Over His Dead Body

by Leslie Glass

  The company was doing so well that they had nearly a hundred sales reps traveling around the country, servicing the thousands of accounts that were solidly on the books. Mona herself did a huge business, and Mitch was the Bordeaux futures expert, the gambler. And they had their lobby in Washington to keep things status quo. Mona was proud of all that she had accomplished, but all that mattered to her really was love. She was frequently tortured by doubts that Mitch would really keep his promise and marry her.

  She made an irritated noise. Down on the floor was that IRS guy. This was another thing that had been carefully orchestrated. Ira had particularly advised them to be out of the country during all their audits. He'd told them it was crucial never to have a personal involvement with any governmental agent, especially not an IRS agent. Ira warned them that those small-minded people were terrorists, armed by the Feds and dangerous. You had to insulate yourself from them, and he was the insulator. Now she could see that he was absolutely right. This man was someone they didn't know, who was not supposed to be here until tomorrow, and his presence made her nervous as hell. He was walking around the precious racks as if it were a great big gold field just waiting for him to plunder. Somehow he looked familiar, a little like the rat Bruce, who'd dumped her in junior high.

  Where Ira was, where Teddy was, where Mitch himself was, Mona had no idea. But here she was, all alone, holding the fort against a threat too terrifying even to imagine. It was the story of her life. A nuclear attack, a holocaust could not be worse persecution than this tax thing. Here was an enemy she did not know and could not prepare for. The whole thing was out of her hands. She tried not to let the fact that she was not the true and actual Mrs. Mitchell Sales, of Sales Importers, Inc., arouse what Mitch called "her paranoid side."

  "We'll take the horses and go on a pack trip," Stace was saying.

  "That sounds wonderful," Mona murmured, allowing herself a moment's amusement at Stace's thinking he was important enough to lure her out to the middle of the country-where she was not sure planes even landed-with the promise of a large dumb animal to sit on. She already had one of those right here.

  "What about those auctions in Italy you were telling me about? We still doing that?" he demanded.

  "Oh, yes, the auctions in Verona. We have it all planned." Mona said this in her sweetest voice, even though she and Mitch had already been and done their buying at the auctions in Verona. The auctions were at the end of March.

  The IRS agent disappeared in the racks. A minute later he rounded a corner, and a forklift about to make a pickup at waist level almost pronged him in the groin. His wild scramble to get away caused her to giggle.

  "What's funny? Is Mitch there? I want to say hey."

  Mona tuned back into Stace for the last time. Well, he wasn't the only one who wanted to say hey to Mitch. The man was not picking up his e-mails, not picking up his cell phone. If she didn't know for a fact that Cassie was a dodo, she might think something was up.

  "Well, honey, I wish I could put you on with Mitch, but you know I'm handling all the details of the Italy trip myself. You can certainly tell me all your special requests." She tapped her fingers on the desk. Time to hang up.

  "I just want to say hey."

  "Well, of course, you want to say hey. And Mitch wants to say hey, too, but you know, Mitch. Always on the run. How about I have him call you as soon as he comes in?"

  Finally Stace was ready to hang up, and Mona's jet lag dizziness hit. She checked her watch. Mitch was really making her sweat. She hadn't planned to come in today. She'd planned to touch base with him and make up last night, then sleep late, and have a beauty afternoon with a salt rub, a massage, a manicure, and her hair colored in the afternoon. But he hadn't come in. She checked her e-mails again, then dialed his cell.

  "Hello?"

  "Ah-" Mona hesitated. It was Cassie.

  It is essential for a general to be tranquil and obscure, upright and self-disciplined, and able to stupefy the eyes and ears of the officers and troops, keeping them ignorant.

  "Hello, Mona. Mitch isn't here right now."

  "Cassie, sweetheart. How are you? I was just going to call you."

  "Really, why?" That bland, blank voice always set Mona's teeth on edge.

  "Why? What kind of question is that? I miss you, of course, silly. Haven't seen you in months and months. And Mitch is off the radar screen, too. He didn't come in this morning. Know where he is? I've got clients looking for him."

  Cassie didn't answer, and Mona went on super alert. She had special powers and respected them. Every reader she'd ever consulted had said the same thing. She was acutely sensitive to auras. She could tell a stranger's future. She especially knew who were the winners and losers by their smallest gestures. She could also tell what people were thinking about her.

  Mona was so sensitive, in fact, that sometimes her body felt like one giant vibrating nerve. She'd read that rocks and stones and beer cans and bottles that looked solid were really filled with cells that were moving all the time. She was like those cells in matter. She might look like a fragile flower with trembling petals, but really she was the cells in stone. The puppet master of everything; nothing could break or outlast her. She was never lost, whatever challenge she took on. Never. She never lost.

  "Are you okay, Cassie? You sound kind of stressed," she said warily.

  "Well, I am stressed," Cassie replied tartly.

  "Where are you? Why are you talking on Mitch's cell phone?"

  "I'll tell you in a few minutes, Mona. Just stay where you are." Cassie broke the connection.

  CHAPTER 20

  MONA GOT UP AND MARCHED straight to the bathroom. She surveyed herself in the mi rror. She looked pretty good for someone who felt old and ugly no matter what she did. She gave herself a happy little smile and touched up her makeup. Then she galloped down the metal stairway to the floor, where one of her four-inch spike fuck-me shoes suddenly caught on a tiny invisible crack in the cement. Her chronically weak right ankle gave way under her.

  "Ow!"

  The IRS agent, lurking in the stacks, reached out and caught her deftly, preventing her from falling on the hard floor just as she'd hoped he would. No man or boy had ever been able to resist her except the one from junior high and the ones who were gay.

  "Oh my," she cried.

  "You okay?" The man's very nice blue eyes lit up only for a second at the sight of her pretty legs, then switched right to concern.

  She gazed at him, sizing him up. The eyes were deep blue, like the Mediterranean. Gentle, she could tell. He was attractive, nice build. Nice mouth. His suit was not expensive, though, and she figured him for one of life's losers. From her contact with many men, Mona knew that the jerk who'd let her down in seventh grade could definitely be hers now.

  This assessment of the IRS agent made her feel a lot better about life in general. She did not touch his IRS agent biceps to test for muscle. She was nothing if not subtle. She forgot that she was supposed to be out of town for governmental agents and thought this not-bad-looking man might do her some good. She could turn him. You could never have too many IRS agents on your side. "Internal spies-employ people who hold government positions."

  "Thank you. I'm so embarrassed. That was so clumsy." She tried to stand on her terrible turned ankle. She did not touch him with such subtlety, only an expert would know she had. The whole thing about men was that you had to know how to go about winning them. Nothing overt, ever.

  "Did I hurt you?" She detected a little excitement on his side and let her ankle flop over again, but once again did not cave enough to encourage him.

  "Oh no." He created more space between them. "Ha-ha, there you go."

  "Oh, thank you." Mona gave him a worshipful glance. "What's your name? I'm supposed to know you, right? I know I know you."

  "Charles Schwab," he said, keeping his gaze at eye level. He had as much confidence in the effect of his name as Mona did of her looks.

  Mona gave ou
t a great whoop of joy and grabbed her chest. She'd made a mistake and underestimated him. "Oh, I've seen you on TV. Really, I had no idea you were a client. Are you buying for your firm? How exciting. Who's your account executive? I can't believe we've never met."

  "Sort of." He showed her his I.D., then passed her an Internal Revenue Service card with his name on it. A pretty blush warmed her tan. She hadn't underestimated him. She always knew everything.

  "Oh my, I'm really getting off on the wrong foot with you, aren't I? Revenue agent, what a joke on me," she murmured.

  "No, ma'am. It's no joke."

  "I mean, I thought you guys were all toads. Oops. I didn't mean that." Mona noticed that the man's eyes went as cold as a hit man's.

  But Schwab laughed pleasantly. "A lot of people think we're a lot worse than toads."

  "Well, I'm Mona Whitman. Are we getting audited again?"

  "Yes, indeed."

  She gave him a teasing frown. "Well, I'm a little hurt about this, if you'd like to know the truth. Every year it's something and every year we come out clean. There are so many compliances in our business. It's, like, the most regulated business on earth. But you know that." She heaved a great sigh. "Frankly I thought by now we'd be getting a medal from you people."

  She paused for breath.

  "And then, after doing everything right, to have to face such scrutiny. What went wrong this time? Ira, our accountant, answered every single question you asked. It took him months to get all that paper together. No one thinks about all those trees we have to cut down. The whole thing just upsets me so much." She gave Schwab a tremulous, searching smile. "Why us?"

  He smiled back, almost knocking her out with his white teeth.

  "Frankly, I'm just the concept person. I consult for the restaurants. I bet you didn't know they need designers to plan their cellars and menus. I love the company so much. That's why this hurts, you know?" She massaged her foot with one hand, then slid her shoe back on. "That's a lot better."

  Schwab was silent, so Mona took this as a sign to keep talking.

  "I thought the IRS was getting nicer these days. Didn't I read that in the Times? Are you persecuting Mitch just because he's successful? Or what?"

  "How's that ankle?"

  "It's terrible. I'll probably never walk straight again. But what can you do, right? Listen, is there something I can help you with? Mitch isn't here right now, and neither is Ira. They were expecting you tomorrow."

  "Yeah, it's too bad about his stroke."

  "Ira had a stroke?" Mona grabbed her chest a second time.

  "No, Mr. Sales did."

  "Oh no, you're mistaken," she said confidently.

  "I was with his wife this morning. She told me."

  "She told you?" Mona's face froze.

  "Yes, when we were over at the house."

  Mona snorted. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry you had to meet her. Was it terrible for you?"

  "It was unusual."

  "I'll bet." Mona knew that silly Cassie must have been terrorized by a visit from the IRS and unable to deal with the stress, so she'd blurted out this ridiculous, transparent lie because she couldn't think of an effective strategy like Mona.

  Schwab let out a laugh. "She called the police on me. Four squad cars, guns, and everything."

  Mona erupted into tinkling laughter herself. "That's priceless. Cassie's a dear in her own way, but she's been a real financial drain. It's like a sickness, a big burden on him. Poor man. Mitch has been a real saint to put up with her." Mona raised her eyebrows. "A wife like that, Mr. Schwab, can ruin a man. But very sweet as a person."

  "Are you telling me that Mr. Sales didn't have a stroke?"

  Mona laughed again. "No, no. Of course not. This is the first I've heard of it. I just spoke to Cassie a few minutes ago, and she didn't mention a thing about it to me."

  Mona took special note that there were brown spots on Charles Schwab's shirt cuffs. His hat looked as if it had fleas. The blue eyes that she'd thought were sweet only moments ago were marbles now. He was not thinking of making time with her.

  "That's good news," he murmured.

  "Poor Cassie, you really can't believe anything she says. If someone's not with her every minute, she forgets to take her medicine. It's very sad. Can I have Ira call you tomorrow?"

  "No need. We have a meeting scheduled."

  Mona thought she might just lead Schwab out to his car. "It's just that nobody who knows anything is here right now, and I have to-"

  "That's no problem. I don't need anyone. I was just looking around, getting the lay of the land."

  "I'm concerned that you're being ignored."

  "No, no, not at all. I like to get the feel for a place and the people. Some people think it's absolutely all in the paper, but you'd be surprised how helpful impressions can be. You, for example, have been very helpful."

  "I have? I'll walk you to your car," Mona said happily.

  "Not with that ankle, you won't."

  "No, it's fine, really. You know, you remind me of my first boyfriend. It's just amazing." Actually, the handsome Bruce had never given Mona the time of day, but she had loved him with all her heart. Probably still did. She gazed at Schwab. "He was the best-looking boy I ever met."

  "No kidding." Charlie tipped his hat without losing his crooked grin.

  "When you come back will you teach me about audits? I don't know a thing about the business side."

  "I know. You're the concept person." He smiled. Clearly the man was very attracted to her.

  Mona thought this encounter was going extremely well. What a break that Cassie had called the cops. Giving herself the benefit of the doubt here, even she couldn't have thought of a better stunt than that. Schwab grinned as they walked out into the parking lot, where he remarked, "You look like you're doing okay with that ankle."

  "Oh, it hurts like mad, but what can you do? Hey, maybe I'll see you tomorrow. Does your wife also work for the IRS?"

  Charlie IRS Schwab actually stopped short and looked at her as if no one in the world had ever asked him that question. Mona put her hand to her mouth in surprise. She couldn't believe she'd said such a thing. She never made mistakes like that.

  Schwab didn't reply. He gave her a little wave, got into a beaten-up black Buick, and drove off. Trembling, Mona drew her own cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Mitch's number. This time Cassie didn't pick up.

  CHAPTER 21

  MONA KNEW SHE WAS ABOUT to have an asthma attack. Asthma attacks were terrifying . First the wheezing, then the throat closing up. Choking and gasping for air. Water filling her lungs and static filling her brain. Panic that she might have a heart attack, too. She could just see herself collapsing in the parking lot with no one there to save her. Well, maybe someone would save her. There were no windows in the warehouse, but surely someone would save her.

  As a child, Mona had barely survived many asthma attacks. In fact, it was her first bad attack when she was only three that had caused her mother-who disappeared for long stretches of time-to take her to the hospital, leave her there, and not come back for her for nine whole years. During all those years, each time she had an attack her bitch of a grandmother (who was so rich) and her aunts (who didn't like her one bit and always hinted she was illegitimate) would scold her and tell her to get a grip until she was almost at death's door. They always let her get really sick before they'd finally bundle her up and take her to the emergency room. Death's door every time. No wonder she was insecure.

  She felt so sad and lonely and panicked right now, she could hardly breathe. Mitch always knew what to do when she felt an attack coming on. He'd calm her right down, then he'd yell at someone to get her a warm drink and tell her a joke to distract her while they waited for it. Usually the joke was something about balls and chains, how he had two. Mitch was a big kidder, and she loved him so much that she hadn't had a single full-blown attack in all the years she'd known him. Only little mini ones that all had to do with Cassie.

/>   As she stood in the gap in the parking lot made by Mitch's missing Mercedes, she scratched the first mosquito bite of the season. It was in the middle of her knee and starting to swell like a huge hive. Maybe it was a hive. She was an allergic person. She panted a little, experimenting with her wheeze and heartbeat. Her brain was as clear as Evian, however. Of course it made total sense. For Mitch not to call her, he had to be really sick. And since the first day they'd met, he'd never been too sick to call her.

  She took control of her panic, found her car key, and unlocked the door of her little red Jaguar. She slid in, grimacing a little at the blistering heat of the tan leather seat and the sunbaked stale air. She fanned herself with the take-out menu of a Chinese restaurant she used when Mitch was at home with Cassie, and dialed Ira Mandel's number on the car phone.

  "Local spies. Employ people from the local district."

  Cissy, the receptionist, answered on the first ring. "Mandel and Blathar."

  "Cissy, it's Mona. How are you doing, honey?"

  "I'm doing just fine, Miss Whitman. He's not here right now."

  "Who isn't there?"

  "Ira isn't here, and Teddy isn't, either."

  "Do you know where they are, Cissy? This is very important."