“I wouldn’t call them adults. They’re childishly greedy, grasping, and unscrupulous middle-aged people. She’s an extremely wealthy widow dedicated to philanthropic causes large and small.
“Born to money, she married more. When her husband died relatively young, she took over management of his business affairs, and through astute investing and sound judgment made their assets grow like Topsy. She’s been an absolute godsend and guardian angel to countless people, including me. She knew my grandmother. And when I needed help paying my way through med school, she stepped up without being asked. She didn’t call it a loan, she called it an investment in the future.
“She founded a neonatal clinic in Brooklyn to save premature babies, supports young artists, especially in music and ballet, and has funded spay/neuter clinics and adoption centers for homeless animals.
“Her late husband established ample trust funds for their children; two sons and a daughter. There was enough to set them up for life, but they squandered the money. Now they’re impatient and tired of waiting to inherit hers. They want it now.”
“How old is she?”
“A spry, sharp, and funny seventy-six years young.”
Venturi scowled. “No woman that age would undertake such a drastic life change.”
“Seniors are pretty adventurous these days, in case you haven’t noticed,” Keri said. “And she has no other option. Her children, along with several organizations that have enjoyed her largess in the past, want her declared incompetent so they can assume power of attorney over her affairs. Their complaint? She’s too generous. What she gives to good causes leaves less for them.
“If they succeed, she’ll be dumped into an assisted-care facility and forgotten. She’s already been embarrassed, harassed, and threatened. Now they’re taking legal action, alleging that she’s incapable of handling her finances.”
Keri leaned forward, her hand on his cheek. “Mikey, she is one of the brightest, most caring and capable women I have ever known. It would kill her.”
He shook his head more slowly.
“Stop imitating a metronome and just meet her. Talk to her. See for yourself. Please, Mikey?”
He caved. “Maybe we could invite her here for lunch, just the four of us.”
“She lives in Manhattan,” Keri said eagerly, “but she’s here now, in Palm Beach.”
The guest of honor wore sensible shoes, a blue seersucker suit, and a permanent wave in her curly gray hair.
She and Victoria, who fixed her famous shrimp salad, hit it off immediately. They discussed life in Manhattan versus South Florida, drank cappuccino, nibbled on pastries, then settled down to business.
Marian Pomeroy was refreshingly candid about her plight.
“My health is excellent,” she said at one point. “My parents enjoyed active lives well into their nineties. With any luck I shall as well. But I don’t want it to be as a helpless, captive animal—confined, controlled, and abandoned. There’s still so much I’d like to see and do. Does that sound selfish on my part?”
“Not at all,” Victoria said. “But how did this happen?”
Marian sighed, looked pained, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Nothing,” she confided, “is more heartbreaking than realizing the mediocrity of one’s own children.
“My husband provided a five-million-dollar trust for each of them, to be paid out in increments at various ages. He was a generous, well-meaning man and intended to relieve me of the burden, but in retrospect, it was a terrible mistake. Each of the children should have had to finish college and work in the real world long enough to learn the value of money before receiving such large sums. They were still in their teens when their father died. He knew he was ill and wanted to be sure they were well provided for. But the money didn’t bring them security, wisdom, or happiness. What it brought instead was a sense of entitlement, and I must say they’ve grown quite ugly about it.
“Each went through their final payment some time ago. In their late forties and early fifties now, each claims to be broke, as do their children. They’ve all been divorced more than once—one of them four times. None has ever held a real job.
“They are the barbarians at the gate,” she said sadly. “I had to give up inviting them to my home. Each time I did, valuables vanished with them. Artwork, jewelry, cash—even the goddamn Paul Revere silver tea service and an antique clock that is one of just two in the world. The other is in the White House. I kid you not.” She sighed and sipped the sherry Victoria had brought to the table.
“How can they be cash strapped after inheriting that kind of money?” Mike asked.
“Joan, the only girl, went shopping and never stopped. There are always newer designer fashions, flashier sports cars, bigger houses, bigger diamonds, and longer, more lavish trips. Why she needs such frequent vacations is a puzzle to me. She’s never worked a day in her life.
“Wesley, the oldest, became a self-described entrepreneur and investor, without ever studying business or finance. He’s never even balanced a checkbook. He’s made so many bad investments that he’s become a joke in the business community and the dream target of every sort of scam artist. He knows it all, refuses good advice from experts, and constantly pressures me for large sums to invest in new, increasingly dubious enterprises.”
She frowned. “He generates negative energy, is in a constant manic state of desperation. He always has deadlines looming and is frantic to get in on the action before it’s too late.
“Victor, the youngest, discovered drink, drugs, and nightclubs early. He spends his time on the party circuit with the so-called beautiful people. He’s had drug and drunk-driving arrests and constant rounds of rehab. You know how that is.”
Victoria nodded ruefully. “I certainly do.”
“Unfortunately, I heeded a lawyer’s suggestion that the children be appointed to the board of my foundation, formed to distribute a great deal of money to various charities. The experience was supposed to raise their consciousness about social causes and give them a sense of responsibility.
“Instead they’ve persuaded the other board members that I donate too much to other charities and individuals. They want me stopped and actually voted to take action against me. Luckily, a loyal employee at the foundation and one of the lawyers I’ve known for many years warned me. They plan to have the authorities throw some sort of a net over me, so I can be involuntarily committed for an evaluation of my mental faculties while they assume power of attorney over my assets.”
Her lips never trembled, her voice did not waver. She never flinched. But the eyes behind her gold-rimmed glasses glistened with unshed tears. She quickly blinked them away.
“The attorneys I’ve consulted say that with my children and the longtime board members aligned, it would be extremely difficult, and highly unlikely, for me to prevail. Similar cases have recently established a precedent. Out with the old, in with the new.”
“It’s so common these days,” Victoria said sadly, “for the younger generation to turn on older family members whose brains and hard work accumulated the assets and built a fortune.”
Venturi wasn’t sure how much Keri had told Marian.
“How would you prefer to live the rest of your life?” he asked casually.
“Without greed, constant battles, and betrayals. I have my own silly daydreams.”
Eyes alight, she clutched her arms in an endearingly girlish gesture, her voice an ardent whisper. “I would love to live placidly in a tiny, tidy cottage near the English seaside, in a place where I could attend concerts and art shows and volunteer to read to little schoolchildren. That is my retirement wish, my dream and fondest fantasy.”
She leaned back, her spine straight. “It doesn’t seem too much to ask, does it?
“And of course,” she added slyly, “a part of that fantasy is terribly wicked.” She looked at them each, one at a time. “Before departing, I would like to anonymously donate the bulk of my assets to th
e needy, then pay the required fee to whoever might help me accomplish my transition. Whatever is left would finance my new, somewhat spartan lifestyle.
“Once I’m gone, the vultures will be shocked to learn that the money is, too. They will investigate, litigate, and spend years accusing each other. What great fun to leave them doing to one another what they’ve been trying to do to me.”
She laughed heartily.
“That, dear friends, is my fantasy.” She smiled warmly at Keri. “I shared it with my dear Keri after visiting Florida to say good-bye. My tipsters report that action is imminent, the inevitable net about to be hurled over this old gray head. My lawyer stands alert, but he’s not optimistic.”
Scout scratched at the door, then gazed meaningfully at Venturi.
“Excuse me.” He left the table. “I’ll be right back, just have to take the dog out.”
His guests watched him walk across the yard, Scout beside him, wagging his tail.
“You can judge the condition of a man’s soul by the way he treats animals,” Marian said.
The yard was fenced, Venturi had no real reason to accompany the dog. But he wanted a moment to think. He sucked in a deep breath of humid air, took out his cell phone, and made a brief call. As he reentered the house Vicki was carrying plates to the kitchen. She winked, silently mouthing the words, “I love her.”
“Can you stay awhile longer?” he asked the guest of honor.
She could.
“Good,” Venturi said. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. He’ll be here shortly.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Danny’s Harley rumbled through the gate as Scout romped to greet it. Venturi followed.
“We have a client,” he said, as Danny took off his helmet. “Another woman in distress.”
The two stared at each other.
“How’s your lip?” Venturi finally asked, focusing on Danny’s split lip and bruised mouth.
“No problemo,” Danny said. “I’ve been hit harder by Gil the gerbil, and he’s dead.”
“I hesitated to call you,” Venturi said. “She’s here now. I haven’t checked for tattoos yet. We could use your help, but if you can’t be trusted to keep your pants zipped, as difficult as that might be, then you’re out.”
“Can’t make any promises until I see her.” Danny grinned.
“And, oh yeah,” Venturi added, as they approached the door. “Keri is in.”
“Ouch,” Danny muttered. “Why me?”
They and the dog went inside.
“This,” Venturi said, “is Marian Pomeroy.”
Danny cut his eyes at him, gave the woman a friendly grin and a warm handshake, then pulled up a chair.
They eventually discussed lifestyle and habits. Marian Pomeroy favored gardening, art museums, concerts, cruises, and red wine with dinner. She had a great affinity for photography and all children—except her own.
Danny was the first to come up with a plan.
“Ma’am?” He flashed his killer smile and leaned toward Marian, in her comfortable shoes, with a sweater draped over her narrow shoulders despite the heat. “Can you swim?”
“I could manage to splash about a bit.” She put down her teacup and pursed her lips. “I daresay I wouldn’t make it across the English Channel in record time, or at all. You see, as a child I had a nasty bout with rheumatic fever. Exercise was forbidden. No sports allowed. I was a far more delicate creature then than I am now.”
“Good.” He laughed aloud. “I might have an idea for you.”
He explained. They brainstormed, argued, improvised, and streamlined.
“Think you can do it?” Venturi said, turning to Keri. “More important, are you willing? It’s risky.”
“I can. I will,” she said without hesitation. “Absolutely. I love it!”
Marian clapped her hands in appreciation. “How extraordinary! You people are a combination of Extreme Makeover, Mission: Impossible, and CSI—in reverse.”
She added, “Now you’re probably convinced that I watch too much TV.”
Time was crucial. Marian immediately left each of her children a telephone message. Without divulging her precise whereabouts, she said she planned to return to New York in a few days and was eager to see them.
The real fun followed. Giving away money gave Marian Pomeroy the rush that shopaholics experience on spending sprees. She quickly and systematically began to divest herself of her assets.
She and Keri, wearing shades and scarves, drove through the city, invisible secret Santas, slipping checks for half a million dollars under the doors of Goodwill Enterprises, the Salvation Army, Miami’s Rescue Mission, Lighthouse for the Blind, and Camillus House, a downtown homeless shelter. They left cash-filled envelopes at a battered women’s refuge and mailed donations to the Sierra Club, a Juilliard school of music scholarship fund, environmental causes, and organizations committed to saving premature infants, baby seals, whales, manatees, the oceans, homeless pets, and polar bears. Smaller checks went to worthy individuals named in recent news stories, such as the waiter who rushed to the rescue of a young woman attacked by a violent carjacker. The police kept the hero for some time as they completed their paperwork. He missed the lunch hour rush as a result. Finally free to return to work, he was fired instead of congratulated.
More money went to inner-city churches, struggling theater groups, and a college fund for the children of cops killed on the job. Marian laughed a lot, as she and Keri became giddy at the joy of giving.
The donations were anonymous and a condition of their acceptance was that they remain that way. Marian Pomeroy never felt so free. She needed no receipts for tax purposes. Who cared about taxes? Not her. Her beneficiaries, her children, would have to deal with the IRS.
Before leaving home in Manhattan, aware that it was most likely for the last time, she had taken out a reverse mortgage for the maximum amount allowed on her brownstone. Upon her death, her home would be sold to satisfy the mortgage—unless, of course, her children chose to buy it back.
She had left her safety-deposit box empty except for the mortgage papers.
Heirlooms she couldn’t discreetly sell in New York she had shipped to South Florida, so she could dispose of them herself.
She and Keri visited the mean streets of Miami’s Overtown and Liberty City, distributing crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from large shopping bags to strangers on the street. Crowds quickly assembled, but each time they did, Danny or Venturi whisked the women away before police arrived.
It reminded Venturi of the day money rained on the Bronx.
The story and cell-phone photos shot by some of the lucky Miami recipients would soon find their way into the news, along with descriptions of the anonymous benefactor described by witnesses as a kindly grandmotherly type. Eventually she would be identified as Marian Pomeroy, too late of course to use in a competency hearing, but it could serve as an explanation of where her money had gone. No way to know exactly how much she gave away on the street.
Marion was careful to point out to the others that she did not hate her children. Her fervent hope was that her last resort might save them, force them into becoming self-reliant and independent. God knows, nothing else had worked. And, if this didn’t, c’est la vie.
Not a bit sentimental about her grandchildren, she confessed that she probably wouldn’t know them if she saw them, since they had neither visited nor acknowledged her gifts over the years.
She delighted in selecting her last cruise, as Keri, Danny, and Venturi pored over the plans, layouts, and accommodations of the various choices. They selected a modest seven-day voyage to Montego Bay, Grand Cayman, and Cozumel.
“The menu looks lovely,” Marian said.
A typical main course: prime rib of beef with béarnaise sauce, snow peas, glazed turnips, and Dauphin potatoes, or broiled red snapper filet with red wine sauce, vegetable couscous, and pepper relish.
She and her late husband had planned to cruise the wor
ld in retirement, but he died young. She later enjoyed a few cruises with her only sister, who died a decade ago, then, took a few solo. But this would be the cruise of a lifetime.
At first Venturi worried about Marian: What if her children and the board of directors were right? If she couldn’t handle her own assets, how could she manage a smooth transition into a new life, as another woman?
But he soon lost his initial reservations and became convinced that she was as competent as anyone, in fact more so than most. “She’s as sharp as anybody in this room,” he told the team, “although I’m not sure about everybody in this room.”
“Quit ragging on me!” Danny said. “Enough is enough.”
“Why do you think I meant you?”
“Stop bickering, boys,” Victoria said sternly. “It does none of us any good. We have work to do.”
Marian spent the night before departure writing, in her graceful Palmer penmanship, postcards to her children. Each pictured a dramatic moonrise over Miami.
Darling!
A delightful change in plans. Instead of returning home tomorrow, I’m off on a little cruise.
It should be great fun.
See you soon,
Love,
Mother
She sent others with similar messages to her attorney and several acquaintances. She dropped them in a mailbox on the way to the Port of Miami. With any luck, they’d arrive at their destinations in about a week.
Upon boarding, the ship’s photographer snapped her photo, capturing her sweet expression of eager anticipation.
Another passenger, Dr. Keri Spangler, filed onboard about ten travelers behind Marian Pomeroy, bypassed the photographer, and hurried to her cabin. The two travelers never acknowledged each other, never spoke, were never seen together. Their paths never crossed, as shipboard security cameras would later reveal.
Each passenger was issued an identification card to swipe in a machine not unlike a credit-card processor each time they disembarked or reboarded the ship.
Most passengers disembarked at Montego Bay, the first port of call. Some took short cruise-sponsored tours; others elected to shop or explore on their own.
Legally Dead Page 18