“I can’t help it,” Mary Bliss said. “It’s the truth. But listen, Charlie. What that woman said about Parker contributing to his own death. If they prove he was drunk when he was driving that boat, can they refuse to pay my claim?”
Charlie took a forkful of chicken and dabbed it into the mayonnaise. “That depends,” he said, chewing slowly.
“On what?”
“On how good your lawyer is,” he said, scraping the last of the chicken from the plate. “You got any white bread laying around here? Sunbeam, somethin’ like that? If I have to litigate this thing, I’m thinking I’m gonna have to up my fee to include a chicken sandwich. And a dill pickle would be nice too.”
The back door opened and Katharine walked in. Charlie slipped his saucer under the pile of bills on the kitchen table.
“Hey, honey bun,” he said, smiling warmly. “You didn’t have to rush back here for me so soon. Mary Bliss and I were just discussing this man-eatin’ insurance investigator of hers.”
“Don’t honey-bun me,” Katharine said. She shoved the bills aside and retrieved the mayonnaise-smeared plate. “Is this what you do when I’m not around? Deliberately clog your arteries with enough cholesterol to choke a goat?”
“Now, baby doll,” Charlie said. “Calm down. That’s low-fat mayonnaise. See? Ask Mary Bliss. It’s got the good cholesterol.”
“There is no good cholesterol where you’re concerned,” Katharine said. “And let me tell you another thing, Charles Weidman. Don’t come crying to me next time you have another heart attack. You want to kill yourself, go on ahead. Try calling that Bitch-Whore of yours, see if she’ll stay at your bedside in the hospital night and day like I did.”
“Katharine!” Charlie said. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss our private lives. Mary Bliss doesn’t want to hear all that.”
“Pooh,” Katharine said. “Mary Bliss knows all about your little girlfriend. For that matter, half the town knows.”
“For the record, she is not my girlfriend,” Charlie said. “She is my associate.”
“Okay, you two,” Mary Bliss said, stepping between them. “I’m calling a truce. This is an officially demilitarized zone. Like Switzerland. If the two of you want to spend the day bickering, take it on back to your own house.”
“My house,” Katharine corrected her, glowering at Charlie.
“Which I pay for,” Charlie added.
“Enough!” Mary Bliss stacked two of the foil trays of chicken on top of each other. “Here,” she said. “Katharine, help me load this stuff in the car to take over to your place. It’s got to chill for at least eight hours before I can mix in the dressing and the other ingredients.”
“What’s this stuff for?” Charlie asked, picking up one of the trays.
Mary Bliss popped him on the arm with her wooden spoon again. “Put that down,” she ordered. “It’s your mother-in-law’s chicken salad. I’m helping cater a wedding.”
He held the kitchen door open. “I think I just heard my fee go up again.”
At Katharine’s house, Charlie held the doors while they ferried all the trays inside and stashed them in Katharine’s big Sub-Zero refrigerator.
“I’m whipped,” Mary Bliss said, sinking down into a chair.
Charlie sat down beside her, dabbing his glistening forehead with a handkerchief. “Me too,” he admitted. “I guess I’m not quite ready to run a marathon yet.”
“You need to be in the bed,” Katharine told him.
He snaked his arm around her waist, then slipped his hand down to rest on her butt. “Whatever you say, honey bun. I’ll get the sheets warmed up, then as soon as Mary Bliss is gone, you can slip in there beside me.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Katharine told him. But she didn’t move away, and Charlie’s hand stayed where it was.
“Guess I’ll hit the road and let you two be alone, then,” Mary Bliss said.
“I don’t want to be alone with this old goat,” Katharine said. “Anyway, I want to hear about the insurance investigator. What kind of things did she ask you?”
“Later,” Mary Bliss said, trying to give Katharine a silent warning that she didn’t want to discuss it in front of Charlie.
“Ms. Quiana Reese seemed reluctant to believe Mary Bliss’s account of Parker’s accident,” Charlie said.
Katharine frowned. “Why? It seems pretty cut and dried to me. They went out on the boat, it hit a wave, the boat capsized. Parker wasn’t wearing a life jacket, so he probably drowned. End of story.”
“The insurance company doesn’t find it cut and dried at all,” Charlie said. “That investigator took a trip to Cozumel. She talked to some people at the hotel. Seems like Parker was cutting up pretty good down there. Drinking a case of beer at a time. Swilling tequila like it was water. Why, that old rascal even bought himself some Mexican mary-ja-wana,” Charlie said, deliberately deepening his already deliberate drawl.
“Really?” Katharine seemed perplexed.
“Yeah, really,” Charlie said. “Ms. Reese thinks it’s pretty likely Parker was impaired when he and Mary Bliss rented that boat. That means drunk in insurance talk. And she seems to think Parker’s negligence contributed to his own death.”
“So what?” Katharine said. “Even if it was his own fault, they can’t get out of paying Mary Bliss’s death benefit, can they?”
“That’s what I was just starting to explain to Mary Bliss earlier today,” Charlie said. “Something she didn’t know about. Hell, I didn’t know it until I started doing some research. This ain’t exactly my kind of specialty, you know.”
“You’re a lawyer,” Katharine said. “The smartest one I know. You can run circles around that pissant little life insurance company.”
“I’ll take that as a rare compliment, darlin’,” Charlie said. “But the fact remains that no matter how damn smart I am—and you’re right, I am pretty damn smart most of the time—I can’t run circles around the law.”
“What are you talking about?” Mary Bliss asked. She didn’t like the direction this was going in. Not at all.
“Just this. Even if Parker was negligent, even if he committed suicide, the insurance company would still have to pay his death benefit.”
“Good,” Katharine said, beaming.
“Not so fast,” Charlie said. “Georgia statute provides that in the case of a questionable death—such as we have here—what with the body never being found and all, the insurance company can delay paying death benefits for up to as much as four years after the time of that death,” Charlie said.
“You never told me that before,” Mary Bliss cried.
“I didn’t know for sure,” Charlie said. “Had to get my law clerk to look it up.”
“Four years,” Mary Bliss said softly. “I’ll be living on the streets by then.”
“You might be living in the jailhouse,” Charlie said, glancing from Mary Bliss to his wife. “Unless the two of you come clean and tell me exactly what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull.”
“That heart attack must have stopped the blood flow to your brain,” Katharine said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the two of you being in cahoots to stage Parker’s death,” Charlie said calmly. “And don’t bother denying it, Katharine. Your bank records are still mailed to me, remember? I saw all the cash withdrawals you made at the automatic teller in Cozumel. And I checked the airline records too. You were there, all right, and you were in it up to your eyeballs.”
“I might have taken a trip to Cozumel,” Katharine said. “But that doesn’t prove anything.”
“I’ve got some of it figured out,” Charlie said. “But the one thing that scares me to death is that boat accident. I can’t figure out how you pulled it off. I can’t figure out how you got an authentic death certificate when Parker McGowan was nowhere near Cozumel that weekend.”
51
Mary Bliss felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. One e
yelid fluttered up and down like a wounded butterfly.
“You’re good, Mary Bliss,” Charlie said. “You had me completely snowed. I bought the whole thing, hook, line, and sinker. Until the day before I had my heart attack.”
“And just what happened the day before your heart attack to make you think Mary Bliss is a liar?” Katharine demanded.
“Matt Hayslip came to see me,” Charlie said.
“What does Matt Hayslip know about anything?” Mary Bliss said, her voice nearly a whisper.
“You’ll have to ask him what all he knows,” Charlie said. “The day he came to see me, he showed me a photograph. A grainy black-and-white photograph. I reckon it was taken off one of those closed-circuit cameras they have at all the banks now. The quality was poor, but I could tell right off that it was Parker McGowan.”
“Where?” Mary Bliss asked. “Where was it supposedly taken?”
“Some bank in Columbus, Georgia,” Charlie said. “And it had a time and date stamp across the bottom. It was taken at two P.M. the day you say Parker checked into the Casa Blanca hotel in Cozumel, Mexico.”
“That’s not possible,” Mary Bliss said. Her throat felt dry. “Parker was with me. In Cozumel.”
Charlie shrugged. “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m too tired to argue with you right now. I think I better do as my bride suggested, and go down to my dungeon and take a nap. But you think about this. All right? Because I’ve got a feeling things are gonna start getting pretty hairy with Quiana Reese and that insurance company.”
Mary Bliss stared at him.
“I don’t know the whole story, obviously,” Charlie said. “But it looks to me like Parker handed you a raw deal. I’d like to help you if I can, Mary Bliss, but I won’t lie for you. And I won’t get disbarred for you, and I definitely won’t go to jail for you. Understand?”
Mary Bliss blinked, then nodded. “I understand.”
“Good,” Charlie said. He patted Katharine on the ass again. “Sorry, darlin’, but that romantic interlude you been pining for is gonna have to wait until I’ve had my beauty rest.”
Katharine pushed his hand away. “Come on, Mr. Big Talk. You better just crash in the den. I don’t want you climbing up or down any more stairs today.”
Mary Bliss planted a kiss on Charlie’s forehead. “Feel better. And thanks. For everything. I’ll call you later, Kate,” she added.
“Think about what I said,” Charlie repeated.
Mary Bliss drove home slowly. She was visualizing the photo of Parker that Charlie said he’d seen. Parker. In a bank in Columbus, Georgia. Was he wearing one of those L.L. Bean golf shirts he’d ordered? And dark glasses? Had he looked directly at the camera? She wondered if he’d been frowning or smiling. Come to think of it, Parker rarely smiled when he had his picture taken. Even in their wedding photos, he’d looked serious; that little wrinkle between his eyebrows creased, eyes looking somewhere just beyond the camera lens.
It was one of the things Mary Bliss had loved best about Parker—that he took life so seriously. Her own daddy had been a clown, the life of the party, always a joke on his lips, until the day he’d suddenly wandered away to a party she and her mama had not been invited to.
Her daddy loved riddles and limericks and silly songs. Parker liked things he could touch or see. Facts and figures. Bank balances.
A bank in Columbus, Georgia. Mary Bliss didn’t know a soul in Columbus. She’d never even been to Columbus. But obviously Parker had been there. And Matt Hayslip had followed him there.
Why? Suddenly she wanted desperately to know how Matt Hayslip had gotten hold of that photo. She wanted to know a lot more about Matt Hayslip and his interest in the McGowan family. And she wanted to know right now.
She pulled her car into her own driveway, but instead of getting out, she rummaged around in her wallet. He’d given her his business card the first time he’d come sniffing around over here. She’d shoved it in her wallet, where she kept odd receipts and cents-off coupons she knew she’d probably never use.
Here it was. Matthew Hayslip. Southern Utilities Corp. There was a phone number. Should she call it? Or should she follow his example, go snooping around at his house? He’d told her he lived in the Oaks. She could just look up the exact street number in the Fair Oaks city directory. Then she frowned. The Oaks was gated. With a security booth and a uniformed guard who had to call ahead and get the home owner’s approval before he’d let any visitors through those hallowed gates. It was the thing that set the newest, chicest part of Fair Oaks apart. In the rest of the town, if you wanted to go see somebody, you simply walked over and went around to the back door. You knocked if it was somebody new, otherwise you’d just poke your head in and holler, “Hey! Anybody home?”
She could just drive in to downtown Atlanta, park in a pay lot, ride the elevator up in that big gray glass Southern Utilities skyscraper, walk right in, and demand some answers from Matthew Hayslip.
But not like this. She was still dressed in cutoffs and a T-shirt. She hadn’t showered yet, she probably smelled like a reject from a poultry-plucking plant. It was Friday afternoon. By the time she could shower, change, and drive downtown, chances were good that he’d already have clocked out for the day.
Later, she promised herself. She would clean herself up, do a little checking of her own. And once she had the goods on Matthew Hayslip, she’d call him at home. Invite herself over. Get some answers.
She towel-dried her hair and dialed the Fair Oaks Country Club’s pro shop. The phone rang several times. “Hiya,” a British-accented voice said. “Andrew here.”
Andrew Ames was South African, with a deep caramel tan, sun-bleached hair, and amazingly knobby knees. He’d been the pro at Fair Oaks Country Club for three years. Mary Bliss had heard rumors that his popularity with the tennis community had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with his bedside manner. And she knew, from firsthand experience, that he was a dedicated gossip.
“Andrew,” she said. “It’s Mary Bliss McGowan.”
“Oh, Miz McGowan,” he said, his voice saddened. “So sorry about Parker. Meant to drop you a card, but it’s our busy season, you know?”
“Thank you for your kind thoughts,” Mary Bliss said. “You were one of Parker’s favorite people. He gave you all the credit for his ability to play the net.”
“Well,” Andrew said. “We worked on that a lot. That husband of yours was quite a perfectionist.”
“How well I know,” Mary Bliss said, chuckling ruefully. “Listen, I’ve had a phone call from a fellow who was Parker’s doubles partner. He was asking a lot of questions about Parker, and it’s made me a little nervous. You know, living alone like I am now.”
“Yeah, sure,” Andrew said. “I’m trying to think who you’d be talking about.”
“Matt Hayslip,” she said. “I’d never met him until after Parker’s accident. And suddenly, he seems to be turning up everywhere I look.”
“Hayslip?” Andrew said. “Matthew Hayslip, did you say?”
“Yes. He told me he was Parker’s doubles partner. And since I didn’t keep up with Parker’s tennis buddies, I didn’t really know him.”
“Just a minute,” Andrew said. “That name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why. I know he’s not one of the regular guys, always hanging around here looking for a game.”
Mary Bliss was doodling on a legal pad she kept by the phone. “Not a regular!” she wrote.
“He told me he was Parker’s regular doubles partner,” Mary Bliss said. “That they were signed up to play in some tournament at the club.”
“Nooo,” Andrew said, drawing it out. “Parker played a lot with Owen Claire, but Owen tore his ACL around Easter and he’s not up to snuff for tennis yet. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen Parker on the courts that much in the spring. And he wasn’t signed up for our member-guest tourney either.”
“He was traveling a good bit,” Mary Bliss said. How stupid. She hadn’t seen Parker pick up a
racket for months before he disappeared. Maybe not since last fall. “So you don’t know Matt Hayslip? And you don’t think he played with Parker?”
“Now, I couldn’t swear to it,” Andrew said. “Wouldn’t want to take an oath or anything. But no, this fella isn’t a regular down here.”
“Thanks,” Mary Bliss said.
“Say,” Andrew said. “You used to play, didn’t you? Why don’t you come round and let me give you a lesson someday? Gratis, of course. We’ve got quite a good ladies’ program going. They play Wednesday mornings. Bloody Wednesdays, they call it, because, of course, Bloody Marys are the refreshment of choice.”
“I’m pretty busy right now,” Mary Bliss said. She cringed at the thought of becoming a number in Andrew Ames’s black book.
She hung up the phone and scrawled another note. “Not a tennis player! Didn’t play with Parker!”
Matt Hayslip lived on Live Oak Circle, according to the city directory. She dialed the number, got his answering machine.
“Hi, Matt,” she said, trying to sound all warm and friendly. “This is Mary Bliss McGowan here. I wonder if you could call me. I’ve been rethinking your offer of dinner.”
She hung up the phone and headed for the shower, to get ready to go into battle.
52
Matt Hayslip was practically panting when he called back thirty minutes later. “Dinner? Tonight? Yeah. That would be great. What time should I pick you up?”
“Why don’t I come over there and cook for you?” Mary Bliss asked, trying to sound seductive. It had been a long time, so she wasn’t sure it was working. “With Parker gone, and Erin in and out so much, it seems like I never get to cook anymore. And I really miss that.”
“Damn. You sure you wanna stand over a hot stove and cook? There’s a great new Italian place over in Brookwood that we could try. Do you like French? Ever been to Babette’s Café? I used to work with the owner’s husband. It’s a super little place over on Highland,” he said.
Little Bitty Lies Page 27
