Leslie Glass - Over His Dead Body

She asked herself, why should she help Charlie? If he had so many branches, shouldn't he be able to get the big picture for himself? And, by the way, who was the snitch who'd informed on Mitch? She peeled off her clothes and eased into the hot bath. She reminded herself that on Charlie's second visit to her she'd only said she'd think about it. She remembered the occasion well. She'd been in the kitchen. He'd been out in the greenhouse. She'd gone out to talk to him. On that occasion he hadn't mentioned juice or informers. He'd talked lilies and conversions. God help her, she'd been attracted to him then. She'd decided then that she would give him Mona's house and the Jaguar. She'd forgotten that the Jaguar was supposed to be hers, so maybe she could claim it now. Take the car back and drive it herself. Maybe she could take back all the things that were supposed to be hers. This was a new and exciting thought.

But now Charlie wasn't talking conversions, he was talking immunity. And still, Cassie thought that even though he had the power to break and send her to prison, he really liked her and wouldn't do that.

The hot water eased her headache and soothed old and new bruises. It was hard to stay focused on the subject. She was feeling better now. Under the water, her body looked pretty good. Hips and thighs could be worse. Her not-bad breasts still looked nice and full, hardly older than Marsha's. They floated alluringly in the bubbles. She kept her feet in the waterfall under the tap. She didn't have bad feet, either. Not that anyone cared about feet. Cassie let her head sink deep into the water, then scrambled rich shampoo into her hair.

"Personally, I think you're a very lovely lady," he'd said with his special little smile. "If the situation were different…"

Cassie massaged her scalp cautiously, exploring those terrifying little ridges on which she'd learned only postsurgery that no hair would ever grow back. If anyone with a brain ever played with her hair, he'd know in a second what they were. Did that mean she could never let anyone play with her hair? Her gut churned with anxiety.

And what did "very lovely lady" mean in this context, anyway? Did very lovely lady mean the sort of woman slightly past her prime who did good works like she did? Prayed regularly to God to keep them good, went to yoga at the Y, and did group casseroles for friends whose husbands had strokes. Did very lovely lady imply repressed, but sexy, as when Mark Cohen had called her a very lovely lady? Cassie suspected that Mark would actually get off on performing services of an intimate nature for her while charging her very high fees and thinking he was doing her a favor.

Cassie was not attracted to her married doctor. On the other hand, she was intrigued by her personal IRS stalker. Oh, the irony of the legacy her husband had left her. She rinsed her hair and squeezed on some conditioner and massaged it in. She got out of the tub and massaged everything she could think of with BabySoft, then considered her wardrobe, a depressing collection of marked-down mostly conservative Anne Klein and Liz Claiborne separates dating back to the stone age. Little jackets and skirts (not too short) and slacks (not too tight) and camp shirts, none of which did much for anyone but didn't wear out, and never went out of style. And were now way too big. Pink, baby soft, and fragrant, Cassie was thinking Anna Sui. Marsha had left behind her little black vamp dress that was skimpy but not too pushy about it, calf length. And her nice black sandals with a little heel. She put on a robe and snuck down the hall to borrow her daughter's clothes.

WHILE CASSIE WAS DOING HER BATH THING long before the cremation process would be over, Teddy came through the front door calling, "Mom? Mom."

Charlie was sitting in the dining room with two years of Mitch's American Express bills spread out on the dining room table in front of him. The record confirmed what Mona had told him over a drink in a fancy Italian restaurant in Manhattan last week (during which she'd denied having sent him any gifts): that Cassie was a major spender, using company assets to her own advantage à la Leona Helmsley. Charlie discovered the glamorous Mr. and Mrs. Sales trips all over the world and purchases therein. They presented a different picture of Cassie from the one Cassie presented. By then, he'd begun his investigation of the company. He located three Mona Whitman safe-deposit boxes. Unlike Cassie's, which had only receipts, Mona had cash in hers. A lot of cash. That had made him more hopeful about Cassie. Now he saw a not unusual situation. Often an unfaithful husband paid his wife off in booty for accepting the girlfriend, who got the cash. He was disappointed by what he saw. He would rather have had Cassie as thoroughly betrayed as he had been.

"Mom, where are you?" Teddy cried.

Charlie glanced up with no hint of uneasiness. "She's upstairs taking a bath."

Teddy ducked into the room and yelped when he saw who was speaking. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi. Teddy, right?"

Teddy stared. At the open filing cabinet, the piles of statements. He pinched his nose with thumb and index finger as if a dike had started leaking there.

"I'm Charlie," Charlie said.

"I know who you are."

"I'm sorry about your dad."

Teddy frowned. "Where's my mother? Did she let you in?"

"She's waiting for you. The police were here. Where have you been?"

"The police were here? Why?" Teddy sucked air.

"Police sometimes see sudden deaths as suspicious deaths," Charlie said mildly. "They had a few questions."

"Oh, no! Someone asked Mom questions?" Teddy stood frozen in the doorway.

"Yes, someone did."

"What did she say?"

Charlie shrugged. "I wasn't here. You'll have to ask her."

"Is she all right?"

"Oh, she's a little under the weather, but that's not surprising. She just lost her husband."

Teddy shuffled his feet in what Charlie interpreted as a guilty manner. He always knew when people were guilty. The twitching and quivering always took over. Eyes, lips, chin, hands. "What happened last night?" he asked.

Teddy's left eyelid did a little dance. "Poor Mom. I'm really sorry." He shook his head, then honed in on Charlie, the enemy. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked, frowning at the files.

"You know what I'm doing here."

"Me?" Now Teddy's eyebrow jumped up in alarm.

"You seem like a nice, honest kind of guy," Charlie said. "Very likable. The kind of guy the government can trust."

"No." Teddy turned and walked out of the room, muttering, "I don't want to hear this." Then he came back into the doorway a second later. "Let's get one thing straight. I don't know anything about this." He fanned his hands out at the piles on the table. "Nothing."

"It's just amazing how no one in this family knows anything," Charlie remarked. "Except the someone who knows everything. I'm guessing that would be you."

"No."

"Yes, Teddy, you know it all."

Teddy squirmed. "Look, I want my mom protected. That's all I want. I may be guilty, but she hasn't done anything wrong. Can you protect her?" Teddy said.

"Aw," Charlie said, tapping his chin.

"I don't care what happens to me." Teddy's tongue rolled around in his head. His mouth twitched. He was in way over his head. "Maybe I should call a lawyer or something," he said finally.

"Good idea, sure. I think you should. But let's talk options a little first. You said you want to help your mom."

"Well," Teddy hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do. Charlie was engaging him in some pretty heavy conversation. He was shaking pretty badly by the time the front door slammed.

"Tedddddie! You fucking idiot. What have you done now?" A very pretty girl came into the dining room and charged Teddy, arms flailing.