by Susan Kandel
“One second. That’s it. Hold on, I’m closing the door.”
“You said something about Bill’s family, about how they helped get the oil industry going in Ventura.”
“And?”
“And there’s this letter Jean had, from someone I think may have been Bill’s father, Oliver Winters?”
“Oliver was his grandfather.”
“The letter was written to Morgan Allan, advising him to sell some property he owned.”
“So you found it.”
“You knew about the letter?”
“That’s one very valuable piece of paper.”
“Wait, I can’t hear you. Shit.”
“Is that better?”
“Yes. So how did Jean get that letter?”
“Cece, I don’t have time, my grandkids—”
“Ellie, please. I’m asking you, I’m begging you, to tell me what you know.”
“I’ve got to hang up.”
“Have you ever visited a jail cell? Do you realize Joe is an old man now? I want to help him. I know he didn’t kill Jean.”
“I’m hanging up. My daughter just walked into the room.”
“My daughter is having trouble in her marriage,” I blurted out. Was I really pimping my family to gain this woman’s sympathy? Hell, I’d kissed Burnett Fowlkes to find out more about his family. Well, not that first day in the car. I was making myself sick. Perry Mason had never gone this far. Actually, he had. The TV Perry was a choirboy compared to the pulp Perry. In the early books, he’d punched people out, tampered with witnesses, broke the law whenever it suited him. But, somehow, he’d always maintained his dignity. Not me. Oh, well.
There was a pause, then Ellie let out a breath. “You can call me back in two hours. I’ll be alone then. Good-bye.”
She hung up just as I pulled into my driveway. My house. My velvety front lawn. It felt like I had been gone for months. It was hard to believe it was only yesterday that Joe had called me from jail and sent me scurrying off to Ventura and careening through thin air. My brain felt like it was going to explode. I needed sleep. Food and sleep. And that was the end of my favorite black pants. Why was it that every time I came home from Ventura I had to throw away what I’d been wearing?
It was quiet and dark on the porch, and I almost tripped over a large wicker basket stuffed with little cakes. I peered through the green cellophane. Brownies, too. I picked it up and tucked the mail under my other arm. I could hear my babies mobilizing by the door. As soon as the key turned in the lock, they were all over me. I dropped to my knees, scooped them up in my bruised arms, and reciprocated with slobbery kisses of my own. There’s nothing like family.
The light on the phone machine was blinking insanely, trying to catch my eye. Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with? I had thirty-three messages. Let me guess: thirty-two from my mother, one from Lael, and none from Annie. I’d play them later.
I opened the card. Burnett. “Hope you’re better. See you Sunday.” Hope you’re better, see you Sunday? It was insulting. You’d write that to a maiden aunt who’d just had an appendectomy. Where were the flowers and the champagne truffles? I guess I was supposed to be convalescing. That was me, a convalescing jewel thief.
I changed into sweatpants and a tank top, downed two glasses of milk and a mini–lemon poppyseed loaf, opened the mail, tossed all the catalogs except for American Girl, which I saved because Lael’s daughter Nina’s birthday was coming up, and watched a documentary on the History Channel about Madame de Pompadour. It was nine P.M. Two hours had passed. It was time to call Ellie back.
The first thing she said was how sorry she was about my daughter. I felt like a heel.
“My daughter’s been divorced for three years,” she continued. “She’s raising two kids on her own. It’s really hard on her. Does your daughter have children?”
Did Vincent’s son, Alexander, count, even a little?
“No.”
“It’s a good thing, really.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure I see myself as the grandma type.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, Cece.”
“I know you’re busy, so let’s finish this.”
“Sorry,” she said frostily.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine. It’s just that I don’t exactly feel like strolling down memory lane, you know? So the letter.”
“The letter.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Cece.”
“I’m not saying another word.”
“Bill’s dad was a big guy. Bill was not. He was short. Handsome, but short. And he had the hard luck of having a dad who was big and tall and great at everything, especially getting his loser son out of trouble. The dad had fantasies that Bill would go into politics, like his granddad. I told you that part the other day. So when Jean went too far, threatening to ruin Bill over our affair, wanting more and more money, Bill went to his dad, like he always had. His dad said not to worry, that he’d fix everything up. He said he had something in his safe that would make Jean a happy girl.”
“The letter.”
“That’s right. It was a copy of a letter his own father, Oliver, had written to Morgan Allan decades earlier. You see, Morgan and Jean, they were two peas in a pod. Morgan was a blackmailer, too. Oliver had been cheating on his wife and Morgan knew it. He’d made it his business to know everything that happened in every sleazy bar and motel in town. What he wanted in exchange for keeping quiet was information about oil legislation, before it was made public. Oliver didn’t think he had a choice. So he did what Morgan asked. But before he died, he gave a copy of the letter you found to his son, Bill’s father, saying he might need it someday. And he turned out to be right.”
“So Bill gave the letter to Jean?”
“Yes. He told her there were bigger fish to fry. And she agreed.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, when we were sophomores in high school, I guess.”
Why had Jean waited so long before using the letter against Morgan? According to her bankbook, she hadn’t started blackmailing him until well after she’d married Joe. It was odd. She didn’t seem like the patient type.
I thanked Ellie profusely and wished her well. She was a good egg.
I crawled into bed after that, but I was too exhausted to sleep. Curling into a ball seemed like an impossible expenditure of effort, so I stared at a water spot on my ceiling instead. It was shaped like a jack-o’-lantern, with a triangle nose and pointy teeth. I loved carving jack-o’-lanterns. I think it was because I was born on Halloween. Annie had always insisted to all her little friends that I was a witch. Some of them believed her. Their parents, too. Maybe Meredith Allan and I had something in common after all.
So where was my magic now? How was I going to make the bits and pieces of information fit together? One of the things ESG had been best at was teasing out relationships between the most disparate characters. I’d read enough of his books. Now I had to do it for real.
I sat up.
One last time: Joseph Albacco and Morgan Allan are partners. They have two assets between them, Asset A and Asset B. Morgan finds out Asset A will soon be worthless. And all of a sudden, according to the title report, he no longer owns it. It is owned 100 percent by his partner. Well, of course. Why hadn’t I seen it before? The whole thing was exactly like a divorce.
The two of them dissolved their partnership—I don’t know why, maybe because Joseph Sr. discovered what a prick Morgan was. Or maybe Morgan started something to precipitate a breakup, who knows. They wanted to go their separate ways. And Morgan came up with the solution. What good ideas old Morgan always had. How logical it must have seemed at the time. Joseph Sr. would get Asset A, and Morgan would get Asset B. What could be more equitable? Oh, I knew that song and dance so well.
It’s all about splitting the assets. I got full custody of Annie and my ex got our savings account. So who got the better deal? He thought he did,
but I knew better. Morgan got the Ventura Avenue field and became richer than God, and Joe’s father got the tidelands and a fat lot of nothing. No wonder the man killed himself. But what he didn’t know was that Morgan withheld the information Oliver Winters had so kindly provided. Morgan misrepresented the facts. And that, as I recently learned courtesy of Mr. Grandy’s files, spells fraud, a felony offense in every state in the Union.
I may not know my torts from my tarts, but you didn’t have to be a lawyer to understand that the Allan family was going to owe the Albacco family a shitload of smackeroos.
35
Gambino took me to Buffalo to meet his parents. We drove to a matinee of Romeo and Juliet in a beat-up blue Camaro. On our way back to the car we were caught in a sudden downpour, and I offered Gambino’s mother, who was wearing a grass skirt, the umbrella I had been using as a walking stick because I had only one leg. Annie was using the other leg as a hatrack. But the umbrella blew inside out and we all got soaked. Just as we were about to strip down to our skivvies, I woke up to the clap of thunder. What a nightmare. At least I wasn’t the one wearing the grass skirt.
I went to get my robe from the closet and stepped right into a puddle of water. I looked up. The jack-o’-lantern on my ceiling had spread into a Volkswagen Rabbit. Not a very auspicious start to the day. Poor Lael. She’d be frantic about her Labor Day barbecue.
“I knew it was you,” she said, picking up on the first ring. “I’m watching the Weather Channel right now, and it’s good news! The storm is supposed to clear before noon.”
I looked out the rain-spattered window. The sky was as black as coal.
“It’s already clearing on this side of town,” I said. “I think I see some sunlight peeking through the clouds.”
“That’s great! Everybody’s going to mope around all morning and by one o’clock they’ll be ready to put on their swimsuits and chow down on burgers! And I’m making Jell-O molds in honor of Joe Hill and the Wobblies! Union Forever!”
I had to hand it to her. A sunny disposition can carry you through the worst of times.
“So, I have news, Cece. You’ll never guess who’s coming.”
“What?” I couldn’t hear her. Buster was howling. He was afraid of thunder. I headed to the kitchen, thinking I’d distract him with food.
“I said, you’ll never guess who’s coming to the barbecue.”
“Who?” I asked, hoisting the bag of kibble.
“Your daughter, your son-in-law, your son-in-law’s girlfriend, and their little boy.”
The kibble went all over the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope. Annie called last night and asked if I’d mind, and of course I said it was fine.”
“You should’ve said no, Lael!”
“Why?”
“Annie is trying to play matchmaker. Does she really need to bring those two together?”
“Maybe they should be together.”
“Vincent should be with Annie. They love each other.”
“And what about Vincent’s son?”
“Lael, you of all people should know that the nuclear family isn’t the only option.”
“I never know how to take your comments. Are you trying to piss me off?”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“How about you don’t say anything, and trust those around you, feeble as they may be, to work out their own lives! Try that, Cece, why don’t you?”
She hung up. And I hadn’t even had time to tell her that Gambino was going to be my date. I got the broom and started sweeping up the little bone-shaped pieces of kibble. I must’ve been hungry, because they smelled good.
Once she got over being mad, Lael was going to be happy about Gambino. She liked him. He’d come to one of her barbecues a few years back, when we were first dating. Late in the afternoon, she’d been poking around behind the garage looking for some starter fluid when she’d caught Tommy and one of his friends smoking a joint. She’d sent the friend home and begged Gambino to haul Tommy off in handcuffs, to teach him a lesson, but Gambino took him for a long walk instead. To this day, neither of us has any idea what he said to the kid, but it was the last time Tommy ever got into trouble.
I finished cleaning up. I wouldn’t have bothered, but it was that or work. Now I had no choice. I put on my slippers, grabbed an umbrella, and was about to dash out to the office when I remembered that I always have my best ideas in the shower. I draped a towel over the shower door and put a fresh legal pad and a pencil on the sink, within easy reach. I’d learned through bitter experience that mnemonic devices are not to be trusted.
The hot water beat down on my back. It was heavenly. I didn’t want to think about the Albaccos and oil rigs and murder. I wanted to think about Gambino and the cleansing rays of the sun and piña coladas. I daydreamed until I got to the cream rinse stage. Gambino and I were under a palm tree, eating guacamole and laughing. I daydreamed a little more. But I really did need to pumice my heels.
Usually I time it perfectly, but I was off by a couple of minutes today so I wound up shaving my legs in ice-cold water. Shivering, I draped another towel over my pillow and lay down carefully, so as not to get my jojoba-infused hair-restructuring gel all over the bed. Mimi sniffed me curiously, but she was enamored of kibble, not plant extracts.
So enough with the guacamole. I propped my legal pad up on my lap. Back to the matter at hand. What did Jean have on Morgan Allan?
Jean knew about his stooge in the legislature, but that wasn’t enough. It was bad, but not bad enough to destroy a man like Morgan. She had to have known more. The really damning bit was the partnership agreement with Joe’s father. Joe’s father should’ve shared in Morgan’s billions. Equally. It had to be that. Jean had to have known. That would have been enough to make Morgan sweat, enough to have made him pay her, week after week, month after month, enough to have made him realize that if he was ever going to be rid of her he’d have to kill her. But how could Jean have known when her husband, Joe Albacco Sr.’s own son, had no idea whatsoever? Why didn’t she tell him? Wouldn’t she have wanted all that money for herself?
I grabbed the phone to call Father Herlihy. While I waited, he found Joe. Chaplains, I’d discovered, have a lot of pull.
After about five minutes, Joe got on the line. We exchanged a few pleasantries. He asked how I was. I asked how he was. It was all so weirdly civil.
“I’m nervous about my parole hearing on Monday,” he said finally. I tried not to hear the expectant note in his voice.
“Listen, Mr. Albacco. There’s a lot you don’t know, and I’m not sure where to begin.”
“I can’t talk long, Ms. Caruso. I work all day Saturdays.”
“Well, then, here it is. Meredith’s father and your father were business partners, and Morgan cheated your father out of billions of dollars.”
He started to laugh. It did sound sort of implausible.
“Listen to me. What I’m trying to say is, when you get out of jail, you are going to be an extremely wealthy man.”
“Hey, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but this garbage isn’t what I hoped to be hearing from you.”
“Hey, I don’t want to be rude, either, but don’t you dare talk to me about garbage!”
“Excuse me?”
I paused a beat. “Erle Stanley Gardner never called you, did he?”
He didn’t say anything.
“No, I didn’t think he did. Why are you so quiet? Why don’t you say something?”
“I knew you were smart, Ms. Caruso.”
“Oh, I’m not half as smart as you are.”
“I’m not smart. Look, I didn’t mean to lie.”
“You didn’t mean to lie? That’s pathetic!”
“Come off it. You and I both know you’d have never started all this up without the right reason. Would you have looked into my case if I were just another unanswered letter to the Court of Last Resort? Would you?”
&
nbsp; “I suppose not.”
“So how’d you know he never called me?”
“ESG’s history with your family goes way back. He couldn’t have gone as far as you said without remembering your name. He would’ve remembered that he had set up the original partnership agreement between your father and Morgan Allan.”
“What partnership agreement? You keep dreaming this stuff up. My father was a loser, I told you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I believe you. I have no idea why, considering how you’ve jerked me around, but I believe you. You didn’t know anything about this. But your wife sure as hell did.”
“What are you going on about? How?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Were she and your mother close?”
“No, Jean only met her once. My mother got sick after that and died very quickly. It was lung cancer. It had spread all over her body. She was in terrible pain. Jean helped me a lot after that.”
“How did she help you exactly?”
“I wasn’t good for much. Jean was just a kid herself. But she helped with all the arrangements, emptying out the house, everything. She was amazing.”
That she was. Someone like Jean would know just how to empty out a house. What to keep and what to throw away. She must’ve found something in that house that tipped her off. Something neither Joe nor his mother even realized they had. And she knew just what to do with it.
I told Joe I’d see him at the parole hearing Monday morning. After I hung up, I looked out the window. The sky was blue, as if it had never been otherwise. I rinsed out my hair and decided to let it air-dry. I was going for sexy and tousled and vowed not to look in the mirror until bedtime for fear of encountering evidence to the contrary. I stuffed my bathing suit into an old beach bag, pulled on my jeans and a striped T-shirt, and sat on the couch waiting for Gambino. But that wasn’t such a good idea. He wasn’t coming for hours. So I picked up The Case of the Glamorous Ghost.
I was about halfway through. The main characters were Perry’s spectral client, Eleanor Corbin, an exhibitionist, opportunist, and liar, and Olga Corbin Jordan, the well-heeled, well-groomed half sister of the ghost. Poor Olga was scandalized because Eleanor appeared to be involved not just in naked dancing in the park, which was bad enough, but illegal gems and narcotics.
