Over His Dead Body Page 6

  "Don't walk away. You have some big explaining to do." Now Marsha was talking to her mother as if Cassie were a teenager arrested on drug charges. "How could you do this to Daddy? To all of us?"

  Cassie was agog. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't been in Bergdorf Goodman in years. You know I shop in Daffy's. Bergdorf's must be your father's bills. You know how he is about his clothes."

  "No, Mom. This is not men's department stuff."

  Marsha was the one sitting at the computer. Teddy had pulled up a chair. He had a pile of files on his lap. They had a lot of nerve.

  "Teddy, you know your father. What is all this about?"

  Teddy was still busy avoiding her eyes.

  Marsha went on. "And how about this? Taxes! You paid the taxes with a Visa card at a twenty-one percent annual rate? Are you crazy?"

  "I don't pay the taxes at all," Cassie said. "I don't earn the money. I've never paid the taxes. I'm not crazy."

  "Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the IRS on a credit card? It's in your name. This debt. All this debt is in your name. What were you thinking?" Marsha lost it altogether and was now shrieking.

  Cassie's brain whirled. "We paid that much in taxes?" she said in a hushed tone. "I had no idea he made that much." She did the math quickly. He must make close to a million dollars a year. Wow, she had new respect for her husband. Then she wondered, where was it?

  "Mom! You're some kind of psychopath. You're… you're…" Marsha had no words for what her mother was. She'd jumped to a conclusion just like the EMS people.

  But things were not as they seemed. Right between the rib cage, above the belly button and below the heart, Cassie was stabbed with a vicious truth. It hadn't come to her slowly over hours or months or years. It hit her all of a sudden, like a sword striking home. She got it in one, then she wanted to cover it up. "Shhh. Let's not talk about this now," she said. A person could only take so much in one day.

  "Mom!" Marsha screamed. "We're talking now. What did you do with the stuff? You have to send it back."

  Okay. Maybe he gave it to the poor, but probably not. Cassie glanced at her darling son. Teddy was wiggling uncomfortably in his chair. "Maybe Teddy knows where the stuff is," she said softly.

  "Mom's right. We don't have to talk about this now," Teddy murmured.

  "What's the matter with you? Of course we do. The debts are huge. Almost a million dollars."

  "Well, Daddy must have it saved somewhere. He's very careful. I'm sure he's got it covered," Cassie said with a quavering voice. They didn't have to do it now.

  "Why are you glossing this over?" Marsha was beside herself.

  "Sweetheart, when Daddy wakes up, I'm sure he'll explain all of this to us. He always has reasons for everything he does."

  "Mom, these are your signatures."

  Cassie tilted her head to one side. For a second, her vision failed her. Her signatures? How could that be? Red spots appeared before her eyes. They turned to green ones, white ones. Marsha handed over a Tiffany receipt. Cassie took it. She squinted at the slip through puffy eyes and the fireworks of spots, and she saw, clear as mud, her very own signature, Cassandra Sales. All those s's skipping along just the way she always wrote them. Proud and perky as can be. She scratched the side of her face and didn't feel a thing, nothing except the sword between her ribs, ripping her guts out. "Shh," was the only sound she could make. "Shh."

  CHAPTER 9

  CASSIE PACED BACK AND FORTH IN THE KITCHEN, brooding about her children. It was a s if she and they had become instant enemies, standing, armed and dangerous, on opposite sides of the great unbridgeable divide that was the family fortune. Even when Marsha and Teddy finally stopped yelling at her and marched off to their rooms in a huff, it was clear that they were dying to prosecute her for unspeakable crimes that could deprive them of their inheritance. If she'd allowed them to continue, they might well have subjected her to harsh lights and hectoring interrogations all morning until she broke and confessed to spending sprees from which they had been excluded.

  But she hadn't allowed them to question her, so they'd been forced to succumb to fitful sleep instead. The truth was, Cassie didn't want to dignify their accusations with a denial. Further, she didn't want to adjust their skewed perceptions just yet. Her heart throbbed in her face, distracting her from the hunger that had been gnawing at her belly for over a week. She was starved, but she wasn't able to eat a thing. She looked worse than ever. Since yesterday, her bruises had started to yellow, giving her both a beaten and jaundiced appearance. Yesterday her face had been a plastic surgery postop horror. Now it was a Noh mask of acrimony and psychic pain.

  How could the children she'd loved and cared for, cherished all their lives, believe she'd done something so wrong when they both knew it was their father who was the finagler in the family. It was no secret that he liked to cheat the IRS. He called his ways with money the entrepreneurial spirit. It was an actual philosophy. For every honest and straightforward way of doing something, he came up with three corners to turn and two tangents to follow to get the job done in a much more convoluted manner to hide something. What had never occurred to Cassie was that he might cheat not just the government but real people. He might cheat her. It was horrifying.

  Mitch had always told her he was saving, saving, saving, but he was also something of a kidder, kidder, kidder. And now she could easily see that, for all she knew, he'd been spending all along. He might already have purchased their retirement home in Boca Raton and furnished it from ABC just for her. And he'd used her signature for tax reasons, just like he'd lived way below his means for tax reasons. This explanation of house buying in secret was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility, but she knew that's not what he'd done.

  Outside, the sun rose on Cassie's perfect garden. Inside, her secure home shifted under her feet. A sudden flash of red betrayed the flight of a cardinal across the lawn. Unaware of her standing motionless for a moment at the kitchen window, the bird aimed for the feeder near the back door. It landed and began to pick at the seeds, and Cassie trembled in awe at the spectacular beauty and ordinariness of the new day. As the light fused the sky and filtered through the leaves of the oaks dappling the grass, she struggled for balance. She didn't want her husband to die, but she didn't want him to be a cheat and a liar, either. And she didn't want to be another one of those people who jumped to a conclusion without real facts in front of her.

  She knew he was reckless, but it was a leap to think he would actually hurt her. Still, someone was driving around a new Jaguar charged in her name when she'd had her Volvo for so long, it was old enough to go to college. That hurt. She made a sudden angry movement, and the cardinal darted away. Disappointed, she turned to the clock and was disappointed again. She wanted it to be nine, but it was still only six-thirty, too early to call anyone, to take any action, to do anything at all.

  Time was passing so slowly, she thought she'd go crazy. She longed to drink a quart of vodka, or at least to smoke a cigarette to punctuate her frustration and pass the time. The last cigarette she'd smoked was in 1970. Same with the vodka. Mitch sold fine wines but didn't like seeing her drink in his presence. He had a philosophy about that, too. He didn't want her pilfering, wasting the product, and becoming a drunk. He despised all drunks except himself. He had a very high opinion of himself.

  She paced back and forth. What to do? What to do? Her surgeon had decreed that she must not put her glasses on while the stitches remained around her ears. She must not worry or think angry thoughts. She was not supposed to drive the car. She was supposed to gobble down tranquilizers and painkillers to dream happy dreams for a lovely, unscarred beautiful young face. But how could she do that now? She wanted to put on her glasses and get into those files of Mitch's to discover the truth about the house in Boca Raton that he had not bought just for her. She wanted to drive to the hospital on her own. She didn't care if Mitch was in a coma. She had to talk to him.

  But old
habits die hard. She couldn't help following orders. Afraid of infection, she didn't put on her glasses. Afraid of driving into a wall, she didn't take out the car. While she waited for Marsha to wake up and chauffeur her, she foraged in the refrigerator, in the freezer. Now she was ready to eat, but that girl had not provided any food for her. There was not a damn thing in the house to eat. No coffee cake, no sticky buns, no bagels, no croissants. Nothing gooey, nothing sweet. Nothing! Marsha had gone off food and wouldn't let anybody else eat. Cassie sipped a little orange juice, but not through a straw. She was starving.

  Around seven, after waiting around for hours, she wandered into Mitch's den, where Teddy and Marsha had left things a big mess. So thoughtless of them. The computer screen had colorful fish on it that swam back and forth as the sound of water gurgled out of the speakers. She punched a button and a menu came up. She couldn't exactly see it, but she knew what was on it. Office something. Windows something. AOL something. Quicken something. She bet their whole life was in that computer, and she'd never dared to look in it. Never. Even the simplest bills had waited until Mitch had gotten around to printing them out.

  She'd always been a little phobic about the computer, and she'd always accepted the deal. She had a husband who was fussy about privacy. The house had been her territory. Finance had been Mitch's territory. Now she was angry that Teddy and Marsha had been the first invaders of it, had thought they had discovered some terrible secret about her and were eager to believe it. She had no idea how many hours they'd been looking into his files, or how much they thought they'd learned. She shut off the computer and went upstairs to take a bath and brood some more. She did this for quite a while.

  At nineA.M. she dressed in a pair of pants that were now too loose and a blazer she'd grown out of years ago that fit her again. She was eager to get to the hospital. She had a thousand things to do, a sick husband to visit, doctors and lawyers to consult. Enough brooding, she now had to take charge of her life. It occurred to her that she didn't want Marsha and Teddy in the files again, so she went back downstairs and locked the den, then slipped the key into her pocket. She was fully alert now. She took the stairs two at a time and marched into Marsha's room without knocking.

  Marsha's room was the timeless fantasy of sweet femininity. The wallpaper was pink with white stripes. The printed chintz on the bedspread and chairs was cheerful sprigs of pink rosebuds. The curtains were frilly dotted swiss. The single bed had a canopy that dated from Marsha's childhood, when her daddy had been hopeful that with the right incentives she'd snap out of her prepubescent doldrums and turn into an Ivy League preppy. This room, too, was a total mess. The navy skirt and baby blue twinset (that Cassie now saw was cashmere) were twisted up on the floor as if Marsha had wrestled out of them. The pile of clothes she'd worn all week was heaped on the ruffled chair. More cashmere. Partially flung over it were two towels that still looked wet. The room smelled intensely floral, as if a bottle of expensive perfume had been spilled in there.

  Marsha was sleeping with the bedspread over her head. Only a very little of her hair showed at the top. Cassie approached the bed cautiously. Then, feeling like the wicked witch of the West, she suddenly pulled the covers all the way down to the foot of the bed. She was startled to see that Marsha was sleeping in one of her father's undershirts and a pair of his boxer shorts. The twenty-five-year-old was hugging a small Curious George that her daddy had given her when she was about four. Marsha's identification with her father was clear. This hurt Cassie even more.

  "Time to go see Daddy," she said.

  "Huh?" Marsha didn't move.

  "It's time to get up, Marsha, honey. We have to go visit Daddy."

  "What time is it?" Marsha mumbled into the monkey's head.

  "It's late. It's nine-thirty."

  "Nine-thirty!" Marsha patted the area around her, searching for the covers. When she couldn't find them, she gave up and curled around her pillow.

  "Marsha, get up." Cassie stamped her foot.

  "I just went to sleep," she grumbled.

  "It's not my fault you stayed up all night."

  "What's the rush? Has there been a change?"

  "I want to be with him. I want to see him," Cassie said. Did she ever.

  "Fine, just ten minutes." Marsha turned over and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  Cassie circled the bed to talk to her on the other side and saw that Marsha was refusing to open her eyes. "Marsha, sweetheart. I want to go now."

  "It's too early. They won't let you in."

  "How do you know?"

  "Tom told me. We're meeting him at eleven-thirty."

  "Really. When was that arrangement made? I don't know anything about that," she said.

  Marsha rolled over on her back and spoke with her eyes closed. "Mom, go take a nap. Everything is being taken care of. You don't have to do a thing."

  "What?" Cassie was very alert now.

  "Teddy and I have talked about it. I've talked with Tom, daddy's neurologist. We're on top of everything. You just concentrate on healing that new face of yours." Still with her eyes glued shut against the day, Marsha spoke in a tone guaranteed to insult a retard. It hit Cassie like a jolt from the electric chair. Her yellow hair practically stood on end with shock. Her children were excluding her from her own tragedy.

  "How dare you talk to me like that! Get up right now," she cried.

  "Mom, don't overreact. We know what we're doing." Marsha turned over again.

  "You think I don't know what I'm doing! Get up!" Cassie marched around the bed and grabbed the pillow from Marsha's arms. This violent action opened Marsha's eyes.

  "What's the matter with you?" she said irritably.

  "I'm the mother here. I'm the wife. You don't make any decisions for your daddy or me, you understand that?" Cassie hopped up and down on one foot. Her energy had returned with betrayal. This was her and Mitch's life, not their children's.

  "Look at you." Marsha sat up and rubbed her eyes as if she couldn't believe it. "You look bad and you're acting crazy, Mom. You're not up to this."

  "Don't you dare talk to me like this." Cassie couldn't stop hopping.

  "Well, look at you. You're out of control. You're not qualified."

  "I'll show you out of control, Marsha Sales. Don't think you can social work me." Cassie turned her head and caught sight of herself in Marsha's full-length mirror. The Noh mask of wrath with the bloodshot eyes and porcupine stitches around her ears animated by the frenzied dance stopped her mid-sentence. She did look crazy. What was happening to her? What was happening to all of them? The heat left her. She sat down abruptly on the bed. Her face looked the same, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. "Your father and I love you very much, Marsha," she began.

  "But…," Marsha said bitterly, clearly expecting the usual reservations from her mother.

  "But even though Daddy is in intensive care, I am still The Mother. We can talk about certain things as a family, but I am in charge here. From now on, I will be the one to look after the financial situation. Let's face it. This is my problem, not yours."

  "Mom, with your record, I don't think that's a good idea," Marsha muttered sarcastically.

  "I wouldn't jump to that conclusion so fast, young lady," Cassie retorted through her teeth.

  "Okay, what am I missing?" Marsha raked her fingers through her hair. "Crazy Mom, or what?"

  Cassie inhaled sharply, stung by her daughter's bitterness. She'd been nothing but the most loving mother, had thought of nothing but her daughter's welfare every single day of her life. She'd had almost no pleasures of her own-none, in fact, that were not connected with doing good for the family. What did Marsha have to be so bitter about?

  "What are you missing? You're missing everything. What do you know about me? What do you know about anything but yourself and your own selfish feelings."

  "You're obviously projecting," Marsha said haughtily. "Just tell the truth, I can take it."

  "You're very hurtful, Marsha." C
assie shook her head. Where had she gone wrong with this girl?

  "Look who's talking."

  "You're talking about money, is that it? Money? That's ridiculous. What if I did spend money on myself-I'm not saying I did, but if I had, would it be so terrible?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

  "Yes," Marsha said. "Yes, Mom, it would."

  "I've given my whole life for you, for all of you. You got your camps and your trips to Europe and your college and your graduate school…" Outraged, Cassie ticked the items off on her fingers. She'd never even been to a day spa. Why were they arguing about money?

  "What are you two yelling about?" Teddy stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes.

  "Mom's gone psycho," Marsha told him.

  "And you, Teddy. Every advantage. Special schools, special tutors. College enrichment programs." Cassie pointed an angry finger at him. "Vineyards in Italy. Vineyards in France…"

  "Teddy did get everything. He was Daddy's boy," Marsha confirmed, nodding at him.

  "No, I didn't. You got everything," Teddy jumped in, his rage topping everyone's.

  Marsha made a disgusted noise. "What?"

  "You got the nervous breakdowns. You got the attention," Teddy spit out.

  "And what did I get?" Cassie demanded. "Tell me, what did I get!"

  They both looked at her, then turned to each other and cracked up.

  "You got a face-lift," they said in unison.

  I hate them, Cassie thought. She was amazed at herself. I hate my own children.

  CHAPTER 10

  CASSIE WAS SO INCENSED by the behavior of her children that she went back to her bathroom and put some concealer on her face. Then she tied a scarf around her head à la Jackie Kennedy. She was furious that her children thought she was vain and a spendthrift. She wasn't vain. How could they think she was vain just because she'd gotten a face-lift? She was going to show them. And she was going to show Mitch. How dare he make her look like the bad guy? She was the good guy. She'd always been the good guy, staying home and taking care of them all. She marched downstairs and got into the car. She sat there for a few minutes muttering to herself. When the children didn't show up, she honked the horn.