Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "I presume the property will not be legally yours until your late husband's will is settled."

"No," she said, "it's mine now. The title is in my name."

"Louise is a lady of property," Johnson put in. "But that doesn't pay for the liverwurst, does it, darling? Land-poor is what it's called."

No matter how impeccably he was dressed, it was a louche thing to say, was it not? I mean his words and tone seemed calculated to belittle the widow, reduce her to the role of a hapless mendicant.

"Did you have a specific asking price in mind?" I asked her.

She glanced at Hector Johnson.

"Two million five," he said promptly. "For everything."

"Suppose I send out a professional appraiser," I suggested. "No cost to you. He or she will know the value of comparable parcels in the neighborhood and will be able to make an informed estimate of how your property should be priced to sell quickly."

"Two million five," Johnson repeated. "Asking, of course. Louise will be willing to negotiate. Won't you, sweetie?"

"What?" she said. "Oh, sure. Negotiate."

"Suppose I leave these listing applications," I said, placing my folder on an end table. "Have your attorney review them before you sign. They're standard boilerplate by which you grant McNally and Son the right to represent you in the sale of your home for a specified period of time at a specified percentage of the selling price."

"Honey," Louise Hawkin said anxiously, "what do you think?"

"Sounds legit," he told her. "I'll take a look at the contract."

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "if your home is sold, do you intend to remain in the Palm Beach area?"

"Of course she's going to stay," Hector answered. "Get rid of this white elephant, use part of the proceeds to buy or lease a smaller place, maybe on the beach, and have enough left over to invest in something that'll provide her with a guaranteed income. Doesn't that make sense?"

The moment he used the phrase "guaranteed income," my opinion of his financial acumen plunged to subzero. Dear old dad had taught me years ago that there is no such thing as a guaranteed income. As pop said, "Who guarantees the guarantor?" Scary, huh?

"Whatever Mrs. Hawkin wishes," I said. "It's her future happiness that's at stake, and she must decide how it best may be achieved."

"Dear Hector," she said, gazing at him wearily, "I don't know what I'd do without your advice."

He rose, porky face glowing, and seated himself on the couch next to her. He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. "Just like Archy said, baby," he crooned, "your happiness is all that counts."

I must tell you I felt acutely uncomfortable. I was invited, but I had the impression of having barged into an intimate and probably semi-drunken tete-a-tete. I was certain that after I departed they would dance the horizontal hula-hula.

That was hardly my business or my concern. What did trouble me was the role of Svengali that Hector Johnson seemed to have assumed. It was hard to believe that in the short period since her husband's murder Louise Hawkin had succumbed to the man's forceful charm and blandishments.

Unless, of course, their affair had started before Silas Hawkin's death. That could be easily explained. Hector's daughter had posed for the artist. It would not be extraordinary if he had met and become friendly with the Hawkin family. Perhaps what I had just witnessed was a relationship that had existed not for days but for months. One never knows, do one?

By then I'd had just about enough of the Hawkin and Johnson families for one day, thank you, and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. I intended to retire to my digs after dinner and play my favorite Al Jolson cassette while bringing my journal up to date. I might even have a small marc to help me forget that as I labored, Connie Garcia and Binky Watrous were dining together. I hoped their raspberry souffle would collapse. A savage desire, I admit, but surely understandable.

Unfortunately I was no sooner ensconced behind my desk, marc in fist and Jolson singing "Swanee," than my phone buzzed. When it's an outside call it rings; when it's an interior call it buzzes. Don't ask me why. The caller was Jamie Olson downstairs in the kitchen.

"Woman parked outside," he reported. "Wants to talk to you."

"What woman?"

"Won't say."

"Did you ask her to come in?"

"Won't come in."

"What's she driving?" I asked, dreaming it might be Connie's white Ford Escort and that she had had a squabble with Binky and had sought me out for comforting. I would, I decided, provide it generously.

"A black Jeep Cherokee," Jamie Olson said.

I sighed. "I'll be right down."

It was parked on the graveled turnaround in front of our garage. The door on the passenger side was opened as I approached. I peered within. Marcia Hawkin. She was wearing a soiled cotton trench coat buttoned up to the neck. I wondered what she wore underneath-if anything. Right about then, I figured, Jolson was singing "I'm Sitting on Top of the World." I wasn't.

"Marcia," I said. "How nice. Won't you come in?"

"No," she said and beckoned.

I slid in but left the door ajar a few inches in case I had to make a hasty exit. If she was as dotty as Connie had implied, a fast retreat might become necessary. I know there are times when my father is convinced he spawned a dunderhead, but there are also times when I have the wit to calculate possible dangers and take the proper precautions.

She didn't turn to look at me but stared straight ahead through the windshield. "She's selling our home," she announced. "The studio. Everything. Even my bed. Can she do that?"

I thought it best to feign ignorance, hoping she was not aware of my visit that afternoon.

"Your mother?" I asked.

"Stepmother," she corrected me angrily. "Can she sell the house?"

"Is the title in her name?"

"Yes."

"Then she can dispose of it any way she wishes."

"Shit!" she said furiously. "I love that place. Where am I going to live?"

"Surely she'll buy or lease another dwelling. Perhaps smaller but just as attractive and comfortable."

"I don't want another," she said. "I'm not going to live with her anymore. Never, never, never!"

She seemed so distraught I hesitated to say anything but felt I had to express sympathy for her plight. "Do you have family or friends you could stay with?" I asked.

"I told you I have no one. It's all his fault."

"Whose fault?"

"Hector Johnson. That bitch's father."

The word didn't shock me so much as her tone. Pure venom.

"Marcia," I said quietly, "sometimes things happen we feel are outrageous. The best thing to do is accept with resignation and as much grace as we can muster."

Finally she turned to look at me. "That's bullshit," she said. "I'm not going to meekly accept what's happening. I've done that all my life-accept. But I'm not going to do it anymore. Believe me, I know what's going on."

"What's going on?" I asked her.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she answered, a response so childish I felt like weeping. "You know that saying: Don't get mad, get even? That's what I'm going to do-get even."

"I hope you won't do anything foolish," I ventured.

Her laugh was a cackle. "They're the fools," she said. "Not me. They'd like to put me away-did you know that?"

I was overwhelmed by her mysteries. "Who wants to put you away? For what? And where?"

"I'm as normal as you are," she said hotly, which I thought was an artless comparison. "You're sure she can sell the house?"

"She can," I repeated, "if the title is in her name."

"That's all I wanted to know," she said. "You can go now."

This abrupt, impolite dismissal was a minor affront from an obviously disturbed young woman, and I was happy to make my escape. I started to climb out of the Jeep when she suddenly yanked me back and kissed me on the lips, her tongue darting.