The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “Your money’s not stolen is it?”

  Smiley concentrated on the road ahead, tense. I knew it cost him not to throw my rude ass out of the moving Rover.

  “Why would you think it was?”

  “Your father talked to me about it,” Smiley said. “Wanted me to trace it.”

  Goddamn Dad. His laser focus on my money was really starting to piss me off. Especially since I’d come home. Paid all my own bills. Even though the topic annoyed me no end, I felt grateful for something else to talk about, dabbed a tissue around my stuck-together lashes, black smudges under my eyes, cleaned up the best I could.

  “My father is aware he has no right, under the law, to know anything about my money. Both my parents are lawyers. So I know too.”

  “Which is what I told him,” Smiley said. “So it’s all good?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what I detected,” Smiley said. “Every time I’ve dropped by the same maid answers the door. There’re a bunch of gardeners, damage from the explosion’s cleaned up, new fountain installed in record time. You’ve got money somewhere.”

  “A little-known fact: the rich’ve always got money sitting around. Mother’s got more riches under her divan cushions than most people make in their lifetimes.”

  “You got the same couch as Harrison?”

  “Kind of. I moved every last hard-earned-by-someone-other-than-me dime.”

  “Ah, yes. All things are possible for the Blairs.”

  “Anyone with a laptop, the right security code and access to a phone can wire money away from prying eyes and sticky fingers. We live in the twenty-first century for chrissake.”

  ****

  “We’re getting close to the graveyard. Start looking for Hill Avenue.”

  “I know where it is,” Smiley said. “Think your parents’ll show?”

  “What? Of course.”

  Why I felt entitled to their support after what could only be described as my indescribable behavior said a lot about me that I didn’t want to dwell on.

  “Appearances mean everything to my mom and dad,” I said half convinced.

  “The keeping-up-appearances ship sailed when you Zorro’d Harrison’s—”

  “Stop your gabbing,” I said.

  Smiley didn’t usually speak snark. I deserved it, which as usual, irritated me. “Keep an eye out for the turnoff,” I said.

  “I’m familiar with the cemetery, thank you.” Smiley slowed.

  I almost wondered aloud if Marcella would show up. Tempted to blab that I saw the hot nurse at Mother’s side when I spied on her at Beverley, I refrained. Still on the fence about Smiley, not sure he wouldn’t run right to my parents, or someone with influence, with any information he reconnoitered from me, especially about a person of interest. But if she meant my mother harm, I mean she was diddling my father. I pressed my eyes shut again. I couldn’t think anymore. My throat tightened, panic seized me.

  Smiley said, “You haven’t talked to your mother since you’ve been home?”

  I took a few deep breaths, got a grip.

  “No.” I flipped the visor down again to check my now-beyond-repair mascara and to calm my breathing. “You really are nosy today.”

  “Hello Pot? Kettle calling.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “Kind of surprising, isn’t it? She showed up at the hospital. Thought a reconciliation might be in the works.”

  Smiley said out loud what I’d thought, but I didn’t feel like getting into a whole yadda yadda yadda at the moment. Why would Mom care about me after what I’d done? Care she did. I could feel the love while she sat on my hospital bed. I could even feel it while she railed against me at Haven House. I knew Mom’d show up here to help bury my husband. Why? None of the potential answers squared with my impression of the woman I’d spent most my life detesting—one who snuffed her son, accident or not, but wouldn’t own up. I’d concede. The two faces of Harrison Blair didn’t gel—a dignified, recently gentle and tactile mother, and a crazed baby killer. At the very least, one who’s smothering carelessness resulted in her child’s death.

  I wouldn’t be the first daughter to get her mother wrong.

  Thinking through my theories surrounding Cooper’s death didn’t make sense anymore. My mother might’ve been cold and aloof, but murderous or neglectful, especially where her adored son was concerned, didn’t feel right anymore. It never really did no matter how I tried to talk myself into it. So what was that written confession about? Why did we fight to the near death about it? Or did we? My wound pounded my head like a ball-peen hammer. I filed my mother predicament away for another day.

  “Whoever murdered Brendan’s gonna be at the funeral, right?”

  “It’s a private burial. Remember?” Smiley said.

  “They don’t lock the gates. Anyone can drive in.”

  “Think someone’s gonna show wearing an “I’m the Killer” sandwich board?”

  “Don’t you watch cop shows? The killer always goes to the funeral.”

  “You know TV’s not real life, right?”

  “Thanks for the enlightenment.”

  “If you think the guilty party’s on the invite list you must have an idea who killed Brendan.”

  “My parents might know.”

  “You really think so?”

  I’d admit to myself that idea felt tenuous too. Every sinister deed I’d dumped on my parents now seemed ridiculous. My parents owned this town, owned its justice system, got their way as a matter of course, but murdering Brendan? It didn’t sit.

  “Drug deal gone bad is the only scenario that makes sense,” I said, meaning it.

  “I’m open to changing my mind if you know something. Anything?”

  “Shit. I knew it. You missed the street.”

  ****

  Another herd of smut-rag reporters pawed and snorted outside St. Gertrude’s cemetery. The fact they didn’t intrude on the congregated meant the Blair Fitzgeralds still brandished some clout. I steeled myself for another assault. Smiley gunned the SUV through the iron gates. Some of the waiting reporters scattered, some didn’t. He weaved toward the persistent ones, pressing harder on the gas, then slammed on the brakes right as one jumped just in time to avoid the Rover’s front end then threw himself to the ground. The screaming almost drowned out our cackling.

  “That was fun,” he said.

  “It so was.”

  We raced down the winding road past the neat, gray headstones lined up like tiny infantry. Drove ’til we got to the tail end of a long line of parked cars.

  Smiley whistled. “Whose Bentley?”

  “My dad’s.”

  He’d pleaded to escort me, but I couldn’t handle his overbearing futzing.

  “Of course.” Smiley slowed. “I’ll let you out ahead, then park.”

  He chauffeured me to the gravesite dotted with more attendees than I’d anticipated. Guess they came to rubberneck. All dressed appropriately in black, their milling around and discreet waves to one another looked like birds gently flapping their wings—a murder of crows. How appropriate.

  Brendan’s sleek black casket up on its stand, wreathed in flowers I’d chosen, rocked me. I stared from behind the tinted windows of my Rover. The hole in the dirt, hidden by the best box money could buy, waited to embrace my Irishman for eternity. Soon he’d belong to the earth, to the god I’d never believed in. Whatever life I’d lived with Brendan had run its course. No more chances. I wouldn’t wake up from this.

  “Preston, you’ve got to get out,” Smiley said.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  I hardly recognized anyone. Brendan’s usual crowd didn’t do funerals, particularly those surrounded by the police. I hadn’t heard one peep from the Finneys, which I still found difficult to fathom. Brendan’s parents disapproved of his life and his death. Stubborn Irish don’t like to bend, but I knew they loved their son.

  No one who mattered to my husband s
howed—except me. No one came for me either. My friends, the few I’d had, voted themselves off the island when I got carted off to the psych ward. Parasites attached themselves to me like swine flu for drugs, money, entre into the hottest clubs, or the occasional blurb in the society page. When access to living la vida loca dispersed so did my peeps.

  “See your parents?” Smiley said.

  “No. They wouldn’t come together.”

  “The rich are different, I guess.”

  “That’s generous. I don’t remember a time they didn’t live separate lives. My mother will come with her driver. You saw my father’s here under his own steam.”

  I opened the passenger side door a crack, which opened the floodgates. Brendan deserved my crying. Smiley double-parked to see me safely to my seat. The assembled parted like the Red Sea to let me through. Staring daggers.

  “What exactly is going on with the Finneys?” I said. “Do you have any idea? I get they blame Brendan for his own downfall but—”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “They’ve left town. Finney up and retired then split to an unknown destination.”

  That got my hackles up big time. No way. Smiley wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t looking at me when he dropped that load, his tone sounded oh so casual. He suspected something. I felt it.

  Before I could ask what, he said, “Didn’t you say that was your Dad’s Bentley?”

  “Yes.”

  He pointed to the empty seat reserved for my father, craned his neck to take stock of the gathered.

  “He’s not here.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Isabel

  “I don’t care if you’re on the fucking moon, you lying, two-headed snake,” I yelled into my cell. “You’ve always got some excuse. If you think for one second I’m—hello? Hello? Are you there?”

  Goddamn you, Sherman.

  I rammed my phone off, tip of my new fake nail sailed to the carpet in my apartment living room. Immediately I regretted my outburst. Pissed as I felt I couldn’t afford to shoot my gift horse. I’d need Sherman’s money more than ever if Jonathan’s wife was indeed our bugger and cut off his funds.

  Now what?

  I needed to put a lid on. Think. Grabbed my decanter off the table, marched across the cheap linoleum to get a glass. After a glug my heart slowed—inhaled, deep, mind-clearing breaths. Don’t go off half-cocked. Sherman could still be telling the truth. But why had he only invited me over once now that he’d rid himself of the albatross? I’d make good on my promise to drop over, this time I’d storm the place. No more mamby pamby drive-bys. Sherman could bet his spiked dog collar on that.

  One thing did settle my nerves a little. He kept coming back, didn’t he? Sure, he’d exclaim, hand wring, protest, but couldn’t stay away more than a few days. We were in the family way.

  Maybe he wanted to surprise me. That was probably it. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Sherman said he wanted us to start clean. I’m sure that meant he planned to propose. I could tell. Probably on one knee at some expensive, exclusive, destination resort. We’d fly first class.

  Of course. That was it.

  My fury dissipated like e-cigarette vapor. I pitched backward on my couch. Imagined how I’d try to act surprised when we returned home from the Four Seasons Resort Bali, where a new mansion, bigger than Preston’s, grander than Beverley, waited just for me. Sherman would cover my eyes with both hands, then yodel, “Surprise!” I’d say something like, “For me? Oh you shouldn’t have,” while he pressed the keys to the kingdom swinging from an Hermès keychain into my palm.

  I punched out numbers on my phone. Wait ’til my mother hears all this. She’d die, stingy hen. Well, I knew I probably shouldn’t say anything yet. Better to underpromise then overdeliver. It might not go the way I imagined. Truthfully, I suspected it wouldn’t go that way at all. In fact, the heave-ho was probably coming my way, and I’d get the I-told-you-so from Mom.

  Then again maybe not.

  What the hell—I’d risk it. Didn’t I always?

  I finished dialing. No answer. Again. Tried to remember how long since I’d talked to her. Husband didn’t pick up either. Couldn’t remember the creep’s name. Rich as a Trump but the tight ass never traveled farther than the Indian casino for bingo or the Piggly Wiggly for smokes.

  I patted my stomach. The old penny-pincher would be excited about the baby, wouldn’t she? My mother, never in a million years, would think she’d become a grandmother. I laughed to myself. She’d have a better shot at winning the lottery. Mom would finally be happy about something I did. She—

  Why didn’t anyone pick up?

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Preston

  After a cursory search for my father, Smiley came up empty, then ever so gently pushed me into the chair meant for me. He peered over my head still looking for any relative of mine. Didn’t see one, so he regretfully left me alone then headed for the rear. “They’ll turn up,” I’d said. “I’m all right.”

  Father O’What’s-his-name chatted up a woman I’d seen at my mother’s Tuesday luncheons back in the day. No one had taken their seats or addressed me. Most of the hush-voiced, tastefully dressed funeral goers were members of my parents’ prehistoric sphere whose nonnegotiable rules kept the planets aligned. Anyone who was anyone registered Republican, worshiped Episcopalian, inherited fortunes, attended Ivy League schools as a legacy, merged rather than married and said things like toddy and the Vineyard.

  Never mind the Irish existed solely to burrow up the WASP ass. When one finagled his way into their circle, then exploded in their historically significant neighborhood, attendance at his funeral took precedence, even if the service collided with a Seven Sisters’ alumni luncheon.

  So busy scoffing at my parents’ peers I didn’t notice my mother until she took the seat to my right, escorted by the only faithful man in her life—the driver—who, despite knowing him forever, I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup and didn’t know his name. The communal intake of breath drew my attention. I wouldn’t say she smiled at me but something similar warmed her features, maybe sedative induced. After all the Catholic cemetery was the closest Mother had ever been to the ghetto.

  She looked beautiful in black.

  Father O’What’s-his-name sidled up to ask if he could start. Other than dealing with the funeral home, um, whatever you think and how much should I donate had been the extent of my contribution to the actual service and my relationship with the padre. So we both deferred to Harrison Blair who said, “Please do” in a gritty, slurred but measured, tone. Like a drunk who thinks no one knows they’re shit-faced.

  My dad’s late entrance to my left hedged my bawling. I divided my parents in every circumstance. Where’d he been? Something about Dad seemed wrong. Couldn’t put my finger on what. His skin flushed too pink like he’d just come in from the cold or a tryst with a lusty Latina. Only after he checked the cell phone he gripped, straightened his tie, and pulled down his cuffs did he acknowledge me, oddly preoccupied. While the priest intoned scripture Dad stopped adjusting to pat my arm. The long, pink scar that zagged across the back of his hand startled me, like it did every time I saw the thing.

  “Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake.” The priest’s voice sounded far. Why’d you cut your mother’s throat?

  I jerked my head like a punch pummeled it up. Who said that? The priest, right? I looked to both sides. My parents hadn’t flinched. Both studied their funeral programs.

  “And those who lead the many to justice shall be like the stars forever,” the priest carried on. How’d you get away with it, Preston?

  A steady thud battered my temples. I looked behind me. Countless heads bowed in reverent silence. Didn’t anyone hear what he just said?

  “Fear not, for I have redeemed you,” the good father chanted. Why did you kill him?

  I jumped to my feet. Thought I might stroke out. Why didn’t any
one stop him? Kill Brendan? Me? What kind of monster did they think I was?

  “Preston.” Mother pulled the back of my skirt. “It’s almost over. Sit down.”

  “But he—” The words jammed. Every eye that wouldn’t meet mine before accused me. “Make him—” I wanted more than anything to take flight, but my heels sunk into the grass, clipped my wings. “Why is he saying—”

  “Saying what? He’s praying. Sit, Preston. Please.” My father’s pink face burned red. Crowd shifted, murmured. Someone said sotto voce, “She really is batty.” The priest stepped out from behind the small podium.

  “It’s fine, Father. Please continue,” Dad said. “Hard day, that’s all.” He waved away Smiley and one of the cops on standby that responded to the ruckus.

  I sat, crinkly program wadded in my hands. If the priest resumed the service I couldn’t hear him above my rib-splitting heart. Leave it to me to pick the worst time to get a conscience. One that wouldn’t keep its big crazy mouth shut. Mother put an iron hand over mine. I couldn’t decide if she tried to calm me or keep me from bolting.

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  Hearing those solemn words reminded me of the permanence of death. I’d never see Brendan again. I didn’t think things could get worse. Wrong. I breathed through my nose, swallowed a bunch of times, tried to self-soothe, but my dress squeezed tight. I might be the next to explode. How could I humiliate myself with psychotic theatrics over imaginary voices in front of them?

  Didn’t dare turn around to face the seats behind me again. Seats filled with those I’d grown up around, but belittled, and never bothered to remember. They remembered me all right. I’d made sure. Now Oreo’d between my parents, who despite the unspeakable acts I committed and their own personal troubles, united to get me through. I crumbled. I felt exposed, skinned. My self-pity and grief gave way to a painful realization.

  Who was I to look down on anyone when I’d lived most of my life from the floor?