Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  “Yes, this is her.” Or me. Or she. I can never remember the correct grammar in that situation. I know when to use good and when to use well, but it’s downhill after that. Fortunately, I teach art and seldom get bogged down with the intricacies of the human language.

  “This is Allen Hawthorne. We met the other day with Cassandra and Preston Boyer to review Elizabeth Boyer’s will.”

  “I remember, Mr. Hawthorne. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if we might meet again soon. As you know, Elizabeth requested that you take on the role of fiduciary, and if you have agreed to fulfill these responsibilities, there are several papers that need to be signed and filed with the state.”

  “Do I have to decide so quickly? I really don’t even understand what the job entails,” I asked nervously. “Is there any real need to hurry?”

  There was a long pause, as some papers were being shuffled in the background. “Ms. Kean.. .”

  “Call me, Maggie.”

  “Maggie, then. Normally, I like to give people plenty of time to get used to the idea of being an executor or a fiduciary or any other request a decedent may have included in a will. But the fact is, in this particular matter, I think we might want to proceed as expeditiously as possible.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, although I had a hunch it had something to do with the grandkids.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Kean, I mean Maggie, I would much prefer to continue this conversation in person. Emotions are understandably running quite high at this time, as you can well imagine. I believe it would be easier and more prudent to explain the situation face-to-face, if you are agreeable to such a meeting.”

  I sighed. “Mr. Hawthorne, I have no problem meeting with you, although I will warn you that I haven’t made up my mind about Elizabeth’s request.” Unbidden tears sprang to my eyes. I felt like a pregnant woman with a vat of hormones spilling through my body. Between mourning for Elizabeth and lusting after Villari, I was hanging on to a crazy seesaw of emotions, and not doing a great job of it. “But I’m more than willing to hear what you have to say, especially since I’m sure Cassie and Preston have been a real pain in the ass—uh, neck, I mean.”

  He chuckled. “That’s quite all right, Maggie. Your first word was decidedly more accurate.”

  “So when would you like to meet?”

  “Would there be a time this morning that would be convenient for you?”

  “Sure. When and where? You’ll have to give me the address. I’ve never been to your office.”

  “Well, actually, I’m working in Elizabeth’s office right now. I’m going through her files and gathering some information. Would you mind coming here within the next hour or two? It will take me at least that long to finish.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m not sure I’m ready for another confrontation with the Evil Twins.”

  “Perfectly understandable, my dear. I felt the same way before I arrived, but Benton has assured me that the ‘Evil Twins,’ as you so aptly describe them, are not due back until late this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” I said, still a little skeptical. I was not eager to run into either of the Boyer grandchildren. The way my luck was running lately, I was convinced that a great cosmic joker was wreaking havoc on my life and laughing his butt off.

  “I can expect you at ten o’clock, then?” “Sure,” I agreed hesitantly. “I’ll be there.”

  I hung up feeling a little unhinged. In a space of a few days, everything in my life had changed. I glanced at the clock and groaned. It was only a few minutes past eight o’clock and I had less than two hours before my meeting with Hawthorne. I flipped over, scrunched down under the covers, pulled the pillow over my head, and pretended that everything was fine. If an ostrich could bury its head in the sand, I could bury mine in the sheets.

  It didn’t work, though. Elizabeth was nagging at me, demanding that I get up and face the day. I wondered if I was the only person whose memories of the dearly departed were less than rosy. Where were the ‘misty, watercolor memories’ Barbra Streisand sang of so eloquently? In my mind, Elizabeth stood over me with her hands on her hips barking out the same orders she did before she died. Before she was killed.

  God, I missed her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Someone leaned heavily on the doorbell while I was in the shower. There was shampoo in my hair, soap in my eyes, and I was in a lousy mood. I had taken the receiver off the hook and turned down the volume on my cell beforehand because I can’t stand letting a phone go unanswered, which doesn’t make any sense. I know they’ll call back if it’s urgent, but I can’t seem to stop myself from dropping the soap and sprinting across the floor sopping wet.

  But how do you disconnect the doorbell?

  Then the knocking started. Whoever was there had no intention of going away. Rinsing quickly, I stepped onto the cotton throw rug and pulled an old threadbare terrycloth robe over my body, tying it at the waist. With a towel twisted around my hair, turban style, I ran down the hallway just fast enough to feel my feet slide beneath me as I rounded the corner. My legs flew up and my bottom flew down as I skidded across the wooden floor.

  I yelped as I slammed sideways into the wall. Gingerly, I checked my body for broken bones and blood and gore, but I was still in one piece, despite an aching shoulder and a sore hip. Using the back of a chair, I pulled myself up and slowly hobbled to the front, where someone was apparently determined to destroy a perfectly good door.

  “What is your problem?” I demanded, yanking the door open. But the hand that was pounding relentlessly now rapped me in the face. Before I knew it, I was down on my butt again, this time with a bruised nose and a body sprawled on top of me. I shoved the person unceremoniously to the side, rolled over, and pulled myself up for the second time that morning.

  “What are you doing here, Cassie?”

  “What am I doing? I was knocking on your door until you plowed into me and sideswiped me off my feet,” she snapped as she stood up and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “Now, thanks to you, my dress is filthy. This is a Michael Kors original and you’ve got me rolling in the dirt like a common mud wrestler. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”

  While Elizabeth’s lovely granddaughter stood in my doorway unloading on me, the little patience I did have for her simply vanished. “Listen, you little shit. I didn’t touch you. You lost your balance when I opened the door. And remember, I’m not the one who came waltzing over here uninvited, beating my door down. It will take less than two seconds for you to dump that dress in your maid’s lap to clean, so drop the act and tell me what brings Little Miss Sunshine here for a visit.” Limping like a dog with a thorn in its paw, I left the door open and went to pour a cup of coffee. One cup. For me.

  With my backside in mind, I bypassed the wooden kitchen chairs and opted for the couch. Drawing my legs beneath me, I blew softly on my coffee, ignoring Cassie, who was still emitting dramatic huffs and puffs from the entryway. She really was more than I could handle first thing in the morning.

  “I thought you and I had an agreement to stay away from each other.”

  “We did, but this is simply too important to let a minor disagreement keep us from working together for everyone’s benefit.”

  Needless to say, I was skeptical of anything Cassie deemed beneficial to anyone else besides herself; especially knowing she regarded me as little more than a bug.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” I asked, taking a sip.

  “Would you mind if I had a cup of coffee?” she asked imperiously.

  “Not at all,” I said, waving in the direction of the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

  She was still standing in the doorway when I looked up. I nearly burst out laughing at the play of emotions flitting across her face. This woman had been catered to for so long she needed to be re-taught simple English words like “coffee pot” and “help yourself”. I was tempted to get up and show her how the common folk
lived, but my evil streak sat back and reveled in her discomfort.

  Minutes later she was sitting on the couch opposite me, looking terribly awkward without her usual china cup and saucer. But I had to hand it to her. Even in her slightly disheveled dress and perfectly matching pumps, she was determined to see this meeting through to the end.

  I pulled the towel off my head and dragged my fingers through my hair to fluff my curls out so I wouldn’t look like my mother in those old, early-morning photos with curls pinned tightly against her head.

  “Why don’t you start, Cassie, since I see no particular reason for you to be here.”

  She took a very small, very delicate sip of coffee, her left pinkie sticking straight out. She took a deep breath and let out a small shudder.

  “I might owe you an apology.”

  “I bet that hurt.” Nothing she could have said would have surprised me more than those six words. Of course, she didn’t come right out and say that she definitely owed me an apology, but the A word was there, and I was willing to take what I could get. I was so shocked I didn’t care why or what she was sorry about, I just wanted to enjoy the moment. Which didn’t last too long.

  “In my terrible grief,” she began, “I said some things in Mr. Hawthorne’s office that might have been interpreted as a bit self-centered or a little selfish...”

  You think?

  “And that just wasn’t the case,” she hastened to assure me. “You see, I was really thinking of Grandmother.”

  Then she actually dabbed at her eyes with a tissue she dug out of her jacket pocket. That one movement summed up the difference between Cassie and me. When I cry, which I admit is very rare, I sob. I wail. I make lots of noise; tears stream down my face, my nose runs like crazy and swells up to twice its normal size. The genteel woman sitting across from me, however, all decked out in her tight little red designer dress barely managed to wring out one tear per eyeball.

  “I was terribly distressed about the situation,” she said, emphasizing the last word.

  What a delicate way to describe a hideous murder. “Are you talking about your grandmother ending up in a sewage tank?” I asked sweetly.

  Cassie reared back and brought her tissue up to her nose as though she smelled something unpleasant. This woman sitting on my couch was really starting to irritate me.

  “Say whatever it is you came to say, Cassie. And drop the grieving-granddaughter bit. I don’t believe it now any more than I did the day we found Elizabeth’s body and you wanted to cover up what you called the ‘unfortunate incident.’ ”

  Her eyes narrowed and her thin little nostrils flared as far as they could given the cosmetic trimming they’d undergone. “You are a nasty little thing, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. “Careful, Cassie. Your true colors are showing and you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Until you do, calling me names may not be in your best interest.” I didn’t know the exact reason for her visit, but I had no doubt she wanted something from me. And right now I wasn’t willing to refill her coffee cup much less grant her any real favors.

  “Preston thought you might be difficult, but I assured him that the two of us could handle this in a civilized manner. I hoped you would see the sense in our proposal, but I’m beginning to have my doubts,” she sniffed in that snooty voice of hers. I watched her fidget and squirm on the sofa cushions—probably trying to rearrange the thong panties she had wedged up her butt.

  “Anytime you want to hit the road, Cassie, feel free to do so.” I checked my watch. “I have an appointment this morning, so I’m running out of time and patience with this little chat we’re having.”

  “You’re meeting Mr. Hawthorne at our house. That’s why I’m here. We—that is, Preston and I— wanted to speak to you before you met with him.”

  “How did you know about the meeting?”

  She lifted her manicured hand and patted her expensively cut hair, artfully arranged not to look artfully arranged. “I don’t think the details really matter, but suffice it to say, we are aware of it and therefore need to act promptly.”

  “Well, suffice it to say,” I said, mimicking her high-brow accent, “that I’m sure you had your ear plastered to the door when Hawthorne was talking to me on the phone. You were supposed to be out this morning.”

  “I left just moments before your telephone conversation,” she said, clearly annoyed with me. “However, my wallet was in my other purse and fortunately, I had just walked back in when I overheard him talking to you. You were trying to meet behind our backs, weren’t you?”

  “Apparently so.” There was no reason to lie about our plans, since I knew she’d heard every word Hawthorne had spoken.

  “That’s exactly what I was afraid of, so—”

  I interrupted her. “So you called Preston on the phone, and the two of you hatched this ingenious plan that will solve all our problems and make everybody happy. Am I right?”

  “Is it absolutely necessary for you to put such an ugly spin on everything?”

  A sharp retort came to mind, but I was weary of this whole conversation and wanted the damn thing to end. “What is it you want, Cassie?” I sighed.

  “To offer you a little proposition, Maggie.” She looked around the room, her nose turning up as though rotten garbage covered the floor. “We realize that it can’t be easy to live on a teacher’s salary these days, especially when you are essentially trying to juggle two careers, like you are, with the, um, art you are trying to make.”

  “I can’t imagine how my struggle affects you or your brother.”

  “Well, I won’t lie and say that it affects us directly, but I think Preston and I have come up with a solution that would immediately ease your monetary difficulties and allow us to move on from this horrible episode we’ve had to endure.”

  I was rapidly reaching my limit with this meeting, but curiosity had me asking, “What’s your idea, Cassie?”

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and gingerly placed the cup on the edge of my heavily scratched antique coffee table. Preston and I fully understand that your role as fiduciary for Grandmother’s estate will add stress to your life, stress I’m quite sure you don’t need. The entire process involves all sorts of legalistic transactions and so forth; and the time commitment can be quite lengthy.”

  “I’m touched by your concern,” I said dryly.

  “Of course, as fiduciary you would earn a stipend for your services,” she said, ignoring my sarcasm, “but that would be parceled out over an extended period of time, and would not make up for the time lost from your teaching or your art.”

  “I assume you and your brother came up with some type of compensation to solve all my problems.”

  Her smile did not reach her eyes. “We thought perhaps you might appreciate a large, lump sum of money up front, right now, rather than waiting for the individual payments to trickle in.”

  I waited for her to continue.

  “Of course, you would be released of your responsibilities as fiduciary and the heavy burdens inherent in the job, even for knowledgeable people, not to mention someone a little less experienced like yourself.” Cassie laced her fingers together and sat back, the only person I knew who could sit on my down-filled cushion and still maintain perfect posture. The woman looked like a 3-D version of a ninety-degree angle. When Lisa visits, in direct contrast to the stiff rod currently occupying my couch, she heaves a large sigh and sinks into the thick pillows and almost always falls asleep in the middle of our conversation. I’ve often accused her of using our friendship as an excuse to get to my sofa.

  “That certainly is a nice offer, Cassie,” I remarked cynically, “and I’ve no doubt that you and Preston have my best interests at heart, but, speaking off the top of my head, I can see a few potential problems.”

  Her perfectly arched eyebrows furrowed into a scowl as I continued. “First off, I am not in this for the money. As you just stated, the only way you and Preston could give me a big
pile of money is if I relinquish my responsibility and hand over your grandmother’s entire estate to the two of you. I’m not willing to do that.” I paused briefly, searching for the right words. “Your grandmother was wonderful to me. And I never got a chance to really thank her or even say good-bye to her. It would be my privilege to help her in any way I can. In fact, this little chat has been very enlightening.”

  “But I’m sure Grandmother had no idea what this job entailed when she put your name in the will,” she argued.

  “Elizabeth knew exactly what she was doing, Cassie. If I had any doubts before, I don’t now, not after witnessing this wonderful display of greed.” I stood and picked up her cup off the table. “I have a meeting with Mr. Hawthorne in less than an hour and I have several things to do before I go. I’d like you to leave my house now.” Cassie started to object, but I refused to listen to her any longer. “If you have any other questions or brilliant schemes you’d like to bounce off me, you can bring them up in, say,” I glanced at my watch, “forty-five minutes. You know the address.”

  I walked into the kitchen and rinsed out the cups. I didn’t turn around until I heard the front door slam. “Nice going, Elizabeth,” I said, laughing to myself. “She’s good and ticked off now.” Drying my hands on the dishtowel hanging from the stove handle, I grabbed the phone and punched in Lisa’s number.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she gasped when I recounted Cassie’s visit.

  “Scout’s honor. The woman really expected me to be fiduciary long enough to hand her and that scummy brother of hers the entire estate, completely disregarding all of Elizabeth’s instructions.”

  “And even if you did exactly that, there’s no guarantee you’d ever see a dime of that money she promised to give you.”

  “No kidding. You know, Lisa, I think Cassie is beginning to panic a little.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s beginning to understand what Elizabeth was trying to do—make the little princess work for her money.”