Over His Dead Body Read online

  Mark gave her an incredulous look. "That's not like you, Cassie. You've always been a practical girl. Don't you want to know what his wishes are should his body fail him?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "He's on a respirator," he said gently.

  Cassie blinked. Of course she knew that.

  "Does Mitch have a living will? I'm not sure he would want extraordinary measures to keep him alive in this condition forever."

  "Forever?" Cassie blinked again.

  "Look, maybe I'm speaking out of turn. But we're old friends, Cassie. I don't want to hide anything from you."

  "Forever? He could live like this forever?"

  "Well, not forever, but for a long time. People can hang on for years."

  "Years? Like this?" Cassie knew Mark intended to be kind, but his raising such a possibility felt somehow like an assault. She started shredding her paper napkin. Just two days seemed an eternity.

  "I told you, he made it through the first forty-eight hours, but that's about it." He shrugged. "We'll have a better picture in the next few days, and we have to be hopeful, of course. But…"

  "I'm very hopeful," Cassie said. Today was only Sunday. Hard to believe.

  "But Cassie, you have to be your practical self, too. You need to look into the arrangements he's made for a major event like this. I'm assuming you've checked and made sure Mitch has provisions in his health insurance for all the long-term care he's going to need when he comes out of intensive care."

  Cassie didn't want to tell her doctor and old friend that her kids were plotting against her, and she wanted them to leave the house before she started investigating those arrangements.

  "What are the odds he'll recover?" she asked again. He'd told her already, but she couldn't take it in. She just couldn't absorb the alternatives: death or a partial recovery.

  "Oh, I don't want to go there, Cassie. A lot of people do very well." Mark was distracted by a dapper man in a sports jacket at the coffee machines far away. He waved.

  "But you don't think Mitch will do very well, do you?" she pressed. "You told me that yesterday."

  "They can surprise you," he said, vague again.

  "I'll say," she murmured. She'd had about as many surprises as she could take. As far as she was concerned, Mitch should just make up his mind: Walk into that heavenly light, or return to the chaos of life. Right now, if she were in his situation, she wasn't sure which she would choose herself.

  She sighed, and Mark refocused on her. His round face was pink and healthy. He was overweight, but had a nice smile. He smelled of soap and fruity cologne. He was a man who liked women. She could feel it in his touch as he patted her hand. Mark, who'd always been so brisk and professional, was acting like a real friend. It made her feel important for a moment, and she realized that she'd forgotten what a man's comfort felt like. She enjoyed the warmth of his hand as it rested on top of hers. Her heart beat a little faster. A real friend.

  Mark shifted a little in his chair, giving her a knowing smile that she felt all the way down to the tips of her toes. What was this? She withdrew her hand, ostensibly to adjust the scarf on her head. "How's Sondra?" she asked suddenly.

  "Still very short. She's concerned about Mitch, of course, and sends her best," he replied, wry for a second, then casual again with the doctor voice she knew so well.

  "It was nice of her to call." Cassie kept adjusting her scarf.

  "Well, she's a very nice woman," he said without conviction. "Cassie, has anyone else called, been to visit? Any of your friends? You need a lot of support right now. Family and friends help."

  "Oh, I totally agree." Cassie nodded. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was support. Mitch would hate having people know, having people see him like this, gossip about and pity him. She couldn't talk to anyone until things were more settled. It was a family thing. She had to handle it herself. And there was the little thing of her face-lift.

  "Mark, what is this long-term health care you're asking me about? Why is it so important?" she asked. She just didn't get it.

  "Oh, you know. When Mitch comes out of this, he may need to go to another facility for aftercare. We don't keep patients here long-term."

  "Another hospital?" she said faintly.

  "For rehabilitation, therapy. It can take a long time. But let's not talk about that now." He reached out and squeezed her hand one last time, then ended the conversation. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Just before noon is when I make my rounds during the week. But I'm in constant touch with the staff here. And you can call me on my cell anytime, night or day. You keep that pretty chin of yours up, okay?" He chucked her under the chin.

  "Okay," Cassie replied gamely. "Absolutely." She tried to smile bravely as he left the cafeteria. She was still trying to figure out what had happened. Had he been coming on to her? Had she turned him off? The fleeting electricity in his smile and the delicate touch of his fingers lingered for a while in her mind after he was gone. She was unnerved by the heat she'd felt and the undercurrents, the innuendo of the conversation. She was concerned, but after a while she concluded that nothing bad had happened. Mark was a friend. She'd been starving for the personal touch and had gotten it, that was all. Still, she couldn't drink her coffee, even with its pleasant hazelnut-flavored creamer.

  Sunday evening, ten days after Cassie's surgery and two days after Mitch's stroke, Marsha and Teddy further trashed their rooms in preparation for their return to their studio apartments in Manhattan. Just before they left, Marsha came into the kitchen, where Cassie was still on her feet, dazedly trying to find things to do.

  "Mom, you okay?"

  "Sure, I am," Cassie told her. "Fine."

  "I've washed my sheets and towels. The towels are in the dryer now. Teddy was only here for two nights. I figure his sheets are good for a few more days. When is Rosa coming back?"

  Rosa was the cleaning lady they'd had for the last fifteen years. She'd been on vacation in Peru for three weeks.

  "Soon. I don't know."

  "You should get someone else. And you don't have to sit at the hospital all day tomorrow. Why don't you rest for a few days. It wouldn't hurt."

  "I want to be there when he wakes up," Cassie said.

  "I hate to leave you like this, Mom." Marsha drew Cassie over to the kitchen table and sat her down. She looked sad as she patted her mother's hand. "Are you okay?"

  It reminded Cassie of Mark's pats. She thought she must look pretty pathetic to engender this kind of reaction from both of them.

  "You're a nice girl, Marsha," she murmured, her eyes puddling as she realized for the second time that day how unused to touch she'd become. "Marsha, about those receipts-"

  "Oh, Mom, let's not talk about that now," Marsha cut her off quickly.

  "I didn't sign them," Cassie told her. "I want you to know that."

  "I know that, Mom." Marsha gave her another sympathetic pat.

  "You do?"

  "Yes. I'm really sorry." Marsha hung her head. "I shouldn't have jumped on you like that."

  "Marsha, why did you do it? We would have taken care of you, gotten you therapy. Why-?"

  "Mom!" Marsha's tone changed into a whine. "You don't think it was me? Are you crazy? I wouldn't do anything like that. How could you think it was me?" she cried.

  "Teddy?" Cassie was astounded. "Was it Teddy?"

  "No, Mom. Not Teddy, either."

  Cassie tried to frown with her new forehead. "Daddy? Daddy? Your father did this on purpose, didn't he?"

  "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

  This was hard to swallow. Cassie swallowed it. "Your father opened credit card accounts in my name? Signed my name? Bought a Jaguar?" She was really annoyed about that Jaguar. "Who has it?"

  Marsha shook her head, didn't want to say.

  Teddy came in. "What are you two talking about?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Teddy, Daddy took out credit cards in my name? Bought all that stuff? A car? Where is it all?
"

  Teddy put his arm around her shoulders. Another one. Gave her a pat.

  "Why?" She looked from one to the other.

  "Must be some kind of a tax thing," Teddy said vaguely. Suddenly he found his shoes very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  "What kind of tax thing, Teddy?"

  "Mom, Teddy and I will talk to you about these money things some other time. We'll get a tax lawyer and, I don't know, we'll work it out." Marsha gave Teddy an angry look.

  "I'll get a lawyer," Cassie said. It was her life. She felt forlorn. "When are you coming back?"

  "Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe Tuesday. Mom, Edith is coming over to be with you tomorrow. Are you okay for tonight?"

  Cassie knew it was useless to question them further. She told them she was just fine. But where was that Jaguar? She kept focusing on the car because hers was such an old one.

  CHAPTER 12

  BEFORE CASSIE WENT INTO HER HUSBAND'S OFFICE for the first time, she called the hospital to see if there had been any change in his condition. It was half past ten on Sunday night, and she wanted to give him one more chance at returning to his life before she entered his world and took command of it. She was frightened by the responsibility of having to do it, terrified of what she might find. Money had never been her thing. She didn't know what to do about it, how to handle it. She'd never had any of her own. She'd been told to trust, and so she'd trusted.

  Her stomach felt like a volcano, erupting intermittently in hot, dizzying waves of anxiety. It bubbled up again after the kids left. Her life had become a mystery she had to crack. How could she have let the big questions slide? She and Mitch used to be happy. They used to have fun. Why hadn't she confronted him more directly when the fun stopped? Even now she still couldn't help feeling that it wasn't right for her to search for the health insurance, the will, the simplest things about their lives with which she should already be thoroughly familiar.

  On the phone, the night nurse told her Mitch was still holding his own. Those words pretty much summed up their marriage. After Cassie hung up, she put Mark's special cream on her stitches, wound sterile gauze around her glasses, and carefully eased them on. Then she went into Mitch's office and opened his file drawers one by one.

  What she found in them hit her like an atom bomb. First thing: Mitch had a bank account at the Bank of the Cayman Islands with a May balance that topped a million and a half dollars. The statement reassured her that he'd told her the truth when he'd said she never had to worry about money. On the other hand, there was a balance of less than two thousand in their joint Chase bank account. She didn't know what day he deposited money for household expenses, or how much it was, but she didn't worry about it. She could get money easily; he owned the company.

  He had a balance of $523,000 in his pension fund. It didn't seem like much after a quarter century of harping on her to save for it. A little note of alarm buzzed in the back of her head about the money he'd stashed outside the country. What was that about? On the other hand, the life insurance policy she found seemed adequate. The various pieces of it added up to a cool $3 million. If he died, she'd be a wealthy woman, better off than she was now. However, the date on the policy was old and the premium bills were not in the house, which led her to believe he might have a newer and bigger one whose premiums he paid from the office. At the moment everything they had was in his name, and she couldn't put her hands on a nickel. Their affairs were as clear as mud. She was sure somewhere there was more than this.

  She opened the filing cabinet and plunged into the accounts in Mitch's name for which she had her own card. There was nothing surprising there. The picture of their joint life jibed pretty well with her knowledge of it. She herself used the family resources sparingly, almost ascetically, always mindful of Mitch's constant admonitions about sensible spending. And Mitch in turn faithfully, and fully, paid off all the expenses of the house and all the bills that she incurred every month. Virtually none of his personal expenses appeared on these charges. The house had a small mortgage, but their life, considering Mitch's income, was modest indeed.

  The first discrepancy came out with the spending habits of the fictitious Cassandra Sales. Cassie discovered that her fictitious self had two of her own American Express cards, as well as accounts at Tiffany's, ABC Carpet and Home, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdale's, Neiman Marcus, Fancy Cleaners, a Chase Platinum MasterCard, several gold airline MasterCards, and two Visa Platinum Card accounts. Mitch kept a separate file for each one right here under her very nose. This was both gross stupidity and colossal nerve on his part. Clearly he'd understood her character well, and she'd had not the slightest inkling of his.

  A whole life was documented in the receipts: Prada dress, aubergine, $1,500. Armani suit, gray, $3,400. Lavender silk tank, $850. Armani dress and coat, mauve wool, $4,500. Chanel silk scarf, $350. Bergdorf Shoe Department: mauve suede sling backs, gray leather pumps, $575; black crocodile loafers, $1,250. Escada red leather coat, $3,900. Escada red leather bag, $850. Escada red leather shoes, $495. Bliss Spa: La Mer face products, $890. Microbrasion treatments, $150 times ten. Salon de Daniel: peach satin robe and gown, $1,200. La Perla uplift bra, $125. Matching panties, $65. Hermès handbag, $8,600. Louis Vuitton luggage, $10,000. It went on and on.

  Cassie was stunned, could hardly absorb what it all meant. It took her until past oneA.M. to look through the purchases of just the first five months of this year. She couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe it! Eighteen thousand dollars for a string of pearls at Cellini. Where was that? Boiling lava filled her stomach and throat, and still she could not process this appalling picture of a life in her name that she didn't have. It was beyond her powers of imagination. It was like a horror story, a made-up nightmare for shock TV. Not only that someone else had been enjoying the fruits of her husband's labors, but worse than that the woman had taken Cassie's very own identity, the financial credit she was due. And the woman had used it with absolutely no restraint. Cassie didn't know that people like this existed.

  The real Cassie was frugal. She did not buy ten thousand dollars' worth of clothes every month at Escada and Prada and Armani. She did not get her nails and hair done every three days at Fred's on the Miracle Mile, did not buy expensive lingerie at Danielle in the chic and costly Americana Mall in Manhasset, so close to home. She did not have her clothes cleaned at Fancy in Locust Valley. She did not use the expensive Martin Viette Nurseries in Old Brookville for her plants. The real Cassie had not bought new carpets or furniture for their house in twenty years, much less in the last few months at ABC Carpet and Home. She had not bought silver or dishes at Tiffany's, nor would she even dream of spending three thousand dollars at Williams-Sonoma for nothing, nothing at all. The extent of the spending of the fictitious, but nonetheless very real, Cassandra Sales exposed the habits of a pathological shopper, a thief with staggering ambition. Moreover, her debts were steadily building up, for Mitch had paid nothing beyond the interest on all those charge accounts. That interest had to be very considerable. And to this already stupefying debt only a few weeks ago, Mitch had added even more when he used the Cassandra Sales MasterCard to pay the Sales family tax bill.

  In all the years of her marriage Cassie never considered that her husband might be unfaithful to her. Why not, she didn't know. After seeing the fake Cassandra Sales bills, Cassie checked Mitch's American Express business file. Here, she found that he was in the habit of spending from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars a month on hotels and luxury items in places where she hadn't known he'd gone. Even about this he'd lied. In January he'd been in the Caribbean; in February he'd been in Australia, Hong Kong, and Thailand; in March at Grand Cayman Island (probably depositing more money), and all this time she'd been a jerk, alone at home.

  This new knowledge about her husband triggered a long-forgotten memory. After a few years of marriage, Mitch's lovemaking dramatically improved after a business trip to Paris. Overnight he'd acquired a sudden intere
st in things he'd never done with Cassie before. She was thrilled and wanted more. She'd teased him in what she'd thought was a friendly kind of way that he must have been inspired by another woman. She was interested, intrigued, fantasized competition, and was excited by the possibility. Mitch's response, however, had been denial all the way. He had been so vehement that he could never even look at another woman that Cassie had been lulled into letting the intriguing suspicion drop out of her mind.

  Mitch had piled on the scam of their marriage so heavily that he'd destroyed her ability to see. He'd been a fog machine. He'd lied to her about everything, every single thing. He'd never given her an opportunity to compete for him, to share any of the fun. Instead of just divorcing her-letting her be jilted and go on with her life-he and his girlfriend had made her an object of contempt. They'd stolen her. It was a stunning feat. No wonder Marsha had looked at her that way. No wonder Mark looked at her that way. They all knew. Everybody in the world knew.

  For hours, Cassie ransacked her husband's files and still couldn't find anything like a will, or a living will. Maybe there was no will. Maybe it was in Parker Higgins's office. When Cassie could no longer see straight, she sat at Mitch's desk with her heart pounding out a new fear. What else could the fake Cassandra Sales steal?

  It was two in the morning when it occurred to her to start calling to cancel the cards. It was then that the nightmare started to spiral. Not one of them would allow her to cancel her own cards. They were in her name, but she was not the cardholder. Mitch was the cardholder. Only he could cancel the cards. And he was in a coma. She went to bed and tossed around all night, wondering what to do. At around four, she closed her eyes and began to dream.

  CHAPTER 13

  Selma the faith healer was massaging Charlotte Trotter's bare scalp, exhorting t he dying woman to give up her beautiful pearls in exchange for a cure. "This is why your hair is falling out. Pearls rob you of your energy," she scolded, holding out her hands to get those pearls. "Let me keep them for you until you feel better."