didn't want to risk getting caught in a dark space by a burglar, so she backed slowly out again. It seemed that every action she took now was a reaction to a threat. She had to plan every move like a strategist in a war. It was all new and frightening. After twenty-six years of playing everything in her life so safe, she was now teetering on a tightrope over a chasm.

  Shivering, she stopped the car just outside the garage, turned off the engine, and got out. The Mercedes door was heavy. Solid steel. She had to push hard for it to close with a solid thunk. More creepy feelings prevented her from entering the house through the front door. Everything was a potential threat. Everything. Heart beating, she went around to the gate. There she let out her breath. The owner of the shabby black Buick was Charles Schwab, back in her yard again. More precisely, he was in her greenhouse. She recognized his shape and crew cut through the glass.

  Shaking her head, a little angry now, she entered her Eden. She strode across the patch of lawn that was surrounded by borders planted thickly with dwarf lilies, half of which were ambrosially in bloom. She moved quickly past the patio, where the pool sparkled and the geraniums had yet to be potted. She walked under the arbor, heavily weighted with leaf and rosebudded vines that any day would burst open in a riot of color.

  Mr. Schwab was turned away from her, leaning on the bench, apparently in deep contemplation of a particularly showy double spray of monarch butterfly-sized, yellow phalaenopsis. She turned the handle of the greenhouse and startled him.

  "Wow, what a specimen!" he exclaimed without missing a beat as he turned his head and saw her in the doorway in her nubbly tweed suit with the short skirt and pink blouse, her sun hat and glasses.

  "Hello Mr. J. P. Morgan," she said, "fancy meeting you here."

  "Very funny," he replied. "It's Charles Schwab."

  "Oh yeah, Schwab. I knew the name had something to do with money. What can I do for you, Mr. Schwab?" All of Cassie's own code buttons were flashing. She was scared of this guy Schwab, and at the same time she was not scared of him at all. It was funny. She was aware he could do her a lot of harm, and somehow he still managed to remind her of a cute guy in high school. No one in particular, he was just the type she used to like. The one with the shy smile who wasn't really shy once you got to know him.

  "Nice outfit. You can call me Charlie if you want." He turned around all the way to get a better view.

  Click. High school. Cassie blinked. The feeling of the past in the present was strong. She shivered in the heat. "Thank you. What are you doing in my greenhouse, Charlie? Interested in gardening?"

  "Girls are supposed to like it when you compliment them on their outfits." There was the smile.

  Click. Cassie was back there, eighteen, attracted to a guy, hoping he would ask her to dance. Click. She was fifty, married to a comatose man who hadn't loved her in years.

  Puzzled, she ducked her face into the shade of her hat. "Checking out my orchids?"

  "Yes, I hope you don't mind. Very impressive. They really are."

  "Sublimation," Cassie quipped.

  "No kidding, which one is that?"

  "All of them. Orchids are amazing. I don't even think of them as flowers. They're more like exotic creatures." She smiled.

  Just their names alone set Cassie dreaming: phalaenopis, dendrobium, cattleya, paphiopedlium. She dreamed of them at night-their colors, their shapes, delicate and extravagant, like butterflies and moths and bees and tigers, firebirds, fish, with beauty unmatched by any other species on earth. Each orchid small or large, in bunches like vandas or sprays like dancing oncidium, felt to Cassie like stirrings of the senses she'd lost, teasingly sensual yet entirely accessible. Her substitute for sex. The globes of the paphs were like full, round testicles of athletes, the ca
ts like richly dressed court ladies in heat.

  "They're very splendid," Schwab said, neutral on the subject of sublimation.

  "So, what are you really doing in my greenhouse?" She knew his job was to catch her husband at tax evasion, embezzlement, everything Mitch enjoyed doing.

  "I love these orchids. I didn't know orchids smelled like this. What do you call this one?"

  "That's a cattleya. It's called Hawaiian sunset."

  Charlie tilted his head at it, sniffed, stuck out his bottom lip to examine it more comprehensively. The two large flowers were elaborately frilled purple and orange, outrageously scented.

  "Hmm, of course, tropical sunset," he murmured. "Very nice. This one smells, too." He pointed at a large oncidium with two dancing sprays of mothlike blooms in brown, pink, and lavender.

  "That one smells like chocolate. Isn't it amazing? It's an oncidium." Cassie couldn't help being proud of her babies. Not everybody could do even easy orchids like these.

  "Amazing. You have quite a talent for this." He looked her over some more. "How are things going?"

  Click. The question felt personal. Click. She shook her head.

  "That's a not good?"

  "That's a not good." She lifted a shoulder, feeling like eighteen. Feeling like a hundred, both at the same time.

  He rubbed at an ink stain on one of his fingers. "I'm sorry to hear it. Your husband's still in intensive care?"

  "Oh yes, still out of it." She scratched an eyebrow, chewed on the inside of her tortured lip. She was still reeling over the events of the week, the doctors and lawyers. And she was shaken that she could also feel like a teenager in spite of it all. She was hanging back in the doorway because the greenhouse was too small a space for two people who weren't close friends. Nervous. She was very nervous because of the dangerous stranger in her space.

  Charlie bent his knees a little to peek under the brim of her hat. "Does that mean you're still not serving coffee?"