Done to Death Page 7

  Ada filled her mother in on yesterday’s activities.

  ‘I always thought you should be on TV,’ Rose said. Her eyes, since recent double cataract and lasik surgery, no longer magnified behind Coke-bottle lenses.

  ‘Since when?’ Ada asked as she headed back to the smallest of the three bedrooms.

  ‘Your home is lovely,’ Melanie said, looking between Rose and Ada. ‘What was Lil talking about with that Hoarders crack?’

  Rose snickered. ‘And behind door number three …’

  ‘Mother!’ Ada opened the door, needing to give it an extra push since there was a free-standing steel clothes rack blocking it.

  Ada barreled in; she rarely let strangers see the extent of her years of collecting. If she were being honest, Lil wasn’t entirely off the mark with her Hoarders comment. It had been less than a year ago that Lil had discovered that Ada had been paying for a storage unit in Manhattan. ‘Why?’ she’d asked. ‘We have so much space.’

  ‘Holy mother of God.’ David whispered.

  Ada braced for their responses. She knew her ‘collecting’ had crossed a line, and when she’d reluctantly brought Lil to see what was in her ‘Lock and Walk’ Storage unit she hadn’t known what to expect.

  ‘Is this heaven?’ Melanie asked, her voice reverential as she scanned the rows of garment racks and carefully stacked boxes labeled YSL, Givenchy, Chanel, Dior. The only furniture in the room was a row of steel drawers that filled an entire wall. ‘OMG!’ Melanie exclaimed. ‘Tell me that’s not Dior.’ Her gaze glued to a black-and-white pencil dress.

  ‘Lil and my mother don’t get my love of clothes.’ Ada stood in the middle of her fashion hoard, enjoying the smells and letting her fingers play over the silks and satins. ‘I spent over thirty years in the garment industry. Yes, it was work, but I’ve always loved fashion. That’s what made Strauss’s a success. I wanted the people wearing our clothes to look and feel good. So, yes, I got some custom-made samples along the way. Harry and I spent big money, and the designers wanted me in their clothes. It was win win.’

  ‘This is so not hoarding. Will you adopt me?’ Melanie asked.

  ‘My granddaughter Mona gets it all, and trust me, she’ll be stopping by with a pickup truck the day I go. At least she has the height for fashion. With me, it was always finding things that would work on a dwarf.’

  ‘You’re not that short,’ Melanie said. ‘And the beautiful thing about TV is that height is not an issue. Weight, on the other hand, can be. And on your test you looked perfect. Maybe we should pick more than one outfit. I was hoping to start at the cemetery.’

  ‘Something black and cocktail length?’ Ada suggested. She pulled out a full-skirted black dress from the fifties, with lace across the bust and three-quarter length sleeves.

  ‘Perfect … a little Morticia Addams, but not too much, and you said you had a green Chanel.’

  Ada chuckled. She grabbed Melanie’s hand and led her back toward the walk-in closet.

  She turned on the light. Melanie was stunned into silence.

  Ada turned. ‘Which green do you like the best?’

  Armed with three outfit changes, Ada, Melanie, David, Gretchen and James piled into the tall black RV they’d dubbed the Scooby van. The interior included a dressing and make-up area, with a bathroom in the back and a central lounge area with comfortable couches. The film crew followed in a white van with the LPP logo on the door.

  Lil had begged off, needing to work on her column and also offering to help Melanie and company get their ads placed ASAP into both the Brattlebury Register and the Grenville Sentinel. Her parting words to Ada: ‘You are going to be amazing.’

  Their first stop was the cemetery. For downtown Grenville this was big news. Cars stopped and morning joggers and walkers drifted toward the unusual activities.

  ‘We have to move fast,’ Melanie said as the crew set up. ‘I didn’t have time to pull permits.’

  ‘Do you need to?’ Ada asked, as Gretchen applied the finishing touches to her make-up and whipped off the apron. ‘This is essentially public land.’

  ‘Yes and no, and in my experience once you start to ask for permission people say no, or at the very least want some money. We’ll come back later and make nice. Right now, let’s just get something filmed.’

  Initially, Melanie had Ada read from a teleprompter.

  Ada did as instructed. ‘Melanie, I know this is your business, and I don’t want to insult anyone, but I sound forced. Can I maybe do what we did yesterday?’

  ‘Sorry. I know, it’s total crap. We wrote this intro at like three a.m. You want to go off script?’

  ‘I didn’t think reality TV used scripts.’

  The entire crew broke out laughing.

  ‘What?’ Ada asked.

  ‘It’s all scripted,’ Melanie said. ‘Just don’t tell the Writers Guild. All reality shows have some kind of script. Kev,’ she called to the man running the teleprompter. ‘You can take a break.’

  ‘Do you know what to say?’ Melanie asked.

  Ada smiled. ‘You want me to introduce the show and explain the rules, correct?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘And if I screw up you can edit, correct?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Great, so this is my spot,’ she said, standing in front of a row of eighteenth-century graves, the center one with a weathered carving of a winged angel.

  ‘When I say “action”,’ Melanie instructed, ‘just start talking.’

  Ada nodded. She looked past the film crew at the gathering crowd, most of them hanging back behind the cemetery’s outer stone wall. Some ventured closer, one woman striking up a conversation with James the hairdresser.

  ‘Quiet please,’ Melanie shouted.

  Ada took a couple breaths; she felt a surge of excitement. A moment’s doubt; what if I freeze up?

  ‘And … action.’

  Ada smiled, looked into the camera and, just as she’d done for decades when running Strauss’s, welcomed her audience as she’d welcomed shoppers to her stores. ‘Thank you so much for joining us and welcome to Final Reckoning. I’m Ada Strauss and we’re in lovely Grenville, Connecticut, the antiques capital of New England …’ she lowered her voice to a whisper ‘… if not the world. Today we’re going on a trip that, sadly, everyone takes. The final trip.’

  Transfixed by the unusual activity, the crowd surged closer to hear Ada. She spotted familiar faces, and found it actually became easier if she spoke directly to them. ‘We’re here today to see what happens at the end of life, when all of our worldly possessions pass on to the people we love, or get sold at estate sales and auctions.

  ‘The rules for Final Reckoning are easy. Three antique dealers will have the opportunity to appraise and bid on an estate. This can be an outright sale, or the heirs may choose to have the winning dealer earn a percentage at a three-day estate sale. Along the way we’ll explore the history of fabulous − and sometimes not so fabulous − antiques, works of art and collectibles. Our goals are for the heirs and loved ones of the recently deceased to get a bit of closure … and as much cash as possible.’

  Ada caught smiles and looks of concern. She nodded. ‘Ghoulish? Perhaps. But something we all have to face. So, I’m Ada Strauss and welcome to … Final Reckoning.’

  ‘And cut!’ Melanie shouted. She stared at Ada, poised and elegant in vintage black, in the scenic cemetery, where clumps of purple crocus and yellow daffodils sprouted among the graves. She looked at the camera and sound guys. ‘We got all that?’ she asked.

  ‘You bet. Want to get a second?’

  ‘No, we’re good. Really good.’

  TEN

  ‘You’re not sending me away, Richard. You need me.’ Rachel, with red-rimmed eyes, glared up at her brother from her bathroom floor; her arms and legs were smeared with blood. ‘I’ll be fine, and what do you care if I’m not? It’s just more pie for you.’

  ‘You’re not OK.’ He fought to keep t
he anger from his voice. ‘Look at you.’ He bit back all the things that would turn a bad situation into a nuclear meltdown. People who are OK don’t curl up in their bathroom and slice at their arms and thighs with a box cutter.

  ‘You don’t give a shit! You’re like Mom two point zero. Second verse as shitty as the first.’

  ‘I do care, Rachel,’ and that was the truth, one of several.

  ‘You should.’ She sniffed and batted at her eyes.

  He saw the fresh cuts on her upper arm, not deep, none more than an inch, none requiring stitches and a trip to the emergency room. It would be a call to her psychiatrist, Dr Ebert. ‘Rachel, please give me the box cutter.’

  She thrust it toward him, displaying the fresh cuts and a meshwork of scars dating back to puberty. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a fuck up. I’m sorry Mommy couldn’t pop out two perfect children. God,’ she hiccoughed, and put her fist in her mouth. Like a baby with a pacifier, she sucked her knuckles. ‘She’s dead. Oh God.’ Tears popped through thickly smeared mascara.

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said. He clicked the box cutter closed and shoved it into a pocket. He sank to the cool tile floor and wrapped an arm around her. He never knew what Rachel needed. And unlike his mother, who couldn’t tolerate her volatile mood swings, he wanted to help. Growing up had been a war zone, where he was the peacekeeper and his mother and sister the combatants. The fights would start from nothing and go from zero to nightmare in seconds. It was like neither one could stop herself. His sister’s rages and crushing depression set off by the trip wires of Mom’s coldness, her disdain, her cruelty. He couldn’t argue when Rachel accused Mom of not loving her; it was probably true. Certainly, Lenore never showed Rachel the affection she showered on him. He hugged Rachel tight, feeling the fragility of her frame, her shoulders just bones. She’s too thin again. In the laundry list of psychiatric disorders Rachel had been diagnosed with, an eating disorder with both bulimic and anorectic symptoms was included. ‘We’ll get through this,’ he said, his thoughts pulled by calls from lawyers, the detectives who wanted to interview both him and Rachel, anxious producers, the CFO and COO wanting to bring in consultants to handle the post-Lenore restructuring. But as he thought about it, with Mom dead, Rachel and he were it. And she was pregnant, and threatening to keep the baby. Which, considering who the father was, was a decidedly bad idea.

  Rachel gazed at the base of the toilet. ‘I wanted her dead,’ she said.

  ‘I know, and you shouldn’t say that around anyone but me. Not even Ebert; I’m sure his records will get subpoenaed.’

  ‘They’re going to think we did it, but we have an alibi,’ she said. ‘I was in the hospital and you were with me when Mom was shot.’

  ‘We could have hired someone,’ he said, having already wandered down this road.

  ‘So I would have faked my tantrum at Murielle’s, gotten hauled to the hospital … or to jail if those bastard cops had had their way. Really? Seems far-fetched.’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Either one of us has more than enough money to hire someone, although how does someone find a hit man?’

  ‘Craigslist?’ she offered.

  ‘Or Angie’s … it’s kind of like a workman. Wouldn’t you want references?’

  ‘Like stars,’ she pressed in against Richard. ‘“John was an excellent assassin and I couldn’t have been happier with the clean-up. A five star professional.”’

  Richard looked down, his chin tickled by the soft strands of her hair. Something relaxed as he caught the hint of her smile. His sister was beautiful − or could be − with Lenore’s green eyes and ash blond hair that was currently platinum.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said, knowing she’d believe him.

  ‘I know that. I didn’t either, although,’ she turned her face up to his, ‘I’d thought about it. I never would have, though. Or not like this – I mean this was planned. Someone who knew Mom, her schedule … it’s probably someone we know. Someone who worked for her.’

  He held his tongue, as years of skirmishes between Mom and Rachel played in his head. Some had gotten physical. Once, Rachel had pushed Mom down the stairs, leaving her with massive bruises. She’d retaliated by sending Rachel − then fourteen − to a residential psychiatric hospital. There’d been plenty of slaps, but it was the things they’d said to one another, hateful and unforgivable. Rachel twisted in his arms. He looked into her eyes, so like their mother’s. He felt her tremble.

  ‘You’ve got to stop doing this stuff,’ he said. ‘I’m not Mom. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘I know.’ She bit her bottom lip and her leg curled in, her thigh grazing his, her knee nudging his groin. ‘You just want to love me,’ she said.

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ he answered, those words having long ago lost their meaning.

  ‘I need it.’ Her lips parted and she pushed up and locked her mouth to his. Her left hand clutched the back of his head to pull him in. Her arm, still wet with blood, held him fast as her fingers twisted in his hair.

  He groaned and opened to the kiss. Her tears wet against his cheek, her tongue lashing against his. Her hands pulled his shirt free from his pants, her fingers kneaded his bare flesh. His mind skittered over how wrong this was, and how good it felt. It always had, and he suspected it always would. Rachel was the spark to his fire. He scooped and lifted his little sister in his arms, his pregnant sister.

  Carrying her out of the bathroom, he headed toward her four-poster bed. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ feeling a mix of relief and regret; if she didn’t want this anymore he’d be fine with that.

  ‘No, silly.’ She brushed a finger down the side of his face. Her tongue flicked between her lips. ‘Not here; let’s do it in her bed.’

  After, as his heart returned to its normal rhythm and the orgasmic glow dissipated, he tried to reorient himself.

  ‘Let’s spend the day in bed,’ Rachel said. ‘Keep the doors locked, tell the staff to take the day off. Pretend we’re normal people. I’ll make lunch.’

  ‘You can’t cook.’

  ‘I can so.’ She twirled a length of hair between her fingers and ran it through her lips. ‘You take the box of mac and cheese, a stick of butter and a little milk. It’s not hard.’

  ‘Would you eat it?’ he asked, knowing he was treading on shaky ground.

  ‘I might.’ She arched her back and posed for him. She used his eyes as mirrors. She leaned toward him, her face close to his. Her hand snaked up his thigh. ‘What would be the harm of a day in bed? It’s not the sex, Richard …’ There was an openness and vulnerability in her eyes. ‘Although we do it really well. It’s you. Can I please just spend some time with you?’

  His chest tightened. What’s the harm? he thought. Right, spend the day in bed … with your sister. He breathed out a sigh. ‘I have to take care of business, Rachel.’

  He braced for her fury.

  It didn’t come. She pulled back, her hand grazed the crumpled sheets. ‘I suppose you do; after all our dear old mother was just shot dead.’ She mimed a gun with her hand. ‘I’m dying to know who did it. At the very least I could send them a thank you card. Sorry,’ catching something in Richard’s expression. ‘You loved her. That was really insensitive. You’d think with all of this therapy, I’d be better at this. Are you really sad?’

  ‘Numb,’ he said, trying to identify the emotions attached to yesterday’s events. ‘Like it’s not real yet.’

  ‘It’s denial,’ she said. ‘One of the five stages of grief. Let me see; there’s denial, bargaining, depression, acceptance and … what’s the fifth? Sneezy?’

  Richard met his sister’s smile. ‘Dopey.’

  ‘No,’ she said with a lopsided leer. ‘Horny.’

  It was after ten when the maid tried to get into Lenore’s locked suite.

  ‘Jenelle, it’s OK,’ Richard shouted from the bed. ‘We’re going through Mom’s things. Why don’t you do the other rooms? In fact, maybe leave this alone for a week til
l we know what we’re doing.’

  He crept naked out of bed and placed his ear to the double doors in the outer room. He looked back at Rachel.

  She smiled. ‘Do you think Mom knew?’

  His ears strained for the sound of the maid’s cart going down the hall. Rachel’s question was one he’d often asked. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I bet she did.’ Rachel got out of bed and wandered back toward Lenore’s dressing room.

  Richard grabbed his boxers from the floor and followed her, his eyes tracing the lines and shadows of his sister’s body. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She wasn’t stupid, and we weren’t always careful. I mean I wasn’t always careful. You, brother, are the epitome of cover your ass.’ She turned back and openly admired his mostly naked physique. ‘And such a fine ass at that.’

  ‘Thanks. Then don’t you think she would have said something? Shipped one of us off?’ He regretted the words as they left his mouth.

  ‘She did.’ Rachel pushed open the door into one of Lenore’s walk-ins. ‘More than once, unless you’ve forgotten. There was Trinity Hills, Silver Brook, Silver Glen.’

  Back on dangerous ground, Richard knew to hold his tongue.

  ‘She knew. I think she was jealous. Wanted her precious son all to herself.’ Rachel unzipped a garment bag and then another. ‘But I always knew how to get out of those places.’ She selected a long black knit bandage dress, unzipped it and stepped in. Holding up her hair she turned her back to Richard. ‘Do me up.’

  ‘Did those places help?’ he asked.

  She turned in to him. ‘I’d like to say no. But I did learn some things. Like whenever I wanted to come home, I’d let Mommy know that I was going to blab all her secrets to the most indiscreet people I could find. It was the one thing about her I kind of liked − she was a dyke. Or the time I got knocked up by the groundskeeper at Silver Brook. That was fun. And Richard, to be clear, I am keeping our baby.’ She smoothed her hand down her still concave belly.

  His throat caught. ‘Rachel … it’s such a bad idea.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Egyptian royalty did it all the time.’