Over His Dead Body Page 31

  "You didn't believe me. I know you." Cassie was heating up to a good scream. He put his hand on her arm to calm her down.

  "Of course. I always believed you. I was attracted to you from the minute you called the cops on me."

  "I hate you," she said.

  Undisturbed, he removed his hand from her arm and changed rolls of film in his camera. "Fine. But you'd better go home now. I'll get in touch with you later on this."

  "I don't want you to get in touch with me later. I want those cards in my possession. They have to be canceled," Cassie insisted.

  Charlie regarded her with awe. Her cheating husband was dead. The IRS was descending with its big guns on the $600 million company of which she was most certainly part owner. The entity with all its tentacles would be opened up and examined with exquisite detail, far greater than any techniques used for a body on the autopsy table. No matter how much the Feds took in fines and unreported back taxes, however, Cassie would still be a rich woman someday. But all she cared about was clearing her name of what amounted (in this massive case) to a rather piddling credit card debt. What a woman!

  "I want those cards canceled." Cassie stamped her foot.

  She had no idea how much money was involved here, and he was enchanted. "I'll cancel them," he promised. With the new roll in the camera, he snapped another photo of her. "You're adorable when you're angry."

  "That's a ridiculous thing to say."

  "Well, you don't know me," he said.

  "Well, you don't know Mona. You don't know what she can do."

  "She can't do anything to me."

  "She can hurt anybody. She can twist things around. Please. Give me the cards."

  He shook his head. "Uh-uh. What are you going to do with them? You can't prove you got them here."

  "I'm going to get an honest lawyer," Cassie told him.

  Charlie snickered. "Surely a contradiction in terms. And right here you have better than a lawyer." He tapped his chest.

  "Charlie, you're going to hurt me, I know it," she said sadly.

  Something about her tone, like the unselfconscious embrace she'd given her daughter earlier, stabbed him in a place where he'd long thought he'd lost feeling. The emotion stopped him short. He dropped the arm holding his camera and stared at her, wondering at the very idea. Hurt her? How could he?

  "Oh come on, not everybody's bad. The IRS are good guys."

  She shook her head. "What's going to happen to my son?"

  "He's a great guy, an honest man is worth his weight in diamonds. We reward people like him."

  "Charlie, that's another lie. Give me the cards."

  "Nope." He went back to taking pictures. When he turned around again, she was gone.

  AT TWO O'CLOCK, Mona and four IRS operatives in two cars showed up at the same time. By then, the curtain hangers in the station wagon were gone, and the Moving Depot packers had unpacked everything and left it out on the counters and tables. All the furniture that had been outside was back inside. And the van was gone, too.

  Mona arrived first and opened the front door of her house to find Charlie sitting on the stairs in the gallery. She almost fainted when she saw him.

  "Hi," he said.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "I could ask you the same question. I thought you lived in Roslyn Heights."

  "Well, I do. I'm just here checking on this place for Mitch."

  "I thought he died today."

  "Oh no. I had no idea." She glanced toward the door.

  "Looks to me like you're moving."

  "Um, I, ah, just stopped by. I don't know anything about this."

  "I found those credit cards you were telling me about."

  Mona looked at him dumbly. "I don't know what you're taking about."

  "The ones that furnished this house, bought your Jaguar, your clothes, etc."

  She shook her head. "You're mistaken. Mitch may have given me a few items. Gifts. I had nothing to do with it. I can prove it. I can prove everything." She was pale, shaky on her feet. She coughed, then whimpered. "I've had a shock," she murmured. "I didn't know poor Mitch was dead."

  "My condolences."

  "Charlie, can you help me clear this up? I have no one. No one, but you," she repeated. "You're an important man. You can help me if you want to."

  "I'll help you," Charlie promised.

  Mona's face was white. She tried to arrange her body in an attractive way, but her feet weren't behaving themselves. She made a little misstep with one foot and nearly toppled off her stiletto heels. Then she recovered. "You didn't know Mitch. He was a little naive about things. He bought this house. A shelter. Everything. Gifts." She opened her arms to take it all in. The abundance.

  "Absolutely, we'll clear it all up," Charlie said.

  Mona fixed him with a devastated expression, then moved into the living room, the dining room. Looking for the movers, he thought. Nothing was missing, and no one was around. "What's going on?" she asked finally.

  "We're seizing the house," he told her.

  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.