Alvirah quickly studied the expressions on the faces of the two men and two women. Their smiles seemed somewhat forced. They looked bewildered rather than exuberant. “I can’t believe we’re not there yet,” Alvirah cried as she threw back the covers. Willy took one look at her. He knew there was no use arguing. “I’ll do the dishes and make the bed while you take a shower.”
“Call the garage and tell them to get the car out pronto. At least we didn’t unpack our suitcases. I could wring that doctor’s neck for ordering me to stay home. He’s never met me before in his life—what does he know about my constitution? In the old days, if I’d gotten three stitches over my eye, I wouldn’t have dreamed of calling Mrs. O’Keefe and telling her I couldn’t show up to clean her messy house. I would have been out of a job. Willy, get Regan on the phone and tell her we’re on the way.”
The bathroom door snapped shut behind Alvirah.
“I knew we’d end up at that Festival,” Willy muttered as he began to make the bed.
6
Regan and Jack Reilly left their Tribeca loft at 7 A.M. in the large SUV they had rented for the weekend. The plan had been to pick up Regan’s parents and Alvirah and Willy Meehan from their neighboring apartments on Central Park South, then they’d all ride together to New Hampshire. The disappointing e-mail from Willy that he and Alvirah would not be able to join them had made the larger vehicle not only unnecessary, but also a continuing reminder of Alvirah and Willy’s absence.
Regan’s mother, Nora Regan Reilly, chic even at this early hour, glanced wistfully up at Alvirah’s building as she got into the car. A casual bystander would have known immediately that Regan was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. They shared fair skin, startling blue eyes, and classic features. Where they differed was in hair color and height. Nora was a petite blonde, while Regan had inherited raven black hair from her father’s side of the family, and at 5'7" also carried the tall genes of the Reillys. Her father, Luke, was a lanky, silver-haired 6'5".
“I hope Alvirah is going to be all right,” Nora worried as she settled in the car.
Luke tossed their suitcases in the back and climbed in beside her. “My bet’s on Alvirah,” he said. “I feel sorry for the counter.”
“That was exactly my thought, but I was afraid Regan would get mad if I said it,” Jack agreed. His hazel eyes twinkled as he glanced back over his shoulder at Luke. Jack Reilly had a very special affection for his father-in-law. It was because Luke had been kidnapped by the disgruntled relative of a man he had buried from one of his funeral homes that Jack had first met Regan. As head of the NYPD Major Case Squad, Jack had been called in. Sandy-haired and handsome, with a commanding presence, at thirty-four years old Jack was one of the rising stars of New York’s finest. A Boston College graduate, he had elected not to go into the family investment firm, but instead chose the career path of his paternal grandfather. During Regan and Jack’s courtship, he became known as Jack “no relation” Reilly.
Two hours later, after fighting the usual Friday morning traffic, the Reillys were well into the state of Connecticut when Jack’s cell phone rang. He fished it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and handed it to Regan. “It’s Mayor Steve,” he said. “Tell him I’m driving. You know me, I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“That’s why I married you,” Regan said with a smile as she took the phone. “Hello, Steve…” she began, then listened as a torrent of information filled her ear. “You’re kidding!” she finally managed to interject. “We’ve been listening to music and traffic reports. I guess we should have turned on the news.”
Bursting with curiousity, Nora bolted forward, her body straining the seat belt. Beside her, Luke leaned back, “Tell me if they need my services,” he drawled.
Regan tried to ignore the fact that Nora was making gestures for her to hold out the phone. “Yes, Steve, we should definitely be at the Inn by twelve for the press conference.”
“Press conference!” Nora exclaimed.
“At ease, sweetie,” Luke said mildly, raising his eyebrows as he caught Jack’s amused glance in the rear view mirror.
“Okay, Steve, try not to worry too much. The Festival will be a success, I’m sure. We’ll see you at the Inn.” Regan snapped the cell phone closed. She leaned back. “I’m so tired, I think I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes.”
Nora was appalled. “Regan!”
Jack poked his bride in the ribs. “Spit it out.”
“Welllllll, if you insist,” Regan began. “As you know the Festival of Joy starts this afternoon. Last night a group of employees from the local market that will be catering the Festival won half the mega-mega 360 million dollar lottery.”
“There go the bologna sandwiches,” Luke muttered.
“And the potato salad,” Jack added.
“Will you two please be quiet so Regan can talk?” Nora asked, trying not to laugh. “Regan, go on.”
“In a nutshell, there were five workers who always went in on the lottery. This time one of them, at the last minute, decided not to play.”
“Poor devil,” Luke sighed.
“The others intended to share the lottery with him because he had picked the Powerball number. But he hasn’t been seen since he left work last night. They can tell he went home—his car is still in the driveway—but he’s not there and doesn’t answer his cell phone. They’re afraid something happened to him.”
“What a shame,” Nora said. “Do they think that if he realized he had lost out on the lottery…” She stopped not wanting to voice the possibility that was occurring to all of them.
“It gets more complicated,” Regan continued. “Another winning ticket was sold a couple of towns away. Some people suspect that after refusing to throw in his dollar with the others, this guy Duncan bought his own ticket and is embarrassed to admit it.”
“Oh, well, that’s a different story,” Luke said. “I started to feel sorry for him, but I bet you anything he’s recovering from his shame on a tropical beach with a piña colada in one hand and the winning ticket in the other.”
“I guess that would be the best outcome,” Nora said, her mystery writer’s mind considering the possibilities.
“Apparently the whole town is talking about the lottery instead of the Festival, and the television producer cancelled Steve and Muffy’s interview this morning. He’s too busy following the lottery story.”
“No interview for Muffy?” Luke exclaimed. “Jack, you’d better step on it.”
“Dad, don’t be mean,” Regan protested. “Steve sounds very upset.”
“I think he hoped this Festival would help raise his profile in New Hampshire,” Jack explained.
“Sounds like it’s working,” Luke drawled.
“From what I can tell,” Jack observed, “Steve wants to go places in politics, and Muffy sees herself as the next Jackie Kennedy. In college Steve was always organizing everything. We called him Mayor Steve back then.”
Regan gasped. “I just had a thought. Can you imagine Alvirah’s reaction when she finds out what she’s missing?” At that moment her cell phone rang.
“No need to check your caller ID, Regan,” Luke said. “Dollars to donuts, Alvirah just got wind of what’s happening in Branscombe.”
“No doubt,” Jack agreed. “And we’ll be seeing her before the sun goes down.”
7
Where am I? Duncan asked himself as he opened his eyes. What happened? Then it all came back to him: He had fallen down the stairs and was lying on the cold cement floor in the basement of the house those idiot crooks were inhabiting. Faint light was coming through the gritty windows, and he could see that it was snowing lightly. He remembered that he had been awake for hours, hungry and in pain, forced to listen to the Winthrops celebrating their good fortune. When they finally went to bed, he must have dozed off. It was the smell of coffee wafting through the grates that woke him. The same grates that had allowed the bragging voices of the cheats to insult
his ears.
Every bone in Duncan’s body ached, but it was his right leg that was really sore. He wondered if he had broken it. Last night, after the shock of the fall, it had hurt too much to move it.
“Coffee, Eddie?” he heard from above.
Here we go, Duncan thought. Plato and Aristotle are ready to take on the day. I’ve got to get out of here. But how?
“I could use some,” Edmund answered. “And a couple of aspirin. How many beers did we have last night?”
“Who knows? Who cares? I don’t even know what time we went to bed.”
“With all our money we should be in a palace, having a butler serve us coffee instead of drinking from chipped mugs in this crummy dump.”
“It won’t be long,” Woodrow crowed. “Can you imagine if Grandpa saw us now? He always said neither one of us would amount to anything.”
Grandpa was right, Duncan thought as he turned on his side, sat up, and brushed his hair back from his forehead. I want some of that coffee. He licked his lips. His mouth was so dry. What I’d really love is a tall glass of fresh orange juice. And bacon and eggs and bagels. But I can’t think about food now. If those guys ever decide to come down here, I’m dead.
Woodrow wouldn’t shut up. “I wish we could just blow this town today. But if we skip the final class next week, people who paid for our great advice will start comparing notes. Once they realize almost all of them were in on the oil well investment, we’ll have the cops on our tail.”
Duncan felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. He knew it was stupid, but he felt betrayed yet again. I never was meant to be the teacher’s pet, he thought forlornly. I’ve been such a fool.
“We can’t leave for good, but why don’t we drive down to Boston for the day and celebrate? I might even buy my ex-wife a present. That would really be the Christmas spirit,” Edmund said, laughing heartily.
“I’m not buying anything for mine. I still can’t believe she never once visited me in the clink,” Woodrow said, not sounding the least bit upset.
“She did the first time we were in,” Edmund reminded his cousin.
“Yes, but all she did was complain. Some visit.”
I may be forced to kill myself, Duncan thought.
“Who cares about them?” Edmund said. “With the kind of money we’ll have falling out of our pockets, we’ll have no trouble meeting girls. Speaking of our future millions, if we go to Boston today, what should we do with the ticket? Do you think it’s safe to carry it?”
“With all those pickpockets out during the holiday season? No way. We’d better leave the ticket here,” Woodrow said emphatically.
“Where? What if the house burns down while we’re gone?”
“We’ll leave it in the freezer.”
Duncan’s eyes widened, and his heart began to race. He held his breath as he waited for Edmund’s response. Come on Edmund, he thought. Go for the freezer!
“The freezer?” Edmund asked doubtfully. “I don’t know…maybe we better just take the ticket with us.”
“No,” Duncan moaned. He thought of the audiences at game shows who yelled advice to contestants. “No, Eddie, no! Go for the freezer!” Duncan wanted to yell.
“It’s the safest place,” Woodrow insisted. “We’ll put it in a plastic bag. I’ve heard stories of people losing their lottery tickets because they were carrying them around. Can you imagine how we’d feel if that happened?”
“It’s too awful to think about,” Edmund said with a shudder. “There’d be no living with you.”
“Me? Look who’s talking!”
They both laughed.
“Okay, we’ll leave it in the freezer,” Edmund finally agreed. “What a joke that we broke parole again by spending a buck on a lottery ticket. Next week when we finish up here, we’ll figure where to cash it in and who can front for us. We have a year to decide.”
“A year?” Woodrow yelled. “Are you nuts? I’m not waiting a year. You call yourself a financial expert? Every day we wait we’re losing interest.”
“Of course we’re not going to wait a year. We just have to figure it all out…Hey, it’s almost eleven o’clock. Let’s get showered and get out of here. This place gets on my nerves. No wonder they were willing to rent it for a month.”
By the time they returned to the kitchen half an hour later, Duncan had come up with a plan, that if successful, would give him infinite pleasure for the rest of his life.
“Woodrow, don’t leave it in plain sight,” Edmund was saying, his voice clearly annoyed. “Put the bag under that box of frozen peas.”
Frozen peas? Duncan thought. My fresh ones taste so much better.
“Okay. There. Are you happy? It’s under the peas.”
Duncan heard the slam of the front door followed by the sound of their car starting up. They’re gone! he thought. All was silent except for the groan of the furnace. I’m alone in a house with a lottery ticket worth 180 million dollars, he thought. Who needs more motivation than that to drag himself off the floor? He reached for the bannister and strained to pull himself up, resting all his weight on his left leg. Gingerly he touched his right foot to the floor and winced. Mind over matter, he told himself. Leaning heavily on the wobbly bannister he hopped slowly up the stairs, opened the door, and continued to hop the few steps to the staircase that led to the kitchen.
The sound of a car passing in front of the house made Duncan hold his breath. But the car didn’t stop. That could have been them coming back, he thought. I’ve got to hurry.
Despite the fact that he was supporting his entire weight on one leg, he made it up the steps and across the small kitchen in record time. No wonder the owner can’t sell this place, Duncan thought. Everything here looks as though it’s falling apart. Who cares? he asked himself as he reached the aging refrigerator and opened the freezer door. With quivering fingers he grabbed the carton of peas. This brand went out of business ten years ago, he realized with disgust, then feasted his eyes on the plastic bag containing the lottery ticket. Plucking it from the shelf he turned around, hopped over to the wooden kitchen table, and removed the ticket from the bag. He took a split second to verify the winning numbers—his numbers—and then pulled out his wallet. He tucked the ticket inside, then tenderly reached into another compartment for the lottery ticket he and Flower had bought on their first date. Even though she didn’t care much about the lottery, they had enjoyed choosing the numbers together.
“We didn’t win that day,” Duncan said aloud, “but I knew this ticket would come to some good.” Holding it to his lips, he kissed it once, twice, three times, then placed it in the plastic bag. A few seconds later he was returning the bag to where the Winthrops had left it, under the carton of expired peas.
At the sound of a car turning into the driveway, adrenaline shot through his body. It was too late to go back to the basement. With the swiftness of Peter Rabbit, he hopped across the kitchen, into the living room, and ducked behind a large, dilapidated chair.
I’m toast, he thought. If they decided against their road trip to Bean Town and don’t leave the house, there’s no way they won’t discover me.
The door was opening. “All right!” Woodrow snapped impatiently. “You’ve said it one hundred times. It’s not a good idea to leave the lottery ticket behind.”
Duncan could hear him opening the freezer door. His heart stopped.
“You see, it’s right here!” Woodrow said. “I’m putting it in my wallet. Or you can put it in your wallet. Tell me what you want.”
“I’ll take it,” Edmund said testily.
Once again, they were on their way.
It’s a miracle, Duncan thought. They didn’t check the numbers. I’ve got to get out of here, get home, then figure out what to do. I want the Winthrops to be brought to justice, but I can’t blow the whistle on them yet. If I do, they’ll either disappear or come back and kill me. And if they disappear, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I could end u
p in the Witness Protection Program! Flower and I want to spend our lives in Branscombe.
Deciding the cousins weren’t coming back immediately, Duncan pushed himself up. As he was passing the closet by the front door, a thought occurred to him. Maybe there was an umbrella or a cane or something he could lean on inside it. As luck would have it, an old broom crashed to the floor when he opened the door. Leaning down, he unscrewed the pole of the broom from its bristly base. This should help a little, he thought.
Back out in the bracing New Hampshire air, with a 180 million dollar lottery ticket in his wallet, Duncan half hopped, half hobbled down the quiet country road. I just hope I can make it home, he thought. But after he had gone three blocks, he could hear a vehicle pulling over behind him. Nervously he turned around.
It was Enoch Hippogriff, a weather-beaten old-timer who regularly shopped at the market. “Duncan?” he called. “What are you doing here? The whole town is looking for you.”
Bewildered but relieved, Duncan dragged himself into Enoch’s truck. “Why are they looking for me?” he asked. He wondered if Flower had alerted the authorities when he didn’t call her before going to bed, as he always did.
“Don’t give me that,” Enoch said. “You know why.”
“I really don’t,” Duncan said.
Enoch Hippogriff glanced at him sideways. “You don’t, do you? I can tell a man’s face. You’re a sight, hopping around with that stick in your hand. Duncan, your coworkers won the lottery last night.”
“They did!” Duncan exclaimed, mixed emotions charging through his head. “I guess they used the Powerball number I chose after all.”
Dashing Through the Snow Page 4