Undertaking Irene

by Pamela Burford

  “Sten, I’m dying to know why Irene left nearly everything to Patrick O’Rourke. What’s their connection?”

  “I appreciate your curiosity,” he said, “but I do not feel it is appropriate for me to answer that question.”

  Can’t say I was surprised, but I plowed on. “She also gave him the cars and the contents of a safe-deposit box. Any idea what’s in the box?”

  “That is between Irene and Patrick.”

  I sighed. “Well, can you at least tell me whether Patrick knew he was going to inherit this enormous bequest? Do you know whether she mentioned it to him before she died?”

  Sten nodded. “He knew.”

  Finally, an answer. And a helpful one at that.

  His phone rang. My heart stopped. He listened for a few moments, thanked Lenny, and hung up. I could tell nothing from his maddeningly unreadable expression.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “She will be back at Ahearn’s within the hour,” he said, and I almost fainted with relief.

  I grabbed his big, dry hand and squeezed it. I swallowed a lump of emotion. “Thank you, Sten.”

  It might have been my imagination, but his eyes looked suspiciously shiny. He cleared his throat. “I shall call Joyce Huang. She is the pathologist I mentioned.” He indicated the bagged takeout cup. “And I shall get this to her.”

  I hugged Sten, feeling lighter of mind than when I’d entered the ballroom. I wasn’t alone in this. Sten Jakobsen was in my camp, and he didn’t think I was crazy.

  I detoured to the buffet tables, suddenly ravenous, wondering if anyone would notice if I opened my big purse and shoveled in a platter of Thai spring rolls. I’d just popped a steak-and-Stilton appetizer into my pie-hole when a pair of long arms snaked around my waist from behind. The padre! The steak tried to lodge itself halfway down my gullet, resulting in a fit of coughing and eye-squirting, plus some pointless pounding on my back by the owner of the arms, who spun me to face him.

  Dom grinned. “You okay? Went down the wrong way, huh?”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be grabbed like that.” I also wasn’t expecting to be held in a light embrace as my ex was now doing.

  “There’s another reason to avoid meat,” he said. “Choking hazard.”

  “Really?” I started to move away and was surprised when he didn’t let go. Which wasn’t really a problem since it felt so nice. “And here I thought being groped while eating was the choking hazard.”

  His grin widened. “When I grope you, you’ll know it.” To illustrate, he slid a hand southward and squeezed my bottom.

  I gave a little gasp. Where had that come from? In the seventeen years since our divorce, Dom had never stepped over the line. I’m not proud to admit I would have welcomed the occasional line-overstepping, but the man was perpetually in a relationship and he didn’t stray.

  Something in his dark gaze put me on alert. Outwardly his attention was wholly on me, yet I couldn’t ignore a certain proprietary glint. I followed his brief glance and spied Martin McAuliffe at the other end of the buffet tables, hammering home a mini red-velvet cheesecake and studying us with an amused expression.

  I shoved Dom away. A rush of angry blood scalded my cheeks. “Next time you want to put on a show, leave me out of it.”

  I started to move past him. He caught my arm. “What’s wrong with you, Janey?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I tried to wrench out of his grasp. He wasn’t letting go. “I don’t like being used.”

  “Used?” he said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  My eyes burned with fury and humiliation. All that pathetic yearning, for so long, watching helplessly as he moved from wife to wife. Knowing that when he thought of me at all, it was as a youthful mistake.

  I forced calm into my voice. “That little ass-grab was for the padre’s benefit, not mine.”

  “Who?”

  I nodded toward Martin, whose attention was no longer on us. He was chatting up the caterer, Maia Armstrong, an attractive black woman in her mid-thirties. Maia and I often found ourselves in a position to refer clients to each other. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. They were both smiling.

  “How do you know that guy?” Dom asked.

  “None of your business. Let me go, Dom,” I growled.

  He glanced around, saw we were drawing stares, and released my arm. The possessive smirk was gone, replaced by a baffled frown.

  I knew where the bafflement came from. He wasn’t used to seeing me angry. Even back when we divorced, I wasn’t angry. I was hurt. Inconsolable. Heartbroken. Maybe I should have gotten angry.

  “You’re wrong, Janey,” he said. “I put on that ‘show’ for your sake. To protect you.”

  My bark of incredulous laughter brought him up short, but he recovered enough to add, “Martin McAuliffe is trouble. You shouldn’t get mixed up with him.”

  “Oh please,” I said. Dom’s little display had been triggered by nothing more noble than male territoriality. The fact that the male in question had no desire for the territory being ass-grabbed was immaterial. It had been a reflex, like taking a crap.

  “Your concern for my welfare stirs me deeply,” I said. “Now, stay the hell away from me.”

  Seldom had I been blessed with such a righteous exit line, and I made good use of it. As I strode across the ballroom, I noticed that, due to player attrition, some tables were being consolidated. Players were taking advantage of the lull to stretch their legs, which explained Dom’s and Martin’s sudden interest in ass-grabbing and munchies, respectively.

  A female voice called, “Jane!”

  I halted in my tracks and saw Sophie Halperin hurrying toward me. My sudden stop caused someone to barrel into me from behind. It was Jonah, striding quickly toward the exit. He murmured an apology, but his distracted expression made me wonder if he even realized who he’d bumped into. Gee, maybe his dog had run away.

  Sophie caught up to me, moving with surprising speed for someone so short and round. She was in her mid-fifties, with graying dark hair and a seemingly limitless wardrobe of colorful, flowing tunics and pants. I’d known Sophie almost as long as I’d known Irene. She was a longtime client as well as a friend.

  “Didn’t expect him to bust out so early,” she said, watching Jonah’s swiftly retreating form.

  “He looked like he was doing okay a little while ago,” I said.

  “His mind was somewhere else. Played like a rookie the last few rounds. Almost like he wanted to get rid of his chips so he could get out of here. Half our table’s gone now, so they’re moving me.”

  “Jonah told me you were in the emergency room Wednesday evening,” I said, “but that it was nothing serious?”

  “Oh, that.” She made a face. “Waste of time. Got these pains in my calf as I was leaving the office at five. Made the mistake of calling Jonah, who, of course, insisted I go to Harbor Memorial. Thought it might be deep vein thrombosis. Doppler ultrasound of the arteries turned up zilch.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Just one of those unexplained things,” she said. “Got to hand it to Jonah, though. I was there for four miserable hours and so was he.”

  Yeah, I thought, because unlike most of us lowly mortals, you can afford to have a concierge physician at your beck and call. What I said was, “Hey, he’s got to take good care of you. You’re the damn mayor of this burg.”

  “And as the damn mayor, I want to congratulate the newest Crystal Harbor homeowner.” She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

  “Stumping for votes already?” I joked. “Next election isn’t for a year.”

  “Never too early.” I wasn’t surprised Sophie knew about my inheritance. She was always the first to know anything in this town. She looked around and lowered her voice. “Looks like Nina Wallace is going to try to unseat me.”

  “But she just got elected president of the Historical Society,” I said. “That’s a two-year commitment.”

  She
shrugged. “Does she care? I’ll have to bring my A-game. That woman does not run a civilized campaign.”

  “I heard some things about last week’s election,” I said.

  “Not to speak ill of the dead and all, but Irene gave as good as she got. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was something to her rumor about Nina.”

  “Which rumor would that be?” I said.

  Sophie snorted. “If you have to ask, you never heard it.”

  Not being personally involved with the Crystal Harbor Historical Society, I had blessedly been spared the worst of the gossip. “I don’t even want to know,” I said.

  “That’s good, ’cause I don’t spread unsubstantiated smears. I just listen to them,” she snickered.

  “You call the rumor unsubstantiated,” I said, “yet you say there might be something to it?”

  “Well, everyone knows Irene hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on Nina during the campaign.”

  My jaw dropped. “Irene did that?”

  Sophie’s expression said, Get real. “Come on, Jane, you knew her better than anyone. You going to stand there and tell me you’re shocked?”

  I wished I could. I said nothing.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “Nina won the election before the PI got very far in his snooping. He found out just enough to let Irene stir things up. Backfired on her, though—slinging dirt when she had no firm proof. Might’ve cost her the election.”

  “Well, Nina sure seems settled in to her new role,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.” Sophie looked around as if to make sure the subject of our conversation was out of earshot. Nina was over by the buffet tables, obviously complaining about something to Maia. Maybe the caviar turned out to be lumpfish instead of beluga. “President for a week and already she’s renaming the tournament.”

  “Renaming it?” I said. “To what?”

  Sophie spread her plump arms and intoned with mock reverence, “The Colette O’Grady O’Rourke Memorial Poker Tournament.”

  “O’Grady and O’Rourke?” I said. “For real?” I knew Colette’s maiden name was O’Grady, but I doubted she’d used it as a middle name during her married life. Talk about an inharmonious mouthful.

  “I mean, Nina and Colette were good friends, sure,” she said, “but everyone knows who this is really about.”

  “Irene,” I agreed. “It’s a slap in the face to her. To her memory.” Irene and Colette had both been members of the Historical Society forever. They’d both served on the board, and both had been fixtures in the tournament. If anything, Irene’s financial contributions to the organization should have tipped the scale in her favor. Not that there was a compelling reason to rename the tournament after either woman.

  “Winning the election isn’t enough for Nina,” Sophie said. “She has to totally stick it to her opponent. Who died. I mean, yeah, Irene ran a nasty campaign and all, but she lost. And then she died.” She spread her hands. “Like that’s not enough?”

  “Can Nina decide this on her own?” I asked.

  Sophie shook her head. “She blindsided the other board members this morning before the tournament started, forced a vote. No one but me had the balls to stand up to her. Bunch of spineless wimps.”

  My eyebrows rose. “So the name change is really going through?”

  “Madame President is going to announce it along with the winners later.” She nodded to a dealer across the room. “Listen, they’re waiting for me, I’ve got to go.”

  “Before you do,” I said, “just something to keep in mind—if you know of anyone who needs a housekeeper, I think Maria Echevarría might be looking for work.”

  Her eyes widened. “Irene’s Maria? I’ll hire her, and her guacamole. My Danielle just quit. She’s moving to London, where her boyfriend lives. They’re opening an art gallery.” Her eye-roll said, Good luck with that.

  I managed to locate Maria’s phone number in my cell. Sophie shot her insistent dealer the one-minute sign with her index finger, muttering, “Yeah, kiss my ass, I’m the damn mayor of this burg,” and punched the number into her own phone.

  No sooner had she joined her table than I noticed someone else sharing contact info on the other side of the ballroom. Martin scribbled something on a card—one of his gentleman’s calling cards, no doubt—and handed it to Veronica Sheffield.

  Veronica happened to be one of my most lucrative repeat clients, the center of a galactic network of friends, relatives, and business associates, a rewarding percentage of whom dropped dead each year, compelling Veronica to invest in the usual gravesite visits, cremains dispersal, and sympathy-card writing, plus a host of bizarre assignments only her inventive and bored little mind could devise. Remember the dildo crafted from the boyfriend’s ashes? Yep. That was Veronica.

  On top of all that, she required a chic new black outfit for each of the countless funerals she attended. I acted as private shopper for funeral finery and also peddled the worn-once outfits for her on eBay, earning a fee on both ends. Plus she regularly recommended my services to members of her book club, investment club, yacht club, beach club, and bowling league. Veronica was your basic Death Diva cash cow.

  Once again, flirtatious smiles all around. Veronica was okay-looking, I supposed, and recently divorced, but she had to be ten years Martin’s senior. It was easier to understand his interest in Maia.

  Just then Veronica looked over and noticed me noticing. Her smile fled, replaced by a flurry of nervous blinking, which happened to be her signature poker tell. I didn’t know how she’d lasted so long in today’s tournament. She usually blinked her way out of it within twenty minutes.

  Martin followed the direction of her gaze and sent me a chipper wave before pumping Veronica’s hand and resuming his seat behind a veritable cordillera of chips. A pretty young masseuse pounced like a bobcat and started kneading his broad shoulders.

  I scowled. Something about this stank.

  “Don’t do that, you’ll get lines.” Nina appeared at my side and tapped my forehead. She inspected me more closely and added, “Well, more lines,” before mouthing, Botox.

  Nina Wallace was the last person I wanted to see right then, the archetypal high school mean girl all grown up. I wrestled with my anger and disgust, recalling the syrupy false sympathy she’d extended to me yesterday at Janey’s Place.

  Where was a great big pot of vegetarian chili when you needed it? God help her if she mentioned Irene.

  “It just doesn’t seem the same without Irene, does it?” She produced a tissue and discreetly dabbed at her upper lip. Only then did I notice a sheen of perspiration and the pale cast of her skin.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Never better.” Her grin was so bright and earnest, it was hard not to believe her. Still…

  “You look a little green around the gills,” I said. “Maybe you should sit down for a—”

  Nina bolted out of the ballroom. I caught up with her as she sprinted down the hallway and into the ladies’ room. She didn’t have time to lock the stall door before her lunch said sayonara. I couldn’t help thinking of Irene and her recent indigestion.

  I was ready with wet paper towels when she staggered to a sink to rinse her mouth. She blotted her face and offered a crooked smile. “Well, that was fun.”

  The sumptuously appointed john had a separate seating area. I encouraged her to lie down on the couch. She waved off the suggestion.

  “I’ll be fine now.” Gratefully she accepted a mint I fished out of my purse.

  There weren’t too many reasons a woman would recover so quickly and cheerfully from a bout of vomiting. I watched her check her makeup and thought I detected a hint of self-satisfaction. Any connection to Irene’s malady instantly vaporized.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “When are you due?”

  She looked at my reflection, then turned to face me. “Please tell me it’s not that obvious.”

  “Not to anyone who didn’t just watch you
puke.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m about six weeks along. We’re not telling anyone yet, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention—”

  “Of course not,” I assured her. “It’s nobody’s business until you decide to share it.”

  She was visibly relieved. “Thanks.” She shot one more glance at the mirror. “Do I look okay?”

  “Perfect.” I didn’t doubt that Nina Wallace would look more fashionable and put together at full term than I could ever hope to be on my best day.

  She returned to the ballroom. I used the facilities and headed out of the building, having no reason to linger now that I’d accomplished my mission. The snow had ended, but it was still cold. Two men stood on the portico, smoking and talking. I recognized one of them as Malachy Wallace, a richer-than-Croesus investment banker and Nina’s much better half. He greeted me and introduced me to his pal Rich, who’d come down from Rochester for the tournament.

  Unfortunately, Rich had already busted out. “I’m going to take out my indignation on that buffet table,” he said, depositing his cigarette butt in the elegant, sand-filled receptacle provided for that purpose. “Think I can eat five thousand dollars’ worth of hors d’oeuvres?”

  “Start with those steak-and-Stilton thingies,” I suggested. “They’re to die for.”

  He gave me a mock salute and disappeared inside. I turned to Mal Wallace, who was on the tall side, with thinning dark hair and an incipient spare tire. His best features were a strong, square jaw and the patience to put up with his high-maintenance wife. “You’re not playing?” I asked him.

  “If Nina doesn’t get to play, I don’t.” If that bugged him, you couldn’t tell by his affable smile. “She put me to work today, helping out.”

  “Is that why you’re hiding out here?”

  He exhaled a stream of smoke. His smile widened and he shrugged.

  I exchanged greetings with Lacey Vargas, the owner of UnderStatements, the lingerie boutique, as she exited the building. When she was out of earshot, I told Mal, “Congrats, by the way.”

  He gave me a perplexed look as he discarded his cigarette butt.

  “About the baby,” I said. “I sort of found out by accident. Nina just had a bout of morning sickness.”