Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  I learned later that Jeffrey had graciously left out the meatiest part of the story. It seems that Elizabeth Cavanaugh had been dancing naked in her living room to the strains of a Chopin Polonaise when the rather out-of-his-element young man—sporting dreadlocks, what’s more—walked in on her pas de deux. Rumor has it her screams could be heard on the street, which sent Board Director Donnelly bounding downstairs with his passkey. He was not as close-mouthed about what he saw as Jeffrey was.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Edgar. He will be missed.” Holding my head regally high, I picked my way toward the elevator, but as cursed fate would have it, the edge of the area rug was curled up and caught my heel. I started to fall and the strong arm of a young man came out of nowhere to steady me. It belonged, of course, to the new doorman who I was certain struggled to maintain a straight face.

  “Be careful there, Mrs. Cook,” said Tony Papanapoulous. “Don’t want you to go and hurt yourself.”

  I straightened myself up and shook my arm from his grasp. “Thank you,” I said in my most dignified manner. I stepped into the waiting elevator and waited for the doors to close. As they did, I called out to Jeffrey so that everyone would know that my stumbling was not entirely of my own volition.

  “We really must do something about that rug.”

  Fleur watched from her perch atop a shelf in my dressing room closet while I sorted through my handbags until I found my navy Kelly bag secure in its flannel sleeve, pushed to the back of the top shelf. Safe inside the zippered compartment was the card Shannon Maglieri had handed me what seemed nearly an eternity ago. I reread the engraving: HOLSTEIN INVESTIGATIONS—SPECIALTY—MISSING PERSONS.

  “Ethan, let this be the end of you,” I said aloud as I dialed the Boston number. It was nearly six in Chicago, making it seven on the east coast, so it was no surprise when an answering machine asked me to “leave a detailed message.”

  “My name is Pauline Cook and I would like to speak with Mr. Holstein regarding Daniel Kehoe,” I said leaving my phone number. That was as detailed as I intended to get.

  I went into the kitchen and started rooting through my barren Sub-Zero in search of something to absorb the wine. My slightly besotted brain was awhirl with thought, wondering if a professional like Mr. Holstein might help me finally come to know the real truth. Not five minutes later, as I opened a can of Fleur’s tuna, the phone rang. It was the finder of missing persons himself. His speech was marked by the slow cadence of a strong Bostonian accent. He sounded like one of the Kennedys themselves.

  “You left a message about Daniel Kehoe?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how you knew I was looking for him?”

  “His sister passed your card on to me.”

  “Shannon Maglieri,” he said without hesitation. “So what can you tell me about Daniel Kehoe?”

  “Perhaps I might ask the same of you.” I felt we were playing a game of cat and mouse, and this feline had no intention of letting him get the upper hand. “I’d like you to tell me why you were looking for him first before I tell you what I know about him.”

  “I am looking for him on the behalf of a thud pahty.”

  He said am. He was still looking. “And would this third party have anything to do with a man named Ethan Campbell?”

  A confused hesitation. “Who?”

  His tone told me I had missed the mark. This man had no idea who Ethan Campbell was. Nonetheless, I repeated the name just to make sure. “Ethan Campbell.”

  “Nevah hud of an Ethan Campbell, but I’m very interested in Daniel Kehoe.”

  “Well, your interest is energy wasted. Daniel Kehoe is dead.”

  Another hesitation only this time I could hear an exaggerated sigh before he asked, “Are you certain of this?”

  “I should be. I paid for his funeral.” The wine was talking. “You see, he made me his heir.”

  There was no hesitation on Mr. Holstein’s part. I could sense his interest right through the phone lines. His voice perked up to andante as he said, “Young lady, I need to pay you a visit.”

  26

  In the Black

  Mr. Hal Holstein took the first flight out of Boston the next morning. Not comfortable inviting a total stranger into my home, we arranged to meet for lunch. I called Spiaggia and made a noon reservation, requesting my usual table in the window overlooking Oak Street Beach.

  When I arrived at 12:30 for the noon reservation, Carlo informed me that my gentleman friend awaited me at the table. He escorted me across the restaurant, vibrant with expensive talk and silver service clinking on china plates and ice tinkling in crystal water glasses. Mr. Holstein did not see me approach, his angular face was turned sharply out the window. He appeared to be completely absorbed in the dark clouds rolling in off the lake, fluffy cumulus whose white tops were at odds with their dark underbellies.

  I sized him up before meeting him. He looked nothing like I had pictured. He was a balding silver-haired man, dressed in a reasonable gray suit with a white shirt and red tie. Recalling that both Emily McMahon and Shannon Maglieri mentioned that he had a disability, I saw now what it was. His right shoulder dipped forty-five degrees lower than his left, and his right arm was pressed to his chest, his fist hugging it in a ball of curled up fingers. His healthy left hand rested on the table, strumming the top of a manila envelope.

  I dismissed Carlo and stood there waiting. My visitor did not notice me until I cleared my throat to get his attention. His gaze reverted from the storm broiling on the lake to me. A pair of pale blue eyes so cool they seemed nearly devoid of emotion assessed me in turn, scanning me from top to bottom, noting the tailored lines of my suit, my necklace, my watch, my handbag. He was so thorough, I wasn’t shocked when I noticed him glance beneath the table to see what kind of shoes I wore.

  “They’re Ferragamo,” I said, deciding to save him the trouble.

  “Pardon my mannahs.” He pushed his chair back to stand. I waved my hand to indicate he should remain seated, but he rose to his feet nonetheless, coming to his full height which was quite unexceptional. Maybe somewhere in the area of five foot five if he stretched. He extended his good left hand, and I took it awkwardly in my right, holding it as if we were children on a park bench.

  “Mrs. Cook. I’m Hal Holstein. So good to meet you.” I understood now why he spoke so slowly. His lips labored to form every word. His efforts weren’t so terribly removed from the way I worked to form my words the prior evening in front of the new doorman, except there was a world’s difference in the reasons.

  I sat down and placed my napkin in my lap, noting that Mr. Holstein’s remained on the table. I wondered if this was bad manners or an indication that he did not intend on eating. The busboy appeared and poured water. I waited until he was out of earshot to begin talking.

  “So Mr. Holstein, it seems we both have some interest in Daniel Kehoe. I know what mine is, but I must confess I’m very curious as to what yours might be.”

  “Mrs. Cook, you said on the phone that you had bear-rayed Daniel Kehoe and that he had made you his ayah.”

  “That is correct,” I said after deciphering his words. “I did bury him and I am his heir, his sole heir, I might add. Unfortunately, heir to nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, Mrs. Cook, I not only search for missing persons, I am also a trace-ah of lost ayahs. I have been looking for Mr. Kehoe for some time now. I had hoped to find him alive. You see, he’s inherited some money. If what you say is true, that he is deceased and left his estate to you, it stands that you are now entitled to that money. Less my shayuh, of course.”

  “Your share? Whatever for?” I asked indignantly without thinking through his words.

  “Findahs fee.”

  “You didn’t find me, I found you.” His response was an unwavering stare that told me he was all business. His body may have been compromised, but his mind certainly was not. I could tell that despite appearances, he was an adroit thinker who knew I
should be more than interested in hearing what else he had to say. And I was. “What exactly would your share be?”

  “My fee is one third of the estate. Out of that sum, I will covah all the legal fees. But before we can go any fathah, you will have to sign a document agreeing to those conditions.”

  He slid the manila envelope he had been drumming on to my side of the table. I took a measured pause to be sure he knew I meant business too, and opened it. A one-page legal document inside basically stated what he had just told me. In very plain English I might add. There was a line for my signature at the bottom. “I would have to discuss this with my attorney, of course. One third seems a bit steep.”

  “It’s standard, I asshuh you.”

  “Could you at least tell me the source of the inheritance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I could most likely find out myself,” I challenged him.

  “Maybe you could. But I doubt it.”

  “I would expect you could at least give me an idea of the amount of money involved.”

  His eyes were so direct, it was an effort to not drop my gaze. I picked up my water glass and stared at him over the rim while I drank from it. We were not playing cat and mouse, we were playing poker. Struggling to maintain a placid demeanor, I racked my brain in search of who might have left Daniel Kehoe money. Certainly no one I had met so far. I could safely rule out any of his family members. Perhaps he had met someone on the road and done something to change their life and this was their way of showing gratitude. Or a more likely scenario was someone from his past life had simply taken pity on him. One thing was for certain. Whoever the benevolent donor was, the connection between them had its origins prior to 1965, the year Daniel stopped being Daniel and showed up for a job in Puerto Rico as Ethan Campbell.

  I weighed my chances of finding this mysterious benefactor on my own. Thinking of Terrance’s ad in The Charlestonian, I contemplated running my own ad in every major paper in the country with an announcement that I knew the whereabouts of Daniel Kehoe. Then they could contact me. But, alas, that would involve vast sums of money, something I was in short supply of. And then, how could I be certain the man sitting across from me was on the level? This could all be some kind of an elaborate hoax.

  But a tempting hoax, nonetheless. My mind circled back to the alleged money. Considering my desperate situation, any sum, however paltry, would come in handy…a thousand…ten thousand. I permitted my fancy to take over and imagined that there might be a hundred thousand dollars. A hundred thousand would be minced into sixty-six and change after Mr. Holstein took his cut. Still, it was a damn good starting place, buying me time on the car, my co-op, and some of my more pressing bills.

  “If I were to sign this document, how long would it take to get the money?”

  “You have a valid will?”

  I nodded, recalling how Detective Velez and I noticed Ethan had it notarized at the local currency exchange. “Written by Ethan Campbell.”

  “But he’s been subsequently identified as Daniel Kehoe?”

  “That’s what it read on the death certificate.”

  He mulled it over. “I don’t think it should take long. We could possibly get this cleared up in a couple of months.”

  I wasn’t sure what kind of money was involved, but I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  “I’d like my attorney to have a look at this document before I sign it.”

  “By all means. When do you want him to do it?”

  “No time like the present.” The sooner I got that clock ticking, the better. As they say in the south, time was a-wastin’. My cell phone proved to come in handy as I put in a call to Edward Cohen without leaving the table. Edward informed me that I was in luck, he had an entire half hour free before going into a meeting with his partners. I told him we would be right over, and tossed my napkin back on the table. Mr. Holstein and I left Spiaggia without ever ordering.

  So, what’s your opinion, Edward?”

  I was seated in his Michigan Avenue law office while Mr. Holstein waited in the lobby, leafing through magazines with his good hand. Edward hovered over his kingly desk, the walls behind him papered with bookshelves, his head lowered between a pair of shoulders that could have belonged to a walrus. On a lit stand beside him a roly-poly Botero sculpture held court, its contours not unlike those of its owner. His bifocals followed his meaty finger down the single page in front of him on the desk for the third time.

  When he finally leaned back, his chair made an audible groan. “It’s pretty clear-cut, Pauline. If you sign this, Mr. Holstein gets one-third of whatever monies are involved, less legal expenses. In other words, if this phantom benefactor left one thousand dollars, at the end of the day you get six hundred and change.”

  “I’ve already done the math, Edward.”

  “So my question to you is what if this turns out to be some kind of a significant sum?”

  “A problem I would love to worry about. It’s highly unlikely.”

  He pushed the document back toward me. “Your call, Pauline.”

  “Frankly, Edward, at this juncture I need money, any money. If there’s anything at all involved, it’s a godsend. I’m going to sign it.”

  “Like I said, it’s your choice. You want I should call him in?”

  I nodded and Edward picked up his phone to summon Mr. Hal Holstein, Specialty Missing Persons, Tracer of Lost Heirs, back into his office. In no time at all, Mr. Holstein sat beside me in the chair one’s husband would occupy if we were getting a divorce. Instead we were entering into a marriage, one I hoped would prove to be lucrative for both of us. His head was tilted toward me, his hand posed in the peculiar palsied manner from which it never rested.

  “Let’s get on with it,” I said. I thought I saw the glimmer of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but the blue eyes remained emotionless. Edward called in his secretary Janice, an enviable young thing with skin unscathed by age or elements and a figure that defied gravity, to act as a second witness. In front of them, I signed and dated Mr. Holstein’s contract, effectively handing over to him 33.333 percent of whatever fortune had been left to Daniel Kehoe, a.k.a Ethan Campbell, and thereby passed on to me.

  I prayed the sum could keep me from the ruthless jaws of poverty for at least a few more months. Edward dismissed Janice and the moment the door closed on her youthful derriere, I could stand it no longer.

  “And now that the paperwork is out of the way, might I finally learn how much money is involved here?”

  For the first time Mr. Holstein showed some emotion. The corners of his dour mouth turned upward and the blue eyes conveyed a genuine spark of life. “As of this morning, the estate consists of thirty-three million, three hundred and fifty-two thousand, sixty-seven dollars and eighty one cents.”

  I jumped to my feet so quickly the room went black.

  27

  Champagne for Everyone

  My eyes fluttered open to see Edward’s broad face so close to mine I could count his hair plugs. He was slapping my face gently with a pillowy soft hand. Hal Holstein hovered over Edward’s right shoulder wearing a look of consternation like the owner of a thoroughbred horse who had twisted its leg. The pattern of an oriental rug danced in my peripheral vision telling me I was on the floor.

  “I think she stood up too fast,” said my attorney.

  “She probably should have eaten some lunch,” said my new best friend in the world.

  The door opened and Janice came running in with a glass of water. Making no effort to move from my place on the floor, I took the glass from her slim hand and smiled up at her. She might have been young and yet to suffer wrinkle one, but I had thirty-three million dollars. Make that twenty-two after Mr. Holstein’s cut. I immediately wondered if there was any way that I could nullify the contract I had just signed, and then berated myself for being greedy. There was an expression that Henry had loved: Pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered. I concluded it best to not be a
hog. After all, Mr. Holstein had won his share of my fortune fair and square.

  With visions of a suite at the Crillon dancing in my head, I assured everyone I was fine, and with a boost from Edward, was soon reseated in my chair. I felt happily light-headed, as if I had just been given a double dose of Valium, except I was full of rapturous energy. In fact, it was all I could do not to get up and dance. After years of penury, I was rich again. Rich! I could keep my car and pay my special assessment. I could shop to my heart’s content and not have to wait for the sales. I could travel wherever I liked and eat caviar with impunity. Beluga!

  It was all because I had been fortunate enough to befriend a man who turned out to be a fake and most likely a murderer, and had been obsessed enough to find out who he really was.

  Mr. Holstein was sitting again too, and I watched him expectantly, squirming in my seat as I waited to hear the details. He seemed to enjoy the drama of the situation. Even Edward, who I’m sure was running the clock on me now, looked ready to burst from his ample skin. Finally, after an interminable passage of time, the tracer of lost heirs proceeded to fill us in.

  “Have you ever hud of Joseph Baincock?”

  I spun my mental rolodex. Baincock, Joseph. Wealthy Eastern scion. Boston. Beacon Hill. Wife Emily. Father founded Baincock Paper, later sold off to a large industrial concern for an amount rumored to be near a hundred million dollars. Was of my grandmother’s era.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him. I believe I read in Town and Country that he died a couple of years ago.”

  “That is cahrect. Well, Joseph Baincock was Daniel Kehoe’s biological father.”

  It took a minute for the unlikely notion to gel. Then it began to make sense. I recalled Emily McMahon pouring Old City beer into dimestore tumblers in her living room and telling me about her husband’s young cousin Moira who worked in a mansion on Beacon Hill. Moira, Danny’s immigrant mother. I put myself in Moira’s shoes, a beautiful naive Irish lass sleeping in her own bedroom for the first time in her life. Interrupted by a nocturnal visit from the lord of the manor, one of many such visits. Then cruelly dismissed from her job when it was learned that she was pregnant. What a wretch Joseph Baincock had been to then force her out into the street as the result of his actions. The thought honestly made me ill.