Generous Death

by Nancy Pickard

  “No,” I said. “Under the terms of the trusts that my grandparents set up for my sister and me, if either of us dies before we turn thirty, the other one gets the money. All of it. After we turn thirty, we can do whatever we want with it.”

  “So,” Derek mused, “if somebody wanted to harm The Foundation …”

  “They’d better kill me before Sunday,” I said.

  “Interesting,” said Ailey Mason.

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” I said dryly. I avoided the horrified expressions on the faces of Faye and Marv.

  “Well, well.” Mason tugged his black topcoat—which he had never taken off—more tightly around him and slipped his leather gloves back on. “We’ll be in touch, Ms. Cain.”

  “How nice,” I said politely.

  When he reached my office door he turned back to face me.

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “I certainly hope so,” I replied.

  Right after Mason left and the others filed out of my office, I got a call from a highly excited member of The Foundation board of trustees.

  It was Jack Fenton, phoning from his office at the bank, where he still went to work every day despite his seventy-seven years.

  “Jennifer,” he said, “I don’t want to frighten you unnecessarily, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the attacks on our friends. I’ve come to a startling conclusion.”

  “The Big Five,” I said tiredly, stealing his thunder.

  “Yes! You’ve thought of it, too!”

  “I’ve mentioned it to the police, Jack.”

  “Good, good. Very wise, Jennifer, very wise. I think we have toe answer, don’t you?”

  “It could be coincidence.”

  “Bosh,” he said succinctly. “Who knew about the list? Who knew about the Big Five?”

  I told him what I had told Geof the day before in New York City. “I knew,” I said. “Naturally. And all of you trustees, and my staff. And I suppose anyone we might have told, like wives or husbands.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a term we should have used outside the privacy of The Foundation, but I have a feeling we bandied it about rather loosely.”

  “Bankers never bandy,” he said amusingly. “Although I seem to have a vague memory of having discussed the Big Five with our priest one Sunday.”

  “You go to Minnie’s church, Jack?”

  “Um.” He clucked, distressed. “Poor Minnie HaHa.”

  “You told your priest?” I said patiently.

  “Yes, Dr. Priestly, if you can believe it. Ian Priestly. Nice enough young fellow, but doesn’t know beans about money management. I’ve tried to give him the benefit of my experience, sticking the old nose in, don’t you know.”

  “It’s a nice nose, Jack,” I said. He was one of my favorite trustees. “I’m sure he appreciates your advice.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” he said astringently. “I’m just a nosy old codger to him. At any rate, be that as it may, I told him about the Big Five. We were talking about the church’s money problems, and that led to talk of potential donors which led to The Foundation, and you see how we got to the Big Five.”

  “Sure. I take it we don’t know if he mentioned it to anyone else.”

  “No. I’ll ask him.”

  “Maybe,” I suggested tactfully, “we’d better leave the asking to the police.”

  “Bosh,” Jack said. “Cops can’t hold a candle to bankers when it comes to weaseling information out of people. Bet I’d have made a helluva detective.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I laughed.

  “Who else knew about the Big Five?” asked the banker-cum-detective.

  “The directors of our charities. I’m sure we discussed it with them. Not particularly discreet of us, I suppose ...”

  “But natural,” said Jack, who understood the byways of charity and the symbiotic relationship between givers and getters. “So that means the museum knew…”

  “Simon, yes. And Allison Parker …”

  “… the Welcome Home …”

  “Right, and the directors of the boys’ home and the historical society and the home for battered women and the local AA and the hotline for runaways and …”

  “If I ran down the list of the agencies we fund, I’d know who knew about the Big Five,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well,” Jack summed up, “we know who’s being attacked, don’t we. And we have a list of potential suspects …”

  “A long list, Jack. And we still don’t know why.”

  “Why somebody’s trying to kill off the Big Five? I think that’s perfectly clear, Jennifer: Somebody wants to ruin The Foundation. When the newspapers make the connection between the victims and the Big Five—and they will, believe me—they’ll publish it. And then nobody will want to give us a blooming cent. We’ll get written out of so many wills so fast you won’t see the ink dry.”

  “But why?” I persisted. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s only because we don’t have all the facts yet,” he said. “When we get the rest of the facts, then we’ll know.”

  I wasn’t persuaded, but I didn’t argue with him.

  “Uh, Jennifer,” he said in a very different tone of voice from the businesslike one he’d been using. I could feel his concern and the warning before he voiced it. “I think you ought to have police protection.”

  “I do,” I said and smiled to myself. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “See that you do,” he said sternly. “It would be hell to try to replace you, young lady.”

  I was touched.

  My phone was busy all morning.

  The other three trustees called, of course. Mr. Ottilini said he’d put two and two together and come up with the Big Five; he’d even told the police last night, but hadn’t wanted to frighten me at the time with what he hoped was an erroneous conclusion.

  “I’d rather have been wrong,” he said over the phone. He sounded the way he had looked when he walked away from the Welcome Home for Girls the day we found Mrs. Hatch’s body—that is, old, sad and tired.

  “We don’t know that you’re right,” I reminded him.

  “Be careful anyway, Miss Cain.”

  “If I err, I swear it will be on the side of caution.”

  A dry chuckle whispered its way over the phone.

  “How is Minnie?” I asked, knowing he’d know.

  “She’s still unconscious,” he said. “She was discovered before the drug had time to stop her heart.”

  “Is she unconscious because of the drug?”

  “No. Because of the knock on the head, which she might have sustained when she rolled down the cliff.”

  “Or which might have been inflicted on purpose?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Indeed,” the old lawyer whispered. “Indeed.”

  After Roy Leland and Pete Falwell called, it occurred to me that Michael was the only trustee who had not yet connected the Big Five, the murders and me.

  How ironic, I thought.

  His mind was so preoccupied with the fear of losing me and with murder in general that he hadn’t realized he might lose me in a rather more permanent way to a rather more specific danger.

  Having accomplished exactly nothing in the way of regular Foundation business, I went to lunch.

  Chapter 24

  Nobody tried to kill me at any time during the rest of that day. Nobody tried to kill me on Thursday. Nobody tried to kill me on Friday or Saturday. Early Sunday morning, I rolled over in bed and nudged Geof to wake him.

  “Wish me happy birthday,” I said.

  He stretched and yawned and turned on his side to return my attention.

  “Happy birthday, Jenny.”

  “Do you notice anything special about me today?”

  “You’re alive.”

  “Quite. Why is that, do you suppose?”


  “Because we protected you so well?”

  “From what?” I tweaked his long, handsome nose. “Nobody tried to kill me. It’s anticlimactic, isn’t it?”

  He laughed and said, “I’m not disappointed. I hope you’re not.”

  “I’ve ruined your case, you know. Now you’re going to have to look for another motive.” I lay back on the pillow and sighed. “If somebody wanted to wreck The Foundation, they should have killed me by now. Ailey Mason will be furious.”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “He’s an ass.”

  “He’s young, he’s got a lot to learn.” He scooted closer to me under the covers and kissed my bare left shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alive, Jenny.”

  I returned the compliment with a kiss on his bare and slightly hairy right shoulder. “How’s about a little hanky-panky?” I leered.

  “Brazen hussy,” he laughed. He threw the covers off, revealing two people who would put the nightgown and pajama industries out of business in no time.

  “Can you wait until I’ve brushed my teeth?” he said. “And fixed some coffee?”

  I threw my feet over the side of the bed, sat up and sighed theatrically. “Dear Abby,” I said, “what does it mean when he wants coffee before hanky-panky? Have I been seeing too much of him? Do you think the thrill is gone?”

  His answer was to push me gently back down on the bed and kiss me, as they say, lingeringly. No, the thrill definitely was not gone.

  “You’re right about the toothpaste,” I said, however. “And I’ll take my coffee black this morning, please.”

  “Here.” He held out his hands. I grabbed them and he pulled me off the bed to a standing position. We strolled, arms around each other, into the bathroom where we companionably brushed our respective teeth at the double sinks and washed our respective sleepy faces. I felt fey, and electrically, gratefully alive.

  While Geof shaved, I brushed my hair back into a ponytail at the nape of my neck. I dabbed on enough makeup to cover the blue beneath my eyes. Funny how troubles show up in shades of blue around the eyes—got the blues, they sing, and blue Monday and feelin’ blue. Appropriate, but remarkably unattractive on the human female face. I dabbed on the makeup with a heavier hand.

  “You’re quiet this morning, Detective Bushfield.”

  “I’m counting my blessings.” He wiped off the remnants of shaving gel from under his chin. I like to watch men shave. His hand with the double-edge razor moved in quick, sure, efficient strokes. He rinsed the razor and set it on the edge of the sink. I thought he was going to walk past me and on into the bedroom.

  Instead, he stopped behind me, lifted my ponytail and kissed the back of my neck.

  “That’s one blessing,” he said.

  I smiled back at him in the mirror.

  He turned me around and placed a second kiss on my lips.

  “That’s two blessings,” he said.

  He moved his kisses downward.

  “Three blessings,” he said. “Four …”

  I pulled his head up until his mouth was even with mine again and kissed him back. “Mustn’t lead a girl on,” I said, “with words of coffee, if you don’t intend to produce.”

  We hugged, gaily, happily, gratefully.

  Ten minutes later we were in bed again, but this time we were perched against pillows we had propped against the headboard. Geof had wrapped a thick navy blue robe around himself and pulled the covers up over our legs. I wore a white chenille robe left over from a previous wife.

  The coffeepot sat on a table on his side of the bed; he’d carried it up from the kitchen, along with buttered English muffins, ajar of honey that smelled like fresh clover and a wrapped and beribboned birthday present.

  “For me?” I said idiotically. I was delighted; I love birthdays.

  “Yes,” he smiled, “unless you know of somebody else in the room whose birthday happens to be today and who I happen to be nuts about.”

  And that’s what it was; a little box of mixed nuts with a card that said, “Little Geoffrey Bushfield is nuts about pretty Jenny Cain.” There was a P.S.: “This card and one cashew redeemable for one fabulous weekend in the New York City of your choice.”

  “I’m a fool for birthdays, you know,” I said, I couldn’t seem to stop beaming.

  “Somehow I guessed as much,” he said dryly, “Beneath that beautiful and efficient exterior beats a sentimental slob of a heart.”

  I ate a Brazil nut while I got the heart in question under control. “I can see why they married you,” I said. “It’s not every man who makes coffee as well as he makes love.”

  “I butter a pretty mean muffin, too,” he said between satisfied munches.

  “Um.” I licked butter off my lower lip.

  “But married life,” he said with mock seriousness, “if I may say so …”

  “You may say so, particularly in light of your employment history as outlined here on your resume …”

  “… is not all love and muffins.”

  “What then, oh wise one, is married life?”

  “Well, my first wife said it’s not the time you spend together, it’s how you spend the time.”

  “Together.”

  “Precisely.” He sipped and smiled. “Quite the philosopher, my first wife. She also said, she who hesitates is lost, and so she didn’t hesitate to divorce me.”

  “She’s not lost then.”

  “No. Found herself in California.”

  “Regular national lost and found department, that state,” I said. I chewed the muffin, but eschewed further comment. If this was how he wanted to introduce the topic of his divorces, that was fine by me. I didn’t have to see tears to appreciate the pain beneath the banter. He’d get to all of it, given time and trust.

  “Wife numero dos, on the other hand,” he said, “was of a practical rather than a philosophical nature. With her it was not the quality of the time we spent together, but the quantity of it.”

  “Not enough, huh?”

  “Not by your basic long shot. I worked too many weekends and too many nights.”

  “She got lonely.”

  “Only for a time, but she solved that problem.”

  “Found a friend, did she?”

  “Yep. Married him, too.”

  “Oh, Geof.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, Jenny. You get what you ask for in this life, and I got mine.”

  I licked my fingers before I said, “Did you ask for me?”

  He put down his cup of coffee. He took hold of the fingers I had just licked and he kissed the inner tip of each one of them.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “The first time I asked for you I was about seventeen years old. And I guess I’ve been asking for you ever since in all the women I’ve known. None of them was you, of course, and maybe that’s been the problem. It never occurred to me that I’d ever get the real thing.”

  “Didn’t your fairy godmother ever tell you?” I said in a voice so husky I hardly recognized it as my own.

  He looked at me.

  “About what?” he said.

  “About happy endings.”

  We set down the rest of our plates and got down to the business I had tried to initiate earlier that morning. It was nice—after toothpaste, coffee, muffins and conversation—very intimate, very comfortable.

  It was very wonderful to be alive to enjoy it.

  Only a couple of hours later, I took the wheel of Geof’s car for my weekly drive to the hospital. My own testament to American ingenuity still sat idle— but not idling—in the driveway of my parents’ home. I’d had a few rather more pressing things to worry about that week, and a willing chauffeur in Geof.

  He sat beside me in his BMW. I’d never taken anyone with me to visit my mother before, but I didn’t think I’d tell him that, at least not yet. We talked of other mutual concerns as I negotiated the unfamiliar car onto the all-too-familiar route.

  “So,” I said, “if he wasn’t going to k
ill me, why’d I get one of those poems?”

  “Well, I wasn’t really kidding about the protection we’ve given you.” Geof pressed the lever that lowered the passenger’s seat so that it and he leaned back comfortably. “It’s just possible that he couldn’t get to you to get at you.”

  “So to speak.” I pointed at one of my favorite views along the road—a “typical” New England barn attached to a farmhouse. Geof made satisfactory, appreciative sounds.

  “You’re a good tourist,” I said. “I like people who react to things.”

  “Wow!” he said. “What a terrific farmhouse.”

  “That’s the way,” I laughed. “So then you still think the murders are connected to the Big Five, even though nobody murdered me?”

  “I suppose,” he said agreeably.

  “You’re awfully relaxed about this, Mr. Crime Fighter. You don’t suppose you could act a little more alert, do you?”

  “Um.” He closed his eyes. “If the price of liberty is eternal vigilance, the price of eternal vigilance is exhaustion. Besides, I’ve just had the most wonderful morning …”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “And I’m limp as a deflated blimp. Drive on, sergeant, you’re doing a fine job.”

  A Don Williams country/western tape was sticking halfway out of the cassette player, so I pushed it in and turned the music down low. Geof was asleep by the time mellow Don was singing “… and I believe in you.”

  I let him nap all the way.

  We sat on opposite sides of my mother’s hospital bed and talked over her prone body. She might as well not have been there, which to all intents and purposes she wasn’t.

  “How long has she been like this?” Geof asked. His chin rested on his arms, which he had crossed on top of the metal side railing that had been raised to keep my mother from falling out of bed.

  “A week.”

  “This isn’t the first time she’s gone catatonic?”

  “No.”

  “She’ll come out of it then.”

  “That’s what the doctors say.”

  “The tone of your voice says the doctors are fools.”

  “No, but they don’t know everything.”