“Mrs. Cook, are you all right?” he asked when I was finally able to speak.
“I’m better,” I said as I smoothed my greasy hair, certain I resembled Joan Crawford in Baby Jane. My right hand remained handcuffed to the headboard and would have to stay that way until we could obtain some bolt cutters. “Quickly, Jeffrey. Bring my cordless phone.”
“Yes, ma’am. To call the police?”
“Lord, no. First I’ve got to call my broker.”
As if it happened every day, James Slattery knew exactly what to do. Within a short time foreign authorities had been notified that a crime had been committed and the account in Grand Cayman to which I had transferred nineteen million dollars was frozen. The police arrested all three of the cretins hours later when they tried to withdraw the money.
I traded in my Air France ticket for one on Cayman Air. But not before putting in a call to Hal Holstein. After exchanging the customary pleasantries with the tracer of lost heirs, I got down to business.
“Mr. Holstein,” I said, “tell me everything you know about Ethan’s twin, from his last name to his favorite designer.”
Then I flew down to Grand Cayman to identify the scoundrels in person. I had not forgotten Ethan’s admonition that if he were to get caught, he would make certain that I was left penniless. I would never know if he meant for me to die in my apartment, but I can assume he felt secure that if I didn’t, I would remain quiet about him in order to retain my three million dollars. But he was wrong, and he was about to see how wrong he was.
I was escorted into the local jail, my third since my discovery of the body back in March. The three of them were detained in the same cell awaiting extradition. They were lying on narrow cots, and one must say, they looked exceptionally good behind bars. Upon seeing me, Mr. Matthews turned his face to the wall while Terrance stared at me languidly with sore-looking red eyes.
Only Ethan rose to greet me. He came to the edge of the cell and pressed his narrow face between the bars. Prison garb made him look more pitiable than ever, but I had no sympathy for him. Aside from what he had done to me, I strongly suspected that his brother’s shooting was no accident, that Connie Chan had not been mugged by a stranger, and that even the original Ethan’s death had been intentional. He was evil, even more so than the two grifters who had accompanied him in this latest of evil acts.
“Pauline, you’ve really screwed yourself,” he hissed, his once melodious voice now venomous and acrid.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.
“Dis man here, he acting crazy sometimes,” said the local gendarme standing beside me at the cell. “He keep saying he somebody else.”
“Somebody else?”
“He keep saying he Daniel Kehoe, or supthin like that.”
“He says he’s Daniel Kehoe? He must be delusional. Daniel Kehoe is dead. I paid for his funeral. This man is Norbert Blakely of Miami Beach. He works at La Fenestra Bookstore and drinks piña coladas at Sharkey’s.”
Hal Holstein had delivered.
Ethan’s obscenity-laced screams echoed down the hall as I walked away.
When all is said and done, I must say I did benefit from the experience. After all, I walked away with my twenty-two million dollars intact. Ethan hung himself in prison before even coming to trial. He knew me well enough to know I would never back down on my story that he was Norbert Blakely, his dead twin. Poor Ethan or should I say Daniel. He would have done so much better had he led an honest life.
While waiting in Grand Cayman for the other two to be charged, I met a sexy Swedish sailor who invited me to accompany him to Saint Martin on his boat. It wasn’t quite Paris, but the natives do speak French. And my Swede was all too happy to fill the present-day needs that Terrance had so neglected. We plan on getting together again some time in the near future, after his divorce goes through.
I had lunch with Whitney shortly after returning home. Over smoked salmon and toast points, I told her the entire story from beginning to end. It always feels good to share the truth with someone. Her response to my handling of things was just as any good friend’s should be. “Pauline, you did the right thing,” she said in her wispy voice. “Ethan was a bad man. Remember I told you he tried to extort money from me one time. I told him to go to hell.”
Which brought me to the magazine page I carried in my new Lana Marks handbag. Ever since my discovery of it in Ethan’s parka, I had wanted to give it to her. I thought this was as appropriate a moment as any, so I took it out and slid the folded sheet across the table.
“I imagine you might have been hoping to find this in Ethan’s apartment.”
She unfolded the picture of the dancers and stared at the young man circled in red. Then she folded it back up and looked at me with dark wide pupils. “So you know.”
I nodded. “I wanted you to know your secret is safe with me, that you don’t have to worry about that picture turning up and Jack finding out.”
She giggled girlishly and her full lips broke into a cheek to cheek smile. “Pauline, you’re so sweet. But, honey, Jack knows. You don’t think I would have married him without telling him, do you?”
There were a few other things to be taken care of, things I had sworn I would do if I survived the ordeal in my apartment. I went back to England to visit the real Ethan Campbell’s mother. I told her I’d learned her son died in a car accident shortly after his last letter, that it had been swift and painless and he never saw it coming. I saw no reason to torment her with the truth. She seemed greatly consoled, and I suspect it’s just a short matter of time before she takes her final rest now.
I did not give Lord and Lady Grace a call.
Emily McMahon received a check large enough to keep her both in Old City beer and prescriptions until her dying day. And I contacted Shannon Maglieri to set up a fund paying for all her boys’ college educations.
As for myself, the only special man in my life right now is James Slattery and our relationship is purely business. In light of all he has done for me, I have decided to take his investment advice. He has been highly recommending an energy stock that everyone seems to be getting rich on, so I’ve decided to put a substantial portion of my portfolio into his recommendation. It’s called Enron, and I have great faith in it. After all, everyone needs energy.
So as I head toward the close of my fiftieth year, for the first time in my life, my financial future is secure.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my gratitude to some of the special people who helped bring Well Bred and Dead to fruition.
My agent, Helen Breitwieser, who called after reading the manuscript and said those four words so dear to a writer’s ears: “I love your book.”
My first editors, Erin Brown and Jill Schwartzman, who helped polish my words to their final shine, and my current editor, Sarah Durand, who brought those words to print.
Amy Singh, who has always been there throughout my writing career, offering her expert legal and literary advice.
Here’s to Donna Curry for attending a certain luncheon years ago that provided the inspiration for Ethan, and to Roseann Moranetz for being such a thorough reader.
Big thanks to everyone at the Aspen Writers’ Foundation for what they do to bring readers and writers together, and to my fellow writers in the weekly writers’ group for their valuable input and critiques.
And to all my family and friends for their love and support. I am truly blessed.
About the Author
CATHERINE O’CONNELL lives in Aspen and is active with the Aspen Writers’ Foundation. She has worked as a sales executive for the importers of Taittinger Champagne and Louis Jadot wines. She is a graduate of the University of Colorado School of Journalism.
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Copyright
WELL BRED AND DEAD. Copyright © 2007 by Catherine O’Connell. All rights reserved under I
nternational and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © MAY 2007 ISBN: 9780061843204
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Well Bred and Dead Page 32