by Warren Adler
The check that Mrs. Burns had given her coupled with the unemployment proceeds would barely be enough to carry her forward for more than a few months. She would come up short week after week, which would mean she would be under the pressure of time, under the gun. It might mean, too, that she would have to take a job and pursue this enterprise on the side.
The prospect was certainly daunting. Did she have what it took? She went over in her mind the qualities that she would have to muster: cunning, courage, restraint and discipline. Then there was the matter of hypocrisy, craft and the various arts of dissimulation and the telling of outright lies, which might be required to present a proper facade and inspire an emotional connection in the man.
These later qualities were those that she had never considered possessing or even developing. They were not part of her frame of reference. She had never been a good liar. Ironically, she was encouraged by this new way of thinking. For the first time in her life, she was actually setting goals for herself, plotting the tactics and strategies to reach them, like a general preparing to make the crucial assault and take the objective.
She waited in the shade of the building while the men with the armbands assembled the automobile procession behind the hearse, and soon the cars rolled out of the lot off to the cemetery. A few minutes later the group from the other funeral passed out of the building and were efficiently dispatched by the monitors in the direction of the burial ground.
She stood there in the empty lot for a long time, debating her future course of action. She felt the devil's advocate inside of her surrender. It was time to gird for action, take control of her own destiny, muster her weapons and prepare for battle. Suddenly, she felt energized and ready.
CHAPTER THREE
The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the obituary columns of the Palm Beach Post and, after attending a number of funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the cemeteries where the internment was to take place. Naturally, she used the most expensive places on which to concentrate her attention.
After a few weeks, she embellished her research by searching out the homes of the deceased and making her funeral attendance judgments on the size and location of the residences. She had quickly learned that it was pointless to waste her time on what was not economically viable and attended only those funerals of bona-fide wealthy ladies whose husbands had outlived them.
She hadn't told Jackie about her campaign, reasoning that if her daughter had been more aware and attuned to her mother's activities, she would have noticed her unusual interest in the obituary columns. Nevertheless, her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job hunting, and she would often return home in a state of obvious disappointment. By then, she had gone through the processing routine at the unemployment office, and they had promised that her first check would be coming in a few weeks.
"No luck, Mom?" Jackie would ask.
"Nope."
The fact was that the operation had more hope and promise in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as Mrs. Burns had characterized it. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was, in fact, a fortune hunter, and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. A male in this enterprise would have a much easier time of it finding his mark. There was, after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Statistics cited men overwhelmingly as dying before women.
In three weeks, she had managed to attend several funerals, none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older ladies in their seventies and eighties whose husbands were out of her range. Some were in wheelchairs; the others seemed comatose. Even so, she did consider the possibility, but the price seemed far too high.
There were, however, moments of optimism. She attended one for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably stoic and appeared at first blush to be a perfect candidate. She had checked out their home and had learned that the man was a well-known banker from Broward County.
Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service full of great expectations until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual, until she learned, as they were filing out, that the couple was in the midst of a bitter divorce and the woman had died suddenly from an embolism that might have been brought on by the tension.
"There's a relief," she overheard one of the female attendees say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his nafka." Days later at a funeral she overheard both the word and its translation. Nafka meant whore in Yiddish.
One funeral of a woman in her early sixties did seem to suggest a hopeful possibility. Her research informed her that the couple had lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been very social. Her husband was reputed to have made a fortune in oil. He was handsome, apparently healthy and reasonably well preserved for a man in his late sixties.
She attended the funeral in the most prestigious synagogue in the area. Shiny Rolls Royces and stretch Mercedes limousines filled the parking lot. The women who attended were appropriately solemn but dressed to the nines and the men all looked prosperous and successful.
The prospect was exciting, although she had no illusions. This would require all her resources. The woman got raves from the rabbi and various other participants, who lauded her many good deeds. There were numerous mourners in the first row. She assumed a number were the couple's children. The widower was tall and good-looking, with a dignified, gracious way of accepting condolences.
During the service she had fantasized over the various ploys she would use to make contact with the man and the manner in which she would conduct herself. She joined the funeral procession, managing to get a lift from one of the well-groomed couples who had room in their big cream-colored Cadillac.
By then, experience had taught her that a wonderful repast was served by the grieving family after the return from the cemetery, like an Irish wake, except that the guest of honor was not laid out in the house. On occasion, depending on the state of her hunger, she would join the procession in her own car or, if it was convenient, solicit a lift from one of the party.
She gave her real name and offered a cover story that she had struck up an acquaintance with the dead woman after meeting her at Saks.
"We became friends and confidantes," Grace told the couple, who introduced themselves as the Saypols.
"That must have been before she got worse."
"Yes," Grace said. "Before."
"Too bad the way she went," the man said. "Up to me, I'd go poof myself." He motioned with his hands to emphasize the point.
"Still, it wasn't very decent of him to start dating while she was still alive," his wife said.
"He was lonely, for crissake. His wife was in a damned nursing home with Alzheimer's. She didn't even know who he was."
"She was still his wife," the woman said.
"He had needs," the husband grumped.
The wife looked toward Grace.
"Men and their needs," she said with disdain.
"What do you women know about those kind of needs?" the man said, with a sudden burst of anger.
"He didn't have to flaunt it," the woman said, turning to Grace. "He's already made plans to marry some bimbo. Everybody knows it. I think it's disgusting."
"Betty is not a bimbo."
"She's not even thirty."
"That's not bimbo, that's just young. Are you jealous?"
"Me? Don't be ridiculous. He's more than thirty years older than her and he won't be able to keep up." She shot her husband a knowing glance. "No way. And, in the end, she'll get all his money and the kids won't get a dime."
"He's already worked out a prenup."
"Very wise," Grace said, remembering Mrs. Burns's reference.
"Sure it's a smart move," the man explained, "It lays
out the boundaries."
"For the moment," the woman pointed out. "Wait'll she gets her hooks in," she said. "Women like those know what they're about. The day will come when he'll tear up the agreement or else."
"Or else what?"
"You know what."
"What? You mean she'll cut him off?"
"You got that right."
"You just said he couldn't keep up, meaning you know what. What would it matter if she cut him off? Cut off from what?"
"Men are stupid," the woman said with another quick glance at her husband. "That's all they think about."
"What do women think about?" He turned to Grace.
"I'm not sure how you mean that," Grace replied, uncomfortable at being thrust into this situation. Thankfully, the man provided the answer to his own question.
"It's all about money, possessions, hair, clothes, face-lifts, security, shopping, gossip, the children. Nothing about the man, the essence of the man they call husband. We're just here to make the dough while they figure out ways to spend it, mostly on themselves."
"What would you do without us?" the woman said, offering a mocking laugh.
"Plenty," the man said.
After that, they both seemed to crawl into themselves and remained silent and morose until they got to the cemetery.
Under a canopy at the cemetery she sat next to a woman who could not contain her contempt for the man, who looked appropriately mournful and teary-eyed.
"Look at him, the lousy bastard, making like he's gonna miss her."
The rabbi said a prayer and the mourners watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Having seen so many funerals lately, Grace was beginning to view death with less fear and to consider "time" with a lot more appreciation. Funerals certainly gave living people a moment to reflect, not only on the worthiness or lack thereof of the life being dispatched but on the conduct and finite nature of their own lives. So far, hers hadn't been so hot.
What was it all about, she wondered, if this was the way it ended, a bag of bones in a box? It did teach that human beings, despite all the differences of religion, race, gender, intelligence and talent, came ultimately to the same place at the end of the line. This was small comfort for someone like her, who had, barring a catastrophe, about half her allotted time to fill. But the reflection did act as a spur for her to get on with her project before it was too late. At that point, of course, she had already written off this man as a possibility. He had his bimbo.
After the burial, the couple she had come with drove her to the mansion of the widower.
"You gonna cry at my funeral, George?" the woman asked.
"I won't be there," the man said. "Just look at the statistics."
"You'll be there."
"No, I won't."
"Maybe you'll both get lucky and die together in a plane crash," Grace suddenly blurted. They looked at her, not knowing whether it was meant as a joke or not.
"Who'll cry then?" the man said.
"Not my daughters-in-law," the woman huffed. "They'll be dancing on our graves."
At the widower's home, a huge spread was laid on, and Grace spent most of the time inspecting the rooms, the magnificent artwork and antiques and other expensive appointments. She wondered if the new woman, the bimbo, had given up her claim to them in their prenuptial agreement.
She would have to be wary of men like that, Grace decided after inspecting the widower at close range. What she would strive for was parity with the first wife, she decided, despite the growing remoteness of the possibility.
She treated this after-burial ritual as a learning experience. The food, she had noted, was invariably catered and beautifully displayed. There was often champagne. It was more than a repast. It was a feast. She wondered whether these people were celebrating death or life.
After a dozen or so funerals, she began to recognize familiar faces, both men and women, who nodded knowingly to her, and she soon realized that these were the "regulars," who apparently attended funerals solely for the after-cemetery feast. Few questioned them, but when they did they had, like her, a ready story to account for their appearance. So far, no one had questioned her except for the Horowitz funeral, and she had actually told the truth; well, a half-truth. Thankfully, she saw no regular that might offer her any real competition.
One of them, an oldish woman of indeterminate age with a solemn face and hair done in an old-fashioned gray bun, seemed to appear most often. Grace noted that she ate sparingly and always managed to find an opportunity to offer what appeared to be heartfelt words of condolence to the grieving spouse. Once Grace had gotten close enough to overhear the conversation.
"Parting with her personal worldly goods can be traumatic," the woman said. "I knew her well enough to know that she was a woman of deep compassion. I'm sure that after the children have made their selection, she would have been honored to have her clothes given to the homeless and various welfare services and charities."
"I'm sure," the grieving husband had retorted.
"And you can avoid the trauma of going through her things. I can tell you, it hurts. I had that experience with my own dear Sidney. It was awful. All those memories. It's too painful a process. I can spare you that. Why not let us take care of everything? We'll make sure that they go to her favorite charities. We owe her that. Can we do that for you? Take the burden and pain away?"
The grieving man looked at his hands and shook his head in despair.
"I'd appreciate that very much. Yes, it would be very painful. That is so kind of you, relieving me of that. She had such wonderful taste. Yes, please. That's a wonderful idea."
The conversation made an impression on Grace. She hadn't thought about that aspect of death, the disposal of the deceased's intimate possessions, particularly clothes. She had often wondered where on earth those compulsive shoppers at Saks had stored their mountains of clothes. In these big homes, she supposed there were acres of closets holding long lines of designer clothes.
Of course, she did allow herself a twinge of cynicism. This woman did, indeed, look like one of the funeral party. Everything about her seemed appropriate to the occasion, including the way in which she approached the grieving spouse. Did she really give the deceased's clothes to charity, or would she sell them to secondhand clothes stores, which were in abundance in southern Florida? A brilliant scam, Grace concluded. It certainly showed flair and imagination.
Once or twice she had come home tipsy from the wine or champagne, causing Jackie to remark that she hoped that Grace was not hanging out in bars and heading toward alcoholism.
"Why can't you get yourself a nice guy, Mom, then you wouldn't have to resort to drink?"
"I'm trying, darling. Really I am."
"Not very hard," her daughter would harrumph. "And you're always dressed so ... so gloomy. You really look lousy in black, Mom."
"I want to look conservative, Jackie."
"That I can understand. But you don't have to look like you're going to a funeral."
It was getting discouraging. Time was running out. Not that she felt ghoulish about going to funerals. The events seemed so commonplace, banal. There was the body in the coffin, the first row occupied with visibly distraught mourners, the others filling the sequential rows in order of their emotional stake in the proceedings.
Then there were the various eulogies, all of them sounding alike. Why did people wait until death to say such nice things about each other? She wondered if people would say nice things about her when she died. Except for the priest, she doubted it. There would probably be less than a handful of mourners present. Maybe Jackie would attend on Darryl's motorcycle. Her father, she supposed, would be long gone, and Jason, by then, would have forgotten who she was.
Of course, if her consciousness were still alive to observe it, she was sure she, or it, would feel humiliated by the low turnout. She began to contemplate cremation. Quick and clean. No fuss, no muss, no bother. She'd have her ashes flushed down the toilet of
Saks Fifth Avenue's employee rest room.
It occurred to her that attending these funerals was encouraging a macabre sense of humor, or was it masking a growing feeling of personal depression and frustration? So far the only thing she seemed to have gained was a modicum of insight into the finite nature of time and the inevitability of death.
Unfortunately, it hadn't put her one step closer to finding her quarry.
Until the Goodwin funeral.
By then, not wishing to waste her time on marginal opportunities, she had taken more care with her research and had, as best she could in a short time, checked out Sam Goodwin's situation. She had learned that he was a successful businessman, meaning rich, that he was sixty-four years old and that his wife had died of cancer.
He had a large house on the north side of Palm Beach, the only place on the island where the houses were directly on the beach, an excellent measure of his net worth, which had to be considerable. The house was close to the former Kennedy compound, as well as other homes reputed to be the property of old moneyed families. She had actually toured the area the evening before the day of the funeral, stopping to get a better look at the house.
By chance, as she observed the area, a man came out of the house with a golden retriever who relieved himself on the manicured front lawn. The man was tall, slender and handsome, with steel gray hair and a strong chin. She wondered if this was "the" Sam Goodwin, the grieving widower. She hoped he was, and she observed him with more than proprietary interest until he went back into the house.
The sight of the man and the property she wished he was inhabiting did set off her fantasies. The house was lovely, designed in a Tudor style. She sat in the car as the sun went down and the house lights came on. From her vantage, with the blinds only half drawn, it appeared to be tastefully furnished.