Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  I’d already known that the family gossip had been right. Shannon Maglieri had told me that Patrick Kehoe wasn’t the baby’s father. But did Patrick Kehoe know who the baby’s real father was? He must have really loved Moira to marry her nonetheless. How sad that Patrick’s love for the mother did not extend to her son. I pictured poor little Daniel, sickly and homely, living with abuse from a man who was angered by his image every day of his life. A frail little boy who couldn’t understand what he had done wrong. No wonder he had chosen to bury himself in fantasies.

  And then the true irony of the situation struck me. My Ethan had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His love for the better things was part of his genetic makeup. Had he not taken his own life, he would have realized his greatest dream. He would have been extremely rich, richer than many of the people he kowtowed to. How tragic that he hadn’t lived to enjoy his good fortune. Tragic for him, that is. Pas pour moi.

  “I’m famished,” I declared. “Would anyone care for some lunch?”

  I believe Edward Cohen would have given any of his clients the air to join us, but it just so happened he was meeting with his partners. So Mr. Holstein and myself were a cozy twosome back at Spiaggia, reseated at the very table we had vacated earlier. The scenario was far different than before. The storm clouds had rolled past and the sky was dotted with tufts of ethereal white, so much like a Venetian sky it could have been painted by Veronese himself. The scene in the restaurant had changed too; it was subdued as the lunch crowd was mostly gone. In fact, if not for my close relationship with Carlo we probably wouldn’t have been seated at all.

  I buttered a slice of bread and waited to take a bite until the waiter had finished pouring from the bottle of Comtes de Champagne I had ordered. Rosé. My favorite.

  “To you, Mr. Holstein.” I raised my glass to my liberator. He was not drinking, but he raised his water glass and we clinked them together. I sipped the wine and felt the divine sensation of a million bubbles expanding in my mouth. “This is really marvelous. You should try some.”

  “I’m not much of a drinkah,” he said. “Doesn’t agree with me.”

  I put down my glass and felt the satisfying wash of wine work its way into my system. To say my mood was elevated would be a major understatement. “So please continue your story, Mr. Holstein.”

  “Whayah was I? Oh, yeaher, so in his declining yeahs the old man stahted feeling guilty. With his wife dead and no children of theyah own, he decided he wanted to do right by Moira and her son. He changed his will to leave half his estate to Daniel Kehoe. I can quote his actual words from the document, ‘It is only just and fitting that I, having brought this life into the world, should pass onto it a goodly share of my worldly goods.’ The rest of the fortune went to relatives and some charities, but he made sure the will was written in an iron-clad mannah, that anyone who contested the inheritance of Daniel Kehoe would be shut out. So the nieces, nephews and whatnot took theyah money and went off to spend it. Daniel Kehoe’s shayuh has been sitting in limbo evah since.”

  “And may I ask how you came to learn about this money?”

  “I earn my living reading the obituaries and then reading the wills. Wills are public documents, you know. Although I’m thinking of retirement after this.”

  “But it wasn’t until yesterday that you learned what became of Daniel Kehoe?”

  “That is cahrect. Frankly, I had given up looking for him. I believe I searched hahdah for Daniel Kehoe than I evah have for anyone. Every which way I turned all I got was a dead end. His family hadn’t seen him in yeahs, I couldn’t find any friends, he had no work record. It was as if he fell off the face of the earth in 1965. I do wondah why he changed his name and disappeared like he did,” he ruminated.

  “I think Ethan, or Daniel rather, was like a caterpillar. He wanted to shed his previous life and leave it behind, his way of shuffling off his mortal coil.” I did not add that Daniel Kehoe’s metamorphosis most likely had to do with the disappearance of the man whose name he assumed. I intended that knowledge remain shared by only Terrance and Whitney.

  “According to his sistah, his mothah suffered greatly.”

  “Maybe it’s the lot of mothers to suffer in this world,” I said, thinking of the sad old woman in the state home in England, waiting to hear word of another missing son so that she could die in peace.

  We finished eating and the champagne bottle was nearly empty before I managed to persuade Mr. Holstein to indulge in a taste. He poured himself a minuscule sip and emptied the rest into my glass. Before we could toast, the waiter appeared with the check, clearly eager to be on his way as we were the only diners left in the restaurant.

  “This one is mine,” I insisted, taking the check and slipping my latest credit card into the folder. The waiter whisked it away. Then Mr. Holstein and I clinked glasses together and drained the last of the champagne. He placed his glass back on the table and rearranged his malformed body so that he was leaning as close to me as he possibly could.

  “There’s one other thing I think you should be aware of.”

  It was at that precise moment the waiter returned with the check and my credit card. “Just put that down,” I commanded somewhat brusquely, eager to be rid of him so I could learn what Mr. Holstein wanted to tell me. He didn’t put the folder down, but looked at me with a sheepish expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cook, but your card was declined.”

  Evidently no one had yet informed the bank card company of my good fortune.

  “Why, that’s impossible,” I started to fib, but Mr. Holstein held up his good hand and reached into his breast pocket. Pulling out his wallet, he flicked a card onto the table.

  “Let me,” he insisted.

  The waiter whisked the check away again, leaving the tracer of lost heirs and me alone.

  “Where were we?”

  “You were going to tell me something,” I replied.

  “Oh, yes. There was one other contingency in Joseph Baincock’s will, aside from the one cutting off anyone who interfered with Daniel Kehoe’s inheritance. In the event that Daniel Kehoe was not found within three years, the money was to go to Mercy Hospital, the indigent hospital where Daniel was born.”

  “Well, then, they’re not going to be too happy to learn that I’ll be getting the money they were coming so close to. Do you think they’ll take legal action?”

  “They don’t have a leg to stand on. The will clearly states the bequest is to go to Daniel Kehoe or his heirs and assigns. I don’t see it as a problem. I just wanted to make you aware of it.”

  I felt the ruffling of a shifting wind. “You’re certain I shouldn’t worry?”

  “I wouldn’t be heyah if I wasn’t positive that the money will be going to you. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation, that they might be a little difficult, that’s all.”

  The waiter returned yet again, this time with an approved voucher. Evidently, the tracer of lost heirs was in far better standing with the credit bureaus than I. Mr. Holstein picked up the pen to sign the check, and a dour look came over his face as he saw the amount for the first time. I suppose it’s fair to say people in his profession are not accustomed to drinking $350 bottles of Champagne at lunch—if at all.

  “Next time it’s yours,” he said humorlessly.

  28

  Does Anyone Know Anybody

  Once again I entered the lobby in a slightly inebriated state. However, this time it was in a completely different mood than the last. I was soaring, an inhabitant of a sparkling new world. Tony was on duty alone for the first time, and remembered me well enough to call me Mrs. Cavanaugh. At least it started with a C. Normally, I might have taken offense at being confused with the eccentric ballerina, but instead I gave him my winningest smile and floated past him. I cared not what he or anyone thought of me anymore. I had twenty-two million dollars.

  I went upstairs, drew myself a bath, and luxuriated in it for more than an hour. I was
back in the chips, and life was looking up dramatically. I finished my bath and toweled off in front of the mirror, taking my usual critical look at myself. Still not bad for nearly fifty. No problems that a little cosmetic work wouldn’t solve, now that I could afford the very best. And then the rebel in me thought, why bother? The reason to look one’s best was to seek or keep male companionship for financial security. With my own financial security, did I really have the need for a partner?

  But then, in the fading glow of the champagne, the feelings I had managed to submerge for weeks broke through the floodgates. A surge of loneliness flowed through me, choking my newfound happiness like a vine does a rose. Crazy as it may sound, I felt I would gladly trade my newfound fortune for the opportunity to see Terrance Sullivan once again.

  In the grip of this insanity, I decided I had waited long enough to hear from the elusive Irishman. It was time to take some action. I needed some answers about him like a diva needs applause. Maybe he had someone else, maybe he was queer, maybe he was insufferably shy, but I was going to find out what was what.

  Though it was midnight in London, I put in a call to Charmian. Considering the late hour, the crisp British voice that came over the line was chirpy, successfully conveying the impression that his sole purpose in life was waiting for the phone to ring.

  “Is this Maxwell?”

  “It is indeed, Madam.”

  “Maxwell, this is Mrs. Cook calling from Chicago. I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but something has come up and I must speak with Lady Grace.”

  There was a pause. I could tell that ever the faithful servant, he was gauging my level of importance, deciding if I merited disturbing his employers at such a late hour.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t bother Lady Grace if it wasn’t urgent,” I added somberly, hoping to swing his decision in my favor.

  My ploy worked because a moment later he said, “I shall summon her immediately.” A minute passed before I heard the click of a phone being picked up followed by Lady Charmian’s sleep-encrusted voice.

  “Pauline, are you all right?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Chimps, it’s just that…” It was then I realized how inappropriate it was of me to make such a frivolous call at such a late hour. In fact, it was downright nervy. I was behaving like a stalker, my obsession overruling my common sense, not to mention my manners. At one young naive time in my life, I thought life was about love. It was easy with Henry. After his death, I forgot about love and decided life was about money. Now that I had money again, I realized I wanted the love part, too. That was why I made this call. Charmian would simply have to understand. “I need to get in touch with Terrance Sullivan.”

  Is it possible one can feel rage through a telephone line stretching four thousand miles across a dark and turbulent ocean? I can honestly answer that question with a yes.

  “Terrance Sullivan?” The name came out with venom. “Well, any number of people would like to get in touch with him. The problem is we can’t find him. He’s absconded with bundles of Lord G.’s money and disappeared to God only knows where.” I could hear David Grace grumbling now, no doubt roused from sleep by the shrill sound of his wife’s voice.

  “Did I hear you say Sullivan? Is that Sullivan? Give me the phone.”

  “Calm yourself, it isn’t him,” Charmian snapped. “It’s Pauline. For some reason or other, she’s looking for him too.”

  “Hand me that phone, confound it.” There was a momentary silence and then Lord G. was talking to me. “Pauline. This Sullivan man. Have you been in contact with him?”

  “Not for some time. That’s why I was calling you.”

  “Well, the man’s a fucking blighter. Scam artist. If he ever shows his head around here again, I’m sure to take it off with my hunting rifle. If you have a single brain cell, you’ll keep yourself, and especially your money, away from him.”

  He handed the phone back to Charmian. Need I say I regretted making this call. Not only was I not going to find a way to get in contact with Terrance, but my dream, my ideal, my phantasmagoric lover had in a matter of seconds been reduced to a con man.

  “Pauline? Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, downtrodden.

  “Darling, I told you from the beginning he was horrid. I told Lord G. the same thing. If only people would listen to me. He hasn’t stolen money from you too, has he?”

  I recalled how he hadn’t seemed so horrid to Charmian during the time he spent at her house that she didn’t want to bed him. However, this was not a matter for discussion at the time. Nor would it ever be. Everything had changed in a matter of a couple of minutes. “No, he hasn’t stolen any money from me,” I assured her. “I’ll let you go now. Sorry to disturb you so late. Thanks for enlightening me.”

  Charmian was speaking as I hung up. I really had absolutely no interest in continuing the conversation. I was far too numb. I felt abused. Granted, what had happened with Terrance thus far didn’t qualify as a relationship, but that didn’t stop me from caring for him, for hoping we could be something together. I was beyond miserable. In one day I had become both rich and poor. Rich in wealth and poor in love. I wondered what law in nature dictates that life can never be perfect for more than an atomic second.

  Desperately needing to talk, I called Whitney. Her housekeeper informed me that Mr. Armstrong and she had left earlier that day for New York. Of course, the Met benefit was this weekend. I had been invited to join them, but had begged off, claiming social commitments in Chicago. The truth was I couldn’t afford the airfare, hotel, and the $1,000 tariff for a ticket. That was yesterday when I was only poor in money. Today, I would have given anything to be in New York with them. Instead I stood in my window watching the waves crest on the blue gray lake and break with each beat of my heart. The ethereal white clouds of the afternoon had turned dark gray in the oncoming dusk. The wind blowing off the lake bent the trees on the parkway back and forth as if they were performing a ballet.

  Suddenly, the walls of my co-op started closing in on me. I had to get out of there, get some fresh air. I went into my entry closet for a warm coat and noticed Ethan’s old parka hanging beside my furs. It had hung there since the day Whitney and I cleaned out his apartment. I grabbed it on a sentimental whim.

  On my way down in the elevator my nose was pricked by scents that lingered in the coat. I recognized Ethan’s favorite cologne, bringing back the memory of the way it radiated from him whenever we met and bussed cheeks. But beneath the sweet familiar scent lurked a musty odor, an unattractive smell of something being stored away for too long.

  I walked along the lake, the wind knifing at my face while the waves pounded violently at the breakwater. An occasional huge wave would leap the barrier and crash onto the pavement, soaking my feet and splashing onto the parka wrapped tightly around me. Despite the weather I kept going. My memory pulled up a phrase from Latin class at Foxcroft. Solvitur ambulando. Solved by walking. I was walking off Terrance Sullivan. Like liquid oxygen freezing damaged tissue, each blast of the wind worked to exorcise a piece of him from my mind. Things were going my way now. Why torture myself thinking about him? Better to walk this through and be done with it.

  It was pitch dark when I got home. Tony gave me a peculiar look as he held the elevator door and when I saw myself in my entry mirror I understood why. With my hair twisted into knots and my cheeks raw from the wind, I looked like a madwoman. But I felt one hundred percent better. My pragmatic side had overruled the romantic one. I had decided there was no reason to suffer over unrequited love when I could revel in my newfound fortune. Terrance Sullivan had been nothing more than a tempestuous dream. But there was a silver lining behind the cloud. Make that a gold lining. Solid gold.

  I took off Ethan’s soaking wet parka. Though the wind had blown off the cologne scent, the smell of must still clung to it, so I decided to send it out to be cleaned in the morning. As is my habit, I went through all the pockets before pu
tting it into the dry-cleaning hamper. I’ve sent off far too many a pair of earrings. The outside pockets were empty except for some lint, but inside the interior breast pocket I found a tightly folded magazine page.

  I unfolded it carefully. It clearly came from one of the blue magazines Ethan had kept stockpiled in his bedroom closet. The page showed a scene of partially dressed young men dancing in very close proximity beneath the garish lights of a crowded nightclub. One of the dancers was circled in red ink, his slim torso naked, his only article of clothing a silver g-string unless one counted the pair of fire engine red women’s heels he wore. His reed-like arms were wrapped around the chest of another young man in homo-erotic ecstasy. As I studied his face, dominated by an overly large nose and a crooked, gap-toothed smile, there was something familiar about him I couldn’t put my finger on. I wondered why Ethan had chosen to carry this particular page around with him.

  Then I took another look at the young dancer’s legs. They were long, slender, drop-dead gorgeous legs—legs just about any woman would give up her firstborn to possess. Legs that were even better looking than mine. I knew those legs, had seen them and envied them many times. Then I looked more closely at his face, and I don’t know if I was more amused or horrified. A nose job, some dental work, cheek implants, and there she was. Whitney’s cosmetic work was even better than I suspected.

  I began to doubt truly knowing anyone in this world.