“Are you finished playing ‘my dog can kick your so-called dog’s ass’?” I skidded the fancy phone across the table. Fortunately for my ex and his expensive toys, he has quick reflexes.
“My point,” he said, “is that this is what a properly groomed poodle looks like. Sexy Beast should be a miniature version of Frederick. I’m going to put you in touch with the groomer Bonnie uses.” More tapping on the screen.
“No. Wait a minute.” I made a grab for the phone, which he easily evaded.
“Rocky has a waiting list,” Dom said. “It takes a year and a half to get an appointment as a new client, if you can believe it.”
“Shucks, that’s too bad.”
He brought the phone to his ear. “But for Bonnie he’ll move you to the head of the list.”
The last thing I wanted was to be beholden to the next Mrs. Faso. And what kind of name is Rocky for a dog groomer? Rocky sounded scary. Rocky sounded like a scowling, tattooed bodybuilder who wouldn’t be at all gentle with my poor little Sexy Beast, who went apoplectic at the sight of shampoo, never mind clippers.
I listened as Dom asked his fiancée to use her persuasive powers on Crystal Harbor’s most sought-after dog groomer. He called her “honey.” I hated Bonnie, too.
I never said I was mature, so you can just stop, you know, thinking whatever you’re thinking.
Dom signed off with Bonnie and said, “Done. She’ll have Rocky’s assistant call you to schedule an appointment.”
I blew out a defeated sigh. “Irene’s going to haunt you for this.” Then I scraped up enough good manners to say, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Want to see pictures of the kids?”
Why, I can think of nothing that would make this day more perfect. I pasted on a cardboard smile. “Of course!”
More screen tapping and then I found myself sitting through a slide show of Dominic Faso’s offspring, starting with the older two, ages fifteen and sixteen. Their mother was Svetlana Khorkov Faso, a Russian-born endocrinologist whom he’d met and married within weeks of our divorce.
“How are young Boris and Natasha?” I asked.
“Ivan and Karina are doing great, thanks for asking.” He showed me a picture of Ivan onstage in a school play. “He played the Stage Manager in Our Town. He’s not really interested in theater, he just does it ’cause that’s where the girls are. A Lothario at fifteen.”
“Like his dad. He really shot up in height. Looks like you.” Studying his son’s photograph, I was transported back in time to those heady first years with Dom. A knot of unwelcome emotion constricted my throat. I swallowed it down and gritted out a smile through a seemingly endless stream of images of Ivan, Karina, and ten-year-old Jonathan, Dom’s son by Meryl Hanover Faso. He’d met and married Meryl, hotshot poet and darling of the literary set, shortly after divorcing Svetlana.
What’s that, you say? You detect a pattern here? Why, how perspicacious of you. Dominic Faso is not a man who’s comfortable with his own damn self. He needs a woman to complete him, as the sappy saying goes. He does not, however, require that it be the same woman till death do them part. Dom could be the poster boy for a “Got Serial Monogamy?” campaign.
For what it’s worth, I’ve never suspected him of cheating. He waits for the amicable breakup, then immediately reels in a replacement. In the good-news department, each of his marriages has lasted significantly longer than the preceding one, which means he just might be getting this thing down.
That was good news for Bonnie Hernandez, a local police detective. If it were up to Dom, Bonnie would already be Mrs. Faso the Fourth. She took a good, hard look at her fiancé’s marital history and demanded a two-year engagement, much to the groom’s frustration. He did, however, persuade her to move in with him.
“Rocky charges a fortune, by the way.” He slipped the phone back into his breast pocket. “And for Sexy Beast it’ll be a fortune and a half. No worries, I’m paying for it.”
“No.” This was my knee-jerk response to Dom’s frequent offers to pay for stuff. I had my pride—as misplaced and self-defeating as that pride was, considering the anorexic condition of my wallet.
“Stop it, Janey,” he said. “I know you can afford it now. I’m doing this for Irene.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know how much she loved that dog. It’s just something I want to do for Sexy Beast, even if she didn’t see the need—”
“No, I mean the other part. About how I can afford it now.”
“Well, maybe not right this instant,” he said, “but once the inheritance comes through. I’m going to get a grilled-veggie pita. You want something?”
He started to rise. I yanked on his arm to reseat him. “What inheritance? I didn’t inherit anything.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then just kind of froze like that while he ruminated on my words. Finally he said, “Hmm.” He snagged his bottom lip in his teeth, a sure sign he had something up his sleeve.
An electric charge rippled up my body and buzzed my scalp. “What, Dom? What do you know?”
“Hasn’t Sten called you yet?”
Sten. I grabbed my phone and checked to see whether Irene’s lawyer had left voice mail. Yes, one message, just a few minutes ago after I’d dumped his latest call. I punched in my password and listened to Sten’s leisurely, basso profundo delivery. He always spoke slowly, weighing each word, which invariably caused young, inexperienced attorneys for the other side to underestimate the old warhorse. When they learned to their detriment how wrong they were, it was usually too late.
Sten’s message began, “Jane, you are a hard woman to get ahold of.” In my agitated state it seemed to take Sten an hour and a half just to get those words out. My heart was a wild thing in a cage. He felt the need to add, “This is Sten Jakobsen.” I slapped my forehead. For the love of God, Sten, get to the point! Clouds roiled thorough the skies, day turned to night, the stars winked out and the sun rose high in the sky once more while Sten drawled, “There are issues you and I need to discuss with respect to the disposition of Irene’s assets, and also with respect to guardianship of that little dog of hers. If you would do me the kindness of phoning me at your earliest convenience—”
I cut off the message and searched the contact list in my phone with shaking hands. I went through the J’s twice looking for Jakobsen before it occurred to me he might be under S.
“Janey.” Dom commandeered my phone and pushed a couple of buttons. “Just dial the missed call. Here.”
Add cell phones to the list of things I hate. Even the dumb ones are too smart for me.
While I waited for Sten’s secretary to pick up, I asked Dom, “How do you know I inherited something?”
He shrugged. “Irene told me.”
“How could you have kept something like that from—”
“Jakobsen and Keller,” came the female voice on the other end.
I identified myself and said I was returning Sten’s call. He came on and I apologized for having missed his calls. Busy, busy, that’s me, just too busy to answer my phone. My palms were so slick with sweat and my grip on the phone so fierce, I half expected it to shoot across the room. “You wanted to discuss, um, Irene’s will?” I said.
“Yes. If you would be so good as to come down to the office,” Sten said. “Are you free at two-thirty?”
“I’m not, unfortunately. I have a job in Jersey today. I actually have to get going soon. I can come in another time, but meanwhile can you just, um, give me the gist of it over the phone?”
Okay, no exaggeration, I watched Patrick take an order for a tofu Waldorf salad, dish out the glop, and make change for the customer before Sten got to the end of, “I suppose I can do that, yes, although if this conversation goes the way I anticipate, you and I will need to meet in person to process the paperwork.”
I wiped one palm on my jeans, switched the phone to that hand, and wiped the other palm. Dom watched my face the whole time, waitin
g for me to react to whatever the lawyer was about to tell me. “Well, this certainly sounds, um, intriguing,” I said.
“Intriguing, yes.” Sten allowed himself a nice, leisurely chuckle. “I am sure you know how very special you were to Irene. She loved you like a granddaughter.”
I cleared my throat. My eyes stung. I still couldn’t quite fathom that she was gone. No good-byes, no period of illness to get used to the idea. Just gone. I shoved my free hand in my purse and rooted around. What happened to all my tissues? Dom pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and I flashed on Martin McAuliffe doing the same thing when I’d teared up at his bar last night. I dabbed my eyes. “You know I felt the same way about her.”
“I know that, Jane,” Sten said, “and Irene knew it, too. Now, to get to the gist of the matter, as you put it, there is the issue of her beloved pet.”
I held my breath.
“Understand you are under no legal obligation to accept, but Irene wanted you to have full guardianship of her three-year-old toy poodle, Sexy Beast.”
A gusty cry erupted from me and I clapped a hand over my mouth. The tears came then, tears of joy and relief, and I let them. Dom gently stroked my back. In a quick aside I told him, “SB’s going to me.”
“I know.” Dom handed me more napkins. “You have the phone on speaker.”
“What?” Mortified, I examined the device. My ex calmly touched a button bearing a speaker icon. I glanced around to see if any of the nearby customers had overheard my conversation with the lawyer. If they had, they were polite enough to pretend they hadn’t.
“Jane?” Sten’s deep voice continued. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, Sten, sorry.”
“She wanted him to live with you because, aside from Irene herself, you have been his primary caretaker—a dependable and loving one, by all accounts. Sexy Beast has known you his whole life. Do you accept this responsibility?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’m thrilled to be his guardian.”
“That is what I expected you to say, and I am glad you did, because Irene’s other bequest regarding you hinged, as it were, on your accepting the guardianship role.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“She was determined to avoid, to the extent possible,” he said, “any and all disruptions to her pet’s life and routine.”
“Well, I can tell you that he’s already gotten settled at my apartment, no problem. He sniffed every corner of the place and made himself right at home.”
“I am not surprised to hear it,” Sten drawled. “In my experience, dogs are generally adaptable in situations like this. Irene did not agree, at least not where Sexy Beast was concerned.” A pause. “I must say, I feel a little foolish every time I say that animal’s name.”
Dom was making “get to the point” gestures, aimed not at me but at the slow-talking lawyer on the other end of the line.
“Okay, so when you say the other part of Irene’s bequest is dependent on my taking Sexy Beast,” I said, “that means what precisely?”
“Irene gave you her house.”
That was funny. It almost sounded like he said, Irene gave you her house. “Excuse me,” I said, “could you repeat that?”
“You have inherited the property situated at Three Rugby Place, Crystal Harbor, New York. You will need to come in to the office so that I may transfer the property to you by deed.”
I sat dumbstruck. Dom said, “Don’t faint on me, Janey,” and took my free hand. I clutched his fingers with bruising force, but he didn’t flinch.
“I—I—” I shook my head to clear it. “Are you serious, Sten? Irene left me her house?”
“There is a second condition,” he said, “aside from the primary requirement that you first agree to be guardian of her pet, which you have met. While Sexy Beast is alive, you are required to occupy the property and are prohibited from selling it. To this end, your ownership will be subject to a life estate held by Sexy Beast.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
I had to hand it to Sten. He managed not to crack up as he said, “Essentially it means that Sexy Beast is the owner of the property until his death, when it will revert to you. I will explain in more detail when you come in to sign the documents.”
My mind raced. “This was, well, astoundingly generous of Irene, but I don’t see how it can work. I can’t afford to maintain a house like that. My annual income won’t even cover the property taxes.”
“Irene provided for all expenses related to the property. You will receive one million five hundred thousand dollars—”
For the second time during our conversation, I clapped a hand over my mouth. It’s not a gesture I can recall having made before in my life. Dom chuckled. Apparently he’d known all this for some time.
“—to be applied to taxes,” Sten continued, “utilities, repairs, maintenance of the grounds and house, and of course all expenses related to Sexy Beast. His food, veterinary care, and so forth.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I breathed.
“One point five million might sound like a lot of money,” Sten soberly intoned, “but it is expected that you will spend only the investment income it produces. If you invest conservatively and leave the principal untouched, you should be able to enjoy a comfortable life in that house until the end of your days, should you so choose.”
“I…I wish I’d known all this before she…” My voice was raspy with emotion. “I wish I could thank her.”
We said good-bye and he transferred me to his secretary to make an appointment. I hung up and in a tone of wonder said, “I’m a millionaire.”
8
Grope, Grope, Grope
OKAY, I KNEW I wasn’t a millionaire millionaire. I was in no position to, say, cart half a mil to the track and put it on Lucky Mermaid to win. I did the arithmetic. Sten was right. The best way to ensure that my million and a half would support 3 Rugby Place for decades to come was to put it to work earning interest and dividends and stuff like that—can you tell I know squat about investing?—and to spend only the interest and dividends and stuff like that. That took care of SB and the house, but I still had to feed and clothe myself and pour gas in my Civic. Quitting my day job was not an option.
Which is why I spent the rest of the day in West Orange, New Jersey, pretending to be the Mysterious Other Woman in the life of one Theodore Marcus Seabrook, recently deceased. I tarted myself up with big hair, a slinky green halter dress, high-heeled do-me pumps, and, God help me, false eyelashes that felt like a family of caterpillars had nested on my face.
Ted had engaged me for this assignment around Thanksgiving after learning he had at most six months to live. The prospect of dying didn’t frighten him—he’d lived a long and fruitful life and had few regrets. One of those regrets was having remained faithfully married for twenty-two years to Margaret Seabrook, a self-absorbed dumpling of a woman who, once she realized her husband was strolling toward the exit sign, couldn’t resist taunting him with the revelation of her myriad cheap affairs, starting with a three-way involving a pair of virile croupiers during their Las Vegas honeymoon. Jackpot!
I was to remain conspicuously weepy during the funeral and graveside service, then take my act back to the home Ted had shared with Margaret, where family and friends would gather to get ossified and mourn the dearly departed cuckold.
I’d met with Ted again shortly before his death, and he’d laughed himself silly imagining the look on the Widow Seabrook’s doughy mug when she came face-to-face with his hotsy-totsy longtime mistress. See? I do so help people find peace and closure.
Ted got his money’s worth, let me tell you. Yours truly was the talk of the funeral. During most of the reception I sat surrounded by a cluster of his inebriated buddies, and received more sympathy, tequila shots, and phone numbers than I knew what to do with. By the time the shindig wound down around two in the morning—these guys knew how to party a pal into the afterworld!—Margaret lo
oked like she wanted to kick someone down the stairs. Well, me. Ted had assured me she was too well bred to start a catfight in front of all their friends and relatives, and he was right. Altogether, it was one of my more enjoyable assignments. I only wish my client could have been there to witness it.
I slept late the next morning, as millionaires are wont to do. In my case it was because I didn’t get home until after three. I drove to my folks’ place to check up on SB, who was curled up on my dad’s lap and too absorbed in Meerkat Manor to pay me much mind. I decided to leave him in their capable hands while I went to Irene’s house—I doubt I’ll ever stop thinking of it as Irene’s house—to execute my damage-control plan.
The day was cold and windy, with flurries expected. Snow in April always ticks me off. Mother Nature teases you into thinking it’s spring, then sucker-punches you the instant you lower your guard. I left my car in the parking area around the side of the house and let myself in through the garage. It was so strange to walk through the house and realize it belonged to me now. I assumed the contents were included. I’d find out the details when I met with Sten on Friday.
I headed straight for the file cabinet in Irene’s home office. I pulled it open and zeroed in on the file labeled Delaney, Jane. That is, I would have if the file had been there. Credit Cards now rubbed shoulders with Dentist. Could I have misfiled it last time I was there? I pawed through the drawer and then for good measure checked the bottom drawer, though I didn’t see how it could have made its way there.
My file was gone. Twenty-two years’ worth of work orders, including a handful that could be considered questionable or even—and yes, I was thinking of that final one—downright incriminating.
The padre hadn’t left his card this time. He hadn’t needed to. Martin McAuliffe was the only person with both the motive and the requisite skill necessary to break in to this house, for the second time, and have his way with Irene’s file cabinet.
What an idiot I was. I should have gone directly here from Janey’s Place yesterday and grabbed that file, even if it meant being late for Ted’s funeral. I’d underestimated Martin. He’d made it clear he was prepared to drag me along for the ride if I made trouble for him. This was obviously a preemptive strike, yet another instance when he anticipated my move and swooped in to beat me to the prize.
Undertaking Irene Page 10
