Widow's Row

by Lala Corriere

  The sleigh bed was the focal point of the bedroom on the other side of that fireplace and beyond it, a luxurious five-piece bathroom. The bay window over the jetted tub overlooked the vast valley, now nothing but a sheath of white snow, but I could imagine it as something out of ‘The Sound of Music’ come springtime.

  Kate grabbed my arm and pulled me into the adjacent area, a large turreted room. “His ex-wife was really quite talented. She painted it herself.”

  The soaring rotunda ceiling detailed an intricate burgundy and beige fresco painting of flora, fauna, and exotic feathered birds.

  “She was very talented,” I said.

  “Enough to realize she deserved better than an airhead Ari for a husband.”

  A circular desk and oversized chair graced the center of the room, accentuating the curvature of the magnificent architecture.

  Kate started giggling. She must have been watching me in secret delight, and I must have been drooling.

  “No excuse now,” she said.

  “For?”

  “That great American novel of yours.” Kate winked at Rudy

  and he waved us on to follow him outside to a steel shed-like building. The huge space housed several desks and a multitude of filing cabinets, but only one person. The owner, Ari Christenson.

  “He’s a little rough around the edges,” Kate whispered to me at the last minute. “But harmless, honey.”

  “Thanks for the way too late warning,” I said.

  Ari Christenson’s hair was a crumpled mass of greasy strings, without any need for dreadlock gel. His Hawaiian shirt barely buttoned across a bulging beer belly. His feet, strapped into leather Tevas over blue wool socks and on top of a gray metal desk, flopped back and forth like freshly caught tuna. They kept rhythm to an unknown song as he jabbered on the phone.

  Suddenly my Camelot disappeared.

  Ch10

  Chapter Ten

  It’s Good to be The King

  “You like it, lady lawyer? I need a month up, a month behind, and a month’s ravage deposit. Ya’ll up east might call it a damage deposit. If you only want one month, that still means you pay up front for three.” The cantankerous prick didn’t even say hello. And he didn’t remove his worn Tevas from the metal desktop.

  “Shit, Ari. That’s a fine way to greet a prospective tenant. It isn’t like you’ll get a cow’s ass come looking to rent around here ‘til spring,” Kate said.

  The mangy man sprung off his metal chair. “Excuse me, Princess. What the fuck was I thinking, Ms. Vander Ark.”

  “Like I said,” Kate looked my way, “he’s just swell underneath it all.”

  He broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, like wouldn’t you like to ride that swell?”

  I’d had enough of the jerk. I reeled around to leave just as Rudy arrived with a basket of fruit, a bottle of wine he later confessed to borrowing from Ari’s cellar, and a promise. “I’ll take care of you, Senorita Lemay. This great place for you. You see.”

  Kate confirmed the notion, I looked back up at the gorgeous villa available for a pauper’s price of any piece of D.C. real estate, and I decided Ari was a harmless dweeb. For some damn reason, I took a three-month lease, with options.

  Kate and I returned to The Lost Cat, and as wonted, Kate opened the liquor cabinet in the parlor, not even asking before pouring two scotches. I didn’t object.

  “Something’s got your craw up,” Kate said, flopping down on her fainting couch.

  “It shows that bad, does it?”

  “You were in an altered state of bliss when you signed that lease, but in the car on the way back you did a Jekyll and Hyde thing on me. Stone silent.”

  “I’m staying on here to get my dad settled, Kate. And I’m going to shove my behind onto the chair and start working on my book, but...”

  “...But there’s not enough action around here to keep you happy?”

  “It’s not that. Maybe quite the opposite. Since I’ve been here I’ve discovered...hmmm, well, let’s just say my family heritage isn’t quite what I thought it was.”

  “What the hell, honey? What does that mean? Don’t pull this lawyer gobbledy-gook on me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m your new best friend.”

  I didn’t wince, but it flashed again in my mind that I too easily succumbed to trust. And now, with a stranger. “My father was having an affair. I guess he knew the woman back in D.C., then for some reason she moved here. I’m trying to find her, and so far I’m failing miserably.”

  “I’ve been here for almost five years. What’s her name?”

  My mouth stalled as my mind took time out for the alarms to sound. Maybe I was revealing too much. My dad had always warned me to refrain from gossip. But, it wasn’t really gossip if it was about you, for crisakes. It was my dad, and it was the truth. Too much damn analyzing. “Her name is Erin McGinnis.”

  Kate swirled the ice around in her glass, or what little ice was in the five fingers of booze, then nestled it on the oak floor between her Victorian black-laced boots. “Never heard of her. Not even a McGinnis around here, that I know of.”

  “I thought I was an ace detective,” I said. “But so far I’ve turned up nothing. I’ve checked with motor vehicle, public records, real estate records. Even criminal records. There’s no marriage license, no death certificate, and no rabies vaccination. There simply is no evidence of an Erin McGinnis having ever taken so much as a piss in Trinidad.”

  Kate threw her short blonde wisps of hair back from her face and howled. “This might be a small cow town, honey, but no one personally knows nine thousand people who pee here on a regular basis. Besides, maybe she lives in the county. Last I heard that’s at about fifteen thousand. This ain’t D.C., but this also ain’t Green Acres.”

  “So I’m finding out.”

  Journey was just about to pounce on her owner’s lap when Kate leaped to her feet, almost kicking over her precious glass of scotch. “I know. Naomi! You need to talk to Naomi Gaines. She’s been here longer than that damn sign on the mountain has announced our town name to every idiot traveling through without a map. You know, she’s the nicest and nosiest old broad I’ve ever met.”

  I knew.

  George Baird sat behind the controls of his pricey King Air plane as he lowered the landing gear and allowed the aircraft to descend onto the private airstrip. Baird prided himself on perfect landings, and this one was nothing less, in spite of the gusting winds coming in from the Pacific, bouncing across the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and foretelling of another winter storm behind them.

  The sight of the small log cabin pleased him as he shuffled toward it, his overnighter tossed over his right shoulder. Baird’s caretaker had received word of his anticipated arrival. Rich smoke emanating from the chimney made the bitter night air, the kind you can hardly take into the throat, almost bearable. When he entered the cabin, Baird spotted the file he expected, prominently displayed on the kitchen table against the rare bottle of 1961 Chateau Leoville Barton.

  It’s good to be the king. Even in Trinidad.

  Rudy volunteered to return my overdue rental car, with an even more generous offer of replacing it with a late model Jeep his cousin had for sale. “It good buy. Very clean,” he said.

  Ari stood nearby and laughed. “Muy limpio. Menos millas en lo que el cono.” Very clean. Less miles on it than Senorita Lemay’s pussy. Rudy glowered back at his boss and I remained expressionless. It would be my secret that I spoke enough Spanish to get by, and enough that I got the gist of the insult.

  I was on the phone to my partners, explaining my extended absence. Funny thing, as long as they took over all my clients along with all my fees I could stay away as long as I wanted.

  I phoned Dad’s neighbor, Naomi Gaines, asking if she could meet me for a cup of coffee. She wasn’t feeling well and asked if she could call me in a few days.

  Adam’s I.D. showed up on my cell when it rang. “Am I ever missing you,” I answered.

  “Better
than hello, any day,” he said. “When are you coming home, baby?”

  “I don’t know quite yet,” I fudged. “Dad’s still not eating, and barely seems to recognize me. Maybe if you had stayed around.”

  “Don’t go there. One of us has mega clients and responsibilities, for crisakes. You do still want to be the wife of a senator, don’t you?”

  I remembered the enticing dream. Adam was Hollywood handsome, with the brilliance to match. His aura exuded a charmed charisma. Dad was right about one thing. Adam was the perfect man for me. Sometimes I even fantasized about becoming first lady, dancing at all the inaugural balls cheek to cheek, with President Adam Chancellor. The dream wasn’t a far stretch, and in fact I’d heard my father talking to Adam about the prospect on several occasions.

  “Yeah, well, before you get too busy, future senator, I do have a favor to ask you. I’m trying to track down a friend of Dad’s. Maybe she can help speed his recovery. Anyway, I’m running into brick walls down here, but it turns out this is someone he knew in D.C.”

  “Breecie, I think you should stay out of your father’s personal affairs,” he warned.

  “I’m trying to help him. Wasn’t it you that told my dad you’d help get him out of this hell hole he’s living in?”

  “What are you up to, Breeze?” For some crazy reason, people used that nickname for me whenever I was very, very good, or very, very bad.

  “I want you to track down anything you can on an Erin McGinnis. Don’t know how long she lived in D.C., if she’s still there or here in Trinidad, and even if she’s still alive. I’ll email you the stuff I have on her. Addresses and dates.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  Adam and I both used the services of the best private detective in the entire middle Atlantic, if not the damn country. What I was asking for would take one minute of Adam’s time. A couple hours for the investigator.

  “Forget it. I’ll call him,” I said.

  “Nah, not a problem. I’ll call him,” he changed his mind. “Just don’t get your hopes up on a stranger. Take care of the old man, and get yourself home to me. I want to start planning my election, and our wedding.”

  We had never before discussed a date for marriage, except that Adam’s campaign people insisted we should be married way before the election.

  I forgot to mention my newly signed lease.

  Chapter Eleven

  He’s a Real No-Hair Man

  My visits to the hospital grew more and more daunting. Dad would seem to make progress, then slip back two degrees of wellness. The best I could say is he was making eye contact with me. That is, until the day I walked in on him with a visitor.

  “Dad?” I charged into the room.

  He gave me a blank stare without a hint of recognition. Still, he did have company.

  “I’m sorry. I could have sworn I heard my father talking.” It was more like a gruff whisper, but I felt certain it was my father’s voice.

  “Probably just a little wishful thinking on your part,” the man said, lifting his imposing frame off the chair nearest the bed. “But I bet it won’t be long now. Your dad’s a tough old geezer, and the nurse tells me he’s taking in some broth. That’s a good sign.”

  “Have we met?”

  The heavyset man cast his gaze my way from behind wire rim glasses and eerie deep-set eye sockets that sank into a square face. His most unusual feature—he hadn’t a wisp of a hair. His head was slick as a sheet of glass topped off with a coat of olive oil. He had no eyebrows, and not even one iota of an eyelash. I had never met this man.

  “I’m a friend of your father’s. The name is George.” He extended a gripping handshake, a leftie that forced me to use my left hand in acceptance. His tight hold hurt against my mother’s engagement ring I wore.

  Seems father had a lot more friends than I knew about. “George?” Even a brainless gnat could figure out I was asking for a last name.

  “Yes, well Ma’am, I have to be running now. I’m guessing you won’t be sticking around town much longer, either?”

  The comment seemed peculiar, but something else didn’t feel quite right. A distinct icy edge surrounded our conversation.

  “Actually, I’ve decided to stay on. I found a place just out of town.” Craps. Don’t get snippy with him. As far as I know he’s the only other visitor Dad’s had. Maybe he can fill in what is now a blank tablet of unanswered questions.

  I reached in my purse for a pad and pencil to jot down my number for the man, and see if he wouldn’t mind reciprocating by leaving me his. When I looked up Dad was squeezing his eyes tight, and when I turned around George with no last name and no hair was gone.

  Moving out to the ranch amounted to little more than picking out fresh bed linens, pillows and blankets, and one scrumptious gold duvet. I purchased a couple paintings and accessories to personalize the almost perfect space. Mostly, I had to buy more clothes, or have a friend back home pack and ship a few things to me. That would mean risking Adam finding out I was staying on a little longer, before I had a chance to explain. Might as well give the business to Kate’s store friend. I smiled.

  Rudy took time out from his ranch hand duties to haul some of my heavier purchases up the stairs, leaving me to bring in a small bag of favorite sundries. On Energizer speed, I clipped the corner entering the dining room from the kitchen, colliding with a mass of plastic grocery bags that careened to the floor.

  “Gosh. I didn’t mean to...”

  “...act like a bull in a china shop?” the man snarled.

  I bent over to help gather the strewn groceries.

  “I’m sorry. Not a good way to meet. I’m guessing you’re my housemate.”

  “No. Not a housemate. I happen to occupy the lower level.”

  I picked up boxes of frozen food and shoved them back into white plastic bags. Frozen lasagna, spaghetti, and chicken linguini.

  “You like frozen food, or just Italian?” I teased.

  I rose from my knees to offer my hand, aware of even more uneasy feelings brewing in my stomach. “I’m Breecie Lemay. I’m moving in on the third floor.”

  “Thanks, I have these.” He began reclaiming his bags, not accepting my handshake. Not offering his name, or even one word of welcome.

  Ari had already warned me. Jonathan Marasco was a pleasant looking man, not handsome, and certainly not the virile type. An unshaven beard made him look a little scruffy. Beyond that, my legal-eagle instincts noticed three things. He wore a gold mariner’s cross on his chest, if I wore my heels I would be taller, and Jonathan Marasco was a man shrouded in sadness.

  I stepped away. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  “I have a microwave downstairs. That’s all I need. I like to keep things simple,” he said.

  I placed the last of his spilled groceries into a bag and slipped it on his arm. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Marasco.” Yeah. I know all about you, and I’ll stay clear of you, Mr. Thorn-Up-Your-Butt frozen Italian man.

  Ari sat in the living room smoking a rancid cigar and waving me in. I wasn’t sure which the more hostile environment was, but I chose the living room over the kitchen.

  “Don’t mind Johnny boy. He’s had a rough go of life and just likes to keep to himself. He won’t cause you no harm,” Ari said. “Just give the guy his privacy.”

  I couldn’t believe I was receiving advice from the man I had dubbed that cantankerous prick.

  “I’m not so free with my booze as Kate is up at The Lost Cat but beings you’re just moving in, can I pour you one?”

  My knee-jerk was a flat no, then I remembered the detective work I had yet to do. “Thanks.” I took a seat in the leather chair nearest the fireplace.

  “Ari, do you know why I’m staying on here in Trinidad?”

  “Kate tells me you’re a budding novelist.”

  I blushed at the thought. That Kate was crazy.

  “I figure I’m your main character, ya know. Your hero. And you’re sticking around
to observe me in action.”

  “I’m here to help my father. He’s recovering from a stroke.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I did hear something like that. Damn decent of you.”

  “Have you ever heard of a woman named Erin McGinnis? I think she’s a local.”

  “Can’t say I have,” he said, scratching at the greasy mayhem of hair erupting out of his scalp. “Then again darling, folks must have told you, might be my brain is just a little bit fried from over stimulation,” he chortled.