Donovan Reid hadn’t been at the funeral, but he was waiting at the mansion when I arrived, giving me orders again on not speaking to the press crowding the gate, not speaking to anyone who might repeat what I said to the press. In other words—don’t speak. Ever.
At the graveside, I’d sat between Tina and her youngest son, Sebastian. Her older son, I still couldn’t remember his name, sat with his wife and baby on her other side. Dog and Kat had been at the funeral, not with the family, of course, but always within sight, smiling encouragingly whenever I looked their way.
I still had nightmares about how close they’d come to being killed. When the gun fired, the bullet had scored the wall inches from Kat’s head. Later she said with relish, she’d heard it sing as it rocketed past her ear. Then she knocked Annette Reich to the ground and cuffed her hands behind her back with a blackberry vine tie.
When Kat hauled her to her feet, she growled, “Just the gardener, eh?”
Dog had found the fuse box, replaced the fuse from the spares he’d found inside. When the shot rang out, he rushed back. At my request (I thought Annette Reich’s cussing bothered Thomas), he helped Kat drag her downstairs and used a half-dozen more ties to lash her to the railing. Then he fired up Mrs. Timmons’ ancient percolator while Kat called the police.
Besides her picture in the news, that was the last I saw of Annette Reich. Apparently, it was the last anyone had seen of the executive too. Forensic teams scoured his house, but found no evidence of foul play. Annette Reich confessed to killing Hillary but not the executive. The brother never reappeared either. I wondered about the dog, and hoped the neighbor would find it a good home.
Maybe we’d never find out what happened to the executive or the brother. Most real stories end that way. I would never forget the cold, brutal wounds striping Hillary’s body, and the lake of blood in Thomas’s kitchen. I suspected the executive had been taken to a remote spot somewhere and shot. Criminal psychology, something I’ve googled lots lately, says stabbing a victim is personal, triggered by rage and revenge. Shooting can be more exacting, detached. In the last dregs of her anger and maybe seasoned by killing the executive, she’d intended to gun us down too, tying up loose ends, balancing her father’s books.
Kat had a different opinion. She figured the son planned his revenge in a fat civil suit. The executive must have heard about it, fled the country and lived now under another name, on funds he’d squirreled away in the Cayman Islands. When Annette Reich told her brother about killing Hillary, he’d also fled the scene. She guessed he was living in a trailer, hiding in a North Carolina forest. For someone who’d grown up in Cambodia and El Salvador, North Carolina was an exotic wilderness.
I ditched Donovan by hiding in the kitchen. Mrs. Timmons found me at the table, crying about Thomas again.
“Oh, child.” She pulled her chair next to mine and wrapped her wide arms around me. “Why you crying over that wretched man?”
I blew my nose. “He wasn’t wretched. He was a good man.”
Mrs. Timmons snorted. “A great fool, yes, but not a good man.”
I sighed and pulled myself from her arms. “Is this when you tell me why you took the 1950s ledger disk from my room?”
She tucked my hair behind my ear. “Well, I have to say that Mister Crowder didn’t marry fools. Either time.” She tried to get me to eat a muffin or a cookie and offered to make coffee, but I stared at her steadily till she sighed.
“Yes, I took the computer disk, dear. Some secrets should stay buried.”
“Or drowned?”
She shook her head. “Have you guessed everything?”
“I know he took things from the ship illegally, but he did something worse, didn’t he?”
She nodded. “I know you won’t say anything. You’re a good child, too young to be keeping such secrets.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mrs. Timmons, please.”
She twisted a dishtowel, staring past the kitchen garden to a time and place beyond present sight. “Mind you, Mister Thomas did it for his wife, who’d gone half-mad with grief. That night, he thought the sea had given him a treasure for what he’d lost.”
I remembered the entries for medical expenses for a baby. “Their baby, their real baby, died?”
“She died the night of the storm. Grieving himself, Mister Crowder and his brother went down to the cove to help with that wrecked ship and found a baby wrapped against the rain, tethered to the mast. No sign of the father. So they said. I didn’t like to question them too much.”
At my look, she nodded. “Yes, I was there. They didn’t have much money, but Mrs. Crowder’s folks did and they hired me to help with the baby, poor little sick thing. I’d sat all night with Mrs. Crowder, being sure that in her grief, she’d do herself harm. When her husband put that shipwrecked baby in her arms, all the light came back into her face. I don’t even think she noticed that this baby had black hair and brown eyes when hers had had light brown hair and blue eyes. Or that she was months older.”
She sighed, like a gust of wind rising from her soul. “Mister Crowder and his brother buried the dead baby in the orchard. I never knew exactly where. They changed doctors, and the rest of the family and what few friends they had back then didn’t see the baby till Tina turned one. Mister Crowder talked about her getting over a long illness and don’t she look a new child, so well she was.”
“How’d Hillary find out?”
Mrs. Timmons sighed. “Her dad must have told her. Maybe he found his conscience and needed to confess before he died. She started bleeding her uncle over it right after her dad’s funeral. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but even as a youngster, she was a sorry excuse for a human being.”
She gave me a hard look. “I think it would be a grievous thing to tell Miss Tina this story. She loved her dad and mom. Let their secret stay buried.”
I eyed her solemnly. “Not for me to decide, Mrs. Timmons. An Abishag wife is always discrete. Rule number 71.”
She shot me a puzzled look, but I only hugged her. “You’re the only one who knows the truth. Tina has children; trust that she’d understand what Thomas did. She might be delighted to discover family in Portugal—could be a blessing after losing her dad.”
Although she said nothing, I saw something change in Mrs. Timmons’ face. I kissed her cheek and left before I started crying again.
Donovan cornered me in the study, but before he opened his mouth, I said wearily, “Look, my lips are sealed. Stop telling me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Actually, I was going to compliment you on your dress.”
I blinked in surprise. Tina had bought the dress, a smart black thing that I couldn’t afford, and which I accepted with gratitude. I borrowed black heels from Jen, who had a closet devoted to shoes.
“Thanks.” I felt more comfortable when he was being a jerk. When he was being nice—or ignoring me—I could only stare, admiring his perfectly cropped red hair and how nicely his Italian suit hung.
“You free Friday night?”
I gulped. “Excuse me?”
He shot me an impatient look. “Your contract as an Abishag wife ended when your husband did. You can date now.”
“I’m not sure…”
His attention was on the foyer, where the Portuguese Cove mayor had entered with his entourage. “I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something nice.”
Retreating further into the study, I dropped into a chair near the desk, reeling.
“Well, this is awkward.” The chair behind Thomas’s desk swiveled, and Sebastian stared at me, eyebrows raised. “Granddad is barely cold, and Grandma is already lining up her next man.”
If Sebastian had been nasty about it, I would have run out of the study. He sounded amused.
“I was lining up nothing,” I muttered.
“I noticed. Guy’s kind of forceful. Sure you can handle him?”
“I’m sure I can’t.” My eyes watered again, and I fumbled in my pocket.
; He pulled a box from a drawer and slid it across the desk. Plucking out several tissues, I dabbed at my face.
“If it bothers you so much, don’t go out with him. Guy’s a jerk anyway.”
I choked out. “I’m not crying over Donovan. I’ve dated worse. Gotta kiss a lot of frogs before the prince appears.”
“No, you don’t.” He frowned. “If not Reid, then…Granddad?”
I nodded and hiccupped. A shaft of light touched Sebastian’s face, and I saw the tight pink lines around his eyes. He’d been grieving too.
“You never knew my grandfather,” he said. “How can you miss him?”
“I don’t miss your granddad, though I’m sorry for your loss. I lost my own grandpa last year. I miss my Thomas.”
“Even if he was never real?” So kindly, so gently he spoke that I could whisper, “Yes.”
I heard a noise. Dog and Kat hovered at the study door. Jen was wrong. Some friends stay to the end and maybe some families too. “Ready to go, Les?”
I nodded at Dog and reached for Sebastian’s hand as he reached for mine. Somehow I knew I’d see him again. I leaned over and said for his ears alone.
“Thomas was always real to me.”
Coming in December 2013
Indelible Beats
The Second Novella in the Abishag Mystery Series
An Excerpt from Indelible Beats
“Marrying old, dead men.” Sleek in his black Pasolini suit, his close-cropped red hair gleaming in the candlelight, Donovan raised an eyebrow. “At least that part of your life is over.”
“Old, dying men,” I said. I toyed with my wine glass. Technically, at twenty, I couldn’t legally drink, but Donovan wanted to celebrate, and his favorite Italian sidewalk café never carded his dates.
“Whatever.” He shrugged. Usually he’d be correcting me, but tonight he only radiated satisfaction. “You’re done being an Abishag wife, done with warming the beds of geezers in comas. You know why, Leslie Greene?”
Crumbling breadsticks into the remains of my scampi, I smiled, shook my head, and let him answer his own question.
“I couldn’t possibly be dating an Abishag because I’ve been promoted to principal counsel at the Abishag Agency.”
I squealed and hugged him, rocking the table and upsetting my untouched wine. In the flurry of waiters mopping the table and Donovan rolling his eyes, complaining about his “clumsy girlfriend” and adding to the bill for their “trouble,” he never noticed that I said nothing about not being an Abishag again.
* * *
Because an Abishag usually marries her comatose husband (or, more precisely, signs the paperwork with the husband’s power of attorney) in the legal offices of the Abishag Agency—more often than not on the weekends—Donovan worked Saturday mornings and took off Tuesday afternoons. Not coincidentally, my past four appointments with Florence Harcourt, Abishag director, had been Tuesdays at 3 p.m. I was ready to take on a new assignment, a new husband.
I even felt a bit of confidence. My first marriage—to 83-year-old stroke patient Thomas Crowder—had lasted 21 days. I’d made his final days comfortable and as companionable as possible for a guy in a coma. Plus, with help from my university housemates, I’d solved a murder and uncovered a family secret.
Except for mathematics, I was pretty much a dismal failure at everything, so I looked back at the summer with a sense of accomplishment. The family had even given me a nice bonus on top of the Abishag fee. The money had paid down my first two years of school debt and covered most of the current fall semester. I even, briefly, had a little cushion in the bank.
Unfortunately, going out with Donovan had turned out to be expensive even though he paid for meals. Whereas as a married woman I’d worn pretty much what I wear for school—except for a pair of strappy sandals I’d bought for the “wedding” and a new nightgown—Donovan expected me to dress a certain way. He supervised my shopping, insisting on high-end boutiques. Soon I had a sharp wardrobe and a bank account approaching zero.
That was one reason I’d opted to being an Abishag again. I had looked for a conventional job, but I have no references since previous employers considering me either useless or a catastrophe. I didn’t have enough to cover my part of the January rent, and I couldn’t get financial help from my parents, who think I should live at home and commute 100 miles daily to school.
My interviews with Florence had an urgency to them, yet my requirements were proving to be a challenge. I needed to marry someone during my winter break from school—and my husband had to die before school started again in mid-January. I didn’t want to risk Donovan finding out about me again being an Abishag, and I couldn’t risk Florence finding out that I was dating one of her lawyers. (Rule No. 14 in the Handbook for Abishag Wives: “An Abishag wife does not date.”)
Yes, my life tended to be complicated.
On this particular Tuesday, Florence had settled me at her conference table with a cup of tea, a plate of biscotti and a large photo album between us. My previous appointments hadn’t gone well, and she wore a determined look.
My capital with Florence seemed spent. Because Thomas’s daughter had written me such a glowing reference—and because there had been a positive statement in the local newspaper about a killer brought to justice in part by an Abishag wife—Florence doted on me when I first returned for a new assignment. But last week she accused me of being persnickety.
“I had two calls yesterday, Leslie, that should suit you perfectly. One, a lovely man, a retired MD, is in end-stage cancer. He’s been under hospice care since Wednesday at his family home in Pasadena.”
I checked his photo, one taken about forty years earlier when he’d been middle-aged. I did a quick calculation and figured he’d be 91 in May, although the odds of him lasting till May were slim. I turned the page and found a recent photo of him in a hospital bed, his body ravaged by cancer. My heart squeezed at the sight of his skinny arms and drawn face. I skipped over his name, not wanting to get attached so quickly and saw the address line. No, the distance between Westwood and Pasadena still put me at risk of Donovan discovering the truth.
Reaching for my teacup, I looked up and caught Florence watching me narrowly. I raised an eyebrow, a little urbane mannerism I’d picked up from Donovan.
“And the other?”
She covered her disappointment and flipped the page. “Not a medical doctor but a theologian, past president of a prestigious seminary.”
I blinked. Although the original Abishag had been the biblical King David’s last wife and the young woman who’d warmed his bed till his death, most religious people found the practice abhorrent, saying it made a mockery of real marriages.
Seeing my surprise, Florence smiled. “This theologian has written seminal papers about supplying Abishag wives for the infirm, considering it charity in its purest form. He provided for one in his own trust, should he need one.” She lowered her voice. “He has family money.”
Translated: plenty of funds for an Abishag. I looked at his “after” picture. For someone under hospice care and obviously comatose, he looked hearty.
“What’s wrong with him?” I tried not to sound too suspicious.
“He never woke after heart surgery. His doctors say his organs are failing, and he could pass before Christmas.” She smiled fondly at the picture. “He looks a little like Pierce Brosnan, don’t you think?”
“A little,” I said doubtfully. I was no expert, but he didn’t look like he’d die before Christmas.
“His home is around the corner too, this side of the Pacific Palisades, if you’d like to visit. I know you wanted to see Thomas Crowder before you married him.”
Another strike against the theologian. If I wanted to hide this assignment from Donovan, I had to find a husband far from his geographic comfort zone.
Avoiding Florence’s expectant gaze, I took a biscotti. Although I’d always been thin, Donovan thought a bonier look would suit me better and had told me to cut all ca
rbs. I nibbled an edge. Delicious.
A tap at the door and Florence’s assistant entered the room. “The file for Jordan Ippel, Miss Harcourt.”
“Ippel?” Florence frowned.
“La Jolla, ma’am. You spoke to his attorney yesterday.”
Florence’s face cleared. “Right. Fax this to the San Diego office. Not in our jurisdiction.”
“I could go to La Jolla,” I said. Donovan would never visit me there. He didn’t even like crossing the Orange County line to my parents’ house.
Florence cocked her head. “But you know nothing of Jordan Ippel, Leslie.”
“Oh, right.” I tugged the file from her and opened it. No “before” picture but a clear photo of him in his hospice bed connected to a mass of wires and tubes. His hair was dark (definitely dyed—who dyed comatose peoples’ hair?) and longish. He had that sunken look of someone who’d been ill a long time, pale as someone already dead. In fact, with his long, gaunt form, black satin pajamas and bony, white hands, he looked like a book illustration of Dracula.
Florence said, “Resembles Leonard Nimoy, don’t you think?”
My housemate Stanley lines the hallways with “Star Trek” posters so I know what Leonard Nimoy as Mister Spock looks like. I still thought he looked more like a vampire. “He’s an artist?”
“A famous one too.” Distaste tinged Florence’s voice. “I understand he had talent in his thirties but then joined the paint splatter movement. Perhaps I’m a fuddy-duddy, but I think one should be able to look at a painting and know immediately what it is meant to be.”
I don’t get art. My half of my West Los Angeles bedroom has posters of visual math bought when I was in my fractal phase—and had more money.
“His family?” I asked delicately. The file was remarkably spare. At 69, he was young to need an Abishag wife. Most of the men the agency served were in their 80s or older.
“None. A series of wives and female companions, but his last girlfriend disappeared when he was hospitalized. No children. His lawyer has power of attorney.”
Sinking Ships: An Abishag's First Mystery (The Abishag Mysteries Book 1) Page 10