“It’s not luck Joe.” Claire’d torn her English muffin into a pile of crumbs. “It’s courageous, you and Lawrence. You deserve your happiness.”
Joe reached over and put his spindly hand over Claire’s. “You’re a good person, Claire, and a lovely breakfast companion.”
She fingered the bruises near her jaw.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Hola?”
“Conchita?”
“Si?”
“Conchita? It’s me, Claire.”
“Si.”
“Conchita. I said it’s Claire.”
“Si hola como estas?”
Claire took a deep breath, counted to ten. Conchita spoke better English than Claire. Yet she loved this Abbott and Consuela phone routine and did it any time Claire called. Jordan liked to say that Conchita loved to yanko Claire’s chaino.
“Conchita, I’ve been in an accident. I have about an hour to live.”
“Oh good one, Claire, good one.” Conchita laughed. “Maybe you should talk to Guillermo instead.”
Claire got no respect. If she wasn’t so lazy she’d fire her and look for a new... a new... what was Conchita anyway? What did you call a person who knew where all your illegal drugs and bastard children were? Oh that’s right—employed.
“Hey, thanks for packing up all my stuff and sending it. Perfect choices like always.”
“No problem.” Conchita could pack a suitcase like most people could make a peanut butter sandwich. Without thinking in no time flat. “How are you really?”
“How long do you have?”
“I knew you should’ve stayed home. Away from those people.”
“Well, I’m on the home stretch. Umm... is Annabelle around?”
“No, not today. She only comes by to raid your closet.” Conchita made clucking sounds. She worked her ass off to put her two kids through college. Twenty year-olds in two thousand dollar outfits didn’t sit well with her. “I keep telling her she has her own place now. Time to fly the nest. Our little chica is too spoiled.”
“Good luck with that. Hey, I’ve gotten a couple letters from Ellen’s attorney since I’ve been gone. Only one made it into the FedEx. Did one get left there?”
“Ay chihuahua. That woman. Not that I’ve seen.”
“So you didn’t keep it there on purpose?”
“No. But I would’ve if I’d seen it. She’s waited this long. She can wait a few more weeks.”
“Shit. If you come across it call me at the hotel. My cell is... not working right. Try to keep Annabelle out of the mail. No. Better yet I’m going to be here a while. Forward it. Keep the bills. And if you see or hear from her tell her to call me pronto.”
“Si señora.”
“Adios amiga.” It made Conchita happy when Claire threw her a bone.
Not good. Where’d that goddamn letter go? If Annabelle opened it...no that couldn’t happen. It couldn’t.
Claire put the receiver in its cradle and rested her forehead on Liam who was right where she kept leaving him by her cell phone. Both still dead.
****
The message light blinked. Claire pressed it hoping to hear Annabelle’s voice. Two messages. Daryl Post, the university’s PR man called to let her know Elizabeth’s television debut was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Dean Sumner would appear as well to talk about the university donor program and Elizabeth would speak briefly about the Corrigan family gift. The dean or someone from his office would call later to get info about Liam so they could say a few words about him on air. A press release went out to all local media. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, there’s some good news. She hit two for delete and continued on.
“Claire, it’s Connor.” Claire’s already sour stomach clenched. “Hey I ah, I’d like to talk to you about the crypt. The service and everything. Give me a call tonight at the house. I’d like to have coffee or something away from the family. I can come wherever’s close to your hotel. Thanks.”
Great.
No Annabelle either.
****
“You’ve reached Annabelle. Leave a message.”
Goddammit.
She’d called her cell like a compulsive maniac all day. Claire beat the phone receiver against the dresser. A good-sized dent appeared in the cheap plywood and only the phone’s ringing stopped her from whittling it down to firewood. Could she get her hands on an axe?
“Andrew, tell me something I want to hear for a change.”
“She’ll take a one-time cash settlement. Ten million. Everything else goes away.”
No beating around the bush. He had that going for him. “Ten million? Are you high?”
He coughed, choking strangled sounds so forceful she thought a lung might hurl through the receiver. “Ahh... no,” he finally said.
“You must be. Or you have a head injury.” Claire’s heart jumped, kicked, did somersaults.
“Claire, it’s a good deal.”
“For who?” Claire felt like she’d been dropped into a vat of acid.
“You’re gonna pay close to five million over time anyway with the child support, tuition, etc.” Claire could hear birds in the background. “That doesn’t include any part of Liam’s estate or any adjustments she might ask for over time.”
“Adjustments?” Claire said loud.
“Child support is never a closed issue until they’re of age.”
“Forget it. I won’t consider it.”
“I don’t understand Claire.”
“Really? You’re an Ivy League graduate. Get your head out of your ass.” Claire trembled with fury. “Let me say it again. My answer is no fucking way.”
“So you want to go to court? ’Cause that’s where this is going.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
“Then you’re not willing to negotiate? Look we’re going to have to sell the apartment anyway. Maybe let Conchita go. And do you really need a ten-acre estate now that Liam’s gone, with all that maintenance?” He took a breath. “Keep in mind this would get rid of her. One payment and she’s gone forever. Her and the kid. That’s got to be worth something to you.”
Andrew might as well have been humming elevator music. “Jordan and Annabelle didn’t get anywhere near ten million. They got a quarter of that and won’t see another penny ’til I’m dead. If there’s none left, that’s what they’ll get. They aren’t guaranteed another cent. Why would I hand over ten million dollars free and clear to his bastard?” The phone slipped in Claire’s sweat drenched hand.
“We could negotiate down. But I don’t think they’ll go for it.”
“Well, isn’t it your job to persuade them to go for it?”
“Claire, I’m just playing devil’s advocate—”
“Why don’t you try playing my attorney for a change? My answer is no.”
“I’ll see what they say.”
“You do that.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Connor wiped his upper lip, his eyebrows, fidgeted in the diner booth. They’d agreed to meet at the diner during his lunch hour. The waitresses were getting used to her baldness now. Not so much staring.
“Your mother gave me the impression she wanted to weigh in on some of these arrangements.”
Connor slapped his water glass down. “Oh don’t worry about that. She let me know what she wants.” With pale hands he wiped the spilled water with a twisted napkin.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
Claire craned her neck and head forward, wished more than ever her damn eyebrows weren’t gone. She hoped the wrinkles in her forehead worked as a kind of Morse code for the hairless. Connor called this meeting, now he wasn’t talking. He must think she had all day. She did, but still. He didn’t know that.
“She wants some special hymns,” Connor said.
“I’ll never remember.” Claire searched her bag for something to write on. Joe’d left the university letterhead with his scribbled notes behind by mistake. She’d collected it off the tabl
e. Might as well make good use of it. A passing waitress surrendered her pen. “Write them down.” She gave both pen and paper to Connor.
He roused. “Ah, the illustrious board of trustees.” The pen clicked against the Formica as he wrote. “Guess Bonnie’s dad is still around. What a nut job. He always blamed Liam for his unstable daughter.”
Bonnie’s dad? First Gloria’s father, now Bonnie’s? Both trustees? Claire’s ass left the booth pronto so she could lean across the table.
Connor pointed with the ballpoint. “He’s listed as a trustee emeritus—Elgin Grady.”
Jesus H. Christ. Was everyone a trustee emeritus?
“Bonnie’s parents are still living?” Claire said still ass-up.
“They’re breathing far as I know. More religious fanatics.”
“This place I full of ’em.”
“Elizabeth ought to have a high time tonight.”
“Tonight?” Claire plopped back down.
“Didn’t you know? She’s beside herself. It’s Trustee Night or some such crap. All the trustees past and present have their shindig. The dean invited her personally. I assume that means all these codgers,” he pointed to the emeritus list, “will attend too.”
****
The bottom-of-the-sea tin can aroma of Connor’s tuna-on-rye sandwich tested Claire’s grit, still not 100 percent since her weird night with Rob Rhino. She straightened the high collar on her Thomas Pink button down, hoped it hid her bruises, fiddled with her multiple-strand Mikimoto pearl necklace. Connor shoveled mouthfuls of his lunch, one arm guarding the outside of his plate, eyes fixed on Claire, the standard prison dining room stance.
She studied him, his inmate-style eating, tried to conjure up the dead baby photo. Had she imagined it? What had she overheard Grace and William blathering from her spot pressed up against the ugly wallpaper?
“Are there no other grandchildren besides Annabelle?” Claire never knew when her Tourette’s would rear its barking head.
Connor’s last bite of sandwich hit the plate. His mouth full of fish sagged open like she’d just stretched a nylon over her head and pulled a loaded gun out of her purse.
He took a drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Umm no... no more.”
Claire stared him down.
“Elizabeth and William couldn’t. They tried for several years.” Connor twirled the ice around in his glass.
Claire gave him her don’t-make-me-go-there-’cause-you-know-I-will look, peering down, neck bent.
“Deborah and I, we, we had a baby.” Connor’s face burned bright red, he’d started to sweat. He looked like Claire, except for all the hair. “It’s been years ago. Twelve to be exact.”
Claire leaned forward, cutting him no slack.
“He died shortly after birth, heart defect—congenital. Nothing anyone could do.” Connor took a drink of Coke with the fork still in the glass. “We didn’t want to try again. Didn’t want to risk it.”
“Oh I’m so sorry to—”
“Don’t be, it’s been a long time.”
“He’s not... not at the university cemetery?” Claire already knew he wasn’t. She needed something to say.
“No. He’s at Creekside, the other cemetery across town.”
Claire’s thoughts turned over like bingo balls. “Won’t you want him laid to rest with all of us in the crypt?”
Connor jumped up, threw a twentydollar bill on the table. “I’m late. I need to get back to work.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“We hope our gift helps the university—” Elizabeth, with lips so lacquered she could barely open her mouth, squealed at the dean. She stared, glassy eyed, hillbilly in the headlights.
“The Corrigan family’s generous gift endows the cemetery and will help pay its upkeep long past my tenure, I can assure you.” Dean Sumner smiled into the camera.
Claire sat on the edge of the hotel bed, glued to her TV watching Elizabeth and Dean Sumner on Hip Happenin’s with Hobbs. Elizabeth looked downright frightening. The camera added ten pounds all right, plus a striking resemblance to Milton Berle. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much.
Her medication certainly helped.
The alcohol helped kill the E. coli, peritonitis, or whatever horrible virus she’d picked up out at that godforsaken farm. She sipped from one of the glasses she’d taken out of the bathroom, squinted at the set.
Definitely a fresh perm and not just on the dean.
Where in the name of Ethel Merman had Elizabeth found that outfit? Just seeing her in it was worth five million. The wrist corsage was a nice touch. Giggling, Claire kicked her bare feet.
The local yokel Charlie Hobbs lobbed goofball questions at both the dean and Elizabeth as if they were three-year-olds. Given Elizabeth’s answers and the star-struck look on her face, probably a good policy.
“You told us earlier that this colossal gift—and five million dollars is nothing short of colossal—is in honor of your brother Liam and your father. We talked a little bit about your brother but can you tell us something about your father?” Charlie crossed one maroon leisure- suited leg over the other, his white loafers keeping time with the cheesy background music.
Elizabeth sat at the edge of the red white and blue couch, back ramrod straight. Her false eyelashes periodically stuck together, which made her look like she’d pulled the straw out of the gin bottle right before air time. She cleared her throat loud every time she spoke.
“Well, Charlie,” she looked around the studio like a beauty pageant contestant, “my dad, Emmet Patrick Corrigan,” she enunciated the name like Charlie’d gone Helen Keller, “supervised the sanitation department at the university for over forty years. He made sure the campus stayed beautiful, the buildings remained in good repair and clean, the cleanest, and the bathrooms—”
“That sounds just swell.” Charlie leaned forward and patted the dean on the back. “And this lovely lady is the newest trustee. Is that right, Dean?”
“Yes, she is. She represents the Corrigan family. We’re lucky to have her, yes, we are.” He smiled. Claire thought she could see help me behind his eyes.
Charlie asked a couple lame questions until the crappy music squawked louder, cut him off and he was forced to sign off. Claire shook her head laughing and got up to turn the TV off. She was about to congratulate herself on a job well done when her phone rang.
“Annabelle?” Claire said.
“Claire Corrigan?”
She held the phone away from her ear.
Goddammit. Him again.
He’d left messages, worried about her. She’d ignored them.
“I need to talk to you. Can we meet somewhere?”
“Rob Rhino. Look, I’m fine.” She could feel her face getting hot, remembering. Her hand crept to her still tender throat, bruises fading but still visible. “I think I ate rancid meat out at—”
“Right. Good. I mean, whatever. I just saw your sister-in-law on TV.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah, her.”
“So?”
“So I need to talk to you.”
“About what?” Claire could feel her blood moving fast, her scalp prickling.
“I knew your father-in-law and your husband.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Claire schlepped into the diner. She felt sick of the place, the same old gum-smacking waitresses, shitty food. Now she had to listen to whatever ridiculous fable Rob Rhino’d cooked up. He probably wanted to get back at her for whatever happened the other night, for performing the Heimlich maneuver or whatever the hell he’d done on her. The two blocks seemed too far to walk, so she drove, beating Rob there.
“What now?” Claire heard her shrewish voice. She slurped her water. “How could you possibly know my husband or anyone in his family?” She hoped her indignation hid her deep shame.
“Claire. Hey now, it’s cool.” Rob Rhino slid into his side of the booth, his rubber green clo
gs flapping against his heels. He motioned to the waitress.
“I doubt it. Sounds the opposite of cool.”
She searched him over the rim of her glass for any sign. He looked dorky as always. No knowing smirks, no intimate glances. She wondered if he expected thanks for having come to her aid. “Start talking.”
“I spoke to him on the phone—your husband. A coupla times.” Rob patted his girl covered shirt, his face blank. “I never met him in person.”
“Speed this up.” Claire’s tongue flicked the ice cubes in her glass. The dreamy sedation she’d so enjoyed while watching Hip Happenin’s with Hobbs died a tragic death.
The waitress asked if they wanted anything, as if all was well in the world. Rob ordered them both cheeseburgers. Claire stared straight ahead.
“I didn’t recognize the name. I knew Emmet Corrigan as Pat the janitor when I was a prof.” He fidgeted in the booth, got comfortable. “He’d been retired quite a while when he died. I didn’t see him too much the last few years. He and Freddie Eddie never hit it off.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Claire crossed her arms over her chest. The sweat beads started under her bra, armpits, and upper lip. She grabbed a handful of napkins, thought a minute... oh right. Emmet Patrick. She wiped her neck.
“Don’t know if I ever knew his last name. When I heard your sister-in-law talk about the head of the sanitation department today, I knew it was him. He used to joke about that,” Rob said.
Elizabeth didn’t have an original thought in her head.
“Pat was my friend.” Rob’s eyes watered. He clasped his hands in front of him. “He’s the one who switched Gloria’s ashes, broke into the church.”
“Liam’s father was the ash thief?” Her heart beat a little faster, she dabbed her upper lip and forehead.
“Yes. God love him.”
The Last Day For Rob Rhino Page 14