The Invisible Heiress

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  “Well—” He stopped, head hung down. I thought he might’ve passed out. Then his head popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “If you must know, I went to your apartment to kill you.”

  That thought energized him for sure.

  “You were the creeper?”

  “Your drunk neighbors, or what not, came out of their apartment in the nick of time. Not before I found uh, um, a business card, lying right in front of your door like the golden ticket.” He snapped his fingers a second or two behind the beat.

  “Did you kill my mother?” Coroner said natural causes but those could be faked. Todd’s connections could’ve come in handy for him.

  “Didn’t know a twat like you had a mother. Saw it in the paper. Dropped dead all, yes, all on her own with a prenup, for chrissake. I’m telling you the heavens opened. Everything, and I mean everything, the whole kit and kaboodle, went my way. Preordained, ripe for the taking. Didn’t even break a goddamn sweat.” The belt staunched his blood loss, renewed his sensibilities. His speech bellowed out strong and clear.

  “And this?” I held up the copy of the phony driver’s license.

  He waved his hand like he was batting at flies. “Oh her. Pfft. That’s uh, Marcella. Family friend, let’s say. Got her to call the attorney. Pretend to be you.” Todd threw the second blood-drenched towel in my direction. The stack he’d brought in dwindled. “That cost me. After I’d, um, you know, after I’d asked her to babysit Harrison she—bitch—made me buy her annoying mother a condo. You’re all, every one of you, money-grubbing whores.”

  “Says the biggest money-grubbing whore of all time.” Didn’t care if I pissed him off. Might as well make this worth my while. “I knew I’d heard a woman in the background, guess it was your partner in crime. You’re an audacious, money-grubbing whore on your better days.”

  To my amazement, he chuckled. “Thought you’d caught me when I proposed, but you—no— you actually thought I meant it.” He carried on, “Christ, Isabel. Who, no what, moronic twit would marry you unless there was uh, you know what I’m trying to say, um, something to gain? Crazy bitch.”

  That pained me.

  For the first time since I knew this would be my last day on earth, I felt like crying. “I can’t believe I killed Brendan because of you,” I said.

  “You?” Todd tried to sit up straighter, flinched and sucked in air.

  “Didn’t mean to do more than scare him. But the whole car blew.”

  “What? Jesus, Isabel. What for?”

  “He saw us. Kept showing up everywhere. He even drove up to Preston’s house when we were using it. I don’t know when he figured it out, but he followed me for days. I worried he might influence Preston. She’d turn you against me if our relationship got out. Or Harrison would find out and make real trouble.” I realized how lame and desperate that sounded. “He bugged my office, as it turned out.”

  “I know. I told him to, to, uh, do that.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do you think I trusted you—el stupido—for half a second?” The corners of his mouth turned down in pain. His conversation turned more garbled, quieter. He was losing steam. “Brendan. Gullible fool, believed I wanted him to do it for, for, Preston. To make sure you, conniving wretch, were, you know, uh, telling us the truth about her condition. Would’ve been a loose end but you took care of, of, the do-gooder bastard for me.” He kicked the floor again with a surprising burst of energy. “How perfect is that?”

  The baby I never wanted roiled and kicked, somehow knew we weren’t long for this world. Didn’t know if I carried a he or a she, never wondered until this second. I felt a deep and painful sorrow. No one would’ve been a worse mother than me, but I’d changed like you’d never believe in the past few minutes. If given the chance, I might’ve become a person who could learn to love.

  Todd’s face wrinkled. “Why’d you push me?”

  Drunk from blood loss he started crying. Squeaking little gerbil.

  “Sent you clients,” he said wiping his nose. “Through family court, my own daughter. You’re a fucking traitor. Paid your bills, bought you that primo car. But no, you, you, wanted more. Who the fuck gets knocked up . . . twenty-first century for chrissake? Whatever happens, well, it’s your fault more than mine.”

  “You won’t get away with killing me,” I said.

  “I’m gonna try.” He shook his head from side to side. “Goddamn Marv. Another fucking turncoat.”

  “Marv Finney? What’s he got to do with us? He’s dead, didn’t you hear?”

  “You—you never mind about Marv.”

  “You’ll die first if you don’t get to a doctor to get that leg looked at.”

  “No way, Jose.”

  The gun surprised me. I hadn’t given much thought to the method but thought he’d do something more personal, like strangulation with one of the many restraints we kept around the place. More fitting. Without a thought both my hands wrapped around my stomach, an instinct to protect someone other than me I never knew I had.

  I saw Todd shift his glance to his unborn child. He winced.

  “We deserved each other,” I started to say but never did.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Preston

  Stunned, I stared at the monitor.

  My father had known I was pregnant.

  In my haze I thought the FedEx guy gave me the box with Cooper’s new monogrammed blankets, not Dad. The date stamp on the footage confirmed he’d come the day I delivered. The day I cratered my life for good. How long did he stay? Did he even try to help me? Did I kick him out like I did my mother? I couldn’t remember.

  Now I needed to find him.

  Still crying I hunted for my phone. I could never find my phone. I needed to listen to Dad’s messages again. After a fifteen-minute search through the house I found my cell on the floor of the Rover. I thought about his odd-sounding message while I hustled back to the house. Dad must’ve been near the stables, which is why I thought he was outside when he called. He kept saying, “Preston, where are you?” Sounded infuriated.

  The red-stained windowpane check fabric Walter had dropped at my feet belonged to Dad. The rumbling sound at the end of his voicemail wasn’t a rumble at all but a growl. Walter broke free to attack my father. The brake lights were his.

  Intent on listening to Dad’s messages again, I saw I missed another one, this one from Smiley. “Preston. I’m just leaving Judge Seward’s. Your dad is the guy in the pictures. He’s the one. I’m not sure if he and Isabel are still in, well, whatever they’re in, but we know where she lives. I’m headed there with a search warrant to find out what the hell is going on.”

  I hit redial. Walter interrupted my listening to it ring with a head butt to my thigh. “You want to go out back?” We walked toward the back of the house so I could let him out through the French doors. I’d no more than opened the door when Walter stiffened. I dropped the phone, gripped Walter’s collar with all my strength to keep him from lunging.

  ****

  “Dad?”

  Walter growled and barked at my father, who stood frozen in the backyard. I couldn’t hold him even with both hands. He got away from me. I yelled, “Stop, Walter!” He did, surprising both my father and me, who’d shirked back in expectation. The Greatest Dane dropped to his belly.

  “What are you doing here?” I hated myself for the trembling in my voice. For the first time in my life I felt afraid of my father. Walter belly crawled to my side, head down. “How did you get here?”

  “You’re, you, you.” His breath came hard, he couldn’t finish his thought. “Not the, uh, the only one who knows secret ways to, to get to, in, places.”

  A lot of land, dense with trees, surrounded these estates. Anyone who wanted to bad enough could get in just about anyone’s backyard on Nottingham Lane.

  “What the hell happened?” I pointed to the calf he’d tried to bandage, drenched with and sopping blood, with what looked like his belt tied around his leg, b
uckle dangling. From the looks of him, it’d taken a herculean act of strength, and will, to propel my dad here through the back ways. “Why aren’t you—”

  “That, it, him. Fucking dog.” He pointed at Walter who stood up, snarled in response. “What the hell was that, that, damn mongrel doing at Beverley?” His face twisted into one I didn’t recognize, showing emotions I couldn’t even name. Then morphed into something else altogether, something childlike and pitiful. He started to cry. “Can you—you owe me—help out your old dad, Preston? Can you?”

  “Help you what?”

  Dad held out both bloody hands to show Walter he wasn’t planning anything underhanded. He hobbled to the patio, his leg a torn, bloodied mess. “Can I please, pretty please, come in?” He motioned to Walter.

  I held firm to my dog, let my father in. “You need to go the hospital,” I said.

  “I know. You, um, you can take me. Say I was, say I was, yeah, playing with that goddamn dog. He bit me or, or something.” He staggered right past the boxes but didn’t notice them, then fell into the nearest chair. “Probably can’t, I mean won’t, make the papers. If I ju, ju, just show up this way, that’ll be, that’ll be, definitely bad. Terrible, awful bad.”

  My Harvard educated father, attorney, and politician, suddenly inarticulate, meant his injury was serious and getting the best of him. So shocked by his condition, I half expected him to drop dead then and there. Walter crept forward. I jerked on his collar. “Stop it.”

  Dad looked up, like the command was for him. “Look, I’m serious. I mean, whatever Marv said isn’t true. It’s, that’s why he’s, no friend of mine. Dumbass killed himself, you know. Couldn’t live with his lies.”

  Whatever I thought he’d say, it wasn’t that.

  “Marv? He didn’t say anything. Not to me, anyway. What are you talking about?”

  “What about the, uh, the whatchacallit? Cameras? Film? Your bitch, I mean, uncorked mother, stole them from Isabel’s car. Yeah. Righty-o. I’m sure she did. Made that idiot, duh, duh, driver of hers do it. Who else?”

  He struggled with his words. The blood loss was doing his brain no favors.

  “You’re talking nonsense.” I knew very well what film. Mother got the blame for everything. I willed myself not to look toward the empty boxes still in his sight if he turned his head toward the library where the cameras and flash drive sat handily on James’s desk.

  He looked me over with great care. “Nothing. No, nope nothing,” he said senselessly. His face looked white as death. Sweat ran down his forehead from his dyed hairline, his fake blue eyes wet.

  “Did you follow me to the stables?” I said.

  “No. I, I didn’t know you’d be there. I needed—no had to—to get the cameras.” His lips curled up. “Lived at Beverley for thirty, um, shit this hurts, thirty-some whatever the fuck years. I know that path better than you.”

  I kept quiet for once. I didn’t want to give my father any reason to suspect I knew what was on those cameras.

  “I tried to tell,” he cried in earnest. “Tell you we’d, uh, no I married Isabel. You wouldn’t answer. You wouldn’t answer the goddamn phone when your own father called.”

  That came out clear.

  He raised his hand, then dropped it, remembering the giant dog who wanted to eat him. “No. One. Respects. Me.” If he’d had the strength he would’ve yelled that last bit. Walter whined dying to attack.

  “Marrying Isabel doesn’t do much to raise the respect bar. Why didn’t I hear? You getting married again would’ve definitely made the news around here.”

  “Confi . . . confiden . . . secret marriage license. Yeah, that’s it, that’s a, a thing. Look it up.” Dad’s voice had gone cold, hard. “Your mother, Vampira, forced my hand. Didn’t have a choice.”

  “Don’t blame Mom because you married a crackpot.”

  “Wouldn’t have if Harrison had let me keep the money.”

  That came out quick, strong.

  “She. Rich crone. Didn’t need it. She, I, deserved something for all those years.” His face turned a deep purple. His words seemed tough to come by. Whatever blood supply he had left fueled his rage. “Strung me along. Let me think our divorce was friendly. Smug wretch. She went along with my lies to that cop. Psycho cop. Then bam! What the hell? She pulled the rug out.”

  “You went from one rich wife to another. You married Isabel for the lottery winnings from her dead mother.”

  “You. Preston. You knew about her mother?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Just like Harrison. Think you know all. Every. Fucking. Thing.” He could barely retain his rage even in his sorry state. “You hate that emas . . . emasculate, whatever, bitch as much as I do. You, of all the, you tried to kill her. For chrissake. She only loved Cooper. She wished you’d died instead.” He leaned far over to emphasize that last bit, hit his elbow on the table. “Godammit,” he said to the offending table. Walter jumped up, almost pulled my arm out of the socket but I kept him back. “Do—don’t you see?” he said. “Me and you.” He held up crossed fingers, “We’re alike. Twinsies. Both married losers to get even with your mother.”

  Nothing in my life was what I’d thought. I understood more in five minutes than I had in almost thirty years. So much so that commenting didn’t seem necessary, so I didn’t.

  “You,” he said pointing. “Little girl, got to help me get away. Yes, I mean, I mean, you owe me.” He wheedled like he used to.

  “Get away from who? I don’t owe you.”

  “You sniveling, sweetie, wait. No. I stuck up for you. Made sure you didn’t get, mmmm, I mean go to prison. Your bitch mother wanted to lock you up and throw away the key.”

  Almost funny how he could rally when he insulted my mother.

  “No, she didn’t,” I said but balked. I knew she did, at first.

  His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Oh, don’t tell me you two kissed and, and, made up? Of all the—”

  Not exactly but he didn’t need to know that. I held my tongue and my dog.

  “That’s rich,” Dad said. “Fuck fucking figures. Well, big shit.”

  “You killed Aunt James.”

  Dad looked like I’d punched him in the face.

  “James? Wha . . . who, who told you about James?”

  “James did.”

  “How?”

  “She left a letter. I burned it.”

  “I buried your baby, you know.”

  He couldn’t have picked a better way to change the subject. That felt like a mule kick. “What did you do that day, Dad? I know you were there.”

  It seemed impossible for him to go whiter, but he did.

  “How do you know that? You’re lying.”

  Shit. I’d given myself away, so I said the only thing he’d believe. “I remembered.”

  With an Oscar winning actor’s skill, he turned sober as a preacher. “Damn it, Preston. You know you would’ve killed that kid eventually.”

  I gripped Walter to keep from passing out. “Eventually?”

  “I couldn’t let him live. That kid would’ve been the messiah. First male in fuck knows how long. He’d have gotten everything. I did it for you. To protect your inheritance.”

  Another topic that acted like a shot of adrenalin to his failing system and nonsensical speech patterns. I felt my lips open and close like a fish, but no sound came out.

  He kept talking, but those last few sensible words about did him in. He sacrificed some strength, and clarity, to eke out his horrifying excuse. “He, he’d have died anyway, already a druggie. Too small. I didn’t need to, to do, anything. In fact, that’s exactly what I did. Yesirree. I didn’t do anything. Not a, not a, goddamn thing. Half an hour. Done. Never made a peep.”

  “Why didn’t you call an ambulance? You let me deliver him on the floor?”

  “You’d gone. Yes you did—into the bathroom—locked the door. Figured you were taking more drugs. Didn’t matter. Kid was a goner.”

  “S
o you were there when Mom came?”

  “Oh, Bob’s your uncle, no. I left. You didn’t seem any more dis . . . distressed. Oh, who cares, than usual.”

  “You left me there? I could’ve died.”

  “You didn’t though. Oh no, you’re a tough little bugger. I do, did, worry a little, just a smidge, so I went back. When I got there the front window, you know, was smashed in. I climbed through. Your mother. Naturally, your mother beat me there. She didn’t want to let me in to your bedroom. Cunt. So I called Marv. The rest, as you—they—say is, uh, history.”

  I knew in my heart that nothing would’ve saved my Cooper. My father was right and I hated him more than I could imagine hating anyone at that moment. All I needed to do was let go of Walter. That’d be the end. As if he could read my mind, Walter barked, growled, tried to spring forward. I loosed my grip a little, tightened it again. I couldn’t do it. I still hadn’t figured out how I tried to do my mother in. Where’d I get the chutzpah for that hideous act?

  “See? You do owe me,” he said. “You. Filthy, I mean, you’re filthy rich because of me.”

  “You’re right,” I heard myself say. Like I’d separated from my body. I wanted this man out of my house. If I could get him in my car maybe I could drive him to the police station or pull over and boot him out.

  “So you’ll do it? Help me?”

  “Yes, the Rover’s got a full tank of gas. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. But there’s a price. Tell me where Cooper’s buried first or we go nowhere.”

  “Easy peasy. I’m really, oh, so, you know, very super clever. Underneath the uh, garden thingy. The, the, the, whosit, gazebo.”

  “What gazebo?”

  “The one. You know, that one, in Aunt James’s backyard.”

  Despite the precarious situation I found myself in, I still felt relief, a sense of closure, peace. My son was laid to rest somewhere, not thrown out like garbage. I looked down to see blood pooling around Dad’s leg, despite his DIY medical treatment. He might bleed out right here in my house.

  “Harri . . . your mother only has herself to blame about, you know, James. It’s on her. Isabel too. If your mother hadn’t been such a, a, bitch Isabel might still be alive.”