The Scoop

by Fern Michaels

  Sophie blinked. “Now, that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Yeah, Toots, warm up those pipes of yours and send him off on a high note.”

  Toots dabbed at her eyes. “Come on, let’s go tell the others, but we have to be sure we don’t get too close to Ida, you know, tears dropping on her or something.”

  “Screw Ida.”

  “That might work if there was a man around, but there isn’t.” Toots started to laugh and couldn’t stop until Sophie banged her on the back a few times.

  In the living room, the others looked up expectantly when Toots and Sophie entered the room.

  “Sophie has something to tell everyone, so listen up.” When Toots was sure she had their undivided attention, she looked over at Sophie. “Okay, you have their attention. Spit it out.”

  “Walter kicked the bucket.” She held her hand, palm out, in front of her. “And it’s okay, I don’t need a bunch of I’m sorries. I haven’t made it a secret that I’ve waited for this day longer than I can remember. I’m going back to New York to arrange for his funeral.”

  “Event, Sophie. It’s always an event.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Mother!”

  “It is an event, no matter what you say,” Toots assured her daughter. “I don’t think Sophie is going to hire a seven-piece string band, but she’s given me permission to sing at the service. Dying is an event in one’s life. Don’t even try to dispute it,” Toots said firmly.

  “I am terribly sorry, Sophie. I know how you’ve waited for this day, but it still has to be a shock,” Mavis said.

  “I’m sorry, too, Sophie. When I lost Thomas I didn’t want to go on living. But now—”

  “You don’t have anything to live for. I remember,” Sophie said.

  “That isn’t what I was going to say. What I was going to say is the past few days have been an eye-opener for me. With Dr. Sameer’s help, I am going to overcome this disease. I don’t suppose any one of you even bothered to notice my hands.”

  They all stared at Ida’s hands. She’d taken off the latex gloves.

  “Yes!” Abby said. “That’s wonderful, Ida, and you’ve only been to see the doctor once. I’m very proud of you.”

  “As we all are. I know this is difficult for you. Now I am going to make an appointment for you to get a manicure as soon as Sophie and I return from New York.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be ready for that, but by all means make the appointment if you don’t mind. It will be a goal for me. Mavis and I have been discussing goals and how best to achieve them,” Ida said.

  “That’s the spirit, Ida! Next I’ll be stuffing both your hands in that garbage can I mentioned,” Sophie teased.

  “I would never do that under any circumstances, Sophie. Really, even if I wasn’t so…off-the-wall!” At first blush it was looking like just maybe Ida was becoming more like the old Ida they loved.

  “I know, I wouldn’t either, but it sounded good, admit it. So, now that we’re all here, why don’t we order some more of those Jell-O shots?”

  Toots shook her head. “Not today. We’ll have a drink with dinner, but Jell-O shots are out of the question until we get back.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My mother and my godmothers doing Jell-O shots.” Abby pretended to be horrified.

  “We enjoyed every one of them, too.” Toots laughed.

  “Mavis ate hers with a spoon,” Sophie said.

  “Sounds like my four favorite people in the world had a good time. I don’t want to be a party pooper. Sorry, Sophie, you know what I mean. I’ve got to get back to the house. Chester is waiting on me. Mom, call me and let me know when you’ll be going to New York. Looks like I’ll be working around the house for the next few days, at least until I find out what’s going on at the paper. I plan to keep my end up, so when the new owners decide to show up, they won’t call me a slacker.”

  Abby doled out hugs and kisses before she left. She promised to call that evening.

  Sophie waited until the door closed behind Abby before she said, “She’s one in a million, Toots. You better hope when she finds out, if she finds out, what her old mom is doing behind her back that she doesn’t…oh, what am I saying? If she does, you’ll deal with it. We’ll all deal with it.

  “I…I have some calls to make, so if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll get right to it.”

  Sophie’s friends nodded solemnly.

  Mavis said, “I’m going to meet with the hotel dietitian tomorrow. Is that okay? I know this isn’t free, so if you don’t want me to know what all this is costing, Toots, just say the word.”

  “The word is I want you to do whatever you need to do to get your weight off. I don’t know if the rest of you have noticed, but I think you’re a bit lighter on your feet, Mavis.”

  Mavis smiled. “I think I am, too. I’ve lost eight pounds since coming to Charleston, then here.”

  “I knew you could do it, Mavis. Just one day at a time.”

  Ida got up from her perch on the sofa. “I’m going to go back to my bungalow now. Mavis, would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

  “That would be wonderful. I need to go myself. Toots, Sophie, if you need me to do anything for you, just ask, okay?”

  “Thanks, Mavis, but no, just stay here and run up Toots’s tab. We got it covered.”

  Together Ida and Mavis left for their own bungalows, their arms linked. Both Toots and Sophie rolled their eyes at one another. Progress with a capital P.

  It took Toots twenty minutes to arrange for their flight to New York and to book two rooms at the Four Seasons.

  “We can stay at the apartment, Toots.”

  “I know we can, but we’re not going to do that. I don’t want you going back there, at least not yet. Do you need me to make any calls?”

  “Thanks, but no. This is something I have to do myself. It won’t take long.”

  With nothing else to do to occupy her time, Toots decided to make a pot of coffee. While it dripped, she walked out to the terrace and lit a cigarette. She didn’t know why, but suddenly she felt good.

  As Sophie thought about the calls she needed to make, she debated with herself about who to call first. After deciding that she would begin with returning the call from the morgue, she said to herself, No, I want to call that nurse. I’m going to give that prissy bitch a piece of my mind. I’m going to do it right now while I’m good and pissed. Sophie punched in the ten-digit number.

  “Everything okay?” Toots asked ten minutes later when Sophie joined her on the terrace.

  “It is what it is, Toots. Hey, what are you going to sing at the service?”

  “I’ll come up with something. I plan to practice on the plane ride. You might want to think about buying some earplugs before we leave.”

  Chapter 35

  The private jet was wheels down at one o’clock in the afternoon. Within minutes, a waiting limousine whisked the two women to the Bank of Manhattan, where Sophie took from her safe deposit box the papers she needed to file a claim on the five-million-dollar life insurance policy she had waited all these years to collect. Their next stop was the Daley Funeral Home on Fifty-seventh Street.

  Within an hour, with Toots at the helm, all of Walter’s final arrangements were taken care of. Walter Manchester was going to the big bank in the sky in a top-of-the-line spiffy bronze Springfield casket. The one-hour viewing with a closed casket was scheduled for seven o’clock. A five-minute service was set for seven the following morning, with interment at seven-thirty following the short ride to the cemetery. A florist on Fifty-first Street promised bookoo flowers to be delivered to the funeral home.

  Sophie had to hand it to Toots, she knew how to pull it all together. “How come we aren’t embalming Walter?”

  “Takes too long. Casket is closed. You said you wanted it done. This is how it gets done. Do you have a problem with any of this?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Okay. Then let’s hit Fifth Avenue. Our retur
n flight is scheduled for nine tomorrow morning. We’re going to be seriously jet-lagged, but the sooner we put this behind us, the quicker you can get on with your life, Sophie. Unless you want to hang around here and have a pity party.”

  Sophie thought about it. “I’m good with it all. Let’s shake it, girlfriend. I hear Saks calling my name.”

  “Funny you should say that. I heard my name being called, too.”

  Walter Manchester’s event went off without a hitch. Toots sang “Ave Maria,” a bit off-key, but Sophie didn’t seem to notice or care.

  Toots wished she’d had just a little longer to prepare for the event, but considering the time constraints, she was satisfied. She dropped a yellow rose on top of the Springfield casket, said, “So long, Walter,” and stood back to watch as Sophie approached.

  Sophie laid her rose next to Toots’s, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know where you’re going, Walter…gone, but I don’t think you and I will be meeting up…ah, later.”

  Toots reached for Sophie’s arm. “Okay, we did it, and now we’re outta here. Listen to me, Sophie. Do not look back. This part of your life is over, and it was Walter’s loss. You’re a wonderful person. God put you on this earth for a reason, so don’t ever think you failed. Walter failed you. End of story.”

  It was wheels up right on time. The two old friends landed at LAX at noon and were back in their bungalows in time for lunch.

  “I like the way you do things, Toots. I could get used to this sort of lifestyle,” Sophie said as she looked at the room-service menu.

  “You better get used to it, old girl, because you’re about to move into a higher tax bracket. What will you do with all that money?”

  “I might take a trip in a rocket ship. You can do that now. It’s two hundred thousand dollars. Big-ticket stuff. I really don’t think I will live any differently than I do now. Though I am going to buy a house. With a huge yard. And I’m going to plant flowers. All those years of living in the concrete jungle, I think a house will be my only extravagance. And lots of flowers. Maybe I could buy a home in South Carolina. I could grow tobacco. I’m going to give a lot of it away, Toots. That’s a definite. I’ll invest some of it.”

  “I’ll help you plant the garden.”

  Chapter 36

  Micky was awakened by a loud banging on his front door. He rolled over in bed to look at the alarm clock. Fuck, who in the hell comes for a visit at three o’clock in the morning? He crammed the pillow over his head, hoping to shut out the noise. When he saw it wasn’t about to let up, he called out, “Give me a minute, will ya?” He found the jeans he’d worn the day before lying in a heap on the floor. Reaching for them, he pulled them on as he stomped his way to the door, yelling, “All right already, I’m coming, dammit!”

  Micky peered through the peephole, a frown building between his eyebrows before he opened the door. He didn’t recognize the man standing in front of him. Maybe his document pal sent someone to collect his money.

  He yanked the door aside, preparing to tell the dressed-up dude to take a hike.

  “Are you Michael Constantine?”

  Michael Constantine. “Depends on who wants to know. Who are you? What do you want?”

  “James Wilson. Orange County arson investigator.”

  Double shit fuck and hell. Play it cool. Micky seethed. “So? I’m supposed to be impressed?”

  Wilson stared at the weasel standing in front of him. “I don’t much care if you’re impressed or not. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “About what?” Micky stepped away from the door as he tried to put some distance between the investigator and himself in case he had to bolt.

  “Do you drive a 1987 royal blue Corvette?”

  “Yeah.” This wasn’t sounding good. He hadn’t had an accident. Why the hell was this dude asking him about his car? His gaze went to the coffee table, where he’d tossed his keys.

  “I’d like to have a look at it.”

  “You got a search warrant?”

  “Do you really think I would come all the way out here at three o’clock in the morning without one?”

  Micky took a step toward the door. He saw two patrol cars parked across the street. “Yeah, you can look at it. Give me a minute. It’s in my garage.”

  “I’ll just follow you if you don’t mind.”

  Play it cool, Micky, play it cool. He hadn’t left anything in the car to link him to the fire. He’d left the gas can there, but a gas can was a gas can. Half the world owned gas cans.

  Micky picked up his keys from the coffee table, motioned for the investigator to follow him through the kitchen to the door leading out to the garage. He flipped the lights on, tossed Mr. Big Shot arson investigator the keys. “Be my guest.”

  Wilson took a radio from his pocket, spoke into it, then, two minutes later, four police officers joined him in the garage.

  “What are they here for? What are you looking for? I didn’t do nothing.” Micky hated the fear he was hearing in his voice.

  “Just let us do our job, Mr. Constantine. That’s another way of saying I don’t have to tell you anything.” He tapped the warrant in the breast pocket of his jacket. Micky felt like his guts were going to roar up through his throat and out his mouth.

  For the next thirty minutes, investigators searched the trunk, they opened the hood to inspect the engine. They went through the glove compartment, looked underneath the seats. They went over the vehicle with a fine-tooth comb. When he saw Wilson go through the trunk a second time, he thought he would black out. Had he spilled gas? He tinkered with engines; gas could be explained away. What the hell were they looking for?

  Mr. Arson Investigator dropped something inside a plastic bag. “Micky Constantine?”

  “Yeah?”

  The arson investigator said something to one of the patrol officers that he couldn’t hear. The officer nodded, then walked over to stand in front of him. “Mr. Constantine, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…” The cop clipped a pair of cuffs on his wrist before he finished reading him his Miranda rights.

  “What’s the charge? Man, you ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’ll sue your ass off for false arrest.”

  “Tell that to your attorney, Mr. Constantine. We found these,” Wilson said as he held up a plastic bag with a pack of matches from Carl’s Garage.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Since when is it a crime to have a pack of matches? Carl’s a friend,” Micky blustered.

  “No, Mr. Constantine, having a pack of matches isn’t a crime. But when you find a pack of matches at the scene of a fire, matches from Carl’s Garage with your fingerprints all over them, that’s a crime.”

  Son of a bitch! He thought for sure the matches would burn in the fire! This is all Rodwell Godfrey’s fault. When I find the son of a bitch, I’m going to slit his throat and watch him bleed like a stuck pig.

  Then it hit him like a lightning bolt. He wasn’t going to find old Rag because his ass was going to be reclining in jail.

  “I ain’t dressed, man, you gotta let me get some clothes.”

  “Where you’re going, they will be providing you a very nice one-size-fits-all orange jumpsuit. Now move.” The officer who handcuffed him gave him a shove.

  “Hey, watch it! That’s police brutality!”

  “Of course it is.” The officer grinned.

  An hour later, Micky was booked and fingerprinted in the Los Angeles County Jail.

  They brought him to a room the size of a bathroom, where they left him until the sun came up. He had to pee and he wanted to know what they were gonna do with his Vette. A plainclothes officer entered the room.

  “Micky Constantine, I’m Special Agent Brett Gaynor. I think you and I need to have a talk.”

  “You FBI?”

  “That’s correct. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Hey, I ain’t stupid. I’m supposed to get a phone call. I wanna call my lawye
r.”

  “And you will be able to do that, but not right now. First I have a few questions I want you to answer. You don’t want to answer them, fine. Let me say this, it would be to your benefit to tell me everything you know about Rodwell Godfrey.”

  Son of a bitch, I should’ve known.

  “I ain’t saying a word till I see a lawyer.”

  Special Agent Brett Gaynor stood up and walked over to the door. Before leaving, he turned around. “Rodwell Godfrey has committed bank fraud. If you’re involved, you’re facing life in San Quentin. Last I heard, it wasn’t a day in the park.”

  Micky Constantine proceeded to piss all over himself.

  Chapter 37

  “Henry Whitmore, I owe you and Sally dinner and a trip to the Bahamas,” Toots said, her face lighting up like a Roman candle.

  “We’ll do that as soon as you return to Charleston.”

  “Can I ask how you managed to do this? I was resigned to taking a ten-million-dollar loss. I can’t tell you what I’ve been through, Henry. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Actually, it was quite simple. It’s almost impossible to wipe out an electronic trail unless you’re with the CIA, and it’s my understanding they aren’t always successful. You had already told me that the money was transferred to the Bank of Bermuda on Grand Cayman. Fortunately, the banks in the islands are very professional. Given their location and the fact they are at an extremely high risk for hurricanes, their systems are controlled by satellite. The loss of power may appear to have closed the financial centers down, and I’m confident there are some who are unable to access their clients’ accounts, but not so with the Bank of Bermuda. Of course they’re running off generators now, but they are able to access accounts. I made a few phone calls and learned that your ten million dollars was transferred to an account in the name of Richard Allen Goodwin. Does that name mean anything to you?”