Over His Dead Body

by Leslie Glass

  "No, I don't."

  "This is so urgent, it's really life and death."

  "I still don't know, Miss Whitman."

  "Cissy, honey, how could you not know where they are? You know everything."

  "I don't know everything, Miss Whitman."

  "Of course, you do. You sit right there by the door and they always tell you what to say before they go out."

  "Well, they didn't this time."

  "Now, Cissy. Who's on your side, huh? Who buys you perfume in Paris? And I got you some more of that kind you like. I have it right here in my bag. And you know what else? I brought you a Pashmina scarf and a Prada bag."

  "Miss Whitman, you shouldn't do that." Cissy's voice quavered. She was a pushover.

  "Well, friends are friends. How about you don't tell me and I just suggest possibilities."

  No answer.

  "Did they go out to lunch?"

  "Nope."

  "Are they in the conference room?"

  "Nope."

  "Are they in a meeting somewhere?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "How about the hospital? Are they at the hospital?"

  "Well, now that you mention that, Miss Whitman, I think maybe they did go to the hospital. Mr. Mandel was very upset."

  "How is Mr. Sales doing?"

  "I'm so sorry, Miss Whitman. I don't think he's so good."

  "Thank you, honey. You're just the greatest. I'm going to get those little gifts to you right away."

  "No, no, don't even think about it," Cissy said quickly. "I don't want to lose my job."

  "Oh, you won't lose your job. And I won't forget you, okay? Friends are friends, right?"

  Mona's blood thundered in her ears as she hung up. Now she could feel her breath rattle. Asthma, for sure, the one time Mitch wasn't there to calm her down and save her. Tears came and ruined her mascara. Mitch, the one true love of her life, really was in the hospital, and no one had told her. So cruel. So cold of the family to ignore her like this. Teddy was her friend. She couldn't bear it. Mitch must be so upset without her beside him. The hurt feeling, the terrible burden for her terrible young life that she carried like a heavy boulder, grew and grew. The betrayal was terrible. No one had told her. They were trying to keep things from her. Mona's mind began to race.

  If large numbers of trees move, they are approaching. If there are many visible obstacles in the heavy grass, it is to make us suspicious. If the birds take flight, there is an ambush. If the animals are afraid, enemy forces are mounting an attack.

  It was perfectly clear to her that Cassie, the enemy, must have fed her husband rat poison because she found out Mitch was leaving her. Mona clutched her chest. She and Mitch were getting married. They had a new house all ready. She'd stopped taking the pill. Any day she'd be pregnant. Only the date, only telling Cassie-that one last dreadful little detail-had been holding them up. Once he told Cassie, there would be no more pretending.

  Now Mona knew that Mitch had not been so angry with her, after all. He must have gone home to tell Cassie the marriage was over, and the spoiled, selfish, infantile woman had put rat poison in his coffee. Another wheeze tickled her throat at the thought of Cassie murdering her husband. Tearful and sweaty in her jaunty red sports car, she dialed Mark Cohen's number.

  "It is subtle, subtle! There are no areas in which one does not employ spies."

  "Doctor's office."

  "Marta, it's Mona. I just got back from Paris and heard about Mitch. This is terrible. I didn't know anything about it. When did it happen?" She could barely control her voice. This was no act. She was distraught.

  "Friday."

  "Friday! Friday!"

  "Yes, sometime in the afternoon."

  "Oh my God, where is he? I have to see him."

  "He's at North Fork. But he's in intensive care. He can't have visitors."

  "Oh my God!" Mona shook her head. Her burgundy curls bounced on her shoulders. "Intensive care. I had no idea. Is Mark there?"

  "He's with a patient."

  "What happened? Tell me everything."

  "He had a stroke, Mona."

  "Oh Jesus, a stroke." Mona was silent for a moment. Could a person get a stroke from rat poison?

  "Mona, are you there?"

  "I'm just so upset. Would you tell Mark to call me right away? On my cell." Mona hung up. She felt horrible, more than horrible. But she couldn't go back into the warehouse with the news. Everybody would panic, and she had to keep her mind on Mitch.

  She decided to go see him and keep mum to everyone else. She dialed her assistant, Carol. "Honey, I'm taking off. I'll see you tomorrow. Anything comes up, call me on my cell." She tried to keep good cheer in her voice.

  She turned and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her weeping had really messed her up. Mascara was all over the place, and little rivulets snaked through her foundation. She definitely couldn't go to the hospital looking like this. She had to be strong for Mitch. She had to look really good, like an angel from heaven, to bring him back to her. To look that good she had to go home. She grabbed her sunglasses and put them on, hit the ignition. The car growled to life. As she started to back out, she saw the black Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Oh shit. It was on the service road, heading this way. For a tiny second her heart spiked. Mitch had done it again: The whole thing was a big joke. He was fine, after all. No stroke. Then she saw that Mitch wasn't the driver, and she kept going.

  She agonized all the way home. How could this be happening to her? It was like cancer, the atom bomb striking. The Nazis. Something out of a spy movie or a thriller. Her lifelong enemy had done something to him. He'd been fine, perfectly fine, on Friday. First the audit, now the stroke. It was too much. Now in the mirror, she saw the Mercedes behind her. It looked as if Cassie was following her home. Too fucking much.

  The major configurations of terrain are accessible, suspended, stalemated, constricted, precipitous, and expansive.

  Mona lived in a town house complex in Roslyn. She'd lived there for ten years with the profound belief that any minute she was going to marry. She'd been frugal to a fault. She had two completely inadequate floors. Downstairs, a tiny kitchen and small living room/dining area. Upstairs, a bedroom and den. Full bath and powder room. There were hardly any closets at all. The only way to make the place work for her was to give away her clothes after three or four wearings. She did not like her neighbors, who were either old, very young with children, or middle-aged, divorced, and desperate. The old people wanted to talk. The young couples had noisy children who left toys on the sidewalks for people to trip over. And the divorced women wanted to go on trips with her. Mitch didn't like them, either, and never came there. Not only that, the garage was not attached. It was cut into the hill behind the house. She didn't like to use it.

  Today only one thing went right. She found a parking spot out front and hurried into the house. She hadn't seen the Mercedes for the last two blocks but slammed the door and double locked it anyway. She didn't want to see Cassie no matter what.

  As soon as Mona was inside her second-rate house, her whole history did a number on her impossible situation. She felt even more terrible that she hadn't been informed immediately of Mitch's illness. She was his partner, as important to the company as he was. Didn't anybody realize that? She was so careful and meticulous about everything. Everything was arranged just so. It wasn't right for Teddy not to tell her this, her friend Mark, their accountant Ira. This had to be some kind of conspiracy to keep her isolated and in the dark.

  Once inside the house, she focused on an old complaint, her lack of help and closets. With the millions in business she brought in, she should have a full-time staff to take care of her house and clothes. When she'd arrived home yesterday afternoon, no one was there to carry the heavy suitcases upstairs, so she'd been forced to unpack downstairs in the living room. As usual, she'd laid everything out on the sofa, on the floor, in a very precise way. Her stuff was all over the place. The suits and coat
s and dresses and tops and shoes and purses from her trip were in piles, carefully sorted for the cleaners and the laundry whether she'd worn them or not. She was too upset to appreciate the profusion of pale colors and expensive fabrics strewn all over the white, top-of-the-line wool, mile-high shag carpet and white silk sofa and different patterned white silk throw pillows with gold bullion fringe.

  A wheeze clutched at her throat. She felt sick. She felt hurt. She felt like a tiger with a sick cub she had to save. She felt the hot breath of the crazy, unloved wife and the IRS Nazis coming to take away everything she cared about in life. All those feelings were roiling around in a single wounded bird. It was just too much.

  The cheap doorbell of her second-rate house sounded its half-assed dingdong. At the same time the doorknocker clanged against its fake brass plate. Mona's heart almost stopped. Shit. The enemy had actually dared to follow her right into her private home. "As for constricted configurations, if we occupy them first we must fully deploy throughout them in order to await the enemy."

  She raced up the stairs. Peeled off her skirt, threw on a pair of baggy black pants and a blue work shirt. Grabbed her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. In the bathroom she scrubbed at the dissolving makeup with a washrag until only her healthy tan showed.

  The doorbell and knocker continued to sound as she flew in bare feet down the stairs. In the living room, wheezing and coughing, she grabbed clothes, flung what she could back into the cases, jammed the cases into the closet. She was throwing the rest of the stuff into the powder room when Cassie started shouting through the door.

  "For heaven's sake, Mona, open the damn door. I know you're in there."

  "Cassie, honey, is it you?"

  "Of course, it's me. Who else?"

  Simulated chaos is given birth from control. The illusion of fear is given from strength. Order and disorder are a question of numbers.

  Mona closed the powder room door. Without her shoes she looked a whole lot shorter. Without her makeup, hardly dazzling at all. She was wheezing steadily. She held a handkerchief to her mouth. She was coughing, trying to clear the phlegm beginning to clog her bronchi. She flung the door open and faced the helpless, nonworking weakling who all these years had been the only obstacle to her happiness.

  CHAPTER 22

  MONA'S EYES POPPED at the change in Cassie. She stood outside only a few seconds , wearing a scarf and sunglasses à la Audrey Hepburn. The disguise was pretty good for someone who didn't know what to look for. Mona knew right away what major event had occurred in Cassie's life, however, and from all appearances it was extremely recently. She took a moment to study her. The big, dark shades hid Cassie's eyes, but not the telltale red cheeks and yellowing jawline. Gone was the soft chin, the folds by the sides of Cassie's mouth, and the pale, trusting manner that had distinguished her rival. Mona was prepared for everything in life, but she was unprepared for this. Self-improvement was the very last thing she would have expected from Cassie.

  Cassie had been at least four inches shorter and many pounds plumper than Mona the last time she'd seen her. She looked thinner and taller now. In fact, she looked like a completely different person as she pushed her way into the house.

  Whenever possible victory should be achieved by diplomatic coercion, thwarting the enemy's plans and alliances, and frustrating his strategy.

  Mute but for her wheezing, Mona let her in. Luckily, she had been careful almost to a fault about making changes in her life every step of the way. Therefore at this moment, in this place, she had the moral advantage of having absolutely nothing to hide, and Cassie had the moral disadvantage of being out of her mind with fury.

  "You fucking bitch. You will not get away with this."

  Cassie stopped in the middle of the living room. As cold as an ice statue at an Italian wedding, she assessed Mona's white sofa, white rug. White silk throw pillows with the gold bullion fringe. White curtains with the gold braid and balls. Glass coffee table with expensive brass base. Everything white and gold. Cassie's survey halted at each of three silk flower arrangements: roses, lilies, orchids. Each arrangement was white and each one was in a gold filigree vase. There was not a live plant, not a silver candlestick, not an extra embellishment anywhere. Also, the house was as neat as if no one really lived there, which 90 percent of the time was true. Mona had pretty much moved to her new address. Still, the place looked exactly the same as it always had. And the new owner would take possession in three weeks' time. The young couple had bought it "as is."

  "Cassie, Cassie. What is it? What's wrong?" Mona was shocked to see Cassie so aggressively angry, so she decided to counter hostility with love and understanding. She went right over to her lifelong enemy to give her a warm embrace.

  Cassie jumped back, stiffening like a cobra.

  No wonder Mitch found Cassie to be a cold bitch. "Tell me, what is it? What's wrong?" Mona said, not letting it bother her.

  "I told you to stay where you were, Mona. Why did you drive away?" Cassie spat at her just like an alley cat.

  "What?" Mona coughed.

  "I told you on the phone to stay where you were. I wanted to talk to you. You are despicable. You are a-"

  "Stop, Cassie. Don't upset yourself." Mona wheezed and hacked, just like Mimi in the last scene of La Bohème, Mitch's favorite opera.

  Cassie's witchlike expression didn't change. "I hope you choke to death," she said coldly.

  "Cassie, please." Mona coughed uncontrollably some more, sounding bad and feeling very hurt. Any sign of weakness historically had generated sympathy from Cassie. This response was spiteful and totally unlike her. She put the handkerchief to her mouth and tried to spit a little blood. As she inspected the blob of sputum that came out, Cassie came alive with a shriek.

  "Oh my God, you've had your face lifted! Jesus Christ, I don't believe it." Cassie flapped her arms like a whooping crane trying to fly. "I don't believe this. Jesus Christ. I don't believe this. When did this happen?"

  This was an incendiary attack, just unforgivable. "What are you talking about, Cassie, you're flipping your lid," Mona retorted.

  "Everything that comes out of your mouth is total shit, you damn freak. You've had your face done!" Cassie spit out. She took a moment to examine and absorb it, then gasped. "And your boobs!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Mona chose to effect sadness at such a misunderstanding. She took a step back, shrinking into her work shirt, the only piece of clothing she owned from Old Navy. She did the turn well, acting as if Cassie were the hurtful aggressor and that every harsh word unsettled and grieved her. "Cassie stop this, please."

  "What did you do, everything? Nose, eyes, chin, neck? Oh my God. Every goddamn thing. Who paid for this, my husband, who doesn't believe in plastic surgery!" Cassie was shrieking and stamping her feet now, completely out of control. "You fucking, fucking bitch. And you're only, what, not even fucking forty?"

  "Somebody must be telling you stories, Cassie."

  "Don't you dare walk away from me. You fucking bitch. So this is why you haven't shown your face in my house for three whole years."

  "I need my inhaler, Cassie." Mona actually hoped she would choke nearly to death and show Cassie what an unreasonable bitch she was being.

  Cassie blocked the way, screaming some more. "I would not have believed that you of all people-ugly, fawning bitch-would try to take everything I have. Not in a million years. Look at that face. You have a new nose. New lips!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I was at your house only last month."

  "Not when I was there," Cassie screamed.

  Mona inched past her. She knew that people were frequently truly nuts, they really were. She dealt every day with wine nuts who weren't careful about temperature, drank six bottles of a case, then claimed the whole lot was "off" and wanted a full refund. Clearly, she had underestimated Cassie. Mitch was right: The woman was disturbed, a mental case. This was her second incident today. Maybe she was having a
psychotic break.

  Mona wanted to call the police and document the event. She reached her purse that was hanging by its expensive strap on the kitchen door. But neither her inhaler nor cell phone were in it.

  "You and my husband. You and my company. You and my credit cards. And just look at this"-Cassie pointed her finger at Mona like a loaded gun-"the dowdy frump with the receding chin, the bad skin, and the big nose, a fucking swan." Cassie was positively frothing at the mouth. "How dare you? How dare you? You little fuck! Goddamn it, Mona. That's my husband's handkerchief, too."

  "Oh please, take it." Mona held out the sodden handkerchief.

  "I will not touch anything you've touched," Cassie screamed.

  Where were the cops when you needed one? Mona was beginning to think Cassie's craziness was an intentional malicious act to drown her. Literally. Because fluid was just filling up her bronchial tubes and throat. She knew that people died this way. Once you started coughing, you could not stop. The hacking went on and on. The pain was terrible. You could crack your ribs coughing. She sucked some air. "Cassie, you're"-she gasped for oxygen-"you're upsetting yourself for nothing."

  "I'm upset for everything, you bitch. Don't you understand yet? Mitch had a stroke. Everything's come out. You will be punished. You will go to jail!"

  Mona's response was an artistic gurgle.

  "He's in the hospital, and he's not going to make it. You don't get my husband, or anything else, understand? It's over."

  Sure, sure, it was over, but not the way Cassie thought. Mona pointed at the kitchen. "Okay if I get some water?"

  "No, it is not. I'm on to you. Don't even think about trying anything."

  "Trying what? Stop this, Cassie, I can't breathe. Do you want to kill me?"

  "Did you really think you would get away with leaving me broke!" Cassie just wouldn't stop.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. You're hurt. You're imagining things. You're recovering from surgery. You need a doctor."

  Cassie sucked air. "I'll kill you. I will kill you."

  Mona shook her head sadly. "Oh Cassie, Cassie, it's not smart to threaten me. It's not smart. Stop and think for a moment. I know you're lonely and sad right now. I know how you feel. For years I've been urging Mitch to spend more time with you. I begged him. Every day I told him. All work and no play makes a dull husband. Would he listen? No, but he was working for you all the time. And now he's had a stroke."