by Glen Ebisch
The boys stood respectfully in front of the casket, wondering what to expect next. The old man was far more peaceful than he had even been in life, Charles thought. In his prime he’d have been alternately lecturing and questioning them about their goals in life, no doubt rapidly reducing them to tears. Better they should remember him this way. Finally they came over to where he was standing, and after giving Charles a hug, the boys wandered over to explore a curtained alcove on the other side of the room.
“Jack couldn’t get away from work?” Charles asked.
Amy took a deep breath and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I have no idea what Jack is doing. He moved out a week ago. He’s currently living with his parents.”
The last time Charles had visited, he and Jack had argued over whether it might not be a good idea for Amy to do some part time work outside the home now that the boys were both in school. Jack had been vehemently opposed, seeing it as a slur on his skills as a provider, while Charles had not so subtly suggested that he was a narrow-minded control freak. The discussion hadn’t gone well.
“I hope this wasn’t my fault,” Charles said.
Amy smiled faintly and touched his arm. “Only in the sense that you got me thinking about what I want out of life. You woke me up from my comfy dream where Jack went out into the world every day, while I stayed in my cozy domestic cocoon and raised the kids.”
“There’s nothing wrong with domesticity. Your mother never worked when you were small.”
“Was she happy?”
Charles shrugged. “She never complained.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Charles stayed silent, not wanting to start an argument.
“I had no choice when the boys were small. I had to stay home and take care of them. But with them in school much of the day, now I have a choice. And I started thinking about where I wanted to be in fifteen years.”
“What did you decide?”
“I decided to take a part-time job working for a small arts magazine in Boston. I’ll cover gallery openings around town, and do the occasional interview with artists.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It won’t pay much, but it will help me get started in the workforce. I did have art history major, so it isn’t completely from out of left field.”
“What happened when you told Jack?” Charles asked, thinking he already knew the answer.
“He went ballistic. He said I had to quit. He claimed the boys were just getting old enough for organized sports, and that I’d need to devote all my time to take care of the house and shuttle them around to practices and games. I said that I’d still have plenty of time to do that, but he insisted that part-time jobs always expand to take up more and more of the day, so it was better not to start.”
“I take it that you refused to quit?”
Amy nodded. “And before I knew it he’d packed his bags and headed home to be with mommy and daddy.” She paused and looked across the room to where the boys were playing hide-and-seek in the alcove. “Once I sat down and thought about it, I realized that this was the first time in all the years we’ve been married that I’ve refused to do something he really wanted me to do. When did I become so pliable? I wasn’t like that at home, was I?”
Charles smiled. “That’s not the way I remember you. I often wondered if you’d ever find anyone you would be willing to marry.”
“When I met Jack I guess I fell head over heels in love and really wanted our marriage to work. On some level I must have sensed that would only happen if I did pretty much everything Jack wanted. It’s my own fault. I was looking for a man who would take charge and run things. And I certainly got it.”
Unlike me, Charles thought, supplying the implied criticism. He’d been so busy with teaching and publishing that he had left running just about everything to his wife. Whenever decisions came up, he’d deferred to her, thinking she’d enjoy having the freedom to shape their life as she wanted. Only later had he realized that he’d been an absentee husband and father.
“What did you tell the boys when Jack left?”
“That Dad’s visiting his folks for a while. They’ve accepted that, but of course, they miss him and want to know when he’s coming back. They talk to him every night on the phone, and they’re spending the day with him on Saturday.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
She shrugged. “We haven’t had a real talk since he left. He can be very stubborn.” Amy gave Charles a tight smile. “And so can I—now.”
Charles wasn’t sure quite what to say. He’d never liked Jack, but ending a marriage was a serious action. Splitting up over a part-time job seemed trivial, but of course, that was just symbolic of a shift in the basic power relationship in the marriage—a shift that a man such as Jack would find hard to accept.
Trying to lessen the tension, Charles asked, “Have you started the job yet?”
“I’ve already done one piece on a gallery opening, and I enjoyed it a lot. Right now, of course, I’m so angry with Jack that I’d stay with the job even if I hated it.”
Charles nodded, then looked up as Yuri walked into the room.
“Who’s that?” Amy asked.
“My department chair,” he said frowning.
“I thought the wake was only open to the family?”
“He probably thinks of himself as part of the family.”
Yuri walked up to the casket and stared at the body for several minutes as if conducting a forensic examination. Then he walked over to Charles, who introduced him to Amy.
Yuri took her hand for a long moment. “I am very pleased to meet the lovely daughter of my esteemed colleague.”
Charles saw something he hadn’t seen in a long time, the sight of Amy blushing.
“I have to go check on the boys,” she stammered.
Yuri turned to Charles as Amy made her way across the room.
“You have a very beautiful daughter.”
“Thank you.”
“She is married. Correct?”
“Yes. But her husband couldn’t be here today.”
Yuri nodded and has face turned somber. “A man will always miss his father. I’m sure you were the fruit of his eye.”
After a moment Charles made the journey from fruit to apple. “Not exactly. Our relationship was a bit strained.”
Yuri nodded. “My father cursed the ground I walked on when I left the Soviet Union.”
“He was angry with you for leaving home.”
“Not particularly, but he was local communist leader, so it was expected. It was necessary for him to preserve face. He loved me, and I am sure your father loved you as well.”
Charles managed to keep the doubt from showing.
“Will there be a religious service?”
“No, my father didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”
“Unfortunate. I enjoy all the ritual.”
Charles nodded, surprised, but then realized he shouldn’t be, Communism, after all, had thrived on its own elaborate set of rituals.
His father had been a member of the Episcopal Church for a time when he lived down in Connecticut. Charles surmised it was because he thought it helped him with his standing in the community. But religious values never seemed to have a close connection to his personal beliefs, which were of a more financial nature. Probably best summed up as the view that wealth was an outward manifestation of inner grace.
Charles watched Joanna come into the room. She was dressed stylishly if somberly, and Charles wondered, as he frequently did, what such an attractive, competent woman ever saw in him. Once Yuri caught sight of her, he quickly took his leave, obviously not wishing to linger in the presence of the police. He stopped to say goodbye to Amy, and even bent down to say a few words to the boys.
Amy walked up to Charles as Joanna was standing at the casket. “Your friend Yuri just called your grandsons “adorable bumpkins.”
“I’m sure he meant it in the best
possible way.”
“Who’s that?” Amy asked, staring at Joanna.
“The chief of detectives in town.”
She gave him a sideway glance, then grinned. “You mean your girlfriend.”
“That term seems at bit ludicrous at my stage of life, don’t you think?”
Amy studied Joanna. “She’s really quite attractive,” she said, not attempting to keep the surprise out of her voice. “A bit younger than you?”
“Twelve years.”
“So you’re robbing the cradle,” Amy said with a grin. “Or as Yuri would probably say, stealing the baby.”
Joanna came over and Charles introduced her to Amy and the boys. He watched the two women while they exchanged pleasantries. When men first meet they often stared belligerently, evaluating and ranking the other according to some intuitive pecking order. Women, Charles thought, do something similar, but they do it with a smile, the coolness only evident in their eyes.
Amy was doubtlessly wondering if this woman was worthy of her father, and Joanna was trying to discern whether Amy was going to be a fly in the ointment of her relationship with Charles. Both were apparently satisfied enough with what they saw to easily turn the conversation to the boys, who were staring up in fascination at the tall woman in the business suit.
The funeral director appeared in the doorway and discreetly motioned to Charles.
“Do you know if anyone else is expected?” he asked. He glanced nervously at his watch. “Only fifteen minutes are remaining in the time allotted.” His tone of voice implied that this wake was setting an unseemly record for brevity.
“I’m quite certain there will be no one else,” Charles answered. “I think we can wrap things up on time.”
“We’ll be leaving at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to transport the casket to Connecticut. Will you be following?”
Charles shook his head. “But I’m sure everything will be handled professionally on the other end.”
“Of course,” the man said with a thin smile, looking slightly offended. Charles wasn’t sure whether it was because of his refusal to follow the hearse to Connecticut or his implication that things could ever be less than professional.
When he returned to the women, he found that they were discussing the murder of Sebastian Locke.
“Why didn’t you mention this murder to me?” Amy asked.
“I had other things on my mind, and this time I wasn’t a suspect.”
Joanna smiled. “You were never a suspect in the last one.”
“Okay, a person of interest, then,” Charles said.
“Perhaps briefly,” Joanna admitted.
Amy smiled at the exchange and excused herself to go across the room to where the boys had begun turning over chairs to build a fort.
“I interviewed Lavinia Cole earlier this afternoon,” Joanna said.
“What did you make of her?”
“Very impressive—a powerful woman both physically and mentally. Probably a good match for Locke as you described him. She seemed very upset by his death.”
“Emotionally distraught?”
“More angry.”
Joanna reached in the pocket of her jacket and handed him a slip of paper. “Like I mentioned to you earlier today, she’d like to see you because you were one of the last people to talk with Locke before his death. I told her I couldn’t force you to do it, but I’d give you her number and it would be up to you.”
Charles took the slip. “I’ll think about it, but I doubt that there’s much I could tell her.”
“Don’t mention what Locke said about Professor Carlson. We don’t want her accusing Carlson of murder or even of trying to seduce Locke’s daughter. I’m going to have to talk with the good professor eventually.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t mention it. I’m pretty protective of the college’s reputation.”
“Where would you like to eat on Saturday night?” she asked, changing the subject.
Charles shrugged. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Well, we’ve already been to the three best places in Opalsville, which is not exactly a culinary capital. How about you come to my house, and I give you a home cooked meal.”
Charles felt a tightening in his stomach. This definitely seemed to be a taking their relationship to the next level.
“You needn’t look like that. I can cook. It may have been a while since I’ve cooked for a man, but it won’t take me long to jumpstart my skills.”
“I’m sure,” Charles said, managing a smile. “That will be wonderful.”
“Good,” Joanna said, giving him a suspicious look. “Then I’ll start planning the menu. Do you have any dietary restrictions? Is there anything you can’t eat?”
“I’m very healthy,” Charles said a shade defensively.
Joanna grinned. “I’m sure you are.”
Charles hoped that was true.
Chapter 9
Charles, Amy, and the boys were at Roger Mornington’s office in the center of Opalsville. His offices turned out to be in the Tyler Building, a stately late nineteenth century brick office building that dominated one corner of the downtown. The waiting room was fortunately empty, so the boys’ gasps of excitement didn’t disturb anyone. Charles was almost gasping himself as he marveled at the rich mahogany moldings, the nine-foot ceilings, and the plush rug that seemed to engulf his shoes. A grandmotherly secretary was fussing over the boys when a door opened and a slim, dapper man in a three-piece suit came out. He was closer to forty than the seventy that his fussy manner had led Charles to expect. After the introductions, he smiled nervously at the boys like a man who only infrequently had anything to do with children and preferred it that way. He turned to Amy.
“Perhaps you’d like to come in first,” he said, gesturing to his office. “I’m sure my secretary can look after the lads.” The woman nodded happily.
“I’d like to have my father with me,” Amy replied.
“Of course, if you wish,” he said, shrugging to show that he was willing to accommodate every eccentricity.
Charles and Amy went into a large room dominated by a battleship of a desk that looked battered enough to go back to far earlier generations of Morningtons.
The lawyer settled in behind it, opened a folder, and took out a file. He paged through the document until he came to a section, which he read carefully to himself, although Charles suspected he was well aware of what it contained. He finally looked up and nodded to himself.
“We may as well deal with Mr. Bentley’s bequest to Charles first. It’s … hmm … less complicated.”
“Okay,” Charles said, surprised that he was receiving any bequest.
Suddenly, Mornington disappeared behind his desk. Charles and Amy glanced quickly at each other as if wondering whether they were in the presence of a lunatic. But he immediately reappeared and stood up holding a baseball bat. He came around to the side of the desk and handed it to Charles.
“This is your bequest. He entrusted it to me when he first went into the nursing home because he was afraid someone would steal it. He told me that it was the bat he used when he played ball in college. He thought you’d appreciate it because you played ball as well.”
“That’s all he left my father,” Amy said, a horrified look on her face.
“Actually, it’s rather nice,” Charles said with a smile, touched that his father had bothered to leave him something so personal.
“It’s something I’d be proud to have,” Mornington said, which earned him a critical sniff from Amy.
“What did he leave me—an egg beater?” Amy asked.
Mornington pursed his lips. “Actually your grandfather left you nothing.”
“Figures. So why am I here?”
“Because, Mrs. Rossiter, to your two sons, Owen and Cory, your grandfather has left two million dollars after state taxes and other payments. He has designated you as the trustee of this account until the boys reach their majority, at which time
the remainder will be divided equally between them. So your sons receive the bulk of the estate aside from a few small gifts to charities.”
“Why?” Amy stammered.
“At the time of making out this will, your grandfather said to me that you and your sons were his only blood relatives who had not yet disappointed him.”
“I always thought that he planned to leave his money to my older brother, Ed,” Charles said.
The lawyer frowned. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in your knowing. At the time he entered the nursing home, your father had me conduct a little test. He had me lead Ed to believe that your father’s estate was negligible. It was his way of testing his oldest son to see what his reaction would be. When your brother failed to visit him even once over the course of two years, your father changed his will to the way it reads now.”
“I’m sure my brother told Dad that he was too busy playing golf,” Charles said.
“Indeed, I believe that is so. In return your father left him his old golf clubs. Your Uncle Walter in Florida will receive his old fishing gear.”
Charles smiled. Apparently his father had recognized and resented the lack of family attention and gotten retribution in his own none-too-subtle way.
Amy turned to Charles. “But you went to see him all the time. Why did he leave you just a lousy baseball bat?”
Mornington discreetly cleared his throat. “Your grandfather led me to believe that there had been some longstanding disagreements.”
“Indeed,” Charles said, leaving it at that.
When they were back out on the street in front of the office building, Charles stood there, awkwardly holding the bat.
“Are you waiting for eight other guys to come along to make up a team?” Amy asked with a smile.
“At least my bequest is easy to handle. I can just stand it up in a corner of my bedroom. But even though two million dollars isn’t what it used to be, your bequest makes you quite a rich woman.”
Amy appeared stunned and bewildered. “I guess it does or at least it make my boys pretty rich. What should I do?”
Charles paused to think. “If it were up to me, for right now I would keep it as our little secret.”