“Claire, lovely to see you again.” Evelyn Wallace chirped like a bird from across the hall. She tottered over on her pudgy feet stuffed into tight blue satin pumps that matched her dress. She must always coordinate her outfits with her hair color, her shtick.
Claire grasped her plump outstretched hand warmly. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” Evelyn smelled like Chanel No. 5 mixed with streusel.
“Oh, we Wallaces have been Dean Council donors for generations.” Evelyn’s eyes scanned the room.
She didn’t doubt it.
“Looks like a good turnout,” Claire said.
Joe Lansing made a beeline for her to make idle conversation. Claire wondered if Joe’d brought his wife. She’d love to meet the sort of woman who’d marry a funeral director. Did he make her play dead in the sack? If she was like most wives she was good at it. A skill they’d honed right after the wedding cake was cut.
The room neared its capacity. Several round tables were set with white tablecloths and tasteful floral centerpieces, carefully arranged at below eye level to not disturb the flow of conversation.
“Did you sign in at reception?” Dean Sumner looked straight ahead at Claire’s chest and appeared to find it wanting. “You don’t have a nametag.”
As usual she’d sauntered in without a thought or glance to the right or left. “Oh no... I didn’t notice a registration area,” Claire said. “Sorry.”
“Here you are.” Evelyn, the eighth wonder of the uber-organized world, peeled the back off Claire’s nametag and smoothed it over Claire’s left bosom. “There. All set.”
They sure knew how to treat a five million dollar donor.
“You’re sitting with us at the dean’s table, of course.” Dean Sumner pointed toward a round table at the front of the room near the dais. “Let’s mingle. Several of our council members are dying to meet you.”
Sure they were.
Thirty minutes and a hundred handshakes later, Claire’s brain felt like mush, her face frozen into a smile only a hack plastic surgeon could appreciate. Half the women in the room had the same one. She inched toward her table, leaned down to Dean Sumner to beg for mercy when a tap on her shoulder brought her round.
“Is that you, Claire Corrigan?”
Her nemesis. King Dong. Mr. Lied-about-his-dead-wife-whom-he-might-have-killed.
“Rob Rhino.”
“In the flesh.”
“This is unbelievable.” She fumbled for the table.
“I know. Can’t believe you’re here.”
He grinned, his best shit-eating kind, not the least bit self-conscious. He’d cleaned up again too. His strings of dyed hair stretched across his bare scalp into a limp ponytail. His expensive suit fit him well and real shoes replaced his green rubber clogs. Rob Rhino in stylish black pinstripes and expensive leather. Claire knew from expensive shoes and well-made clothes.
“Doc, have you met our guest of honor? Claire Corrigan?” Dean Sumner slapped Rob Rhino on the back like a good old boy.
“We know each other. Go way back,” Rob said.
Claire’s buzz had all but disappeared. What was up with this Doc business? She needed to get to her purse. How many millions did it take to get a cocktail around here?
“Do tell.” Dean Sumner clapped his hands like a high school cheerleader.
An elder-statesman-looking fellow stepped up to the dais and asked everyone to take their seats. A collective rumble spread across the room as heels clacked, chairs scraped.
Joe and Dean Sumner sat side by side at the dean’s table, no wives in sight. Claire stumbled to her seat. She turned to her side expecting to see Rob Rhino, to demand an explanation for his creepy presence. He’d disappeared. Twisting side to side, trying not to appear obvious, she searched to no avail. The room was packed. He could be anywhere. The loser in the monkey suit still yammered at the microphone. She dug for the only thing she could trust at the bottom of her rhinestone ladybug bag.
What kind of place was this that would let the likes of Rob Rhino in?
And the dean acted friendly toward him? Of all the... she turned to Dean Sumner to ask when she noticed his hand on Joe Lansing’s leg.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
She looked away and stared straight ahead.
Chapter Twenty
Claire gulped a glass of cheap chardonnay as soon as one was poured. Then another. A plate of rubber chicken and the program passed in a blur. Joe called her name from the dais. Dean Sumner grasped her elbow, steered her upward and out of her seat to thunderous applause from the crowd. She didn’t know what he’d said about her. She wasn’t listening. Sitting down again, not so steady, she put her purse in her lap and searched the bottom. She wasn’t bothering with subtleties when Rob Rhino shook her arm. He’d come from she didn’t know where.
“Wanna dance?”
Claire kept searching her Judith Leiber, ignoring his absurd offer. “Where’ve you been lurking? Doc?”
He jerked his ponytailed head backward. “Over there. I’m always at the same table. Come on, let’s get a groove on.” He did a little jig.
Claire stopped digging in her purse to look around. Several couples danced by. She’d been too busy pawing to notice the music.
“How’d you get in here? How do you know these people? I can’t believe for a second they know what you do.”
She turned to her right in time to see Joe and the dean making goo-goo eyes, their hands clasped firmly together under the table. Good Christ. No wonder Dean Sumner reminded her of Steven. Steven and Jord—Claire’s stomach lurched.
She slapped her purse shut. “Let’s dance.”
He led her by the elbow to the center of the banquet hall where other couples tripped the light fantastic, cheek to cheek. Claire planted her feet, arms at her side. Rob held out his hand, waited. After a beat or two, she took it. To her shocked dismay he pulled her close. He gently placed one arm around her waist, the other near her shoulder where their fingers entwined. She could see over his head. He didn’t stink. She could smell his aftershave, crisp, masculine. His grip was firm, protective, seductive. Squirming away crossed her mind but the sweet succor of a man’s embrace kept her in it. Her eyes closed for a second, the heat from his palm pressed to her back warmed more than her skin.
A decked-out duo foxtrotted near. “Evening, Doc.” The tuxedoed hoofer nodded at Rob as he danced his bejeweled partner by. Rob waved like royalty.
Claire came back to earth. “What’s the deal?”
“Told ya. I’m the doctor of—”
“I know—of love.” She rolled her eyes.
“It’s what I’m famous for.” He winked. “A hunka hunka burnin’—”
“Oh God, stop.” Claire laughed. “Seriously. Did you crash this party?”
“I’ve been coming to this thing for years. As a guest. With a date.”
Claire froze.
“You have a date?” Her eyes roved the crowd.
“Not that kind of date.” Rob laughed. “Margaret Dodd. She’s a sweet gal, a widow. Rich as a Rockefeller. Husband was some kind of stockbroker. I introduced them. Known her for years. She doesn’t want to come alone but doesn’t want another steady.”
“Where is she?”
Without hesitation Rob pointed at the bar. “There.”
An over-bleached, too-tanned, stick-thin woman with giant breasts had a portly drunk trapped on a stool.
“Perfect.”
Rob shrugged. “She likes to party.”
“Looks like a stripper.”
“She was.”
Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “This is the craziest town. Guess they don’t care who writes the checks, right?”
They kept dancing through another song.
“Speaking of checks. Your gift to the university is unbelievable,” Rob Rhino said.
“Yeah, well, I wanted to bury my husband here. Had to be a donor.”
“Well, you did it in spades.”
Sinc
e he brought it up, sort of. “So... your wife is buried here.”
Wasn’t sure how to let him know she knew he lied about Gloria’s grave.
“Yes, she is. She loved this place.”
“Why?”
“She went to school here. She’s from this town. Her parents still live here.”
They moved across the floor to the music. He was better at it than she was. He led her around like a Dancing with a Porn Star pro and she lurched like a clod.
“You said she died a long time ago?”
“Yes. More than thirty-five years.”
“Wow. She must’ve been young.”
“Early twenties.” He spun her around. “Your husband must’ve been pretty young too.”
“Yes. Fifty-eight.”
“Was he sick?”
“No. Car accident.”
“Brutal.”
“Was Gloria sick?”
“You could say that.”
Claire waited. Close to the chest kind of guy. Except about his penis.
The music stopped.
“I saw the headstone you pointed to wasn’t Gloria’s.” She couldn’t help herself.
“I figured you would.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“At least the lovebirds went elsewhere,” Claire said.
Rob Rhino scanned Claire’s now empty table. “You mean Dean Sumner and Joe?”
Claire felt herself blush. “Never mind.”
Half the guests in the room had gone. A few still danced, some chatted, a couple holdouts bellied up to the bar. Joe and the dean stood guard at the door bidding goodbye to departing donors and their credit cards.
“Don’t tell me you’re homophobic,” Rob said.
“Of course I’m not.”
She wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. She—why did he have to get under her skin?
“Don’t tell me. Some of your best friends are gay, right?” Rob took a bite of the piece of cake that had been put in front of her placemat while they danced.
“It’s just... I—” Claire’s eyes filled with tears.
“Hey, it’s cool. Don’t mind me. I’m an asshole,” Rob said patting her back. “Come on now, what’s wrong? I’m always pissing you off huh?”
Claire blinked back her tears, laughed. “Yes, you are always pissing me off. You need to work on that. And you are an asshole.”
Rob looked like a puppy about to lick her face. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired I guess. Long day.”
Claire reached into her purse for her emergency hoard. If this evening wasn’t an emergency, what was? Seeing no more wine she looked around the table for the water.
“Hey, can you slide that glass of water over here?”
Rob Rhino picked up the glass and handed it to Claire. “You’re not gonna take that and drive are you?”
“You’re not gonna mistake yourself for my father are you?”
“Seems like you’ve taken more than enough.”
“How do you know how much of anything I take?” Claire felt her temperature rise along with her voice.
Rob pressed his jowls down toward his neck and raised his bushy brows. “Really? You wanna go there?”
“You have a lot of room to talk. Crackhead.”
“Crackhead? Me? Been drug-free for decades.”
“What? I sat by you on the plane remember? I picked you up on the side of the road. You were barely conscious.”
Rob threw his big head back and laughed. “Oh that. You thought I was... oh funny.”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“I get airsick. Motion sickness. I have to take Dramamine before I fly or take car trips. Makes me loopy. I’m kind of sensitive to it too. Stays with me a long time. I’m not a crackhead. I’m delicate.”
Delicate. Right. He takes Dramamine? That’s it?
“You’re kidding.”
A couple she’d met earlier danced by and waved. Claire rustled up a tight smile, waved back.
“Nope. It’s one of the reasons I hitchhike. I don’t drive. Can’t stay in the car too long. I like to go a little ways and then walk.”
Rob took a drink of water out of the same glass he gave to Claire and smiled.
She palmed the pill.
****
“I have to talk to Joe and Dean Sumner before I leave. Thanks for the dance Rob Rhino. You sure can cut a rug.” She had to give him his due.
“Any time at all Claire Corrigan.”
Claire picked up her rhinestone ladybug off the table and walked toward the door when Rob called after her.
“Hey, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow drive out to Alex’s Warehouse. It’s a real gig. You can see my fans. See how the other half lives. Get you a toy or two maybe a movie.” He beamed, his missing tooth a banner. “I’ll even autograph it for you.”
“Not on your sad disgusting life Rob Rhino.”
But she knew she’d go. Why not? She had nothing to lose. Not anymore. Besides Rob Rhino owed her. All he did was bug the shit out of her. She wanted to know what happened to his wife. And why he seemed to want her to ask.
****
Joe Lansing and the dean schmoozed another set of major donors on their merry way, probably a few thousand dollars lighter, when Claire approached.
“Dean would you have a minute to talk before I take off?” Claire said.
The dean smiled his warmest YOU are my new best friend smile. “Of course we can talk. Joe, Claire and I are going to sit for a few minutes, can you handle the door?” Joe nodded and waved them on while he fawned over the fur coat of a matron with obvious big bucks. Claire and Dean Sumner sat at the nearest table.
“I hope you had a good time,” the dean said.
“I won’t keep you from your hosting duties long. I have a quick question about the trusteeship.”
Dean Sumner perked up.
“Could I appoint someone else to sit on the board in my stead?” Claire said.
“Oh well, I don’t know. No one’s ever...” Dean Sumner deflated. “No one’s asked before. I suppose so. You know you’re our first choice. We would bend over backward to accommodate you.”
“Oh I know, I know. You’ve been very thoughtful. But the reason I’m doing this, well this is for my husband and his family. And I know he would want his family to represent me on the board if I couldn’t be there.” Claire looked at her lap in her best attempt at demure. “So I think his sister Elizabeth is the best choice.”
“His sister. Elizabeth. Oh my, well, if that’s what you think is best.” Dean Sumner couldn’t mask his regret. “Of course, I wish you’d change your mind—”
“Well, I’m always just a phone call away,” Claire said.
“Yes, I suppose. I know Joe will be surprised. Perhaps a bit disappointed.”
“Perhaps. But I think you’ll find Elizabeth energetic, enthusiastic. And all of you will warm right up to her.”
Like the Hindenburg to a blowtorch.
“Oh I’m sure we will. It’ll work out just fine. Delightful.”
“I’m delighted.”
“That’s all that matters.”
Claire and the dean strolled toward Joe at the door. “Thanks again for your understanding.” Claire figured out quick that money bought her anything she wanted here, like everywhere else.
Claire said her goodbyes and waved off kind offers to walk her to her car. She took a last look around the banquet hall. Rob’s ex-stripper, rich-as-a-Rockefeller date, climbed up his leg on the dance floor. Not much of a climb given his stumpy legs. She could see him laughing. Claire dropped her eyes to the ground, tucked her bedazzled drugstore under her arm and hurried out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
What does one wear to a porn warehouse?
She pulled out several outfit combinations only to discard them as not quite right. Too bad Conchita wasn’t here to ask. She’d know. She always knew.
The phone rang.
“Hope you don
’t mind the call—”
“Oh Connor, what’s up?”
Claire could hear what sounded like a vacuum running in the background. “I’d love you to come for dinner, here at the farm. All of us could get together.”
Could there be a worse idea?
“I don’t know. I—”
“It’d be a chance for you to meet my wife Deborah.” Connor’s voice rose even though the vacuum sound stopped. “And we could get Elizabeth to warm up to the idea of the crypt if we worked on her together.”
“When were you thinking?”
Claire kept shuffling through her suitcase looking for appropriate porn star signing wear. Might as well get Elizabeth across the finish line.
“Whenever works for you.”
She pulled out jeans and a navy striped boatneck T-shirt. What difference did it make what she wore? For once she probably wouldn’t stick out the most.
They settled on a date, he gave her directions, which she wrote on the Do Not Disturb placard that was sitting next to Liam. His urn sat next to the phone and the vodka bottle where Claire left it yesterday. She wondered if the maids looked inside the urn when they cleaned. She was about to hang up when she remembered something.
“Connor?”
“Yes?”
“This is a little awkward.” Claire rested her elbow on Liam. She was probably telling tales out of school but so what. “I asked your mother about your dad’s burial. You know about the guidelines. She said the university gave him the plot as a gift. A gold watch sort of thing, retirement thanks.”
“That makes sense. He worked there a dog’s age, you know.”
Claire tucked the phone under her ear, pulled on her jeans. “Funny thing about that. I asked Joe Lansing at the cemetery. He told me it’s impossible. The university would never give something like that away, so I—”
“Well, maybe they only do it for the old-timers, or they don’t do it anymore. Probably before Joe’s time.” Connor sounded thoughtful. “Maybe he doesn’t know.”
She unscrewed the top on the vodka bottle. “Turns out they keep detailed records about that sort of thing. An anonymous donor made a donation in your father’s honor. A million dollars. That’s how he got the plot.”
The Last Day For Rob Rhino Page 8