Over His Dead Body

by Leslie Glass

  Sometimes she liked to travel on Hegeman's Lane, then take Chicken Valley Road through the horse farms and grand estates, backtracking to Duck Pond Road. But today she went the shorter way, down Glen Cove and across Duck Pond.

  Mona was in a hurry. She skimmed along Duck Pond, which was visually and fragrantly at its best in spring, but she didn't respond to any of its attractions. All she could think of was Mitch in peril. The stone house he'd named Le Refuge, with its natural stone swimming pool, tennis court, guest house, pond, waterfall, and five-car garage, was halfway across Duck Pond, sited on ten delightfully landscaped acres that Cassie had always particularly admired on garden tours of the area.

  Mona caught a glimpse of her roof and chimneys from the road. The old-timers in the area called the house Chimneys because there were so many of them. Ten in all. She turned in at the brand-new wrought-iron gates with the crossed swords, shields, grapes, wine barrels, and Sales logo in gold. The graceful S of the driveway and towering oaks that lined it were over ninety years old. Seeing it now almost broke Mona's heart. The house had been built just before World War I, and getting it before it ever appeared on the market had been a major coup. She had especially admired the lawns-acres of green garnished in spring by huge clumps of daffodils.

  The daffodils were finished now. The flowers were withered and dry. The spindly leaves, too, had a limp, bedraggled look. Later in the season, variegated hosta would wreathe each tree with white and green that would spike with purple flowers in the summer. Mona knew all about how gardens should look, because she'd been listening to Cassie talk about plants and fucking trees ad nauseam for many years. Mona had a gift for listening and picking things up. She rounded the circle, pulled up by the front door, and turned off the engine.

  In the last six months she'd almost always come here with Mitch-to discuss decorating plans, to supervise the painting and wallpapering, the hanging of the drapes, positioning the furniture, and to make wonderful love. The first night they'd stayed there, back in March, Mitch had made a fire in the bedroom. They'd sat in front of it wrapped in new silk dressing gowns, eating beluga caviar off a spoon and sipping '90 Grande Dame Champagne from Baccarat flutes. When the caviar was gone, she'd taken out the Kama Sutra massage oil and rubbed Mitch's hands and feet, trying to envision and articulate every bone. Then she'd moved on, to his neck and shoulders. She'd rubbed and pulled his arms straight out of their sockets as hard as she could. He'd lain on his back moaning happily, attended to like the prince he was meant to be.

  She'd drizzled the sweet oil down the hair on his chest and massaged it into his thickening waist, between his strong legs, up behind his balls. His eyes had been half closed as he'd watched her work on him, twitching her robe open from time to time for a better view of her breasts. She remembered it as if it were yesterday. He'd built the fire high. It had crackled and roared up the fireplace, drawing the smoke up and out of the room like a real champion. Candles had flickered all around them. On her knees, Mona had poured oil into her hands, warmed it between her palms, and gone to work on his towering cock.

  "Ohhhhh, Mama," he'd moaned.

  A glass had toppled over on her new satin quilt, spilling champagne as he'd shifted his big body, but neither of them had minded. He'd risen up from the floor, flipped her over, and plunged that slick sucker home in one muscular thrust that had hurt like hell. Mona had treasured the fierce burn in her furnace that had lasted for hours. She clicked her tongue.

  The baptism of the bedroom was on her mind as she got out of the car. There were no workers or decorators to greet her today, not even a housekeeper to open the door. Grand and lifeless, the house was frightening. She'd never imagined having to stay there alone. She opened the heavy wooden door and deactivated the alarm system. Then she switched on the huge hall chandelier and sconces that glittered with enough crystal to dazzle a Las Vegas hotel owner. "Oh Mama," she muttered.

  The hall galley had a pink marble floor and pink marble columns; the staircase was deeply carved mahogany, dark as bittersweet chocolate and shiny with new polish. Struggling through her misery for a breath of good air, Mona trudged up to the master suite at the top of the stairs. It consisted of a honey-colored, wood-paneled study, dressing room, and bathroom for Mitch, and a large, lovely bedroom overlooking the pond with a four-poster bed, dressing room, and a large bathroom for her. She headed straight for the bath.

  An hour and a half later, Mona infiltrated the Head Trauma ICU at North Fork Hospital without incident. She was wearing a dashing turquoise Dior suit with a short jacket that nipped in at the waist and plunged low in the neckline. A touch of crisp white eyelet showed at her cleavage. The fact that it wasn't clear whether she was wearing a blouse or bra invited second glances. The suit skirt was pegged so tightly, she could hardly get in and out of the Jag much less hobble down the long hospital corridor from one wing to another. Every single thing was a misery to her, but her burnished shoulder-length curls and Nicole Kidman-esque finely sculpted features drew many admiring glances and not a single difficult question. She was thirty-eight but looked every bit as fresh as Mitch's twenty-five-year-old daughter, Marsha.

  With very little effort, she located Mitch's room. There, all alone, she faced her lifeless intended and the bank of noisy machines for the first time. "Holy shit," she murmured.

  One of Mitch's eyes was closed, the other was open just a slit. Frowning at the tubes and plastic bags collecting his revolting bodily fluids, Mona suddenly had the thought that she had overdressed for the occasion.

  "Baby? I'm here." She moved with trepidation closer to the bed, tilting her head one way and then the other.

  "Who knocks your socks off?" she queried softly. Like Grace Kelly trying to get Cary Grant's attention in To Catch a Thief, she struck a seductive pose in the lovely Dior suit, then answered the question.

  "Mona does." Mona tried to keep her feet moving. But she was afraid to get any closer than the sick man's feet in case what Mitch had was catching. Mona was an asthmatic, a very allergic person. She couldn't afford to take any chances. From the foot of the bed, she leaned over to display her famous cleavage.

  "Mona's here for you. Honey, wake up. I've come to take you home." She held her breath.

  Mitch didn't move a muscle. Not a hair. Nothing. Maybe his hand twitched a little. Mona's lips twitched; her eyelid, too. This was more than scary. It occurred to her that the machine making all the noise was actually breathing for him or making his heart beat, one or the other, maybe both. She didn't know anything about these things.

  She straightened up and looked around for a little support here. A doctor, a nurse. A chair. It was disgusting. There wasn't a chair to sit on. Not even a stool! The place was a hellhole. Her heart started beating faster. That wasn't good for her asthma. She wasn't supposed to get upset, and having Mitch in a place like this was a complete disgrace. He'd hate it. The room had a fucking picture window in it. How much could she do to cheer him up with the whole world watching? She looked closer at the machinery. Was that big white one breathing for him, or what? She looked around for an answer, but none was forthcoming. She was very afraid.

  "Honey, can you hear me?" she whispered.

  No answer.

  "Oh Mitch, do you have any idea what's going on?" She took a step closer. His face was bloodless. His eyes were pretty much closed. She had to get those eyes open.

  "Cassie's on the rampage. You have to get out of here. Listen, wake up. I'm not kidding here. Oh baby, I love you so much. Don't leave me."

  It seemed pretty hopeless. No part of Mitch moved except the lid of one of his eyes. For a second it looked as if he winked at her. She turned to the window, seeking help. When she turned back to him she was certain that he winked at her again. Fat lot of good that was going to do.

  "Wake up, honey," she urged. "You have to get out of here. Did Cassie hurt you, baby? Tell Mona."

  Nothing but the winking. It was terrible to watch.

  "Honey, I mean it. This
is serious. Wake UP!" Mona tried and tried, but no matter what she did, Mitch refused to get up and walk out.

  CHAPTER 26

  "YOU HAVE TO MAKE A DECISION about the car," Ogden announced at breakfast the ne xt day.

  Ogden Schwab had been a handsome man in his youth, tall and slender with sharp blue eyes and wavy brown hair. But now he was very thin, almost emaciated, because of his swallowing problem caused by a disease called acalasia, which interrupts the usual smooth undulations of the esophagus, so the food just stalls midway to the stomach. Every swallow is touch and go. No one but the Rau family had bothered to nag him about anything since his wife Trudy had died thirteen years ago, so his clothes didn't always match either the season or each other. Likewise, the bath issue. Back in the 1950s a doctor had told him that he shouldn't bathe every day because of his dry skin. None of the thousands of advances in skin care products since then had been the slightest bit effective in persuading him that it was now safe to go into the water.

  He was spry at seventy-six, though, and never let his little peculiarities stop him from making himself useful in every way he could. He kept up with politics and the stock market on CNN, and took a keen interest in the affairs of his son, Charlie.

  "What do you say, son?"

  "About what?" Charlie poured himself some of the nasty coffee that was one of his father's many morning rituals. This important one he couldn't seem to get right no matter what he tried. Every day there was a major complication with the coffee process. Ogden would set up the machine wrong, so that the little drip hole that should be closed was open. Whenever the carafe was not in place-which was often-hot water flooded the filter and kept right on going. The coffee poured out on the hot plate and hissed like an angry cat. Alternatively, if the hole was stuck in the closed position, the grounds became a tidal wave of sludge that poured over the top, flooding the counter. Whenever coffee actually made it into the carafe, it tasted like a mouthful of dirt. Today the coffee was the color of tea. Maybe it was tea.

  "About getting a new car from Taj."

  "What's wrong with my old one?" Charlie asked. He wasn't in the mood for car talk after last night. During their game, he'd encouraged Taj to brush up, brush up, with his racket in hopes that it would eventually connect with enough spin to get the ball over the net. Taj was always leaping around the court energetically chasing down the balls, but he had no force behind his swing at all. Who would have guessed that yesterday he'd acquired a new power racket that could make any hopeless child a Safin? Taj had brushed up on the ball just when Charlie wasn't looking and hit him in the eye. Then he wanted to sell him a car because his old one was such a piece of shit.

  Charlie looked so ridiculous with today's bruise that he'd made a huge sartorial effort with a brown tweed suit, a yellow and blue tie over a blue shirt, and rust-colored suede shoes. All from his happiest days, before he'd ever thought of marrying Ingrid: the seventies.

  "You've got to get that muffler fixed. You're gonna get a violation for that. Then jail, mark my words."

  "Oh, I don't think so."

  "Oh yes, mark my words," Ogden insisted.

  Charlie had been marking his words for a long time. Odgen always predicted the worst. Now he spooned a bite of oatmeal and grated apple into his mouth, then forgot to work on it for a while. His face took on the odd, comic expression of surprise he always got when a swallow wasn't going well.

  "Drink," Charlie commanded.

  Odgen pounded some water. When that didn't do the trick, he got up and jumped up and down a few times. He was wearing Charlie's Yankees sweatshirt and a winter parka with the hood up over pajama bottoms. He looked weird and needed a bath, but Charlie didn't like to bother him about things like that when every bite was a life-threatening peril. Still, the outfit was pretty funny and reminded him of the Sales lady who'd called the cops on him. He smiled at the thought of the crazy woman who was as bad as his dad.

  "What's so funny? You laughing at me?" Ogden's face cleared, and he sat down.

  "No, of course not. I was thinking about a girl I met yesterday."

  "You met a girl?" Ogden's eyes lit up.

  "Not a girl, really. I'm working on a case of a wine importer. Perfectly run-of-the-mill tax returns. Nothing out of the ordinary. It's a big operation, but not one of the giants. The guy reports good profit, doesn't take huge deductions, and pays pretty much what it looks like he should. But… you okay, Dad?"

  Ogden nodded. "So you think this is an ATF case," he said, nodding sagely. He was so proud when his son worked the big cases that made it to the newspapers.

  Charlie laughed. "Well, not ATF, yet, Dad." But he wouldn't be a bit surprised if it came to that.

  The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms did rigorously control the many regulations that had to be met when distributors moved alcohol in and out of the country, and even from state to state and buyer to buyer. Regulations were so strict in New York that a private collector could not sell to another private collector unless the buyer happened to have a retailer's license. It was a whole big thing. Every case of wine and liquor had to be tagged and checked and reported and rechecked. Still, it was just amazing how much stuff disappeared one way or another, off trucks and out of warehouses. These cases were never reported either stolen or sold, just disappeared.

  "So, how did you meet the girl?" Ogden asked.

  Charlie was still thinking agency protocol. "This case may have some connection to OC."

  "Organized Crime, wow," Ogden said.

  "So both Justice and local would be involved. The whole enchilada." Charlie's heart soared just thinking about it. His supervisor, Gayle, had given him the case, advising him not to tell anyone at Sales what the IRS was actually investigating. And it was perfectly legal to keep mum. The IRS didn't have any obligation to tell anyone what they were up to.

  Gayle also told him definitely not to inform D.C. or the district special agents branch, or even ATF, what he might be on to. Her feeling, and he agreed, was that the CID would be all over it, taking over the case from the get-go. That way, Revenue wouldn't get the credit for bringing it in. Neither of them wanted that. He'd open the doors as soon as he had something solid. That was the deal.

  "Are they mob girls?" Ogden asked, back on the girls. The possibility of his son's meeting hot girls impressed him hugely. "Got to watch out for those mob girls, Charlie. Those guys will kill you for sure if you touch one of their girls."

  "Could be." One of them could be. The Mona one. Could be a mob girl, no doubt about it. Charlie had already been thinking about turning her. "Do you want to hear about the tip?" he asked to distract his father.

  "Yeah, yeah, tell me about the hit." Ogden took a bite of cereal.

  "Tip, Dad. Not hit. You okay?" Charlie gave him a sharp look.

  Ogden's eyes watered. He got up and hopped hard on one foot. "Go on," he ordered, waving away his distress as soon as the crisis was over.

  "We get a tip that this Sales guy has been moving out cases of his best wine. Some of it disappears into his own secret cellar. Really good stuff. This he reports stolen and takes a tax loss. Sometimes his insurance will reimburse him for the loss, so he's getting it both ways. The story is, the guy also gets paid in cash for at least part of many of his restaurant accounts, and totally in cash for some of his restaurant accounts that aren't on the books at all. That would definitely be ‘way in' for local."

  "A way into the mob?" Ogden said delightedly. "Oh, that's great, Charlie. Tell me about the girls."

  "One of them was about your age." The one who crashed into the mailbox, but Charlie didn't want to go into that now.

  "A mob girl, my age? What does she look like?" Excitedly, Ogden took a large bite of cereal and Charlie braced himself for disaster.

  "Got to go," he said quickly. Sometimes he could take his father's eating travails and sometimes he couldn't. Today, no.

  But surprisingly, Ogden swallowed just fine this time. "Already? You didn't eat your breakfas
t," he complained.

  This was Ogden's favorite time of the day. The morning news, the newspaper, browbeating Charlie about getting out and enjoying life more, meeting girls, maybe getting married again. He wanted to debate Taj's offer to sell Charlie one of his gently used, four-year-old light blue Lincoln Town Cars for an overpriced twenty-five thousand. Or at least borrow one for a few weeks while he got the Buick repaired by one of Taj's mechanic relatives. Preferably the one who put the car in this condition in the first place. Charlie was too excited by his new case to linger.

  "You take it easy, Dad," he said. He patted the old guy on the shoulder, then worried about the parka. "You okay? You want me to turn up the heat?"

  "No, the place is boiling. I don't know how you stand it this hot."

  "It wouldn't be so hot if you took your coat off," Charlie told him.

  "And freeze to death?" Ogden took an indignant bite of apple and oatmeal. Charlie went out the back door before its fate was decided.

  The spring sunshine was intense and the air was fresh as he went to inspect the Buick. This time, Ogden had tied the muffler up with something that looked like piano wire, so now the trunk couldn't be opened without a wire clipper. Charlie shook his head. At that moment a robin yanked a worm out of the lawn and took flight with it. He turned to watch it and quickly surveyed his yard in the process. He had an acre in this pleasant old neighborhood close to the beach, a lot of space. Along his fence were rosebushes, inside it a lawn with a gazebo in the center. He noticed that the hydrangeas around the house and gazebo were showing signs of life. The rosebushes were filling in and budding nicely. He was proud of his yard, but it was nothing compared with the much smaller Sales place. Charlie had been particularly impressed by the orchid house in the middle of the backyard. He wondered if it might be hiding something in plain view, and wanted to see it again.