The Last Day for Rob Rhino

By

Kathleen O’Donnell

Credits Page

Damnation Books, LLC.

P.O. Box 3931

Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

The Last Day for Rob Rhino

by Kathleen O’Donnell

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-971-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-972-2

Cover art by: Cinsearae Santiago

Edited by: Andrea Heacock-Reyes

Copyright 2013 Kathleen O’Donnell

Printed in the United States of America

Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

Worldwide English Language Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication page

For my husband, Ed—my one reader.

Our kids, whom I love—Daniel, Kayla, Kristen and Kenneth.

And, my mom, Pat Edwards—who made sure I loved to read.

Acknowledgements:

Can’t forget our little ones, Deja, Madison, Adelia, Amelie, and Cheby. Or, their good daddies, Che and Paul. My undying gratitude to Marsha Bailey, who thought I could do it. Robin Winter, who taught me to move the furniture. Shelley Lowenkopf, my editor, who didn’t tell me to trash it all—just some. My agent, Toni Lopopolo, for hanging in and going to bat for me. Doctor Elizabeth Downing for all the medical instruction. And, those early readers who cheered me along, Marybeth Carty, Lisa Rivas, Tim Marquez, and Angel Cottrell. And, my friend Ray Barnds, who I miss, and who would have loved this book.

Prologue

“Hey, it’s Frank. You had an appointment this morning?”

“Oh, I…ummm…I…what?” Claire almost fell, tangled in her bath towel, sopping hair slapping her cheek. The only reason she answered the phone in the first place was because she thought it was Guillermo.

“You were going to bring Liam’s Range Rover in this morning? The brakes,” Frank yelled over the mechanic noise in the background, the clatter in Claire’s head.

Does he think I’m a servant? “Conchita must’ve—”

“No, Liam said she was off, today. You were going to bring it. I offered to send someone to pick it up, but he turned me down. Said you guys worked it out on your end?”

Shit. Crap. Forgot. “Yeah…well—”

She rummaged through the nightstand, halfway listening to Frank’s mechanic lingo. “Those brakes won’t hold up. The pads are about gone. I told Liam that the last time he was here. You know Liam never wants to take the time. He’ll be out of time if he slams on those—”

“Sorry, Frank. I had a…a…thing. I’ll call you back in a few to reschedule.”

“Who was that?” Liam rushed in, Claire plonked down the receiver.

“Oh…ah…Jordan. He’s…he might come to town, wants to have dinner or something.”

“I gotta go. I’m late, as usual.” He grabbed his car keys but didn’t glance in her direction or even make listening sounds. “I’ve got that presentation.”

Claire picked up her empty wine glass. She would’ve met her husband’s eyes had he been looking at her. “Good luck with that.”

Chapter One

“I bought you the hat, because you’re scary bald.”

Claire held the phone away from her ear, nostrils flaring. “I wouldn’t wear a hat if Philip Treacy sailed it over himself on the Queen Elizabeth II.” She strolled the gateway to watch the planes take off through the windows. Her reflection in the glass mirrored back, her head shiny, embryonic.

Her step-daughter let out a puff of breath. “Claire, you know how much his hats cost. It’s just lying here on the floor.”

“I don’t give a flying—” Claire caught herself and counted to five. Annabelle meant well. “I don’t do hats. I do bald. It is what it is.”

“Listen, why don’t you take a vacation?” The wheedling commenced. “Instead of going wherever, to do whatever, you could go to that place I told you about in Hawaii.” Annabelle spoke in run-ons. “They have a state-of-the-art meditation center.”

A woman wearing sweats gawked as she went by, smiling and nodding. Claire’s condition elicited the sympathy of strangers. Maybe, it was terminal. Whatever it was, it looked bad.

“That place where I can sit around all day touching myself?”

“You can get in touch with yourself, Claire.”

“I’m halfway to Pennsylvania, where I want to go.” Claire’s free hand pushed against the window. “Me and my bald head.” Airport foot traffic hurried behind her in both directions.

“Well, you look like crap. Please, reconsider Hawaii. It’s a luxurious place. The—”

“The ashram?”

“It’s not an ashram. It’s a…a—”

“Loony bin?” A harried traveler knocked her purse, sitting by her feet. The pill bottles at the bottom rolled and shook—cha-cha-cha—a druggist’s maraca.

“It’s a retreat center. Andrew sent Meg there for her birthday. He said she loved it.”

“Umm hmm…”

“Are you listening?”

Claire suffered in silence, as loud as she could.

Annabelle tried a different way. “I’m worried about you. Jordan is, too. Dad—”

Claire’s sudden tears annoyed her. She stabbed her phone off with one rigid finger and rammed it into her purse. Enough of that nonsense. You can cry yourself a river, but you can’t cry your hair back…or, your life the way you wanted it.

* * * *

Claire stared at the homeless looking guy sleeping on the airport floor and brushed the tears from her lashless eyes.

She looked around. There were serious looking men in expensive suits waiting for their flights, most poking at their BlackBerry’s. Liam used to think every man who crossed her path wanted to sleep with her. Now, if they saw her at all, she repulsed them. Claire had been a beauty until she wasn’t. An “emerald-eyed, fair-haired princess,” her dad used to say. “A long, tall, drink of water.” Before, she’d been stared at, smiled on, and envied. Now, she was stared at. Sometimes laughed or pointed at, and they almost always pitied her.

The wreck on the floor moved, propped up on his scaly elbows, nodding off with his mouth open and eyes closed. Even in his unwashed state, he looked familiar. Like someone who used to be famous. Claire scanned the crowded O’Hare terminal but didn’t notice anyone else looking at him. Maybe, she was wrong. Maybe, he was just another loser. She looked at her Rolex and wondered how late the flight was going to be. She couldn’t remember now what the voice said on the announcement. Between the noise and the sedatives, it was hard to keep up.

When she walked back to her gate, the boarding had already started. She hadn’t heard the announcement…again. The man lying on the ground was gone. Did security shoo him away? She noted her seat number and got in line. Sweat broke out over her upper lip. Sweating was a problem with no hair—an added humiliation. She hoped they didn’t dilly-dally too long with the drinks on the plane. Thank God for the three-hour jump in time going east.

She boarded then hunted for her seat—8B. She really needed to get some glasses. The plane was a small commuter with three seats across—a single on one side of the aisle, a double on the other. Claire found aisle 8 and was about to sit in her seat, one of the doubles on the aisle, when she saw him.

The dirty hobo from the airport slumped in the window seat, 8C.

He sprawled out over both seats, looking fatter up close and older—late sixties at least, despite the desperate dye job and comb-over. A bushy moustache, like a squirrel’s ass, wasn’t big enough to cover his pock-marked face. His gut hung over his thighs. He looked either asleep or passed out. He also reeked.

“This is a mistake.” Claire stopped and twisted around while searching for a flight attendant. She couldn’t see one. The teeming line of travelers behind her tried to keep her going. “This can’t be right. I can’t possibly sit here,” she said, like an Astor in steerage on the Titanic.

The Asian man behind her smiled, moved his head up and down.

She was about to indulge in a hurricane force panic attack when she heard, “This is a full flight. Please, find your seats. Make sure your carry-ons are stored below your seat or in the upper bins.”

Claire swung her Louis Vuitton bag into her seat, hitting the filthy hobo’s fat leg, hard. He jiggled up with a snort and scooted over to his side. She heaved her matching carry-on into the overhead bin, sat down, dug a little blue pill out of her bag, then swallowed it dry. She made a big show of settling into her seat, so she could turn her head to see what he was doing without seeming obvious. He leaned against the window with his eyes closed and mouth open. She could hear him snoring.

Claire stuffed her bag under the seat in front of her then fastened her seat belt with a click. When he opened his milky, blue-gray eyes, he looked at her with eyelids that appeared too heavy for him. All of a sudden, he had the hearing of a dog. One side of his mouth lifted in a lopsided half-smile. He leaned forward to make sure his ragged backpack was still there, fiddled with the seat-back pocket, and readjusted his seat belt. Satisfied that all was as it should be in his area, he gave Claire another look—one that seemed to urge her to give hers another check just to be safe. She did. In seconds, he slept, again.

It occurred to Claire, her unwanted traveling companion hadn’t noticed he sat next to a hairless woman. He didn’t look her up and down, and then quickly look away, like most people. Nor did he insist on politically correct earnestness, meaningful, direct eye contact. Her grubby neighbor seemed to care only that seat trays were upright; all electronic devices were turned off and appropriately stored until takeoff. Claire shook her bald head. Whatever drugs he was taking, she had to get some.

The plane was almost full. Claire looked up to see a man, about her age—one of the impatient ones in a pricey suit in the aisle next to her seat. Staring. Oh, no. She could feel the color begin to climb up her neck.

“Hey, aren’t you that guy?” the man in the suit asked.

Claire exhaled. She turned to her right, startled.

“Yeah, you’re the guy from that reality show, aren’t you?” The suit wasn’t budging without an answer.

“Um…huh. Yeah…I’m him,” Claire’s seat mate slurred, barely stringing the words together. His double chins fell forward onto his chest.

“Rob,” the suit said.

“Yeah, Rob.”

The flight attendant came up behind the man, prodding him forward. “I knew it,” he muttered before moving toward his seat.

That’s where she’d seen him. What’d he say his name was, again? She turned toward him. Asleep, again. “Hey,” she elbowed him. “I thought you looked familiar. You were in a reality show. What else would I have seen you in?” She hardly ever watched reality television—at least, not on purpose.

He eyed her Rolex and ten-carat diamond ring. “Nothing.”

“I thought you were someone famous when I saw you in the airport.” She knew she was right. She almost always was. “What else are you famous for?”

His head swiveled toward her, jowls sagging. “My cock,” he said. “I have a thirteen-inch cock.”

Chapter Two

They stared at each other. She lifted her non-existent brows to meet her non-existent hair line. For what seemed like an eternity, visions of fat, pasty men—all hideously endowed—traumatized her. She cleared her throat and scratched her chin.

A grin split his face, as if carved by a machete-wielding lunatic. He was missing a front tooth. He leaned toward her, lisping, “Baby, I’m a porn star.”

* * * *

“Would you care for a cock—?”

“No.” Claire recoiled, like a vampire rejecting a cross.

“…a cocktail?” the flight attendant finished.

“Yes. Absolutely, yes. A vodka tonic, please.” Claire wiped her sweating upper lip with a wadded tissue. The porn star snored lightly again, mouth hanging open.

She swallowed a mouthful of vodka and sat back in her seat. How could he be asleep, already? There’d been no more in-flight confessions from her pornographic neighbor. Just minutes ago, he’d been like a monkey diving for lice on the scalp of his mate. He’d pounced on his backpack, dug out his mail, and pulled out a pair of glasses.

“SoCal Gas,” he’d said to himself, peeling open the envelope. With one cloudy eye, he sneaked up on the innards and tried to see what it said without taking anything out. “Highway robbery.” He set it aside. “Verizon.” Same routine, picking up another envelope. This one was yellow, heavily scented, definitely feminine. “Ohhh…interesting.” He kept talking to his pile of mail. He’d taken that fragrant, lucky winner out of the envelope, looked down the slope of his bulbous nose, and read. Every few seconds, he’d hoot and smack the tray. Loudly.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He picked at his remaining front teeth with the corner of the yellow envelope. “Tsssst, tssssst…” Every few seconds, he made weird gyrations with his mouth and tongue, like some kind of turbo teeth cleaning.

Claire moved to the opposite side of her seat, as far as she could go without falling into the aisle. Every time he opened his mouth, her butt sucked up more of the seat cushion. After regaling her with his genital dimensions, he paid her no more attention. No further information was forthcoming. Nor had he peeked at her or her hairless head. He wasn’t interested in her story. She wanted to know his. She’d tried to see the name on his mail, but between her bad eyes and the pill/cocktail combo, no dice…not without getting into his lap. Not going there, for God’s sake.

Without moving her head, she looked downward and sideways, at his crotch. She clamped her eyes shut. She’d read once that the Elephant Man had a huge penis. The final, cosmic cruelty. She wondered how many times he’d gotten laid. Like, zero, probably. The problem was, he’d been poor. If the Elephant Man had been rich, he’d have been called distinguished. A curved spine and a skull divided into triplicate would have been all the rage. No such thing as a rich man too ugly to get a woman.

She hadn’t worried about Liam’s looks or his money. There was truth in that old saying: You could just as easily marry a rich man as a poor one. Not that it mattered. She’d have married Liam even if he’d been poor. Of course she would have. Definitely.

Claire grabbed for her bag and started digging for her pills, flinging whatever-the-hell out the top. Why was it so hard to find the damn pills? There was a whole bottle from Doctor Freidman, Doctor Edgemont, and Doctor Zucker, plus the one she got online. Not to mention one from her gardener’s roommate—Guillermo from Mexico City, in case of an emergency. She unfastened her seat belt and leaned too far out of her seat. She caught herself, feeling her stomach rise to the top of her throat. Her hands and feet tingled, going numb. Her skin felt pin pricked…icy. The sweat dripped.

“You’re cool, you’re cool.” The porn star steadied her with his dirty hand. “Your purse exploded.” He held up a pen, her cell phone, and a tampon with the wrapper torn half off.

“I’m…I’m…not…I’m not feeling well.” Claire swallowed the sourness in her mouth and yanked the loot out of his grimy hands.

“You need crackers. They help with the puking.” He held up his hand to get the flight attendant’s attention.

“I…I don’t have cancer. No chemotherapy,” Claire croaked out. Her breath came too fast, too shallow.

“Uh, yeah. I figured,” he said. “Too bad.”

The flight attendant came. She rustled up some crackers and a brown bag. By the time she’d made the necessary inquires about whether or not Claire needed assistance, the porn star passed out, again. After several minutes of breathing in and out of the paper bag, Claire stopped feeling like she’d die. She took a pill, bunched up the bag and the empty cracker wrapper in her hand, mopped her still sweating brow, and leaned back in her seat.

“I figured? Too bad?” What did he mean by he figured? How dare he? He couldn’t figure out the first thing about her. What’s too bad? Too bad she didn’t have cancer? Asshole.

He hadn’t asked her a single question. There’d been no conversation. He was too stoned for one thing. Lowlife crack head. This was a commuter flight, or she’d be in first class…and he wouldn’t.

Claire poo poo’d the flight attendant’s over-solicitous ministrations. “I’m fine, I said.” Was the woman deaf? She kept hovering.

“I think these are yours?” The flight attendant with too much makeup on held out a wrinkled, stepped on piece of paper and a lipstick. She peered at the Wikipedia printout. “Your info on…um…exhumation? And a lipstick.” She turned the sleek, black tube over. “Chanel. You must’ve dropped them or something.” She frowned at Claire’s bag, sticking out too far into the aisle, then pushed it back with her airline-approved navy pump.

Claire mumbled a snotty thank you to Nosy Nellie Stewardess while she pulled her bag back out again, returned her belongings to it, and closed its clasp with a firm clack. She shot another peek at the slumbering, bad omen sitting next to her. Maybe he was a sign from the gods, who’d already proved to have a piss-poor sense of humor. Perhaps, she should go back home. She pressed her palm to her sticky, naked scalp. Not a chance.

The “fasten seat belt” overhead lights went on while they prepared to land. Claire refused to look to her right. Under normal circumstances, she’d have thanked him for his chivalry, but he was not normal. He was a Neanderthal, not worthy of even the minimal social graces. The plane hit the runway with a screech and a hop. He made no effort to speak to her.

Claire’s hearing improved when a velvet voice from the front of the aircraft gave them permission to disembark. She grabbed her bag and tried to race out of her seat, but her Courtney Love slosh through the friendly skies made her exit less than dignified. Shit. She stopped, took a few wobbly steps back, then shoved the other passengers out of her way.

From the overhead, she grabbed the carry-on she’d left behind in her haste—the one with Liam in it.

Chapter Three

She was such a bad solo traveler. Liam always got their luggage. Stop, Claire. Liam isn’t getting the luggage. Liam’s in the luggage.

After a staggered stop in the ladies’ room where her crackers, vodka, and a pill or two made a violent comeback, she floated down the escalator to baggage claim, pulling her carry-on behind her. She squinted to find her flight number above the carousels.

The bags dropped. Claire nosed around while she waited for her other bag to make its way out of the bowels of the plane. She searched for the porn star, hoping not to find him. Maybe, he overdosed between the plane and baggage claim. Doubtful that he’d have bags. By the smell of him, he’d been wearing the same clothes for weeks. He wouldn’t need a suitcase, since he never bathed or changed his clothes. She wouldn’t see him again if there was any justice. She’d suffered enough.

Grateful to see her luggage come whooshing down the chute, she yanked it off the carousel, pulled both Louis’s behind her, and went in search of the rental car dealer. She took one more glance around. No sign of him. Things were looking up.

* * * *

The clerk at E-Z 4U Luxury Rentals—where had her travel agent found this place?—looked up, saw her, looked down again, and said to the counter, “Can I help you?”

Claire stood in front of him for a few seconds, waiting for him to come back up. From the top of his platinum head with its pitch black roots, she guessed he was young. She tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m up here. You won’t turn to stone.”

He looked up, beet-faced. “I’m sorry. Really. I’m…I’m new.”

Claire cocked her bare head to one side, sizing him up. “It’s fine. You’re not the first. I’m not exactly Halle Berry.”

“Oh, God. Lady, I’m sorry…really…I…” He squirmed, his eyes met hers.

“I know you are. You and everybody else. Most people want to look away,” Claire said. “I feel the same way when I see that ring in your lip. Can we get on with it?”

His hand went to his pierced mouth. “Yes,” he said, his voice a cross between a croak and a squeak.

Claire chuckled to herself while she filled out the necessary paperwork. He fished out a set of keys.

“Will anyone else drive the car?” He cleared his throat.

“No. I do know how to drive,” Claire said. Whatever high she had left after her purge had worn off. It did that quicker now, anyway. A lot quicker.

“Standard question, sorry.” Rental car boy started sweating, too.

He made her tense. Between his unintentional condescension and the map she was trying to read, it was touch and go. She wanted to take another pill. She spread the map out on the counter.

“The damn thing might as well be upside down.” Claire poked at the map, brushing it away from her.

“It is.” Rental car boy turned it right side up.

Claire stared. “What’s the difference?” Reading maps was another thing Liam had always done. Claire cut to the chase and asked the clerk how to get to the highway she needed. He wrote it out for her on the back of her receipt, trying to make up for his earlier lapse with superior customer service.

He insisted on carrying her bags to her car and acted like he wanted to take her arm but changed his mind. His young brow caved in. He looked worried she was ill and about to keel over. Or, more likely that she’d complain about him to someone several rungs above him. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, really. I’m good, but thank you.” It was too complicated to explain. She’d been a little rough on him earlier, so she tried to be gracious. He was a kid. She knew she could have milked it, gotten something for nothing—maybe an upgrade or a gift certificate. That got old. Plus, she couldn’t think of anything she wanted. A GPS would make things worse. She had one in her own car and didn’t know how to turn it on.

When they stopped in front of the nondescript sedan she’d been assigned, the clerk put her bags in the trunk. It wasn’t the Mercedes she was used to, but it would do. She had a two-hour drive ahead of her. Small towns were always two hours from anywhere.

After one U-turn, a stop for directions at one rest area, and two gas stations, Claire made it to the correct route. Twenty or so miles further and another little blue booster, she felt less anxious and able to take notice of the Pennsylvania scenery. Beautiful in its own, quaint way. So different than the cosmopolitan,west coast beach town she was used to. Soon, she was in the middle of nowhere—wet, rocky terrain that looked straight out of Deliverance. She hoped to Christ she didn’t have car trouble. All she’d need was to get strapped to a tree and forced to squeal like a pig while some inbred hillbilly plucked the banjo in the background.

Alarm gripped her until houses and buildings appeared on the landscape, again. She was halfway through the drive, the sky a melting sherbet of pinks and oranges. She’d hoped to beat sundown to her hotel, but it’d be close. She passed a sign that read Fasten Your Seat belt for the Next Million Miles. She’d been so distracted calculating just how many states it would cover that she almost missed the eight-foot-tall chicken. She whipped her head around for a better look. Was that papier-mâché? She turned back around just in time to see the two six-foot dinosaurs. Definitely papier-mâché. She whizzed past a sign imploring her to “Let Jesus Save Your Soul” posted next to Minnie’s: Best Strippers in Town. It was conveniently located next to the Son-shine Assembly of God, to the left of Paula’s Porn Palace, and adjacent to Ma and Pa Kettle’s Kristian Kiddie Day Care—“We don’t spare the rod or spoil the child.”

For the next thirty miles, Claire drove the pathway to porn or the highway to heaven, depending on your point of view. She could get massaged at Hal’s Asian Hussies or prayed over by Susannah’s Saints. Buy a bucket of wings and a lap dance at Mustang Sally’s or join the “We Pray for Prisoners” prayer group. New Testament Studies or Blow Jobs. Name your perversion or your parish. It was hers for the picking. Claire thought her head would spin off her neck from trying to look at both sides of the road at once. She drove much slower than the rest of the traffic and almost got rear-ended. Twice, she about ran into the guard rail.

Her head was mid-spin when she saw him.

She saw the bright green rubber clogs first. He hitchhiked, thumb out. Between the pill, her eyes, the sun, and her astonishment, she almost hit him. She slammed on the brakes with both feet. With agility surprising for a fat man, he leapt out of the way. Her tires pummeled the gravel shoulder, leaving a tornado of dust and rock in their wake. Claire came to a violent, sloppy stop. Her bald head jerked forward and back with a snap. It took a full ten seconds for her to remember where she was or what she was doing as the dirt settled around her car like volcanic ash.

Had she hit him? Was he dead? She threw open the car door and got out. Cars whipped past her like nothing happened. He still stood. She’d been rubber-necking, not traveling anywhere near the speed limit.

“Are you all right?” I…I…the sun…I couldn’t…are you hurt?” Claire’s chest felt tight.

The porn star ambled over like he didn’t have a care in the world. They met halfway. He took both her arms in his hands. She towered at least a head taller. He gently moved her further away from the busy highway. “It’s cool, it’s cool. I’m okay. You missed me. No worries, lady.” He shrugged and pulled at his shaggy moustache.

Claire could feel the tears threaten, her head pounding. Why did she have to cry in front of this jackass? She was glad she hadn’t run him over, even though he was a pig. Now, she wanted him to go away. What was he doing so close to a busy road, anyway? If he wasn’t so drugged up, he’d probably have better judgment.

“What were you thinking?” Claire paced. “What idiot hitchhikes in this day and age?”

“Do it all the time.” Porn star stood his ground on the side of the road. “Never had a problem, til you.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. You almost killed both of—”

“No, you almost killed both of us.” He turned on his rubber heel and headed toward her still smoking rental. “But…you can make it up to me.”

Claire scrambled behind him. What’d he just say? Make it up to him? He should beg forgiveness.

“You can you give me a ride.” He walked over, and opened the passenger side door. “I’ve been thumbin’ it the whole way. I’m almost there. It’s about ten more miles up the road.” He got in, and shut the door behind him.

She jerked the driver’s side door open and bellowed, “What are you doing?”

“Putting my seat belt on. It’s the law.”

“You think I’m taking you somewhere?”

“You did almost run me over. I think it’s the least you can do.” Was he batting his eyelashes?

Claire slammed the door shut and took a few deep breaths outside as the traffic whizzed by. Now what? What were her options? She could say no and make him get out of the car. He was obviously a drug addict. Although, he seemed more alert than on the plane. She assumed near-death experiences did that to a person. Near-death. Right…she’d almost killed him. She put her hand on her smooth head and rubbed it back and forth. She should loosen up and take the porn star where he needed to go. What’s the big deal? She was driving, anyway. It’d take all of her good breeding. Well, she didn’t have good breeding, but, he didn’t know that. She closed her eyes, thought of him carefully nudging her away from oncoming traffic, and got back in the car.

“Where are you going?” She turned the key and started the engine.

“Alex’s Adult World Gift Emporium and Warehouse. Keep going straight. Can’t miss it.” He leaned forward, adjusted his backpack, adjusted it some more. Still not satisfied, he shifted it forward, then backward, then sideways.

Claire hit the gas, pulled out onto the highway, and fantasized about shoving him out of the moving car. Where was a banjo-plucking inbred hillbilly when she needed one?

Chapter Four

Claire wasn’t on the road five minutes when the snoring started. His mouth hung open like a sea bass on a boat deck, dead to the world. It was all she could do to not cram whatever she could get her hands on down his throat to see if he’d notice. Then, she’d have to touch him. She’d almost forgotten about his…appendage…and he stank. She cracked her window and wondered why she’d decided to do the right thing when the wrong thing was acceptable. Her purse sat in the console between them. She glanced at it now and again, daydreaming about the pills in it.

She should be afraid, driving alone in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah with some drugged-out sex fiend she didn’t know but, she wasn’t afraid. Disgusted? Check. Appalled? Check. Curious? Check. Afraid? No. She thought of Annabelle, just twenty. If she embarked on something this reckless, it would terrify Claire. Yet, there Claire was, barreling down the highway with…good God! She knew his dick size but didn’t know his name? No clue. She couldn’t remember what she’d heard the suit say on the plane.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up.” Claire waited a few seconds for him to respond. Nothing. She’d have to shake him. She reached over and shoved him. None too gently. “Wake up.”

“Wha…huh…whassup?” He grunted and sat up.

“Don’t you talk?” Claire said. “I assume you can stay awake long enough for a five-minute conversation. If I have to drive you, you have to talk. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere?”

“Oh. Yeah, well…that’s cool. A conversation.” He sat up straighter, smoothing his straggly hair in the process. “Shit…well, I’m here for a signing. I do those all over. My DVDs, old videos, and stuff.” He opened his eyes wide and stretched out his squat legs.

“Really? All over? All over where?” Claire asked.

“The world.” He yawned.

Claire veered to the left then jerked the wheel back to the right, hard. “The world? Plus the reality show? Are you kidding?”

“Um…no. Some other stuff, too.”

“That must be quite…lucrative. I mean—”

“Yeah. Quite.” He whistled through the hole where his missing tooth should’ve been. “Are you hot for my money?”

Claire flushed. “You’re disgusting. You know that? As if I’d be interested in—”

“Whoa…there’s my stop.” He gestured to the right.

Claire let up on the gas and went further up the road, where she could flip a U-turn. In her rearview mirror, she saw the giant, flashing neon sign for Alex’s. In the dusk, the sky’s pinks and oranges dripped and faded to grays. Claire stopped in front. It seemed like quite the place—a warehouse full of blowup dolls and movies starring men like him with their clothes off. The parking lot was half full—cars toward the front and semis lined up in the rear.

He grabbed his backpack and opened the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride, lady.”

“Wait—” Claire was about to ask his name when she noticed a church across the highway. “What a freaky place,” she said, pointing. “The strip joints and massage parlors next to all the churches.”

The porn star laughed. “Yeah, it’s a quirky town.”

“Guess it comes in handy.”

“Handy?”

“The churches.”

“For what?”

“You can commit all the sins you want, then confess.”

The porn star’s face rearranged itself, his mouth grim. “I’m not much for confession,” he said.

“Just the sinning,” she shot back.

He unlatched his seat belt, letting it snap into its slot up near the window.

I didn’t catch your name,” she said, switching gears to fill the silence.

He pointed up at the marquee with a short, fat finger. “There it is. In lights.”

Claire peered out the window. In bright red, flashing lights, she read—The Last Day for Rob Rhino—her lashless lids keeping time with the blinking bulbs. “Didn’t you just get here? Are you only here for one day?”

“Yes and no. If people think it’s my last day, Alex does better business. Plus, it’s a truck route. Most guys are just passing through, so they don’t know any better. It’s an old trick.”

“Oh. Clever.” Claire laughed out loud. “I think you’re late. Day’s over.”

“It starts tomorrow. I like to get the lay of the land first. Though, I guess I don’t really need to. I’ve been here lots of times before. I’ll be here for the next few weekends.” He looked out over the giant, tin building with the sun setting behind it. “Alex is cool. We go way back.”

“Rob Rhino, huh? Did you make that up?”

“Of course.” He laughed too, and his features softened. “What about you? What are you doing here? You don’t blend, if you know what I mean.”

She wanted to say, What’s it to you, but couldn’t. He’d been amenable to her questions. Her eyes skittered across the highway, taking in the eight-foot cross. “Getting rid of some dead weight.”

Rob tilted his head to the side, pondering her. “You’re a weird one.” His fat jowls wobbled.

A stinging insult nearly flew off her tongue when he got out of the car and shook his big head with a chuckle. “Well, thanks again. Drive careful.”

“I am careful. It’s the brainless pedestrians.” He shut the car door. She started to pull away when he knocked on the window. She rolled her eyes up and the glass down. He leaned into the car.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“It’s Claire. Claire Corrigan.”

“Ah. Well,” he nodded, his heavy jowls wagging. “Claire Corrigan, why are you bald?”

No one ever came right out and asked her directly. She answered, “My husband died unexpectedly. Then, my hair fell out. It hasn’t grown back. Probably won’t. It’s been a year.” She ran her hand over the top of her scalp. “Not even stubble.”

His already hazy eyes darkened. His bushy, too-black brows knit together. He pursed and unpursed his lips. “Bummer. No wonder.” He shook his head.

“No wonder? No wonder, what?”

“You’re an addict.”

Chapter Five

Claire drove so fast, she made the bat out of hell look like the little old lady from Pasadena. Rob Rhino. Of course he thought everyone lived like him—an addict. Those types always did. He was a deviant scumbag of the lowest order. Her breath came so quick that she felt light-headed.

Claire had a full body blow out. She rolled up the window so fast, the porn pig had to jump backward and snatch his hands away. Her Gucci loafer hammered the gas pedal. She peeled out onto the highway, leaving him standing in the gravel in front of his name in sparkly neon, like when they’d started—lapping up her dirt on the side of the road.

Where the hell was the hotel for Christ sake? She’d been in town for several minutes. The hotel was supposed to be right where she couldn’t miss it. It was dark. Claire was screwed. The Days Inn…the Days Inn…where was it for the love of God? Shit. Finally. The bright, yellow sign welcomed her like a beacon at the entrance to the pearly gates. She’d never been so glad to see such a crap hotel.

She was going too fast when she turned into the hotel’s driveway then bottomed out with a thump and a scrape. Perfect. That’s all she needed—damage to the rental car. She idled by the lobby door in a huff. What was the hold up? She laughed—a loud crackle from the back of her throat. I’m an idiot. There’s no valet. Where did she think she was? The Ritz? She grabbed her purse, turned off the car, and headed for the front desk.

* * * *

Still fuming, Claire flopped backward onto the king-sized bed covered with a loud, Hawaiian floral bedspread. She landed on her back and kept going sideways on the slippery surface. She stopped herself at the edge, before she pitched off the side. The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and French fries. She’d have a word with the travel agent when she got home. She couldn’t believe this flea bag. The nicest place in town? He must be an addict. Then, she remembered the eight-foot papier-mâché chicken and Paula’s Porn Palace.

Claire leaned over the side of the bed and groped for her purse on the floor. With one arm she dug around ‘til she came up with a pill bottle, twisted off the cap, and knocked it back. Two blue beauties hit her tongue. Thank God. She pulled out her cell phone. Dead like dirt. It was still turned off. She pressed it on…no good. Still dead. She’d forgotten to charge it…again. She sat up, reached for the phone on the nightstand, and dialed out.

“Hello, Jordan? It’s Mom.” Jordan, on the back end of twenty-nine, was still single. He lived in San Francisco and wrote screenplays no one bought. The child of her youth. They’d almost grown up together.

“No, it’s Steven.” Steven was one of Jordan’s roommates. He had two—Steven and Maura.

“Isn’t this Jordan’s cell phone?” Steven bugged the shit out of Claire. He rubbed her the wrong way. For one thing, he always answered Jordan’s cell phone.

“Ummm…yes. Nice talking to you. I’ll get Jordan.”

Claire wondered why Maura hadn’t answered. Maura and Jordan made such a great couple. The last thing they needed was Steven—my middle name is third wheel, Steven. Claire waited. Her skin felt loose around the edges, she started to unwind. Thank you, Doctor Edgemont.

“Mom?” Finally, Jordan.

“Jordan? Do me a favor.”

“Where are you?” Jordan asked.

“Pennsylvania. Remember?”

“I thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

“No, but thanks for your support.”

“I’m just sayin’. Has Liam’s mother rolled out the welcome mat for you?”

“All in due time.”

“I thought so. Come home.”

“I didn’t call to get harassed. Google someone for me.”

“Huh? Now?”

“Yes. I don’t have access, and you’re better at this stuff.”

“Okay, go.”

“You’re fast. Rob Rhino.”

The cell went silent. “Jordan, are you still there?” Claire thought the call dropped.

“Rob Rhino? The old porn star, Rob Rhino?” Jordan asked.

“That’s him. How do you know who he is?

“Because I don’t live under a rock? What’s going on? Never mind. Don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it needs to stop.” Jordan’s voice went up three octaves.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I sat by him on the plane. He’s a disgusting, crack-head asshole. I’m just curious.”

“Well, he starred on that reality show…realty shows, I should say. He’s had a revival of sorts. He’s famous because of his…well…because of his—”

“His giant penis.”

“Thank you for that. I’ll make an appointment with my therapist as soon as we hang up.”

“Are you going to look him up, or not?”

“Wow. Lots of info. He’s almost seventy. Ewww. Born in Minneapolis. Real name…Raymond Horowitz. So, he’s Jewish. The mighty sword is circumsi—. Never mind. Tried to make it in legit film but couldn’t…big surprise. Started making porn well before Disco died. There’s lots of pictures of him at movie premieres—regular movies, not just skin flicks.” Claire could hear Jordan clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Here he is at the Mansion with Hef and some Playmates. Nice comb-over. He must dye it himself.”

“He does,” Claire said. “Moustache, too. Hideous.”

“Good to know.” Jordan went on, “He hasn’t made porn since the eighties, but he travels the world making personal appearances. The reality shows made him a hit. He’s done several. There was that one with the evangelist’s wife last year.”

“He told me he made appearances all over the world, but I didn’t believe it.”

“You talked to him? What, are you two dating?”

“Not funny. If he’s so popular, he must have money.”

“I assume.”

“He shouldn’t need to hitchhike. He could wear better clothes. Not to mention, bathe. The man looks homeless.”

“Hitchhike? How do you know about his hitchhiking? For Christ’s sake, Mother. Don’t tell me—”

“Oh, what’s the big deal? I drove him a few miles. So what?”

“So what? So what? You’re picking up porn star stoners in the middle of God-knows-where, alone. No telling—” Claire imagined Jordan standing up behind his artsy-fartsy industrial desk, red in the face, pacing back and forth with his black curls ping-ponging.

“I didn’t pick him up…he just got in. I almost hit him and—”

“You almost hit him?” Jordan was close to yelling, “With the car?”

“That’s what I drove, yes.”

“You almost ran down a porn star. How fast were—”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Calm down. I was trying to get a better look at the chicken and the dinosaur, and he—”

“Mother, what on earth…no, where on earth is this place?

“Yeah…well…good question.”

“You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, no. No one was hurt.” Claire yawned, loudly. “It’s all good.”

“Sounds like you’re right on top of it.”

“I usually am.”

“Mother, come home. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for there.”

“What do you think I’m looking for, Jordan?”

“Liam, alive.” Jordan, the know-it-all.

“You know I have—”

“Hey, he’s got a wife.”

“Huh? Who’s got a wife?” Claire said, relieved at the subject switch.

“Your new boyfriend, Rob Rhino.”

“What? No way.”

“Oh, wait. He had a wife, Gloria. They were only married three years from what it says here…in the seventies.”

“Three years of hell. I’m sure she came to her senses.”

“Oh…well, not exactly.” Jordan clucked his tongue some more. “She died.”

“Died?” Claire perked up as much as she could. “How’d she die?”

Jordan went silent while he scanned for information. “Doesn’t say.”

“That’s odd.”

Jordan sniffed. “He probably killed her.”

* * * *

She fell back on the bed, woozy. Jordan was Claire’s son from her first marriage. Annabelle was Liam’s daughter from his. She was only eight years old when Claire and Liam married. Jordan, nearly grown by then, was sauerkraut to Annabelle’s cotton candy. When Claire went bald, Annabelle cried every time she saw her for the first six months.

“That’s quite a cue ball you’ve got going on there, Mother,” Jordan said when he saw her. Annabelle didn’t speak to him for three months after that.

“Bald women can be beautiful,” Steven said. He’d come with Jordan to rub Claire the wrong way. Why Maura wasn’t there, Claire couldn’t remember.

Claire floated in and out of consciousness. She kicked off her suede driving loafers and unzipped her jeans. Her last thoughts before going under were of Rob Rhino and his dead wife. Imagine, that dolt thought she was an addict. She should’ve told Jordan what he’d said. He would’ve laughed about it.

Chapter Six

Claire wolfed down a plate of eggs and bacon. The waitress refilled her coffee cup for the third time and stared. Claire concentrated on her breakfast, throwing back some chemical comfort with a swallow of orange juice.

There’d been no point looking for a room service menu. Not in that dump of a hotel. No hotel coffee shop, either. She’d walked two blocks down the street to the nearest greasy spoon that, by all accounts, did a brisk morning business. Most of the other diners looked her way. Some were subtle, some weren’t. A few pointed. They had their nerve in this hell hole. Claire doubted they’d know normal if it bit ‘em in their papier-mâchéd ass.

She felt the familiar lull. Her shoulders slumped a bit. She sipped her coffee while flipping through the Penny Saver someone left in her booth. She snickered when she saw a half-page ad for The Hair System: Guaranteed Results or Your Money Back. When Claire lost her hair, she’d been desperate for a cure. She’d spent thousands of dollars those first few months. Nothing. Not even a five o’clock shadow. Her doctor tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, believe him.

“It’s rare,” he’d said, which was the doctor’s way of throwing up his hands and backing away from the examination table, “but sometimes it doesn’t grow back. Most often, your immune system is just waiting for a signal from you to start growing, again.”

“Really? What signal would that be? I’m bald. I guess I thought that might be signal enough for Christ’s sake.”

“None of those creams or potions works. So, don’t fall for any of those ads. Try to relax and lower your stress level. In the meantime, here’s a little something to keep the edge off.” Doctor Freidman wrote her a prescription for Xanax and kept one eye on the door.

She’d gone for a second opinion.

“It happened to Princess Caroline of Monaco when her husband died suddenly,” Doctor Edgemont had said, as if that was comforting. As if she should expect something much worse than this, since she wasn’t someone like that. “No one is sure what causes it. A weakened immune system is the guess du jour. The shock of your husband’s sudden death didn’t help. After things calm down and you’ve had some time to get used to your new situation, it will grow right back. Try not to stress out about it. Your anxiety isn’t useful.” He’d written out a prescription for Xanax plus refills.

Doctor Zucker had nothing new to add other than another Xanax prescription with a lot more refills.

Claire emptied her coffee up. That was forever ago. Forever or yesterday. She couldn’t recall.

* * * *

“Moustache Rides Five Cents” his cap read. Claire hoped the offender would notice her and do the usual stare and glare, so she could air her disgust at his loathsome chapeau. Her eyes trailed from his brim down. It was him.

“Claire Corrigan, as I live and breathe.” Rob Rhino rambled over. He’d cleaned up. His jeans appeared washed. His hula girl and palm tree covered shirt looked as unpleasant as his hat, but it might’ve been new. Still with the green clogs.

Claire tried to shirk down into the booth, but it was too late. He slid in.

“What are you doing here?” Claire bared her teeth like a snarling dog.

Rob smiled, not the least bit self-conscious about his third world dentistry. “Getting coffee. Don’t worry. It’s to go.”

“That’s not what I meant. What are you doing here? In this place? Are you following me?”

“Oooh la la.” He wriggled his bushy, dyed brows. “Do you want me to be?”

She half stood. “Stop it. Answer me, before I—”

“Get a grip on your girdle. I come in here all the time. I stop here on my way—”

“Hey, Doc. Here’s your coffees. Black.” The waitress handed him two Styrofoam cups in a cup holder.

“Doc? What the—”

“I’m the doctor of love,” he cackled.

“Of all the stupid—” The over-attentive waitress bearing the bill interrupted Claire’s tirade. Was she fawning over him?

Rob handed her his platinum card. “This nice lady’s breakfast is on me, Molly.” Dumbfounded, Claire didn’t protest. Was this his attempt at an apology for his deplorable behavior outside Alex’s Warehouse? Well, she couldn’t be bought. Not for a ten-dollar breakfast. A nice piece of jewelry, maybe. Simpering, Molly took his card toward the register.

“What are you doing here?” Rob Rhino said.

“I have business here.” Claire scowled at the good doctor.

“In the diner?”

“No, you moron. I’m staying—” No way she’d tell him where. “I’m staying near here. I have family business in this godforsaken town. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“You have family here?” Rob Rhino seemed concerned, anyway.

“My husband does.”

“Huh, whatta ya know. My wife does too.” A horn honked. Rob Rhino peered out the window. “My chauffeur’s getting antsy.” He signed his credit card receipt with pudgy fingers.

Claire glanced out at the ruby-colored Corvette revving its engine in the parking lot. The blacked out windows kept her from seeing the driver. The mid-life crisis car slowly crept forward while it idled. She could make out the personalized plates—FLESHHH. A question about Rob Rhino’s wife teetered on her lips when he ducked out the diner door.

Chapter Seven

“Grace? It’s Claire. I’m in town.” Claire called out on the hotel phone, again. She’d passed out before remembering to plug in her cell phone the night before.

“Oh…I…hello. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Grace’s voice shook, sounding old.

So soon? She and Liam were married more than ten years, and she’d never met Grace. “I told you I’d call as soon as I got in. I’m in. I brought Liam. His ashes,” Claire said.

Grace started sniveling, “Oh…oh, my. Okay, I—”

“Grace? Stop crying. Should we talk in person?”

Grace sniffled and blew her nose. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.”

“I want you to give a shit.”

“How can you talk to me that way? Of course I—”

Claire heard loud nose blowing, then nothing…except the sound of her whole plan going south. She tried to remember Lamaze breathing. “We talked about this already, before I left California. I want to inter Liam’s ashes in the cemetery with his father. I’d like to have a memorial.”

“I just don’t know. I just don’t—”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Claire said. “What’s not to know?”

Grace started whimpering, “Oh…now…you don’t understand. It’s just…well, I just don’t know—”

“You’re right. I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

More sniffles. “Well…I…you…this goes back years.”

“Let me help you, Grace. In the ten years Liam and I were married, you never set foot in our home or invited us to yours.”

“Liam wouldn’t have come if I’d invited him. You don’t—”

“You didn’t come to his funeral or send flowers.”

“Liam didn’t come to his father’s funeral, either.”

“You never bothered to let us know he’d died. He had to hear it from our attorney who heard it from his mother.”

“Liam’s death devastated me.” Grace turned on the blubbering and her convenient hearing. “I would’ve come, but I can’t travel alone.”

“His brother or sister could’ve brought you. Though, they didn’t come, either.”

“They didn’t feel welcome. None of us—”

“You couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone and call? Not once in Liam’s adult life. When he died, I had to leave you a voicemail, and you never called back. I brought your dead son to you, and you’re going to tell me you don’t know?”

“Maybe we should—”

“I’m coming over in an hour. I have your address.”

Claire slammed down the phone and grabbed her pills. She went to the bathroom for water, catching her reflection. Her scalp was so red that it looked like the tip of a match. The second pill of the day began its dance through her bloodstream. Her breathing slowed, deepened.

She pulled her carry-on out of the closet and opened it. The mother lode. The box that held Liam’s ashes was bigger than she’d expected, heavier. She didn’t know what she expected. Everything about Liam’s death was heavier than she thought it’d be. It was the first day of March when she got the call. She knew as soon as she’d said “hello” that something happened. The phone, the air, the voice at the other end. It all had an unbearable heaviness. Then, there was her pain, her rage, her heart in her chest. It was all too heavy.

She hadn’t expected to carry his ashes on the plane with her, either.

“I don’t think you can check Mister Corrigan’s ashes with your baggage,” Steven had said. Fingernails on a chalkboard.

“How would you possibly know that?” Claire said.

“Mother, as hard as it might be for you to believe, other people experience death, too,” Jordan had said. “Steven lost someone he loved a few years ago.”

Momentarily chastened but not interested, Claire said, “Well, I’ll certainly check that out. Perhaps Maura knows for certain.”

Steven was right, for once. Dead people couldn’t get checked with baggage. They had to go on the plane in a carry-on for whatever reason. She wondered how many dead people she’d traveled with in blissful ignorance. How many times had she shoved someone’s Granny out of the way, because she took up too much space in the overhead?

Ah ha. Claire snatched up the bottle of Absolut Mandarin she’d packed for whenever she might need a nip. Got to put it in the freezer, but I’ll probably have to settle for a fridge. After an annoying search turned major tantrum, and an agitated call to the front desk, she had to concede. No refrigerator in Hades. A quick run down the walkway in both directions didn’t turn up an ice machine, either. Her room was on the second floor. Maybe she’d find one downstairs. What a pain in her puckered ass. She’d have to deal with it, later.

She lifted the box of Liam’s remains out of her carry-on and put it on the bed. The big, manila envelope she’d crammed in at the last minute caught her eye. Her heart stopped mid-beat for a second. She snatched the envelope out, clutched it to her chest, and sat on the bed. It too was heavier than she remembered. It wasn’t sealed shut, only closed with the metal clasp. She could easily undo it. No need. She already knew what was in it. Holloway, Howard, and Lennox LLC would have to wait. Time to get the cortège on the road. It was after eleven. She picked up the phone.

Chapter Eight

She drove toward the outskirts of town, wishing she hadn’t slammed down the phone before asking Grace to confirm directions to the cemetery. Claire told her she’d be late. That was that. She veered past the Antique Barnyard, past the bridge on the Underground Railroad where she turned right at Bessie’s Curl Up and Dye salon. She made another hard right, meandering alongside the rolling lawns and imposing brick buildings of the private university. So far, so good. At a distance loomed the cemetery—among the many oddities of the place—where they’d buried Liam’s father, Emmet. If Claire had her way, Liam’s ashes would be interred there, too.

She drove along the road on the outer rim of the campus. When rows of headstones and monuments appeared, she knew she was getting close. She saw a few crypts and mausoleums with names engraved over their forbidding, elaborate stone doorways. Names like Pembroke, Wallace, and Wilkes.

Floral arrangements in brilliant colors sprang up in and around headstones of varying shades of gray—some ancient, crumbly yet immaculate. Some shiny and new. Like everything she’d seen since driving onto the grounds, they had a faux, antique pallor. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a group of Civil War widows, straight out of central casting, march up over the rise while singing hymns in honor of their fallen.

She steered through the wrought iron gates and got a headlong view of the chapel and cemetery from all sides. Its pulse quick, so vibrant and alive for a place filled with the dead. She knew if she rolled down the window, she’d hear birds chirping.

She parked the rental in front of the gray, stone chapel. Once inside, it felt cool and hollow, empty but for a few wooden benches. Her feet echoed as the leather soles of her shoes moved over the uneven, slate floors with a soft tap. The stained glass window loomed large over a small altar covered in a red, velvet cloth. At the back, Christ moped on the cross, loin-clothed and martyred, eyes half closed. Must be a Catholic chapel. Only the Catholics keep Christ on the cross.

Clacking footsteps on the stone floors interrupted Claire’s musings. “Can I help you?” asked a tidy, rolypoly woman in a polyester blue dress with short hair dyed to match. She seemed startled. She looked at Claire’s bald head and then the floor.

“I’d like to speak to someone about interment and memorial services at the cemetery.” Claire held out her hand to the woman. “I’m Claire. Claire Corrigan.”

“Oh. Well, Mrs. Corrigan. Is it Mrs.?” Claire nodded. The woman grasped her hand with a warm, tight clasp. “I’m Evelyn Wallace.” Evelyn stopped looking at the floor. Her earnest, direct eyes met Claire’s, anywhere but her head.

“You can call me Claire.”

“Claire, you’ll have to speak with the cemetery director, Mister Lansing about all of that. Are you alone? You’re making these arrangements…er…in advance?

Alone? What was she talking about? In advance? Oh…Evelyn thinks I’m dying. Claire burst out laughing. Evelyn jumped.

“Is something funny?” Evelyn said.

“Well, no. I mean, yes. The arrangements aren’t for me. They’re for my husband. He died. I…I have this rare condition. I’m not ill.” Claire usually didn’t explain, but Evelyn seemed so concerned.

“Good heavens. That’s a relief. Oh, I mean…Well, you poor dear. I’m so sorry. You’re so young, too.” Evelyn stroked her second chin. “Oh, mercy. I don’t have good news, either. I hate to be the one to tell you, but our cemetery’s full. At capacity I’m afraid.”

Claire hadn’t entertained that possibility. “Full? Oh, no.”

“Indeed. It was half full when it opened centuries ago.”

Claire couldn’t believe her bad luck. She knew she’d waited too long, but, centuries?

“You see, there is another cemetery in town that’s been here since the late seventeenth century—Creekside Cemetery. After the Civil War, the board of trustees dedicated part of the university land for honoring the town’s glorious dead.” Evelyn closed her eyes in tribute to their glorious. “After the war, many prominent, interred citizens were moved here from Creekside. Took up half the real estate right away. Over the years, the university bought adjacent parcels of land. In the eighties, the board decided only trustees, their families, or major donors could be buried here, since space was at a premium. Despite their cautionary measures, it’s full.”

Evelyn fingered the sapphire and diamond brooch on the rolled collar of her dress. Claire, who carried a jeweler’s loupe in her purse—just in case—could tell the stones were of good quality.

Claire sat and took off her jacket. How had Liam’s father made the cut? He died about five years earlier. Claire realized she knew nothing about him.

“Oh, goodness. I didn’t even offer you a seat. Let me call Mister Lansing. See if he has a moment. I’ll be right back.” Evelyn scuttled off toward the back of the chapel and disappeared.

Liam always said his family was jealous of his money, because they didn’t have any. So, Emmet and Grace weren’t major donors. If Emmet hadn’t been a major donor, could he have been on the university board? Not likely. Claire had no idea what Emmet had done for a living. Liam never said, and Claire never asked. That seemed odd, in hindsight. She had better things to do than figure out who did what in Liam’s estranged family.

Evelyn clattered back. “Mister Lansing’s—”

Distracted, Claire said, “My father-in-law’s buried here—Emmet Corrigan. Would you know if he’d been a trustee? He died about five years ago.”

“Well, I can tell you every trustee name going back 200 years.” Evelyn’s already ample chest puffed up. “He wasn’t a trustee, I can tell you that. Perhaps a donor? Mister Lansing will—” Evelyn no more than said his name when the chapel doors opened and Pinocchio, come to life but going bald, came bustling in.

“That was fast,” Evelyn smiled. Mister Lansing’s marionette legs made quick work of the space between the back of the chapel and where Claire sat. “Claire, this is Joseph Lansing. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

Joseph Lansing stuck his bony hand out. “Luckily, I was on my way over here when Evelyn called me. I’m Joe. She told me you’d hoped to buy a plot here? Have a memorial service? Is it Kay?” Joe stared into her eyes. Evelyn must’ve given him the heads up. The bald heads up.

“Claire, and yes. I’d hoped to inter my husband’s ashes here. I don’t think it’s a plot I’d need. Perhaps a crypt. My father-in-law is buried here. I’d hoped they could be together. Guess it doesn’t matter, now,” Claire said.

“Well, please accept my condolences. I’m so sorry. Such a terrible time. Evelyn mentioned we’re out of space?” Joe looked mournful, like a good funeral director should.

“Yes, she did. It never dawned on me that could happen. I should’ve called first.” Claire sighed. She crossed one leg over the other and dangled her cream and black ballet flat with the intertwined C’s at the end of her foot. She was just about to pick up her Burberry trench and bid her farewells when Joe intervened.

“It’s such a gorgeous day, Claire. Could I interest you in a bit of a tour? It is a beautiful cemetery.”

* * * *

Joe knew his way around a cemetery and talked a blue-streak. They walked along the stone pathways, stopping here and there, so Claire could admire an unusual headstone or floral arrangement. She peered into the small windows of one of the mausoleums and could see sumptuous flowers inside. Some plots had gardens planted on top. Not a gardener in sight. Maybe God mowed the grass. Joe spouted historical trivia while Claire grew bitter about her missed opportunity. They’d walked to what looked to Claire like the end of the line. No more graves. Only a few scattered trees and some small, stone buildings. Joe stopped.

“This is where the existing cemetery ends,” he said.

Claire twirled her engagement ring around her finger. The sweat trickled.

“We’ve tried for years to buy this piece of property.” Joe waved his hand out toward the land and trees. “Given the economy, donors aren’t as generous as they once were. We’ve raised some of the money. The owner is impatient, wants to put the land back on the market. We need to go big or go home.”

Claire felt hope spring eternal.

“Even if we had the property, as Evelyn explained, you must be a trustee, a trustee family member, or a major donor to buy a plot or crypt.” Joe looked at her solemnly. “I don’t believe you are, or your husband was, a trustee family member?”

“Well, as far as I know, we aren’t. Let’s say it’s a pretty safe bet.”

“You say your father-in-law is buried here?”

“Yes…a curiosity.”

“Ah. Well, that is curious, if he didn’t meet the guidelines.” Both of Joe’s eyes rolled skyward, appealing to the heavens for an answer to that somewhat distasteful riddle. When none came, he settled for a mere mortal. “Fortunately, you could become a donor. Should you do so…immediately…that would kill two birds with one—” Joe turned as red as the satin “Rest in Peace” banner on the crypt behind them. “Oh my, poor choice of—”

“I might not have a hair on my head, but I do have a brain in it. Let’s get down to it, Joe. If I pay, I play. Right?” She wiped her wet brow with the backs of her hands. “A donation could close the deal? Then, my husband could be buried here?”

“Of course, it would have to be significant.” Joe didn’t bat a money hungry eye.

Claire digested her only option.

Liam had strong feelings about charity. “I didn’t get rich by giving my money away,” he’d always said.

Countless times during their marriage, their affluent friends and Liam’s business associates hit them up for their charities and pet projects. Liam always said no.

“No one ever gave me a handout. I’m sure as hell not going to give anyone else one. The only organization I’m giving money to is the Corrigan Family Trust.” He remained true to his word to his dying day.

Liam even refused to buy Girl Scout cookies.

Claire chewed her lip. She knew what Liam would have wanted. Given his distaste for making charitable donations, the decision was simple.

“Well, Joe. Is $5,000,000.00 significant enough?”

Chapter Nine

Liam would roll over in his grave, as soon as he got one.

Claire just unloaded a nice piece of her net worth to purchase a crypt with less thought than she put into buying last season’s Manolo Blahniks. On the way back to the church, she watched the ground beneath her disappear with every footstep, distracted. Joe sauntered ahead of her like a different man, almost giddy—a disconcerting trait in a funeral director. He bobbed along, weightless, as if the surf brought him in.

“How much time do you have, today?” Joe said, over his shoulder.

“None, really. I’m late for an appointment,” Claire said. I’m also past pill time.

Joe stopped mid-bob to let Claire catch up. The chapel was in their sight line. “We have much to discuss. You’re now one of our most esteemed donors. The dean will want to clear his schedule to thank you. In person.”

Claire’s anxiety imposed. “Not necessary. He can call me or send a note.” The imaginary needles under her flesh pricked.

“There are details, a lot of, well…” Joe pulled the bottom of his chin like taffy, “…a lot of things to consider.”

“I just spent a boatload of cash. What else is there to consider?” Her skin felt like she’d sat too close to the sun.

Cool as a corpse, Joe said, “Why don’t you get some rest, and we’ll reconvene tomorrow, around ten? We can discuss all the details and opportunities, then.” He patted her arm.

“Opportunities? Oh, I guess so. Okay. Ten, whatever.” Claire would’ve given another $1,000,000.00 just to get out of there. Her fingers brushed the bottom of her purse, hitting the jackpot of loose pills. “There’s my car.”

Joe’s friendly hold on her arm became a rigor-like clamp. “Just one quick detail before you run. Are you familiar with a pledge form?”

* * * *

Joe shoved some form under her dripping nose, which she’d signed without reading to hurry along her exit. He’d yammered on about standard language and, just like that, officially hooked her for five million bucks.

Claire careened back around the rim of the campus after making her escape. Was it lack of sedation or had traffic doubled? She slowed to a stop at an intersection in front of some bronzed soldier atop his enthusiastic, bronzed horse pawing the air on two legs. She squinted to read the plaque but couldn’t make it out. War hero, probably. Must be the university library or some such. Her gaze wandered to the dark, stone building behind the horse and rider. From her periphery, she caught a zip of Valentino red.

It was the car. The red corvette Rob Rhino had gotten into at the diner. Claire glimpsed the license plate dwindling in the distance—FLESHHH.

Chapter Ten

The driver must’ve come up behind her. She’d been ogling the statue, so he whipped past her. She gunned her gas pedal, nearly ramming the second car that pulled out around her. She hit the brake. A few more cars went around her while she steamed. No use. The corvette disappeared.

Claire eased forward, driving toward the gates with muscles tight, her knuckles popped. Had they followed her? They’d left the diner at least half an hour before she did. Rob Rhino had no idea she was coming to the university, to the cemetery. He did know her car, though. Had he recognized her just now? She thought of the porn perv squeaking over in his ugly clogs as soon as he recognized her at the greasy spoon. He’d have honked, rolled down the window, and waved if he’d seen her. Obnoxious fool.

Get over yourself. That’s what Jordan would say. Though, what was Rob Rhino doing there?

* * * *

Claire knew she’d need her wits to find her way to her mother-in-law’s house, but she wanted pharmaceutical respite, needed it after the corvette sighting. The right side of her head ached. She felt nauseous, cramped. Her head was slick with sweat and dread. Her tiny, blue pal hadn’t been much help. After a quick drive through the Dairy Queen for a burger and fries combo, Claire couldn’t put off her visit to Grace any longer. Joe had given her detailed directions from the university. The town wasn’t big enough to get too turned around in. She ate her burger with one hand and drove with the other, until she found the right street. She slowed to a near stop to squint at Joe’s precise handwriting on the back of the old bank statement she’d used as a note pad.

The small, green and white Victorian house, like the rest on the street, sat inches from the curb and the neighbors on both sides. No landscaping or adornment of any kind made the place look stark. No plants, pots, statues, or welcoming, kitschy bric-a-brac. Grace’s neighbors filled their narrow steps with geraniums, ferns, garden gnomes, and pink flamingos. Flags with embroidered rainbows and unicorns stuck out from their window frames. Grace’s house claimed a front door, shuttered windows, and a single, concrete step. Claire’d bet the farm she could eat off it.

She parked, stashed the burger wrapper and dirty napkin into the bag, backing it under the seat with her heel. Claire examined her reflection in the rearview mirror. Like an amputee whose missing limb still itched, she put her hand to her head to smooth back her phantom hair.

Claire made it from the car to the front door in two strides. Her balled up fist drew back in the standard knock-knock position when it opened before her fist made contact. A fortyish looking, scruffy, and pale-faced figure stood behind the door opened only a few inches. She’d either come to the wrong place, or Grace needed to rethink her stance on upper lip hair removal and buffalo plaid. Scruffy, pale-face looked like Liam in a way Claire couldn’t name.

“Yes?” He looked her up and down, eyes darting left to right. She could tell he wanted to shut the door. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Claire.” Claire stuck out her hand. “I’m here to see Grace Corrigan. I’m her son’s widow.”

“Oh…no…my heavens—” He grasped her hand with both his and pulled her inside. “I’m sorry…I…well…you…don’t have any…my—” He stumbled for sensible words.

Claire touched her scalp. “No. I don’t have any hair. You aren’t Grace.”

“Oh, no. I’m not.” He moved aside and shut the door. “I’m Connor, Liam’s brother. Finally, we meet.” He inspected her like he’d been searching for her species his whole life. He skimmed over her baldness, registered it, and moved on. She scanned his face and saw no contempt—only an edgy fervor. Her eyes closed in self-defense. His eagerness an unwelcome antidote to her sedative.

“You must need to sit down, what with your illness,” Connor said.

“Oh, no. I’m not ill. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Ballsy bastard. Who said anything about an illness? “I’m bald. No big deal. My hair fell out right after Liam died. It’s never grown back.”

He nodded. His thin lips all but disappeared. “I—”

“Is she here?” Claire’s lids snapped up like vinyl shades at the sound of another female voice. Grace.

“Yes, Mom. She’s here.” Connor touched Claire’s arm, “Please, come sit down.” He held himself taut, like he was afraid a sudden move would spook her.

Claire sat on the plastic-covered floral sofa. It objected when her bottom made contact with a loud squeak and a phhooot. She jumped, dropping her purse on the floor.

“Mom and her plastic. This couch is older than I am, and it still looks new. Well, it would if she’d take the plastic off.” Connor’s eyes darted to Claire’s purse, but he stayed put.

Grace entered the room like a woman half her age. Her posture perfect enough to make a debutante’s mother cry. When she walked, her limbs moved, but the air didn’t—a geriatric stealth bomber. She sat in the plastic-covered, wing-backed chair across from Claire. The chair made no noise when she lowered herself into it. Connor maneuvered next to Claire.

Grace settled in, looked up at Claire, and back at Connor, “Lord have mercy. She’s bald.” Grace took off her glasses and pressed a Kleenex to her forehead. Claire looked at Connor.

“Mom, yes. She’s…she’s—”

“I’m bald. It’s okay to say it.”

“Her hair fell out when Liam died. From the—” Connor looked at Claire, his face a question mark.

“No one knows what causes it. Could be an immune system thing. The shock probably didn’t help.”

Grace’s face crumpled, and she started to cry.

“Mom, don’t cry. Come on, now. Would you like something to drink? Some tea, maybe?” Connor mouthed, She’ll be okay, to Claire.

Of course she will. I’m the bald one for Christ’s sake.

“No, no. Don’t mind me. I’ll be all right.” Grace dried her eyes and put her glasses back on. “I see you’ve met Connor.”

“Yes. This is upsetting to you, I’m sure. I’m afraid we didn’t get off to a very good start this morning on the phone.” Claire had a plan. She intended to get her way. Indulging her temper again wouldn’t do. If she needed to grease the skids, so be it. “I apologize for my ill manners. As you can see, I’m not myself. I’ve lost a great deal. I’ve lost my husband and—” Claire fingered her glistening dome. The bald card was dealt. She intended to play it.

Grace sniffled. “We all have. I’ve lost my husband and my son.”

The old lady trumps with the dead son.

“Indeed. Maybe, there’s a way to make some sense of all this loss.” Claire cleared her throat. “To bring some comfort to each other.”

“Maybe…I don’t know.” Grace dabbed her eyes.

There she goes with the, “I don’t knows”, again. Claire searched Grace’s face to find a resemblance to Liam. Perhaps around the eyes. She couldn’t see much facial similarity, but the way she carried herself was all Liam. Proud, dignified, and formidable. Claire wouldn’t have pegged Grace as much of a crier, not that she knew much about her. Though, with her advanced age and the death of her son, things change. Her short, gray hair curled tightly around her ears, like she’d just plucked the rods out, and didn’t have time to brush it. Probably got a bad perm at the Curl Up and Dye once every three months, whether she needed it or not.

Connor broke through Claire’s reverie. “Mom said you hoped to bury Liam at the university near Dad?” He looked anxious to please. Who couldn’t get along with him?

“Yes. I made some of the arrangements today. It’s complicated, but I’ll know more of the particulars, tomorrow. I’d like to buy a family crypt for everyone. I don’t know where Emmet is exactly, but he could be moved, exhumed. I’d handle all the expenses, of course.” Claire knew she talked too fast, but it all came out, and she couldn’t stop it.

Grace turned the faucets on again. “I‘d be hard pressed to tell you where Emmet is. I don’t get out to the cemetery much at all anymore, since I stopped driving. Connor and Deborah live out at the farm. Elizabeth is here in town, but she won’t take me unless I pay for gas. I’m on a fixed income. I don’t have—”

“That’s okay, Grace. You don’t have to tell me exactly where he is. I can find that out later.” Just say yes, so we can get on with it. We’re not digging anybody up, today. Her daughter makes her pay for gas?

“Claire, did you say the crypt is for all of us?” Connor said.

“Yes. I thought since I was buying one, you know, I might as well buy one large enough for the whole family.”

“Guess it’d have to be pretty big. Not that up on crypt sizes. There’s…” Connor looked up at the ceiling, his mouth formed a crooked kiss, “…let’s see, there’s at least seven of us. Not sure who’d go for cremation—”

“Heaven forbid.” Grace pressed her tattered Kleenex to her mouth.

“—how much space they’d take up.” He glanced down at Claire’s purse on the floor, then at Claire. “And you. There’s you. So, eight. At least eight.”

Was he going to engineer the whole thing, now? “Those are details we don’t need to worry about right this second.” Claire felt the room shrinking, her head expanding. “Can we first agree on the concept?”

“I’m for it,” Connor said. “I don’t know why you’d want to do it…considering.”

Claire squirmed on the plastic with a pitiful squeak. Sweat broke out over her upper lip. Her pulse started its run for the border. She wished for another pill and cleared her throat, again. “Whatever differences you had in life can be set aside in death, can’t they? It’d be wonderful for Liam to be with his father, right?” Claire looked at Grace, who sat in her chair in silence.

“Liam’s father…God rest his soul…” Grace made the sign of the cross, her soggy Kleenex in hand, “…a saint if ever I knew one. Liam could’ve been with him any day of the week while they were both living. When it mattered. He chose not to.”

“That was before my time, Grace. I can’t do anything about that. I can only bring them together in the afterlife,” Claire said. The religious nuts should be all over the afterlife, shouldn’t they?

“Yes, all well before your time. Before Liam turned his back on his God, his Church, his family, and his wife. Bonnie, that poor woman. Who’d have ever thought—” Grace shredded the tissue in two.

Connor leaned forward. “Mom, Claire isn’t here to dredge all that up. She’s obviously trying to make peace.”

Grace didn’t respond.

“Yes, that’s what I am—a peacemaker.” Whatever…blah, blah, blah. The sweat ran down her temples, now. She wiped it away with the palms of her hands. The tight vice grip around her chest cranked.

Connor looked concerned for Claire. “I’ll get you some cold water.” He leaned down, picked up her purse, and sat it next to her on the squeaky couch. “Be right back.”

Claire felt her naked, wet brow crinkle. She looked down where her purse used to be.

“I suppose you’re both right. It’s time to make peace. At least for us. Only the good Lord can forgive Liam for Bonnie. Connor thinks it’s what Emmet would have wanted. We’re all getting old,” Grace finally said, looking down at the torn, wet Kleenex in her lap. “I need to talk to Elizabeth, my daughter. She’s got plenty of reservations. She came earlier, but she’s got a job, you know. Most of us have to work.”

That sounded like a “yes” to Claire. Elizabeth might be a hurdle but not an insurmountable one. A possible hitch in her get-along. Connor was in. He’d help bring Elizabeth around, tighten the screws on the mother.

“Here you go.” Connor handed Claire a glass of ice water and a cool, damp towel, his face contorted with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you need anything else?”

“I’m fine.” Claire pressed the towel to the back of her neck, took a long drink, and glanced around the living room—away from Mister Helpful. Religious symbols and pictures hung on every dark-paneled wall. Christ moped on the cross, dying for the world’s sins, pious and bleeding in a thorny crown. The Virgin Mary illuminated in purity and powerlessness. Hanging crooked over the fireplace was a cheap, painted rendition of the last supper, with Christ in the center and disciples on both sides—one plots his doom while the others sit blissfully ignorant. On the coffee table sat a photo of the pope, who knew which one—the Lassie of the religious world—and a ceramic nativity scene, even though Christmas was months away. No wonder Liam got the hell out of Dodge. A plastic runner down the center of the rug. She’d been there less than half an hour and couldn’t wait to leave. A lifetime? Crucifixion seemed like the easy way out.

“Like I said, I’ll have more details, tomorrow. Why don’t we talk again, then?” Claire stood, legs tingling. She inhaled, her chest expanding to slow her racing heart. After a moment, she left the towel and glass on the table. “This isn’t easy for any of us.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Connor stood up, too. “Mom, I’ll be right back, and we’ll go over to the grocery store, okay?”

“Claire?” It was Grace. “Where is my son?”

“At the hotel,” Claire said.

“I’d like to see him—his ashes—if you don’t mind,” Grace said, leaking eyes downcast.

“Tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow. I’ll call.” Claire turned and walked back toward the front door with Connor behind her. On the wall near the door, a faded color photograph hung framed in tacky, cheap gold leaf. Even aged, she could see it was Liam in a powder blue tux standing next to a virginal bride. A clichéd poof of white crinoline and lace. Liam and Bonnie—Bonnie, the pure. Claire looked around. There were no other photos on the wall. Other than the pope, there were no photos, period. She wondered if Grace put it up for her benefit. She stepped closer for a better look. Bonnie was plain. The girl next door, or the girl who sat on the bus next to the girl next door. With a full head of chestnut hair. Tramp.

“Sorry. It’s hard for old people to change, I guess,” Connor said in Claire’s ear, steering her outside. “Don’t forget your purse.”

Chapter Eleven

“Thanks for everything. Talk to you tomorrow.” Claire got in the car.

Connor opened the passenger side door. “Wait, Claire. Got a few minutes?” Before she could say yes or no, he sat next to her. That happened a lot to her, lately.

Claire put the key in the ignition, hopeful he’d get the hint.

He didn’t. “I’m sorry about my mom. She can’t let any of that stuff go.” He ran both palms up and down his thighs, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his jeans.

Claire guessed she was supposed to ask about all the stuff. She hadn’t come for that. She got what she came for. She fished a pill out of the bottom of her bag. Connor reached over and held it open for her. “It’s past time for my medication. I hope you don’t mind.”

He let out a faint whistle, leaned his back against the seat. “No, not at all. If it’s past time, it’s past time.”

Claire swallowed her pill. “Like I said, this isn’t the easiest situation for me.” Gotta keep the pity coming. She fastened her dilating pupils on Connor. “Whatever happened in the past is over. What I’m suggesting is burying it…once and for all.”

“Wish it was that simple,” he said. “My family holds a grudge. They’ve got a big one against Liam. He left the church, then his wife. My mother took to her bed for weeks.” Connor looked toward the house and shook his head. “It nearly killed my father. My mother blames his death on it.”

“You’re kidding. That’s it?” Claire didn’t understand zealots. What century was this? She thought about her own rebellious youth, her teenage pregnancy. She could imagine Grace and Emmet, as her parents, driving her out to an empty field and shooting her.

“I know it seems odd to you, but it’s the way my parents were raised, what they believed. No one in their family ever bailed on God or marriage.”

“Unbelievable.” Claire always suspected it was something dumb. Put a gold star by right, again.

“If that wasn’t enough, Liam got rich.” Connor picked at the handle of Claire’s $3000.00 purse. “Hard to know what pissed everybody off most. If he hadn’t made something of himself…”

“Making money doesn’t mean Liam made something of himself. It just means he was rich. Seems to me you’ve done okay.” Claire had nothing else to offer. “You don’t look like a farmer, though.”

“A farmer?” Connor’s brows met his nose. “Oh, the farm. I guess Mom mentioned we live out on the farm. My wife inherited a farmhouse from her parents. We live there, but we don’t farm. I’m a programmer.”

Claire looked at her watch.

Connor opened the car door and put one leg out. “I better get back. I need to run Mom over to the grocery.”

Claire’s vitals were somewhat back to normal. Her skin felt like it might stay attached to her bones—the miracle of modern science.

“Wait. Connor?” She almost forgot. “Was your dad a university trustee or a donor? Or was someone in your family a trustee?”

“My dad? Oh, no. No one in our family ever sat on any board as far as I know. My folks have no money, and even if they did, they’d never give it away. No, no, my dad was just a regular workin’ stiff. He worked at the university more than forty years.”

Claire turned her full attention to Connor. “He was a professor?”

“No. A janitor.”

“A janitor.” Claire kept her face still. “I…did…he…well—” Claire wanted to continue but didn’t get a chance.

“Why?”

“Ummm…well, I understand they have strict burial guidelines. Your dad didn’t meet any of them if he wasn’t a donor or a trustee.”

Connor shrugged. “Who knows? Things change.”

Claire started to explain what Evelyn told her at the cemetery, but Connor put a stop to it. With one leg out the door, he said, “I’ve got to be honest. When Mom told me you wanted to bury Liam here, it surprised me. I—” He looked like he had a terminal diagnosis to deliver. “Well, Liam hated it here. He hated this town and the university. He said only liberal losers went to it. Bonnie went there. She’s back there, again. Her father sat on the board for many years. Liam hated our sister… and Mom. No love lost there.” Connor’s eyes bore into her, relentless. “Dad’s janitor job embarrassed him. In my opinion, Liam didn’t want anyone to know he came from a place like this…or what happened to Bonnie—what she did to herself after the divorce. You can turn your back on the Catholic Church but not on the guilt. That hangs on like the Shroud of Turin.”

“That was a long time ago.” Claire blinked. “Like you said, things change. People change.”

Connor’s eyes stayed latched onto Claire’s. “Do you really think Liam would want to spend eternity in a place he despised, with the family he hated? With his janitor dad who shunned and embarrassed him and the ex-wife who committed suicide, because he left her? That’s quite a change.”

Claire turned the key. The car roared to life.

Chapter Twelve

“Come again? You bought what, where, and for how much?”

“Andrew. Stop. You heard me. You just need to do whatever it is you do to get this done. I suppose I’ll need to cash out something or other. I have all the contact info for the cemetery director. I’ll give it to you before I hang up. Call over there and find out what they need. I already signed some pledge form. They need to fax you a copy.” Claire pulled open the curtains of her hotel room window and looked out over the parking lot. It had been mobbed with cars when she pulled in. She parked clear in the back.

“Claire, $5,000,000.00 is a hell of a lot of money, even for you. I have to tell you, I’ve known you for more than ten years. This is highly irregular, and—” Andrew said.

“It’s called a donation, Andrew. I’m a donor.”

“Is there a cooling off period?”

Claire felt her eyes do loopty-loops. “No, there isn’t a cooling off period,” she mimicked in a singsong voice.

Andrew cleared his throat. “I’m not just your attorney, you know. I hope I’m your friend, too. I knew Liam for thirty-five years. I can’t let you swing in the wind and not try to help you. Especially now, when you’re dealing with so much.”

“I don’t need a friend. I need an attorney.”

“I can be both, can’t I? As your attorney and your friend, I’ll just say it. You’re going to need to downsize. Liam isn’t around to restock the coffers, anymore. It’s not a bottomless pit of money.”

Claire reached for her throat. “Downsize? What are you talking about?” Would she have to drive an Audi? Christ.

“I think you should sell the apartment.”

“Our penthouse in New York? Are you crazy?” She clutched the phone, yelling.

“Claire, you’re a young woman with a long life ahead of you.” She could feel him backing down. “We need to make sure your money lasts.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that, Andrew?”

“Because I don’t think you are. Plus, it’s more than that, Claire. There’s no logic to this scheme. It doesn’t make sense. I’m worried you’ll be sorry later. When more time passes, the wounds heal. You’ll regret it, and it won’t be easy to undo. Maybe impossible.”

“I’ve never been clearer about anything. It makes perfect sense to me.” If anyone understood the wounded, Claire did. She saw no healing later down the road. Nor could she imagine regret.

“I’m sure it does…now.” He sounded hesitant. “You know, I gave Meg this great trip to Hawaii for—”

“You’re telling me I’m broke, and you want me to spend money on a trip to Hawaii?”

“Instead of a crypt? Yes. It’d be money well—”

“Mind your own business, Andrew.” Claire pressed her forehead against the window.

“I knew Liam’s family. I’m not sure he’d want this.” Andrew tried a different track. “It seems like a noble gesture, to bury Liam with his father, but a whole family crypt? I just don’t know.”

Claire was getting close to the end of her fraying rope. “Well, I do know.”

“You also know Bonnie is buried in that cemetery too, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. So, what? She has first dibs?” Claire watched as a minivan circled the parking lot in search of a spot. What was going on at the hotel? It was loaded all of a sudden. Must be a Bible study convention.

“Well, it just seems inappropriate, considering…”

“Do you really want to go down the inappropriate road?”

Andrew exhaled into Claire’s ear. “Claire, I…we need to get that mess settled. We’ve put it off longer than we should have. She isn’t going away. Neither of them will. We’ve been lucky, frankly.”

“You’re still sending the checks, aren’t you?” Claire said.

“Yes, of course. We still need to close the deal, though. Put an end to it.”

Claire hadn’t noticed before, but the message light on the hotel phone blinked. Someone had called her here. Again. Damn it. She’d forgotten all about her cell phone. With the hotel room phone tucked under her neck, she looked around the room. Her cell was on top of the television. The cord was nowhere to be seen.

“Claire? Are you there?”

“I’ve got to hang up. You’re three hours behind me. Call the cemetery director. We’ll talk about everything else, later.” Claire gave a protesting Andrew the contact information and watched the minivan circle the crowded parking lot in vain. She waited a few seconds for Andrew to finish writing down the numbers. “Okay? Got it? I really have to go.”

She started to hang up when Andrew said, “Claire?”

“What?”

“Liam made a mistake, but he loved you more than anything. You know he did.”

The memory of Liam’s love sliced through her.

She dropped the phone into its cradle.

Chapter Thirteen

She pushed the blinking light to see what would happen. To her anesthetized surprise, a recorded voice said, “You have three messages.”

Annabelle’s voice said, “Claire, your cell phone is dead. I don’t think you’ve plugged it in.” Get on with it. “Anyway, call me when you get this.”

Then, Jordan. “Mother, nice job with the cell phone. In case you’re interested, I found out more stuff about your new best friend—Rob Rhino. Or is it Uncle Rob, now? Call me.”

Annabelle, again. “Claire, hey I talked to Conchita at the house, today. I didn’t know you were going to leave Dad’s ashes in Pennsylvania. I mean…well, I knew you were talking with his wacko family, trying to make nice and maybe have a memorial. But, leave him there? I think Conchita heard that wrong. Lost in translation and all. Call me, please. It’s not too late to book that Hawaii thing. I really think you need it.”

Claire picked up the phone and dialed. Before it rang, she hung up. She didn’t need Annabelle’s permission. No reason to feel guilty.

Claire yanked the phone out of its cradle and dialed out, again. She’d call Jordan. Talk to him about it. Before she punched in all the numbers, she slammed down the receiver. Why bother? He’d make smartass trash talk and side with Annabelle. She didn’t need the drama.

Liam was her husband. She could do what she pleased with his ashes. Besides, it’s not like there was a lot of time to talk to Annabelle about it before she left. It was too late, anyway. She’d made all the arrangements. Liam was going to be buried in this town, with his viper’s nest of a family, in the university cemetery. It’s what she wanted. Kids be damned.

* * * *

How many pills had she taken? Vodka nips? The jackhammer in her brain broke through about five feet of concrete. Had she fallen asleep? Her lips were caked with…she didn’t want to know what it was. The parking lot was jammed with cars. The cheap clock on the nightstand clicked. One minute past midnight—too late to hike two blocks for food.

She lay back down on the slippery bedspread. It made her head hurt to think about Annabelle. Best not to. She remembered Jordan called and left a message, too. He’d said something about Rob Rhino. He’d found out more information about Rob Rhino, the porn king. She remembered the red car…was it following her? What had he said about his wife’s family? His wife had family in this town. His wife was dead.

Curiosity revived her. It was too late to call. No, it wasn’t. Not with the time difference. She grabbed the phone and dialed Jordan’s home phone. Maybe, Steven the ingrate won’t answer the house phone.

“Hello?” Maura answered.

“Maura? It’s Claire.” Claire was always happy to talk to Maura.

“Claire? Is everything okay?” Maura’s voice purred.

“Yes, yes.” What was that on her lips? Claire licked her fingers and wiped her mouth. “Is Jordan around?” Claire rifled around the bottom of her purse for some Advil. She had a pharmacy in there but no Advil.

“No, he and Steven left late this afternoon. They closed on that house, today. So, they went on a long weekend trip to celebrate.”

“They did what?” She stopped rifling, elbow deep in her Kelly bag.

“Oh…ah…you know…didn’t you? They closed on that house they made an offer on. They’d been looking at it for months…you…I—”

“Well, that’s odd. Why’d they do that? Are they opening some kind of business? It’s a commercial property?” She plopped down on the bed, toppling the bag.

“Claire, you better talk to Jordan when he gets back. I’ll tell him you called. You take care.”

“Maura, is everything okay with you and Jordan?”

“Claire, you really need to talk to Jordan. Good night.”

What in the world was going on? She never did trust Steven. Not from the start. A long weekend? They bought a house? Maybe Annabelle knew what the hell was going on. She scowled at the phone in her hand and put it back in its cradle.

Enough was enough. This was too much. Time to call it a day. She fished out her pills, took one with a glass of water, pulled off her clothes, and jumped in for a quick shower before she crawled under the scratchy, thin blanket of the bed. She needed her rest. There was another endless day ahead of her. Maybe, in the morning, she’d find she’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Chapter Fourteen

Traffic was a bitch—unexpected in a town that had horse and buggy hitching posts on its sidewalks. Claire couldn’t believe the number of cars headed toward the university. The parking lot at her hotel had cleared out, but from the looks of things, they were all going to the same place. Good thing she’d left early. She’d hoped to dash through the drive-thru for coffee, but no chance. Not with the congestion.

It took twice as long as she’d planned to get to the chapel. Groups milled in and around the cemetery. They were everywhere. She hadn’t considered parking until she saw there wasn’t any. It was a few minutes after ten. If she had to search for parking, there was no telling how late she’d be. She was about to start sweating when she saw Joe waving her down like a windmill. He rotated in front of the only empty parking spot. She pulled into it, and he opened her car door. “I saved it for you.”

“How nice.” Claire got out, and they walked to the chapel. “This place is a zoo.”

“I should’ve told you, yesterday. It’s our annual Trustee Week,” Joe said. “This weekend kicks off festivities for our trustees, donors, and alumni. It’s our chance to thank them and keep in touch. We like to stay connected.”

I bet they do…to their wallets. “Must be why my hotel is packed.”

“Yes, the university grounds swarm. We’ve got tours, speaking events, banquets, and concerts. You name it.”

Claire looked around, distracted.

“Speaking of, the dean wants to meet you this morning. He’d love to announce your generosity at the Dean’s Council banquet tomorrow night. Nothing would please us more than if you’d attend as our guest of honor. Given the circumstances surrounding your gift, we’d certainly understand if—”

“Can I think about it? We have a lot of details to—”

“Of course, of course. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to my office.”

Joe’s office was what she’d imagined. It was, as far as Claire could tell, the only inviting area in the chapel, carpeted with a worn oriental rug in warm colors, the book-lined walls painted a deep terra cotta. Joe offered her one of the four chairs around the small table.

Evelyn came in with a tray of coffee and cinnamon rolls. Thank you, Jesus.

“Help yourselves.” Evelyn smiled and backed out of the room.

Joe reached across the table to pour coffee. Claire thought she’d gnaw through his arm to get to the rolls. They sat, drank, and chewed. Claire watched the tourists through Joe’s office window. They tramped around the cemetery while she ate.

Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Your attorney phoned. The funds are transferred. We’ll close the deal with the property owner in the next few days and start clearing the land.”

“How long will that take?” Claire asked.

“Not long. As you’ve seen, there’s not much there. We’ll clear what little there is and lay sod. We’re going to have some lag time, nonetheless.”

“Lag time?”

“Yes, the mausoleum needs to be shipped and assembled.”

“Assembled?”

“Yes. They’re pre-fabricated.”

“Pre-fabricated? Like a…like a mobile home?” The trailer park for the dead.

“Well, yes. Simply put. You don’t have to go that route. You can go custom, but that can take months. Pre-fab is the quickest.”

“Pre-fab it is, then. How much lag time are we talking about?” How long can it take to make a trailer with some drawers to cram ashes in?

“The last time I—”

Before Joe could finish his sentence, a flash of bright green caught Claire’s eye. What the—? She smacked her coffee cup down on the table with a splash and a rattle. Claire leaned forward to get closer to the window. Several people were weaving in and out of the headstones.

“Claire, is anything—”

She put her hand up, and Joe stopped talking. She kept her eyes glued to the ground. They darted back and forth, like a lizard stalking a fly. Several seconds passed. There. She saw them, again. The bright green clogs. She wasn’t imagining things. She zeroed in and went upward. Good God in heaven…Rob Rhino.

Claire leapt out of the chair and ran out of the office, Joe on her heels.

“Claire, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“I’ll be right back. I’m fine. Stay here. I just saw someone—” She ran out the chapel door toward where she’d seen Rob Rhino. The crush of visitors blocked her charge and her vision. Every few steps, she dipped up and down to see if she could spot him. Where’d he go?

She blurted, “Excuse me, pardon me” to a few, startled tourists as she pushed past them—a bald nut on a mission. About to bolt off the pathway, she spotted him.

“What are you doing here? You’re following me, aren’t you?” Claire said, breathless.

He lifted his big head up, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. “Hey, Claire Corrigan. What are you doing here?” He moseyed out from behind a grave toward her. His hula girl shirt swayed across his hanging belly—the same shirt from the day before. It looked like her hotel bedspread.

Claire, flustered and frightened, said, “I asked you first.”

He stood close to her. “It’s cool, it’s cool. No worries. Are you okay?”

Claire’s hands were balled into fists. “No. Just tell me why you’re following me.”

“Hey, now. I’m not following you.” He laughed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice an attack. She jumped up and down like a pissed off pogo stick.

“Okay, okay. Calm down. You’re going to blow a gasket or something.” He reached out and patted her arm. “Is the cemetery only open to you?”

“What?” She yanked her arm away. “No. Of course not.”

“Okay, then.”

“It’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?” She shook. “I don’t believe in coincidences. I need to sit down.” She need to sit before she fell down.

Rob Rhino led her to a stone bench. “Should I see if there’s some water somewhere?”

“No, I’m fine. I just…never mind.” She sat, put her head down toward her knees, and held it with both hands. After a minute or so of deep breathing, she collected herself. Sitting next to Rob, she saw his badly dyed hair was clean, and his rank odor was gone.

“My wife, Gloria, is buried there.” He pointed toward a headstone across the path, set several feet away from a cluster of other graves and underneath the peaceful sanctuary of a leafy shade tree—a lone and lonely monument.

His blurted pronouncement made Claire feel kind of bad. She worked her expression, keeping it neutral. She didn’t want him catching on that she already knew Gloria sang with the angels. “Oh, I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s cool, no worries. It’s been years.” He looked out across the cemetery, his gray eyes filled. “I come here when I’m in town. It’s a beautiful place. Reminds me of her. Everywhere you look, beauty.”

Claire felt her own eyes fill, moved by his unexpected, simple sentiment. “Yes, this place is spectacular.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m making funeral arrangements for my husband.”

“Oh, sad.” He shook his head, eyes darkening.

“Ummm…yeah.”

“Hey, didn’t you say your husband died a year ago?”

“You remembered? Yes, he did. It’s a long story.”

“You are a weird one, Claire Corrigan.”

“I’m weird? Well, here’s a newsflash—”

The red corvette revved up alongside the path, blackened windows rolled up tight. Before Claire could inquire about its driver, Rob jumped up.

“Gotta fly, Claire Corrigan. You take care.”

She breathed exhaust as they peeled away. Claire stood. People tromping by eyed her with suspicion. She remembered Joe waited for her and took two steps in the chapel’s direction before changing her mind. She was right there, after all…so close. Might as well pay her respects. Or, something like that. After jostling through a few alumni, she crossed the path and lowered her head in front of Gloria’s headstone.

Faithful Husband Father Soldier

—Louis David Barnes—

1824-1898.

Chapter Fifteen

Joe paced in the front of the chapel. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. I just saw someone I never in a million years expected to see.” Claire zipped back to the office, and Joe followed.

“Really?” Joe said. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.” Bet ol’ Joe’d be shocked to find out who Claire slummed around with. She felt the heat of a blush climb up her neck at the thought of it.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Can we talk about the mausoleum?”

“Certainly.”

Claire took her seat, leaned down into her Kelly bag, and dug for buried treasure.

Joe took out a legal pad and held his Mont Blanc poised over it. “Let’s start with the correct spelling of Liam’s name. As you’d like it to appear on the crypt.”

“Do you have a directory?”

“Excuse me?”

“A directory.” Claire leaned forward. “A list of names. Everyone buried here.”

Joe sat up straighter in his mission-style chair while peering down his considerable nose. “Well, yes. Is there someone in particular I can—”

“No. It’s…I…” Claire wished she was quicker on her feet…or seat. “I guess with all the history, I thought it’d be interesting to scroll through some of the names. See if I recognize any…historical ones. You know, since I’ve got time to kill.”

Joe rearranged his mouth like he’d eaten something disagreeable. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” What was it to him, anyway?

“We’re happy to oblige, certainly.” Joe must’ve remembered she was worth $5,000,000. “We do have a computerized directory. You’re more than welcome to peruse.”

“How would—”

“Our office is yours.” He grinned like a ghoul. “Before you leave, Evelyn can direct you to the volunteer desk. It’s free more than half the time. She’ll show you how to access the database.”

* * * *

“Three weeks? Why three weeks?” Grace asked.

“It’s going to take that long to ship and assemble the mausoleum,” Claire said.

“I think it’s premature to set a date for a service when the whole family isn’t sold on the idea.” Elizabeth pursed her lips, though it was tough to be sure. Hard to guess her age. She looked more like Grace’s sister than her daughter. Identical, bad perms.

“What idea?” Joe asked.

“The family crypt,” Claire said.

“Ahhh….well, are there any questions I can answer for you?” Joe looked back and forth between Grace and Elizabeth. Their early arrival interrupted Joe and Claire’s meeting.

“It’s for the family to decide.” Elizabeth reared back like Joe’d goosed her.

Clearly, right at home on the corner of Awkward and None of Your Business, Joe pressed on, “Claire has a beautiful spot picked out and a top of the line mausoleum on its way.”

Before Elizabeth could put Joe in his place, Grace said, “Elizabeth, your father is already in this cemetery. What difference does it make to you if we move him a few feet? If you feel strongly about it, you don’t have to participate. You and William can go someplace else in the hereafter.”

Alarmed, Claire hadn’t thought of that. “Elizabeth, why don’t you think it over? Like Joe said, we’ve got three weeks.”

Elizabeth folded her arms over her flat chest like a two-year-old. “Liam hated me, and I never did anything to him. He was jealous of me. He didn’t even come to my wedding. Why should I do this for him? I know you’re bald and all—”

“Claire had an excellent idea. Why don’t you think it over?” Joe got off the bench and cast a withering look at Elizabeth. “I’m going to make a call and—”

Elizabeth cut Joe off like an unsightly growth. “All Liam did was lord his money over us. This is more of the same. Why would I want to be in a place after I’m dead that I couldn’t afford when I was alive?” Elizabeth said, bitter and terse. “Liam was Mister Money Bags but too cheap to send his own mother Christmas or birthday presents. It broke her heart.”

Claire glanced at Grace, who looked at her lap. Liam sent her Christmas and birthday presents every year, despite their rift and over Claire’s protests—expensive ones.

Speaking of money bags. “It’s interesting, Elizabeth, that your father was able to afford a plot here.” Claire sharpened her claws. “Unless I’m missing something, Emmet wasn’t a donor or a trustee.”

Grace sucked air in like a death rattle. “What are you—”

Elizabeth’s head swirled. “What’s wrong, Mother? What’s she talking about?”

“The guidelines say you have to be a donor, a trustee, or a trustee family member to use the cemetery. Your father was none of the above.” Claire almost coughed up a hairball.

Grace became the Incredible Hulk. “Emmet Corrigan was a faithful servant to his family, his God, and this university. When he died, he got his just reward.”

What did any of that mean? Other than Claire nearly blew it again with her ill-temper.

“I’m sure he did, Grace. I just wondered about it.” Claire tried to look apologetic. “Didn’t mean to start an uproar.”

“My father’s burial was a gift. Isn’t that right, Mother? Isn’t that what you’d said?” Elizabeth went whiny. “The school’s way of showing their gratitude.”

“That’s right. Exactly.” The Incredible Hulk turned back into the gracious, old lady. “Claire just didn’t know. That’s all.”

“Of course.” Claire turned to Joe for confirmation, but he was gone.

“Not everyone has diamonds as big as boulders and $300 shoes, but some people have a work ethic and grateful employers.” Elizabeth glared at Claire’s ring and red kitten heels.

As if you could get Jimmy Choos for less than $600.00. Claire sneered at Elizabeth’s serviceable Easy Spirit’s. She had a bad attitude and bad taste.

“Elizabeth, that’s enough,” Grace said. “We’re all on edge. The sooner this is decided, the better. Claire, did you bring my son’s ashes?”

“Um…oh…yes. He’s out in the car.” Damn it. She’d forgotten him, again.

“We’re leaving,” Elizabeth said. “You can see the ashes in her car. She can follow us out to the parking lot. As far as I’m concerned, this isn’t a done deal.”

“Elizabeth can think about this over the weekend. You have my number at the hotel, and Joe’s number here if you have any questions,” Claire said.

“If you want to go to the store, let’s go.” Elizabeth prodded Grace along with her hand and a not-friendly push.

She just went to the store, yesterday. Claire followed them to the door of the chapel.

Grace leaned in toward Elizabeth, sniveling, “I asked Connor to take me to the store, yesterday. He said he’d only take me if I paid for the gas.”

* * * *

Claire couldn’t believe the porn sites that popped up when she typed Rob Rhino’s name into the search bar. Not that she looked on purpose. Talk about revolting. Thank the good Lord she’d only gotten a quick glimpse of the foot-long dog. She had to look three or four times to make sure it was even real. Had Evelyn cranked up the heat? She wiped her head and looked over her shoulder, embarrassed—even though she sat alone in the tiny volunteer office off the chapel vestibule. She hoped no unwitting volunteer lost their job for surfing porn sites. Oh, well. They didn’t get paid, anyway.

Joe went hunting for the dean of the university, so Evelyn had given her a quick tutorial. She tried to comb through the cemetery directory but couldn’t remember Rob Rhino’s real name. Jordan’d told her…but she couldn’t remember. Her head felt weighed down. Her mouth kept falling open. The tussle with the in-laws required a quick chaser.

Her eyes moved over the biography of Rob like an Evelyn Woods speed reader. She already knew a lot of it from Jordan. She only wanted to know…there. Raymond Horowitz. She went back to the database.

Didn’t find a thing. No Gloria Horowitz. No Horowitz at all. For the hell of it, she tried Rhino. Nothing.

Maybe, Gloria never changed her name. Back when saying Women’s Lib sounded hip. Claire did another quick scan of Rob’s bio.

Married Gloria Metcalf, 1970 to 1973. Gloria Metcalf, b.1950 d.1973. Nothing else.

Claire clicked back over to search the cemetery list.

Ella Jean Metcalf, 1880-1948.

Randall Metcalf, 1875-1927.

Chapter Sixteen

Another one not looking at her bald head. “Claire, I’m delighted to meet you.” Dean Lawrence Sumner introduced himself, holding both Claire’s hands in his dwarfish ones. It felt undignified for a dean to only come up to her nipples.

“I’m sure.” Claire crouched, evening things out.

“I can’t begin to thank you for your generosity. I’m overwhelmed thinking about it. When Joe told me, I nearly fainted.” He reminded Claire of someone.

“Don’t give me too much credit. I wanted a crypt here.” Claire tried not to stare at his mole. Was it penciled on?

“We’re so grateful.” He pressed her downward. “Let’s sit.”

Claire untangled her hands and leaned down for her purse. “I’m on my way out. I’ve been here too long, already.” She’d only come out to the chapel from the volunteer office to grab her forgotten bag and then skedaddle. She’d been caught in the dean’s snare.

“Your bag and shoes are fabulous.” Dean Sumner reached out to feel the bag. “Hermès, the finest leather.”

Steven. That’s who he reminded her of—Steven.

“Well, I should be getting back to the hotel.”

“Can I give you a few things to think about before you take off? I know you’re out of state, but with a donation that size…well…we’d love to have you on our board of trustees. Please, don’t answer just yet. Your tragedy is fresh. Mull it over.” He tapped his little foot. “You don’t have to live here to attend meetings. Several of our members join us via conference call. Easy peasy.”

“I can’t think about that, now.” He must not think her tragedy was too fresh. A year didn’t really count, but geez. “I need to settle my husband’s burial.”

“Certainly, you do,” he said without pausing to notice her disdainful expression, “but you still have to eat, right?”

“What?”

“The Dean’s Council banquet is tomorrow night? We don’t have to make a big deal over you. Just come have dinner with some of our donors.”

Claire took the bait. “Make a big deal over me?”

“At the risk of sounding gauche, it’s Trustee Week. There are recognition opportunities. Normally, a $5,000,000 gift would be announced…” He looked at her like he thought she would finish his sentence.

“…to whom?” Claire couldn’t fathom. Joe mentioned opportunities.

“Well,” he said, tapping his chin with a well-buffed fingernail. “To our other donors, for one. And, of course, our alumni.” His almost violet eyes—they had to be colored contacts—circled the chapel.

“And?” Out with it, Lawrence.

“The press. We’d announce it to the press.”

“Oh, heavens no. I don’t want all that fanfare.” Claire tried not to look as annoyed as she felt. “How ridiculous—”

“Shall I be frank?”

“Please.”

“A sizeable gift…well, a gift such as yours, provides us significant leverage. It could help us get other large gifts.” The dean and Joe were the Frank and Jesse James of university relations.

“Oh?” Claire put her bag on the floor and crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry. The timing is terrible, but, all of our major donors are here this week. If we could announce something—”

“The press release goes to the local paper?” Claire said, considering.

“Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, the more the merrier. Radio, news, all of it, if possible.”

“We’ll call our PR firm, immediately. You’re an angel.” He took Claire’s hands in his slimy ones, looking like he struggled not to appear too baffled at her sudden change of heart.

“I have specific instructions about how I’d like my gift credited.”

“Anything you’d like.”

“Guess I’ll see you at the banquet, tomorrow.”

“Delightful.” He bowed at the waist, his trimmed, silver hair unwavering.

Finally, a way to get Elizabeth into the crypt.

Chapter Seventeen

Claire made the mistake of picking up the hotel phone when it rang.

“I know you’re trying to do a good thing. It’s so cool. I get it, but—”

“Annabelle, if you think it’s so cool then, please. Support me.”

“Claire, you know I love you. You’re the only Mom I have.”

Claire felt the shark jaws of motherly love tighten around her throat. “I need to do this.”

“It’s too far. We can’t even visit his grave.” Sniveling sounds carried over the phone.

“They’re planes.”

“Dad never even talked about his family or that place.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I need more clothes.”

Dead air, then, “That’s it? No more discussion?”

Claire didn’t respond. The crypt was closed.

“Claire? Are—”

“Clothes. I need them.”

“I called that place in Hawaii. Jimmy says you can fly out of PA—”

Claire picked up the Absolut bottle to throw it, almost cutting off her alcohol supply to spite her face. “Goddamn it, Annabelle. I don’t want to hear another word about that fucking commune in Hawaii. I’m not going now or ever.”

“Claire, you need a rest. That’s why you’re doing this crazy stuff. Dad’s death was hard on—”

“I will hang up this phone.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll drop it for now.” Annabelle sighed, giving in. “What clothes do you want?”

“Ask Conchita to help you. She knows what I like, what’s appropriate. She’s coming to the house a few days a week, even though I’m not there, isn’t she?”

“I’ll have to go over there and find out.” Annabelle sounded pouty. “I can’t believe you need more clothes. You took too much to begin with.”

“I told you, I’ll be here for three weeks.” Claire was over the lectures from her kids. “Conchita can FedEx it all to my hotel. She doesn’t have a lot to do since I’m here.” She fingered the manila envelope stuffed with correspondence from Holloway, Howard, and Lennox LLC.

“I’ll try to get over there in the next couple days.”

“Try? This is important. I called the house. Conchita didn’t answer.”

“I have classes, remember? Don’t you have Conchita’s home phone?”

“Yes, but it’s in my cell.”

Dead air, again.

“Annabelle?”

All quiet on the western front.

“Look, I know. I’ll plug in my phone as soon as we hang up. I—”

“Is that it, Claire? I really need to—”

“No. What on earth is going on with Jordan?”

“I could pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I won’t. You don’t really want to know what’s going on with Jordy. It’s plain as day.”

“I thought he and Maura were about to get married.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I thought an announcement was imminent.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Claire started to cry. “What is he doing?”

“He’s living his life.”

“What about that awful Steven?”

“Steven is far from awful. They bought a house together. They’re settling down. It isn’t a secret. Jordan’s been talking about it for months. You weren’t listening.”

Claire squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears. Her chest burned. “I don’t understand it. I just don’t.”

“Claire, don’t cry.” Annabelle’s voice soothed. “Jordy is a good man. What difference does it make if he’s gay?”

“Don’t say that.” Claire threw the manila envelope across the hotel room. Dozens of envelopes scattered.

Chapter Eighteen

Claire sat on the bed amid a sea of envelopes on the avocado-green carpeting of the hotel room floor. After a shower, she felt fortified. After a medicinal purposes only shot of booze, she felt a hair drunk, too. Crawling on all fours, she scooped up her debris. The room phone rang. Saved by the bell.

Joe Lansing’s chipper voice relieved her. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Please. Disturb. “No, not at all. You were on my list to call before the banquet, tonight.”

“Just a small thing. I never did get Liam’s full name and correct spelling. We’ll need it for several purposes—the stone carving, we do a nice printed program, you might want a small newspaper announcement, etc.”

After she obliged, she paused. “Joe…oddest thing. I asked Grace about Liam’s father. About his burial at the university. She confirmed he was neither a donor nor a trustee.” She flipped an envelope back and forth. “According to her, the university gave him his plot as a gift for loyal employment. Does that sound right?”

“That be the day. Let me look him up and see what I get. Emmet Corrigan…hmmm….it’ll take just a few seconds…oh, yes. Here he is. Emmet Patrick Corrigan. Someone made an anonymous donation in his honor so he could be buried here. A hefty one to boot—a million dollars. Fairly significant, I’d say.”

“It wouldn’t have been the school?”

“Not a chance. We ask for money. We don’t give it away.”

“Any way to know who anonymous was?

“Afraid not. We take that designation seriously.” Claire could feel Joe’s consideration over the phone. “I’ll admit, though. It’s a small town. Hard to keep a lid on money like that. Unfortunately, it looks like he died right before I moved here. So, I don’t even know any gossip.”

“Hmmm…that is too bad.” Claire balanced an envelope on Liam’s urn. “Would Grace have known?”

“Not necessarily.”

She watched the envelope sail to the ground. “If she did, she’d never admit it,” Claire said.

* * * *

Claire picked up a random envelope. She pulled a letter out dated three weeks after Liam died. The first one she’d received regarding the matter of Ellen Ryan and Shane Ryan Corrigan. Claire knew it word for word—every one burned into her memory. The demand letter was the first of many, all varying in degrees of hostility. The last promised court intervention if no satisfaction came by the suggested date. Claire reached for the phone.

“Andrew? Sorry to bother you at home on a Saturday.” Not really. Not at the rates she paid him.

“Don’t worry about it, Claire. Meg’s in Newport with the girls. I’m at the beach house. What’s wrong?”

Claire closed her eyes and filled her lungs with as much air as she could breathe in. “I thought we’d talk about Ellen…”

Claire could hear Andrew opening drawers. “Let’s rip this Band-Aid off and move on. I’m turning on my laptop as we speak.”

“How much money are we sending her every month, again?”

“Ten grand.”

“How much does she want?”

“Haven’t you read any of the correspondence?”

“That’s what I pay you for.”

“She wants twice that. Plus, private school tuition. Then, college, and then a car when he’s old enough.”

“Liam is dead. I can’t believe this is an issue.”

“There’s more.”

“This is a joke.”

“I’m not laughing. She wants a piece of the estate.”

“Like my dad used to say, ‘Want in one hand, shit in the other. Guess which one fills up faster?’”

“You want to keep this out of court, away from your family? She got the DNA results we demanded. You’re on the losing side of this, Claire. I’m sorry.”

Claire could feel her spine stiffen. “Absolutely not. No piece of the estate.”

Claire heard flint scrape metal, the lighter ignite, and Andrew’s sharp intake of breath. “Claire, you don’t want to fight this out in front of a judge. You’ll lose. It’ll just be a question of how much. Shane is Liam’s son. He might be entitled to a piece of his estate.”

Claire lay back on the bed. The tears rolled into her ears. “And he might not.”

“I’m sorry. This couldn’t be worse. I don’t know what to say.”

Claire covered her eyes with her free hand. “Just give me legal advice, Andrew.”

“Claire, Ellen could’ve dragged you into court by now. Or, shown up on your doorstep. Contacted the kids. She could’ve done any number of things to make this uglier. She’s erring on the side of reasonable…so far. You want legal advice?” He blew out. “You’re going to be paying for a very long time. Shane is only a little over a year old, and Liam left a hefty estate. You give this to a judge, and I think she’ll get everything she wants. You don’t want the state to determine the amount. To make matters worse, if you go to court, the lid’s blown off, and it’s public. Privacy costs. It’s that simple.”

“Okay, Andrew. What do you want me to do?”

“Make an offer. A serious one.”

“Ten grand a month. Double is ridiculous. Yes to everything else. Plus, a million.”

“It’s a place to start.” He hesitated. “Claire?”

“What now?”

“When you get home, we need to talk about selling the apartment…unless you’ve reconsidered the crypt. I’m—”

Claire hung up. A place to start? This mess probably won’t end there. Or anywhere. Are there enough pills in the world to get through this?

Chapter Nineteen

“Campus for the Cure isn’t until Wednesday night, right?”

“You’d think she could at least afford a scarf…”

“Hush, Irma. I heard she’s a widow. A rich one…”

In her $3,000.00.00 Alexander McQueen dress—worth at least twice that since he hanged himself—she was the belle of this ball. So, with her head held high, she mopped her forehead and pranced around the auditorium like a million bucks. Five million to be exact. The bitter hens in last year’s Escada could kiss her platinum ass.

“Claire, you look fantastic.” Dean Sumner grasped Claire’s hands in his. “That dress is a masterpiece. The best one in the room.” He’d leaned in and whispered so the other donors milling around close by couldn’t hear. Claire almost didn’t hear him. Her heels made her even taller, so his voice echoed somewhere around her ribcage.

“Claire, lovely to see you, again.” Evelyn Wallace chirped like a bird from across the hall. She tottered over on her pudgy feet stuffed into tight, blue satin pumps that matched her dress. She must always coordinate her outfits with her hair color—her shtick.

Claire grasped her plump, outstretched hand warmly. “I didn’t know you’d be here, tonight.” Evelyn smelled like Chanel #5 mixed with streusel.

“Oh, we Wallaces have been Dean Council donors for generations.” Evelyn’s eyes scanned the room.

She didn’t doubt it. “Looks like a good turnout,” Claire said.

Joe Lansing made a beeline for her to make idle conversation. Claire wondered if Joe brought his wife? She’d love to meet the sort of woman who’d marry a funeral director. Did he make her play dead in the sack? If she was like most wives, she was good at it. A skill they’d honed right after the wedding cake was cut.

The room neared its capacity. Several round tables were set with white tablecloths and tasteful, floral centerpieces, carefully arranged at below eye level to not disturb the flow of conversation.

“Did you sign in at reception?” Dean Sumner looked straight ahead at Claire’s chest and appeared to find it wanting. “You don’t have a name tag.”

As usual, she’d sauntered in without a thought or glance to the right or left. “Oh, no. I…I didn’t notice a registration area,” Claire said. “Sorry.”

“Here you are.” Evelyn, the eighth wonder of the uber-organized world, peeled the back off Claire’s name tag and smoothed it over Claire’s left bosom. “There. All set.”

They sure knew how to treat a $5,000,000 donor.

“You’re sitting with us at the Dean’s table, of course.” Dean Sumner pointed toward a round table at the front of the room, near the dais. “Let’s mingle. Several of our council members are dying to meet you.”

Sure they were.

Thirty minutes and a hundred handshakes later, Claire’s brain felt like mush. Her face frozen into a smile only a hack plastic surgeon could appreciate. Half the women in the room had the same one. She inched toward her table and leaned down to Dean Sumner to beg for mercy when a tap on her shoulder brought her round.

“Is that you, Claire Corrigan?”

Her nemesis. King Dong. Mister ‘Lied about his dead wife whom he might have killed’.

“Rob Rhino?”

“In the flesh.”

“This is unbelievable.” She fumbled for the table.

“I know. Can’t believe you’re here.” He grinned his best shit-eating kind, not the least bit self-conscious. He’d cleaned up again, too. His strings of dyed hair stretched across his bare scalp into a limp ponytail. His expensive suit fit him well, and real shoes replaced his green rubber clogs. Rob Rhino in stylish, black pinstripes and expensive leather. Claire knew expensive shoes and well-made clothes.

“Doc, have you met our guest of honor? Claire Corrigan?” Dean Sumner slapped Rob Rhino on the back like a good old boy.

“We know each other. Go way back,” Rob said.

Claire’s buzz all but disappeared. What was up with this Doc business? She needed to get to her purse. How many millions did it take to get a cocktail around here?

“Do tell.” Dean Sumner clapped his hands like a high school cheerleader.

An elder, statesman-looking fellow stepped up to the dais and asked everyone to take their seats. A collective rumble spread across the room as heels clacked, chairs scraped.

Joe and Dean Sumner sat side-by-side at the Dean’s table—no wives in sight. Claire stumbled to her seat. She turned to her side, expecting Rob Rhino and to demand an explanation for his creepy presence. He’d disappeared. Twisting side-to-side while trying not to appear obvious, she searched to no avail. The room was packed. He could be anywhere. The loser in the monkey suit still yammered at the microphone. She dug for the only thing she could trust at the bottom of her rhinestone ladybug bag.

What kind of place was this that would let the likes of Rob Rhino in? The Dean even acted friendly toward him. Of all the…she turned to Dean Sumner to ask when she noticed his hand on Joe Lansing’s leg. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She looked away and stared straight ahead.

Chapter Twenty

Claire gulped a glass of cheap chardonnay as soon as one was poured…and another. Then, a plate of rubber chicken. The program passed in a blur. Joe called her name from the dais. Dean Sumner grasped her elbow and steered her upward and out of her seat to thunderous applause from the crowd. She didn’t know what he’d said about her. She wasn’t listening. Sitting down again, not so steady, she put her purse in her lap and searched the bottom. She wasn’t bothering with subtleties when Rob Rhino shook her arm. He’d come from she didn’t know where.

“Wanna dance?”

Claire kept searching her Judith Leiber bag, ignoring his absurd offer. “Where’ve you been lurking? Doc?”

He jerked his ponytailed head backward. “Over there. I’m always at the same table. Come on. Let’s get a groove on.” He did a little jig.

Claire stopped digging in her purse to look around. Several couples danced by. She’d been too busy pawing to notice the music.

“How’d you get in here? How do you know these people? I can’t believe for a second they know what you do.” She turned to her right in time to see Joe and the dean making goo goo eyes, their hands clasped firmly together under the table. Good Christ. No wonder Dean Sumner reminded her of Steven. Steven and Jord—Claire’s stomach lurched.

She slapped her purse shut. “Let’s dance.”

He led her by the elbow to the center of the banquet hall where the other couples tripped the light fantastic, cheek-to-cheek. Claire planted her feet, arms at her side. Rob held out his hand and waited. After a beat or two, she took it. To her shocked dismay, he pulled her close. He gently placed one arm around her waist and the other near her shoulder, where their fingers entwined. She could see over his head. He didn’t stink. She could smell his aftershave—crisp, masculine. His grip felt firm, protective, seductive. Squirming away crossed her mind, but the sweet succor of a man’s embrace kept her in it. Her eyes closed for a second. The heat from his palm, pressed to her back, warmed more than her skin.

A decked-out duo fox trotted near. “Evening, Doc.” The tuxedoed hoofer nodded at Rob as he danced his bejeweled partner by. Rob waved like royalty.

Claire came back to Earth. “What’s the deal?”

“Told ya. I’m the doctor of—”

“I know, of love.” She rolled her eyes.

“It’s what I’m famous for.” He winked. “A hunka hunka burnin’—”

“Oh, God. Stop.” Claire laughed. “Seriously, did you crash this party?”

“I’ve been coming to this thing for years…as a guest. With a date.”

Claire froze. “You have a date?” Her eyes roved the crowd.

“Not that kind of date.” Rob laughed. “Margaret Dodd. She’s a sweet gal, a widow. Rich as a Rockefeller, her husband was some kind of stock broker. I introduced them. Known her for years. She doesn’t want to come alone but doesn’t want another steady.”

“Where is she?”

Without hesitation, Rob pointed at the bar. “There.”

An over-bleached, too-tanned, stick thin woman with giant breasts had a portly drunk trapped on a stool.

“Perfect.”

Rob shrugged. “She likes to party.”

“Looks like a stripper.”

“She was.”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “This is the craziest town. Guess they don’t care who writes the checks, right?”

They kept dancing through another song.

“Speaking of checks…your gift to the university is unbelievable,” Rob Rhino said.

“Yeah, well. I wanted to bury my husband here. Had to be a donor.”

“Well, you did it in spades.”

Since he brought it up, sort of. “So…your wife is buried here…” Wasn’t sure how to let him know she knew he lied about Gloria’s grave.

“Yes, she is. She loved this place.”

“Why?”

“She went to school here. She’s from this town. Her parents still live here.”

They moved across the floor to the music. He was better at it than she was. He led her around like a “Dancing with a Porn Star” pro, and she lurched like a clod.

“You said she died a long time ago?”

“Yes, more than thirty-five years.”

“Wow. She must’ve been young.”

“Early twenties.” He spun her around. “Your husband must’ve been pretty young, too.”

“Yes. Fifty-eight.”

“Was he sick?”

“No. Car accident.”

“Brutal.”

“Was Gloria sick?”

“You could say that.”

Claire waited. Close to the chest kind of guy…except about his penis.

The music stopped.

“I saw the headstone you pointed to wasn’t Gloria’s.” She couldn’t help herself.

“I figured you would.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“At least the lovebirds went elsewhere,” Claire said.

Rob Rhino scanned Claire’s now-empty table. “You mean Dean Sumner and Joe?”

Claire felt herself blush. “Never mind.”

Half the guests in the room had gone. A few still danced, some chatted, and a couple of hold-outs bellied up to the bar. Joe and the dean stood guard at the door, bidding goodbye to departing donors and their credit cards.

“Don’t tell me you’re homophobic,” Rob said.

“Of course I’m not.” She wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. She—why did he have to get under her skin?

“Don’t tell me. Some of your best friends are gay, right?” Rob took a bite of the piece of cake that had been put in front of her placemat while they danced.

“It’s just…I—” Claire’s eyes filled with tears.

“Hey, hey. It’s cool. Don’t mind me. I’m an asshole,” Rob said, patting her back. “Come on. What’s wrong? I’m always pissing you off, huh?”

Claire blinked back her tears, laughing. “Yes, you are always pissing me off. You need to work on that…and you are an asshole.”

Rob looked like a puppy about to lick her face. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired I guess. Long day.” Claire reached into her purse for her emergency hoard. If this evening wasn’t an emergency, what was? Seeing no more wine, she looked around the table for the water. “Hey, can you slide that glass of water over here?”

Rob Rhino picked up the glass and handed it to Claire. “You’re not gonna take that and drive, are you?”

“You’re not gonna mistake yourself for my father, are you?”

“Seems like you’ve taken more than enough.”

“How do you know how much of anything I take?” Claire felt her temperature rise along with her voice.

Rob pressed his jowls down toward his neck and raised his bushy brows. “Really? You wanna go there?”

“You have a lot of room to talk. Crack-head.”

“Crack-head? Me? Been drug-free for decades.”

“What? I sat by you on the plane, remember? I picked you up on the side of the road. You were barely conscious.”

Rob threw his big head back and laughed. “Oh that. You thought I was…oh…funny.”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“I get airsick. Motion sickness. I have to take Dramamine before I fly or take car trips. Makes me loopy. I’m kind of sensitive to it, too. Stays with me a long time. I’m not a crack-head. I’m delicate.”

Delicate, right. He takes Dramamine? That’s it?

“You’re kidding.” A couple she’d met earlier danced by and waved. Claire rustled up a tight smile and waved back.

“Nope. It’s one of the reasons I hitchhike. I don’t drive. Can’t stay in the car too long. I like to go a little ways and then walk.” Rob took a drink of water out of the same glass he gave to Claire and smiled.

She palmed the pill.

* * * *

“I have to talk to Joe and Dean Sumner before I leave. Thanks for the dance, Rob Rhino. You sure can cut a rug.” She had to give him his due.

“Any time at all, Claire Corrigan.”

Claire picked up her rhinestone ladybug off the table and walked toward the door when Rob called after her.

“Hey, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, drive out to Alex’s Warehouse. It’s a real gig. You can see my fans. See how the other half lives. Get you a toy or two…maybe a movie.” He beamed, his missing tooth a banner. “I’ll even autograph it for you.”

“Not on your sad, disgusting life, Rob Rhino.” Claire protested too much. She knew she’d go. Why not? She had nothing to lose. Not anymore. Besides, Rob Rhino owed her. All he did was bug the shit out of her. She wanted to know what happened to his wife and why he seemed to want her to ask.

* * * *

Joe Lansing and the dean schmoozed another set of major donors on their merry way, probably a few thousand dollars lighter, when Claire approached.

“Dean, would you have a minute to talk before I take off?” Claire said.

The dean smiled his warmest “you are my new best friend” smile. “Of course we can talk. Joe, Claire and I are going to sit for a few minutes. Can you handle the door?” Joe nodded and waved them on while he fawned over the fur coat of a matron with obvious big bucks. Claire and Dean Sumner sat at the nearest table.

“I hope you had a good time,” the dean said.

“I won’t keep you from your hosting duties long. I have a quick question about the trusteeship.”

Dean Sumner perked up.

“Could I appoint someone else to sit on the board in my stead?” Claire said.

“Oh, well…I don’t know. No one’s ever…” Dean Sumner deflated. “No one’s asked before. I suppose so. You know you’re our first choice. We would bend over backward to accommodate you.”

“Oh, I know. I know. You’ve been very thoughtful, but the reason I’m doing this…well, this is for my husband and his family. I know he would want his family to represent me on the board if I couldn’t be there.” Claire looked at her lap in her best attempt at demure. “So, I think his sister, Elizabeth, is the best choice.”

“His sister. Elizabeth. Oh, my. Well, if that’s what you think is best.” Dean Sumner couldn’t mask his regret. “Of course, I wish you’d change your mind.”

“Well, I’m always just a phone call away,” Claire said.

“Yes, yes. I suppose. I know Joe will be surprised and perhaps a bit disappointed.”

“Perhaps, but I think you’ll find Elizabeth energetic, enthusiastic. All of you will warm right up to her.” Like the Hindenburg to a blowtorch.

“Oh, I’m sure we will. It’ll work out just fine. Delightful.”

“I’m delighted.”

“That’s all that matters.”

Claire and the dean strolled toward Joe at the door. “Thanks again for your understanding.” Claire figured out fast that money bought her anything she wanted here, like everywhere else.

Claire said her good-byes and waved off kind offers to walk her to her car. She took a last look around the banquet hall. Rob’s ex-stripper, rich-as-a-Rockefeller date climbed up his leg on the dance floor. Not much of a climb, given his stumpy legs. She could see him laughing. Claire dropped her eyes to the ground, tucked her bedazzled drugstore under her arm, and hurried out the door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

What does one wear to a porn warehouse? She pulled out several outfit combinations, only to discard them as not quite right. Too bad Conchita wasn’t here to ask. She’d know. She always knew.

The phone rang.

“Hope you don’t mind the call…”

“Oh, Connor. What’s up?”

Claire could hear what sounded like a vacuum running in the background. “I’d love you to come for dinner, here at the farm. All of us could get together.”

Could there be a worse idea? “I don’t know. I—”

“It’d be a chance for you to meet my wife, Deborah.” Connor’s voice rose even though the vacuum sound stopped. “We could get Elizabeth to warm up to the idea of the crypt if we worked on her together.”

“When were you thinking?” Claire kept shuffling through her suitcase, looking for an appropriate porn star signing outfit. Might as well get Elizabeth across the finish line.

“Whenever works for you.”

She pulled out jeans and a navy striped, boat-neck T-shirt. What difference did it make what she wore? For once, she probably wouldn’t stick out the most.

They settled on a date, and he gave her directions, which she wrote on the Do Not Disturb placard sitting next to Liam. His urn sat next to the phone and the vodka bottle where Claire left it yesterday. She wondered if the maids looked inside the urn when they cleaned. She was about to hang up when she remembered something.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

“This is a little awkward…” Claire rested her elbow on Liam. She was probably telling tales out of school, but so what. “I asked your mother about your dad’s burial. You know, about the guidelines. She said the university gave him the plot as a gift. A gold watch sort of thing…retirement thanks.”

“That makes sense. He worked there a dog’s age, you know.”

Claire tucked the phone under her ear as she pulled on her jeans. “Funny thing about that. I asked Joe Lansing at the cemetery. He told me it’s impossible. The university would never give something like that away, so I—”

“Well, maybe they only do it for the old timers, or they don’t do it, anymore. Probably before Joe’s time.” Connor sounded thoughtful. “Maybe, he doesn’t know.”

She unscrewed the top on the Vodka bottle. “Turns out, they keep detailed records about that sort of thing. An anonymous donor made a donation in your father’s honor. A million dollars. That’s how he got the plot.”

“Say what?”

“Hard to believe, I know.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Did you tell my mother?”

Claire laughed. “No. My asking about your dad’s burial wasn’t popular in the first place.”

“Do you think she already knows?”

“She might.”

Connor didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Bet she does. She never let on.”

“Any idea who’d donate that kind of money?”

“No,” Connor said with a sardonic laugh. “We don’t know anyone with that kind of money.”

They were both quiet.

Connor broke the silence. “Except Liam.”

“Now, you’re kidding.” Tired of standing, Claire sat on the edge of the bed. “Your family had been long estranged by then.”

“Indeed. My mother would’ve never asked Liam for the money.” Claire heard the vacuum start up, again. Connor hollered over the noise. “My mother wouldn’t have asked Liam for help of any kind.”

* * * *

Someone called while she talked to Connor. Her phone didn’t ring this much at home.

Annabelle. “Okay, I talked to Conchita. She’s gonna pack up some stuff and send it, tomorrow. You should get it Tuesday. She’ll go to the house on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, if you need to reach her. She talked to Jimmy. He extended your reservations at the hotel and the rental car place. She’s sending your prescriptions. Guillermo’s back from Mexico City, whatever that means. Conchita said you’d know. Oh, yeah. I’ll throw in your mail.”

Claire exhaled. It took a village.

* * * *

Claire drove out of town, back to Alex’s, where she’d dropped Rob Rhino off a few days earlier. How far was it, for God’s sake? She thought it was only a few miles out of town. She couldn’t keep anything straight.

Claire passed the strip joints, the churches, the massage parlors, and the dive bars without pause. It felt familiar, nothing out of the ordinary. She was hard to impress, now. “We Strip for Jesus” went almost unnoticed. She drove by Alex’s, preoccupied. Oh, right. Alex’s…that’s the place. She spun around. The guy honking his horn in the oncoming lane waved his free arm like he was putting out a fire with it.

“Prick.” She careened back and forth across both lanes a few feet before pulling off into the dirt in front of the warehouse.

The parking lot teemed with cars, trucks, and SUVs. Only a small spattering of cars dotted the church parking lot across the highway, even though it was Sunday. A Corolla pulled out of All Saint’s and drove straight across into Alex’s. The lascivious were giving the Lord a run for his money. Claire drove around a couple times and got lucky. An old VW van pulled out near the entrance.

At the double doors of Alex’s, Claire noticed “The Last Day for Rob Rhino” on the marquee, unblinking. Marquees in daylight seemed sad. The giant, porn warehouse with blacked-out windows sitting underneath it didn’t help. Claire pushed through the heavy, mirrored doors with both hands.

“Macho, macho man. I’ve gotta be a macho man. Macho, macho man…”

The disco music, strobe lights, smell of ashtrays, and burnt rubber hit her in the face. She should run but didn’t. The party going on kept her riveted.

Claire walked the center aisle on the Oscar ceremony red carpet, clutching her Prada bag. Metal racks on both sides holding God-knows-what stretched as far as Claire’s eyes could see…which wasn’t far with the dim lighting, in the warehouse, and her head. The voice on the loudspeaker was saying…no clue. She couldn’t understand it over the din. Like lewd lemmings on their way over the ledge, everyone scurried in the same direction. Above the pack, she saw iron cages suspended from the ceiling. Nude, not-so-skinny women—porn palace hostages—danced inside. One wore a live snake wrapped around her neck.

“Macho, macho man…”

Yep. Time to run screaming. This was probably a bad idea.

The crowd parted. With honeys who might as well be naked on both arms, Rob Rhino held court, center stage. A long line to his left curled around the side of the warehouse, where men and women of all shapes and ages gripped Rob Rhino merchandise in their sweaty—didn’t want to know where they’d been—palms, waiting for the “Ruler of All He Surveyed” to give his blessing.

Claire was about to hightail it out when he honed in on her like a heat-seeking vibrator.

“Claire. You made it,” he boomed. He shook off the bimbos and skipped over. A communal groan went down the line. “Come with me.”

Claire stood cemented to the spot.

Rob scanned the room. “Don’t let this scare you. It’s PR…just for show.”

Claire took a tentative step forward. The Village People stopped singing. The naked dancers opened their cages with a clang and started climbing out. It sounded like prison at exercise time. A rope ladder unfolded from a cage, and a burly guy in a tight T-shirt with a bright, yellow “A” on his chest waited on the ground with a crate and a stick. He must be the snake-handler. An identical guy to his right held a robe and a towel—the stripper-handler.

“You’d be a hit here, you know,” Rob said.

Claire peeled her eyes away to look at Rob Rhino and said her first word since entering Sodom. “What?”

“Bald is a fetish.”

A vein in Claire’s forehead kept time with the strobes. “Leave it to you, Rob Rhino, to use my condition—”

“Even better if you were an amputee…or a midget.”

“Okay, that’s it—”

“I’m kidding. There I go again, pissing you off.” He started walking again, leading her by the elbow. “Loosen up. Try to have some fun.”

“You’re nauseating, Rob Rhino.”

“You’re uptight, Claire Corrigan. Come meet Alex and the girls. They’ll love you.” He steered her toward the platinum, top-heavy titans. “Bald is a fetish,” he said under his breath. “…so are amputees and midgets.”

Claire almost said, “Get your mind out of the gutter,” but this was a gutter, so she kept her mouth shut.

Rob introduced her to Cherry and Sundae—the twins—with a straight face. Both girls ooohed and aaahed over her smooth scalp. More than once, Claire opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out—a baby bird waiting for its mother to drop in a worm.

Alex—a jolly, ZZ Top-bearded lug of a man—lunged at Claire. “Fantastic to meet you.” He pumped her arm up and down, like her breasts would inflate. “Are you in the business? You’re hot. Love, love what you’ve got going on up there.” He pointed at her head.

Did he say she was hot?

“I’m gonna sign for another fifteen minutes. Then, its break time.” Rob winked and turned to the pimply-faced kid with a DVD clutched to his concave chest, waiting next in line. He looked too young. How much weirder could this get?

“Hey, son. Get over here, and get your picture taken with me and the twins, Cherry Sundae.” Rob Rhino said their names together, like the dessert, and slapped the kid on his bony back. “It’s another twenty bucks but worth it. No, your mama won’t like it…but your mama’s not here now, is she? She is? Well, let’s get her over here…make it a quintet.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Over here you’ve got your basic anal probes, nipple clamps, butt plugs, and penis extenders,” Alex said. He’d volunteered to give Claire a look-see around the warehouse while Rob Rhino finished up with his fans. Claire was anxious to escape the twin’s scalp ministrations. Cherry told Claire her head was the same shape as her grandpa’s, so she went along.

Penises of all sizes lined one complete wall—large and extra-large sizes…and colors. Fluorescent pink, silver, gold, candy apple red, flesh, and pitch black. Plastic, foam, rubber, fiberglass, and ceramic. Battery operated, strap-on, pump-ups, and plain, stand-alone, do-nothin’ dicks. One was tattooed, another starred and striped, and one for the crafters—an embroidered, patchwork doozy.

“Who buys this stuff?” Claire couldn’t believe a whole warehouse could stay in business full of…of…dick stuff.

Alex looked out across the sea of people in the packed warehouse. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

Claire stayed close to Alex, who at least looked disease-free. Rob Rhino must think he’s trustworthy if he kept coming back. He said they went way back, or something like that. You know what they say: the perverts you know are better than the perverts you don’t. She’d need to get her head examined if she got out of there alive.

“Along here, you’ve got your blow ups, your ticklers, your strap-ons, your bangers, pumps, and your basic slings.” Alex squeezed a life-sized Angelina Jolie replica with her air-filled legs in a permanent spread-eagle and her bee-stung lips in a perfect ‘O’. “If we don’t have it here, it doesn’t exist. We gift wrap, too.”

“What a relief at birthday and holiday time,” Claire said. Did she live in a bubble? Did these people live among everyone else, undetected?

“Here’s the films—Rob Rhino territory. They’re arranged by category: Anal, Bi, Asian, Black, Evil Empire, Anime, Diabolic…”

Big flat screens on the wall ran movies on mute. Claire squinted to get a clearer look. A dark-haired man in scrubs—shirt only—was giving it his all to a blonde with a nurse’s uniform bunched up around her waist. In a hospital setting, of course. Good God almighty. How big was his…? Claire clamped her eyes shut. A much younger Rob Rhino. She could’ve lived her whole live without seeing that in High Def.

“My Granny is a Tranny, Lard Lovers, Screw My Husband, Please, and one of my favorites…Tits Ahoy.” Alex was pulling DVD cases out of the racks, reading off names to a traumatized Claire.

“All righty, then. Is there a place to sit down?” Claire did her best to look peaked, which wasn’t tough to do.

“…and over here’s the fetish section. You’ve got your gimps, your knocked up, your fatties. I could get you in here in a sec with that scalp…” Alex stopped. “Oh…hey, are you okay? Let’s hit the lounge for a minute or two. How’s that sound?”

A lounge? God help her. Would the detectives know where to look for her body?

He led her toward the back, where the restroom arrows pointed to a small, quiet area that looked like the break room for employees in any company in America—except for the six-foot, erect penis jutting out from the wall. They sat.

“Better?” Alex said.

“Yes, thanks,” she said to the enormous penis. Claire turned her chair away from the phallic wall art. Sweat beads lined up like a string of pearls across her throat and forehead. Her mouth felt rough. No moisture. She could feel the panic begin its dreaded ascent from her solar plexus. She thought she’d taken a pill a little more than an hour ago. This place was too much. She reached into her purse for another.

He got her a bottle of water from the fridge and sat down. “So, what’s your day gig?”

“Mine?” Claire was taken aback. No one thought she did anything. They were right. “Well, I don’t have one…unless you count rich widow.”

“A widow? That’s a shame.” Alex rested his goateed chin in his hand. “Rich is good, though. If you can get it. So, I guess you’re not lookin’ for a job?”

“No, afraid not.” She took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her face, trying not to think of the erection behind her. She guessed workplace sexual harassment wasn’t an issue here.

“Too bad. We could put you to work in a New York min—”

“No offense, but I don’t think I’m the porn type.”

“What type is that?” Alex looked amused.

“Well, you know better than me.” Claire readjusted her tailbone on the metal chair. “Low self-esteem, poor, uneducated, addicts.” Cherry and Sundae came to mind. Rob Rhino, who was too stupid to get out of the way of oncoming traffic. “Dumb as bricks. I’ve read the statistics.”

Alex yanked the bottom of his beard, resting on his belly, and laughed. “Is that so?”

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you guys.” Rob Rhino sauntered in and opened the fridge. “Love my fans. It’s a great crowd, but man. Sometimes, I feel like a piece of meat.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I like mine bleeding, cold, and quivering in the middle.” Rob Rhino licked his chops, rubbed his hands together.

The waitress looked at the floor. “What can I get you, Ma’am?”

Claire ignored the slight. “I’ll have the chicken and dumplings. Cooked.”

Claire wanted to get out of Alex’s. So much so that she agreed to walk across the highway with the man of the hour to grab a bite at Ma Pringle’s. Plus, she felt starved. She lost track of when or where she last ate. She lost track of a lot.

“I love the steak here. It’s a tradition.” Rob smiled. It didn’t seem to take much to make him happy. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t think you would.”

“That’s two of us.”

“It wasn’t so bad, you gotta admit.”

“That place is any decent person’s nightmare. Explains a lot about you, though.”

“You always gotta bust my balls, don’t ya?”

“Wouldn’t get near ‘em.” Claire spied the creepy-looking guys in the next booth. One pointed at Rob and whispered to his companion. “Alex seemed all right, though.”

“He’s a champ. Between Alex and my manager, they’ve kept me going.”

“Your manager?”

“Yep. He’s top of the line. I’m one lucky slob.”

“Lucky, I don’t know. Slob, yes.”

“There you go, again. Bustin’ my balls.”

Claire wracked her semi-sedated brain for an appropriate segue to the question she wanted to ask. What’s a gracious lead in for “what’s the story with your dead wife”? The waitress brought a basket of bread and a bowl of orange-colored margarine. She stared at Claire’s head so closely, she almost dumped the whole thing in Claire’s lap.

“Oh…so sorry…let me get that…sorry.” The waitress plucked the bread slices off the table and tossed them back into the basket in a hurry.

“Don’t worry about it. No problem.” Claire pursed her lips and brushed the crumbs off her shoulder.

The waitress turned blotchy pink under her spackled makeup and scurried back to the kitchen.

“You’re a champion. You know that? Bravest person I’ve ever seen.” Rob Rhino put his dimpled hand over hers.

Claire let his hand rest. She didn’t want to feel moved. She rolled the inside of her cheek between her teeth and fought tears. “I’m not brave. I’m bald. I handle it. That’s it.”

“No way. You fuck with it. Tell it to go to hell, and beat it to the ground.” Rob shook his head. “I think you’re amazing.”

She left his balls alone.

* * * *

The waitress cleared dinner dishes, wiped down the table, and brought their banana cream pie and coffee. She got it all on the table without incident. Claire was running out of time.

He beat her to it. “Why have you waited a year to bury your husband?”

Taken aback, she told the truth. “I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do with him…what he most deserved.”

Rob Rhino turned the sugar dispenser over and poured a steady stream of it into his coffee cup. “Deserved? Hmmm…what did you decide?”

“That he needed to spend eternity with his father, his family.”

He stirred but didn’t respond. Claire took advantage.

“Why did you lie about where your wife is buried?”

He kept stirring. “I didn’t.”

“You did. I looked. That wasn’t her headstone.” Claire pushed her pie plate away. She wouldn’t admit she’d searched the cemetery database.

“She doesn’t have a headstone,” Rob said.

Claire hadn’t considered something so benign. “Where is she?”

“Under the shade tree. The most beautiful place in the cemetery.” He’d stopped stirring.

“Why doesn’t she have a stone?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to know she’s there.”

* * * *

The bell over the door tinkled. A slick, dark-haired, used car salesman-type in a lavender, silk shirt with a Dali-thin moustache said, “Hey, Rob. Let’s go. Your fans are restless. You’ve been over here forever.”

Rob stood. “Freddie Eddie, come meet Claire Corrigan.” Rob scurried to the register to pay the bill. He yelled as he went, “He’s my manager.”

Freddie Eddie slithered over, smirked, and nodded. “I’ve heard about you.” Whatever he’d heard, it hadn’t impressed him. Claire could tell. Freddie Whattie?

She primped her naked, sweaty scalp and glanced up at Rob’s manager, forlorn. His eyes shone hard, his expression Mount Rushmore. Tough crowd.

“I’ve never heard about you,” she said. Take that, snake.

Why would he have heard about her?

Rob came between them, shoving his wallet in his jeans. He wiped his hands on his hula girls and palm trees. “Hey, Freddie Eddie, you got one of those flyers? For my speech?”

Freddie Eddie had already pushed Ma’s door open. “In the car.”

The sleek, blood-colored corvette gleamed at the front door. Freddie Eddie hadn’t bothered with a parking space. He leaned into the driver’s side through the rolled down window, pulled his head out, and handed Rob a goldenrod paper.

Claire gaped behind him. So, Freddie Eddie was the mysterious driver.

“Here. Come listen to my speech.” Rob beamed. Freddie Eddie slammed the car door behind him and started the car.

“Speech?” Claire scanned the paper. “A 21st Century Porn Star? You’re speaking at an alumni event at the university? For Trustee Week?”

Rob opened the passenger door. “Yeah. The Influence of Pornography in the 21st Century.”

She stared. That’s what it said. “Alumni?”

Rob’s head wobbled. “Yeah. Got my graduate degree, and I taught there.”

“You were a teacher?”

Rob laughed. “Yes, a history professor.”

Claire’s hand worked like mad at the bottom of her bag while she read the bottom of the flyer. Doctor Raymond Horowitz, or as he’s known to his fans, Rob Rhino—adult film and reality TV star. She squawked like an idiot parrot. “A history professor? You taught history…”

Rob got in the car. “Couldn’t get a PhD in pussy.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Mrs. Corrigan? This is Daryl Post. I handle public relations for the university.”

“Oh…yeah…uh huh.” Claire tried to sound awake, though she wasn’t until the phone rang. She squinted at the clock. Ten-thirty, already?

“Is this a good time? I’m notorious for calling at obscene hours. Thought I’d waited ‘til late enough this morning—”

“No, no. It’s fine. Still getting used to the time difference. West coast—” Claire spent a fitful night. The thing with Rob Rhino, the usual up and down with the pills. They didn’t get to close it out the way she’d wanted. His story sure didn’t end where he’d left it. She’d found the hotel’s ice machine—broken. Her toe throbbed where she’d kicked it.

“The dean said you wanted specific language in the press release?” Daryl jolted her back to the present.

“Oh…uh huh.” Too much thinking. She rubbed her sore toe. “Well, let’s see…I want the Corrigan family, not just me. All the names on the press release. Okay?”

“Names? What names?”

“Ummm…me—Claire, Grace. That bitch Eliz—”

“Are you sure this isn’t a bad time? I can call back.”

Claire rubbed her tongue around her teeth, trying to find some moisture in her mouth. Nope, none. “I’ll call you later with all the names and spellings.”

“Great. Is that it?”

She opened and shut her eyes a few times, like lid exercises, hoping to find focus. “Ummm…what about radio and TV?”

“A gift this substantial will make the local news. Do you want to do an interview? I could get you one on the local station.”

Interview? “Hey, my sister-in-law. She could do it, right?”

“If that’s what you’d like, sure. You could do it together.”

“Ahhhh…no. I’ll call you back in a couple days, okay? Not too late is it?”

“We’re not in a big hurry. This is Mayberry. Drying paint is big news.”

Claire took down his number with a lip pencil from the bottom of her purse and crawled back into bed. With her slick skull on the cool pillow, she stared at the smoke-stained popcorn ceiling while trying to figure out the Rob Rhino enigma. What disturbed her more? His dead wife or his brain? Couldn’t put her shaky finger on whatever she felt about it. Like reaching for her hair. She expected to feel something but didn’t. There was nothing.

Her thoughts bobbed and weaved through the alleyways of her head. The porn king had a doctorate. He’d gone from history professor to pervert. Claire couldn’t fathom why…she thought there were more pills in these bottles. She wished she could organize her scrambled thoughts. Too many broken ones, strung together in a strange tapestry with no clear meaning. She and Rob Rhino seemed to be in the same place at the same time a lot. They had in-laws in the same town. They both had dead spouses, soon to rest in the same cemetery. A match made in—Claire didn’t bother to finish the thought.

* * * *

Claire sat straight up and looked at the clock—12:30. She’d fallen back asleep. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and threw back the covers. Rob Rhino’s porn speech commenced at two. She lurched to the shower. The booze/drug leftover would wear off soon enough. She perked right up under the bracing water and experienced a few minutes of feeling almost normal, until the sweating, panic, racing heart, mouth dry as a dead man’s resurfaced. Thank God for the pills.

The shrill of the ringing phone tripped Claire up while she grappled with her towel and the cocktail she tried to pour.

“What?”

“Hello to you, too,” Annabelle said, whining already. “You could’ve just let the voicemail get it. Conchita sent your stuff. It should get there, tomorrow. I helped her box it up. You got another one of those letters. From the same place.”

Claire’s empty stomach churned, looking for something to tangle with.

Annabelle kept on, “I stuck it in the box with the rest of the mail, okay?”

“Oh, sure. Probably advertising. Everyone wants to give me advice now that I’m…now that Liam…you know…hey—” She wanted to talk about something else. “Any word from Jordan?”

“No. They’re not back. Extended weekend.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I think tomorrow.”

Claire sat on the bed, heavy. “I see.”

“Clairesicle…don’t sound so sad.” She hadn’t called Claire that ridiculous name since she was a kid. Clairesicle like Popsicle, her favorite after-school treat. Annabelle was big on goofy nicknames. She called Liam Daddy Warbucks for obvious reasons. He hated it. Jordan was Jordy. He hated it, which ensured its use. Claire used to say, “How ‘bout aaaaaa…popsicle?” and Annabelle, in her babyish voice, would squeal, “Yeeeeaaah, but first…aaaaaa…Clairesicle.” Then, she’d throw her arms around Claire’s neck. Annabelle, the mother-less girl. Claire’s eyes clouded.

“I’m all right,” Claire said.

“I wonder.”

“Jordan never should’ve moved to San Francisco. Steven lured him there.” Claire’s soggy hands clenched the towel in her lap.

“Oh, Claire. That’s not true. Jordy moved to San Fran, because he loves it there. Because of you.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“He told me his favorite memory is the vacation you took with him there. Before you married Liam. You drove to San Francisco when he was just a little kid, just the two of you.”

Claire hung her head, almost dropping the phone. The tears came quick,hitting the terrycloth with a quiet thud.

“He remembered you were broke. You stayed in some rat hole place in Chinatown that smelled like grease and a dirty fish tank. The lady at the front desk was like a hundred. She didn’t speak a word of English.” Annabelle laughed.” He worried you’d starve on the trip. You didn’t think he’d notice, but you only had enough money for one of you to order off the menu. He’d order, and you’d eat his leftovers.”

Claire knotted up a handful of her towel. Damn kid. Too smart for Claire’s own good…even back then.

“You took him to the pier, Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum, Alcatraz, rode those weird rickshaw bicycles, and took his picture next to a guy painted silver. He remembers every second and can recite whole conversations you had together. He loves San Francisco, because it reminds him of you.”

“So, what are you saying, Annabelle? This is my fault?”

“No…Claire—”

“It’s always the mother’s fault, right? Son is gay, turn on the mother.” Claire stood. The towel dropped, leaving her naked. “I’m running late. I’ve got to go.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Her brain worked like a sieve.

Procuring a ticket ahead of show time strained through like so much pasta water. Miss Bossy Pants at will-call informed her, with regret, Rob’s speech had been sold out for weeks. Even Claire’s naked head couldn’t turn up a ticket.

“Here.”

Claire spun around. Freddie Eddie wore a shiny suit, hair greased up, his pointed ears flattened. He handed her a ticket.

“Let’s go.” He waded through the packed reception area. Claire struggled to keep track of him in his lifted shoes. A beaming poster of Rob Rhino greeted her from the center of the hall—A Porn Star for the 21st Century in big, lime green letters beckoned across the top. Same Hawaiian shirt and clogs. His closed mouth hid the gaping hole where his tooth used to be. Finally, a publicist somewhere convinced him to shut his pie-hole into a closed lip smile. Claire elbowed her way through the crowd, ignoring the occasional stare, point, or whisper.

Freddie Eddie led her to a front and center seat, a VIP in the standing-room only capacity crowd. She could touch the stage if she wanted to. Rob peeked out from behind the curtain right after her ass hit the cushion. She could tell he was happy to see her, but he didn’t approach her.

Freddie Eddie sat next to her. Oh, brother. Did he have that diamond post in his nose before? Didn’t he know he was about 150 years too old for it? She wondered if he knew about Gloria. He must know. The manager always knows, but Rob said no one knew. Maybe, he didn’t count Freddie Eddie as a someone. He seemed barely human. Creep.

Jordan hadn’t seen anything shocking about Gloria when he looked Rob Rhino up. Wait…he’d left that message the other night…said he found more info. Claire hadn’t called him back. Well, she did, but she’d talked to Maura, instead. Claire’s heart beat faster. Her mouth went chalky. Never mind that, now. She was about to lean over to prod Freddie Eddie, who was almost mute for Christ’s sake, when a familiar face caught her eye. A too-tanned face. Lifeboat-sized tits. The ex-stripper from the Dean’s Council dinner—the one she’d last seen climbing up Rob Rhino’s leg on the dance floor. Pitiful. Sweat pooled in Claire’s armpits. Her legs felt damp under her jeans.

The auditorium lights dimmed. Rob Rhino sauntered out to thunderous applause. He moved to the center of the stage with a headset on. With two pudgy arms, he motioned for the crowd to quiet down. They obeyed.

“How many of you would rather get your rocks off than listen to some old has-been talk about it?”

A wave of raucous laughter moved over the vast crowd.

“Come on, now. Let’s see some hands.” Rob peered out over the packed room, one hand flattened over his brow like a sailor seeking dry land. “No worries. Put ‘em up. Let’s get real.”

Hands went up. Mostly chuckling, tentative men.

“How many of you got to choose between the two?”

Louder laughter, followed by groans, air slashed by hands going down.

Rob grinned, satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about, my friends. That’s why porn in—”

Claire’s blood searched the maze of her body, looking for its little helpers. Rob faded from view. His mouth opened and lips moved, but she heard nothing. Someone had dialed down the sound. A porn star mime in rubber, lime-green clogs. She looked at Freddie Eddie—she thought he was laughing. No sound. Claire’s chest tightened. The only thing she heard was her booming heart. Crashing, thundering in her chest.

She looked around, certain somebody would tell her to keep the noise down. Sweat dripped faster than she could wipe. The greasy chicken sandwich she ate in the car came to life. It slinked up the back of her throat, pecking and clawing. The ringing in her ears made her want to yell, “Somebody answer the goddamn phone.” She jumped up and ran out of the building, stepping on feet and purses on her way. Freddie Eddie stood up and tried to stop her, but she kept going. If she didn’t get out, she’d die.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Claire hit the reception area and stopped dead. She felt faint. She reeled to the nearest bench, putting her head between her knees.

“Claire? What the fuck?” Freddie Eddie squatted on the ground in front of her. “Get me some water.” He motioned to an usherette.

Claire kept breathing deep, long breaths. If she opened her mouth, her chicken sandwich would reappear, worse for the wear. The wide-eyed usherette, most likely a student volunteer, rushed over with a paper cup of water.

“Here you go.” Freddie Eddie put the cup to Claire’s lips.

Claire sat a few more seconds, not moving. Only breathing. The room stopped spinning long enough for her to look up. She reached into her pocket, took two pills with Freddie Eddie’s cup of water, and put her head right back down. She’d left her purse locked in the car. She didn’t want to forget it in the auditorium. The stash in her pocket turned out to be good foresight, like usual.

“Christ, another addict.” Freddie Eddie stood up. “Of course.”

Claire’s head jerked up, “I’m on medication. From a doctor.” She spit out the words. “Guess I forgot to take it before I got here.”

“I’m sure you are. I saw you popping pills in the parking lot at the restaurant. Look at you. How many doctors do you have?”

Claire’s already red face burned a deeper shade. “What difference does that make? What’s it to you?” She wiped the sweat off her neck with her empty hand.

Freddie Eddie shook his head. “To me? Not a fucking thing. You can overdose in the parking lot for all I give a fuck. To Rob? That’s something else. He’s taken you under his wing. He can’t pass up a lost cause. Do us all a favor. Before this gets out of hand, go away.” Freddie Eddie turned on his Italian leather heels and went back inside the auditorium.

* * * *

Claire fumed, staggered all the way out to her car, and took another pill. So, she took a few pills? Had more than one doctor? So what? Freddie Eddie—what grown man would call himself Freddie Eddie, anyway—didn’t live her life. He didn’t have a clue what she’d been through. No one did. She stopped a few times to lean against parked cars to steady herself. Where the hell had she parked the car?

She roamed-stumbled-leaned, roamed-stumbled-leaned for half an hour before finally finding her rental. She pulled the keys out of her pocket and got in the back seat. If she laid down for just a minute or two, she’d be a new woman. Finally, the sweating stopped, her stomach ceased its assault, and the sledgehammer quit bashing at her skull. She stretched out as much as she could in the back—too tall—closed the door, and reached behind her to open the window a crack. Ah…better. She closed her eyes. Her foggy, Xanax-soaked brain overflowed with a jumble of words, nonsensical. Fleeting, like dandelions in the wind.

What had Freddie Eddie said about lost causes?

* * * *

Flat on her back, Claire stared out the dirty sunroof of the car. She heard voices outside. Someone pushed against the sedan, and she rocked in the back seat. She sat up. Her bare head stuck to the vinyl, making a sucking sound when she pulled it away. Cars pulled out of parking spaces, horns honked. She could hear the usual sounds of a busy lot. She leaned back in the seat and rubbed her eyes. She felt better, a little rested. What happened?

She looked around the inside of the car, out the windows at the parking lot, scanning her mind for clues. She’d come to hear Rob Rhino’s speech. Did she? Her brow wrinkled. No…she didn’t think so. She’d gotten sick and went out to the car to lie down. That’s it.

She should see if he was still around. Apologize again to Rob Rhino. Unbelievable. She felt her pocket for her keys. Still there. A relief. She got out of the car, idly wondering if the back of her head had seat lines or red marks from the cheap, fake leather.

She maneuvered through better than before, putting one foot on the curb when Rob Rhino called her name.

“Claire, there you are. I saw you run out. I wanted to stop the show.” His face a mask of concern. “Freddie Eddie said you…well…he said you were sick.”

Claire turned stony. Freddie Eddie. She remembered. “Nothing to worry about.”

Rob Rhino looked her over, like he was checking for ticks. “Okay, if you’re sure.” They stood on the sidewalk while the multitude filed out to their cars. It looked like every attendee waved, called out his name, and atta boy’d him on their way by.

Claire smiled. “You must’ve been a hit.”

“I did pretty well, considering it’s been a while since I’ve been in front of a group.”

“I’m sure it came right back. Like riding a bike.” Claire watched the steady stream. “Or a nurse…”

Rob laughed. “See how funny you are when you’re not all uptight?”

“Hey, Freddie Eddie.” Rob called to his manager who had his arm around the wide-eyed usherette. “We’re gonna take a breather for a few minutes.”

Freddie Eddie saw Claire, smirked, and nodded.

“Hold down the fort.” Rob turned to Claire. “Feel up for a little walk?”

* * * *

Rob walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Claire wasn’t sure where they were, where they were going, or how she got there. There were graves, though. Always graves.

The pills relaxed the muscles across her back, shoulders, and neck while keeping her heart from falling out onto the sidewalk. They did a number on her tongue, too. She and Rob Rhino walked around the headstones and the tourists.

“What happened with Gloria?”

Rob kept walking, facing straight ahead. “She had a drug problem. Heroin.”

Now, that was a drug.

“Oh…I—” She didn’t know what came next. He clammed up.

“Why don’t you want anyone to know where she’s buried?”

Still walking, Rob said, “Because I’m not supposed to know where she is.”

Claire reached both hands out, blocked him. “Stop. What’s the story?”

He stepped off the path, and she followed. “When Gloria died, her parents blamed me for her drug problem, her death. I was pretty fucked up. They didn’t want me involved with her funeral arrangements, her burial. I felt so terrible, so sorry. I agreed to everything they wanted.”

“What’d they want?”

“They wanted to inter her ashes somewhere I would never know, and for me to never darken their door, again. So, I gave them up and stayed away.” Rob leaned against a crypt. “We’d been in California. The Valley. The porn capital of the world.” He spit out the words. “I had her cremated before I brought her back. We were already estranged from her family. They hated me for going into the business, hated her for staying. Her father is a minister, after all.”

“But you do know where they buried her.”

“No, I buried her there.”

“How? I thought you said you gave her parents her ashes.”

“I switched ‘em.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“You switched ‘em?” Claire couldn’t comprehend it. “Switched what?”

“The ashes,” Rob said, his tone even, as if it was normal. “Well, not with another person’s. Fireplace ashes. Not like anyone looks.”

“You did not. Tell me you didn’t.” Claire laughed. She couldn’t help it.

“I did.” Rob smiled, his missing tooth making him look like a grade school kid. “It wasn’t easy, either. I’d already given up the urn. So, it was quite a covert operation to break into the chapel and pull the switch.”

“Oh, my God. You are something else. You broke into the chapel?”

“I had help.”

“You had help? Christ, it’s like Mission Impossible around here.” Claire didn’t think this place could get any more bizarre.

“You can’t get through this life without good friends. That’s all I can say.” Rob Rhino smiled, reliving his dastardly endeavors.

“So, a friend broke in for you?”

“Yeah. A good friend of mine worked here at the school. I have a lot of friends here from my prof days…or did. Anyway, he broke in the night before the parent’s service and pulled the switch. Gave me back my wife’s ashes. No one was the wiser. Gloria’s parents went on about their business. They interred some fireplace ashes who-the-fuck-cares where, and I had my own, private funeral service on the down-low.” Rob did a little hop.

“You are amazing, Rob Rhino. You are.” Claire shook her head.

Rob gazed across the horizon. “I’d crossed so many lines in my life by that time. I figured, what the fuck.”

Claire followed his eyes out over the grounds and off into the heavens. The clouds drifted and rolled in a sky so majestic, it might convert the unbeliever. Liam would like it here if he didn’t hate it.

“I’m no cemetery expert, but this has to be up there with the most beautiful,” Claire said.

“Gloria loved it. She’d been coming here since she was a kid to admire it. I could’ve kept her urn, but I had to bury her here, in this beautiful, majestic place. The only place I’m at peace.” Rob’s teary eyes made him look more like an old, whipped hound than a porn star.

“I’m probably pissing off Freddie Eddie. Let’s head back. Enough about me. What’s your story? I’ve rambled enough.”

“I’m afraid mine is as old as time.” Claire put one foot in front of the other. “Right before Liam died, I found out he had a girlfriend…and a baby.”

“Whoa…whoa…” Rob’s rubber heels squeaked to a stop. “Claire, I—”

“No worries.” She said in her best “Rob Rhino”. “It’s cool. I’m over it.”

“Ah…really?” Rob’s eyes moved up and down over her.

Claire stared down at Rob’s fluorescent clogs—an obscenity of cheer. “Yes. Really. In fact, I’m here to bury Liam with his father, in a family crypt. They’d been estranged. I want to bring them together, make peace.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Sentimental.” Rob’s eyes narrowed. “His father is already buried here?”

“Umm hum.”

Rob Rhino stopped, tilted his head, and looked her up and down. “It’s nice, right?”

“Yeah. It’s nice. I bought a family crypt. For the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Oh, well. Bygones and all.” Rob started toward the auditorium, again.

“Liam didn’t get along with anyone in his family.”

“Oh?”

“His first wife is buried here.”

Rob Rhino stopped short. “There was a first?”

“Yes.” Claire felt in her pockets for her friends. “She killed herself.”

“Oookay…” Rob’s eyes narrowed further still. “A happy group.”

“Guess she never got over their divorce or some such bullshit.” She swallowed.

“I wonder if Liam was in my history class?” Rob chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”

Claire laughed. “No…no…he never went here. He hated this school, thought it was for hippies, pot smokers. Oh, sorry. He hated this whole town.”

Rob laughed, loud and hard. He slapped his leg and bent over at the waist. “You’re over it all right. You’re something, Claire Corrigan.” He laughed harder.

Claire didn’t crack a smile. Her mouth hardened in a kisslike pucker while she waited for Rob Rhino to come to his senses.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—” Rob wiped his eyes. “Whooeee…you’ve got James Earl Jones sized balls. That’s some revenge scheme. Five million bucks—wow.”

“I’m not going to deny it,” Claire said. She touched her scalp. “Why should I? You’re right. I’m getting even. I spent a boatload of Liam’s precious money, which he’d hate, for the privilege. So, what?”

Rob pulled himself together. “So what, is right. Claire, come on. Are you serious?”

Claire stood ramrod straight. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You do know Liam is dead. Odds are he won’t know.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Claire wasn’t a spiritual woman. In this case, she hoped she was wrong. She clung to the convenient, ridiculous idea of eternal life. “Depends on what you believe.”

Rob sighed. “You’re right. I’m not religious. I believe in love. I’d like to think the good in us can triumph over the bad.” Rob jammed his hands in his pockets. “I want to think Gloria and I will be together, again. That’s not the point, though. That’s romance. What you’re doing is revenge.”

“And?” Claire leaned against a headstone.

“Revenge is wasted on the dead. Liam’s been gone, what? Over a year? Why did you wait? How long did it take to decide you were pissed off?”

Claire jerked and sprang off the headstone like a bird had just crapped on her head. “This is why. I’m bald you asshole. I’m bald, and it’s his fault.” The passing visitors made a wide berth around the campus odd couple, frowning at Claire’s yelling on sacred ground. “It looks like I’m going to stay this way, forever. I’m stuck here alone to deal with his girlfriend and her kid, and I have to do it with no goddamn hair. If I’m miserable for eternity, Liam can join me.”

Rob Rhino filled the short distance between them and held her hands. “Claire, it won’t matter. Whatever you do to or for the dead doesn’t matter. I know. It won’t make you feel better. It won’t make you any less bald.”

Claire’s hands went limp. Her bottom lip trembled like a child’s. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

* * * *

They walked back to the parking lot. She rattled the keys in her coat pocket and felt her hand brush up against her pills. They met Freddie Eddie loping toward them.

“Where’ve you been?” Freddie Eddie said, “You disappointed your fans. They thought you’d mingle longer. I’ll bet Alex’s is packed next weekend. I handed out flyers.”

“I’m sure you took up the slack,” Rob Rhino said. “You break enough hearts in my absence.”

Freddie Eddie winked and chuckled. “Just a couple.”

“A real pleasure to see you again, Claire.” Freddie Eddie bowed at the waist. When he straightened up his eyes looked lifeless.

Claire gazed over his head and stayed silent.

“I’m gonna walk Claire to her car. Then, we can take off,” Rob said.

Freddie Eddie waved goodbye and headed in the opposite direction.

“I rode over with him,” he said.

“Where are you staying, by the way?” Claire left the subject of Freddie Eddie alone for the moment.

“I own a house here. Nothing fancy.”

A never ending wonder, Rob Rhino. “Why does that surprise me? Right about now, nothing should.”

“No. Right about now, nothing should.” He shook his heavy head, smiling a rueful smirk.

“Well, here’s my car. I can take it from here.” She unlocked the door.

“How long are you staying?”

“Three weeks, if you can believe it. Long story. Mausoleum shipping time and everything.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll probably see you around. I’m here for the next few months. I usually stay for the spring and early summer, before it gets too humid. I’m around campus for the rest of trustee week, plus out at Alex’s most weekends.”

“Alex’s…” Claire shook her head.

“It’s a gig, isn’t it?” He looked pleased. “Freddie Eddie’s helped me ride the wave pretty hard the second time around.”

Speaking of. “What about Freddie Eddie? Does he know about Gloria?”

“No. No one does.”

Claire didn’t know if she should feel flattered or not. “Why did you tell me? Me, of all people?”

Rob kicked at a piece of gum stuck to the asphalt. “I believe in love.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The parking lot teemed with cars. Twelve hundred visitors headed out at the same time, nobody moving. It was a toss up to see who’d get out first—the suckers in their cars, or the stiffs six-feet under on hold ‘til the second coming. Claire’d bet even money.

Her car edged forward while she dug around in her purse for something to do. She grabbed a big lump of something and yanked it out. Her cell phone cord. Guess that meant it wasn’t plugged into her phone. Which meant her phone wasn’t plugged into the outlet. Again. Still. Where was it, anyway? Probably on top of the TV in the hotel room. Oh, well. The kids knew the hotel number.

The car moved forward a tad. Some lady in a BMW honked. Like it’d help. Claire rolled down her window all the way then reached into the bottom of her purse for her pills. Stop. She put both hands on the wheel.

* * * *

It started with the dentist.

He’d had that genius idea to do her root canal with no anesthetic. Hello? Doctor Mengele calling.

“Mrs. Corrigan, the nerve is dead, but the tooth is abscessed up into your nose. The area I’d have to numb is very tender. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you. The pain from the needle would—” he’d said.

“What do you suggest?” Claire asked.

“I can do the root canal without Novocain. You won’t feel a thing.” The look on her face was the international symbol for “not on your fucking life”, so he added, “I’ll give you some valium to take before your appointment. You’ll be as relaxed as a newborn kitten.”

Doctor Mengele sent her home with more valium than he’d probably intended. At seventy-three, he’d threatened to retire for years. Claire watched him shake a few pills from a big bottle into a small one, all the while blabbing about his new fly rod. On her way out the door, he’d handed her the big bottle. She’d kept her mouth shut and kept walking, big pill bottle in hand.

That night, as a dry run, she’d tried one. Doctor Mengele was righty-o.

The runaway thoughts and choking panic that haunted her most of her life slept for the first time.

She’d mentioned her wonder drug to her Pilates instructor who gave her some life-changing advice. “They’re still giving out Valium? That’s for old ladies. Harmless. Like Advil. Anytime you go in for any kind of medical procedure, no matter how harmless, you can get that stuff. Just tell ‘em the procedure makes you nervous, and bam—you get it.”

Then, she’d looked it up online to see what else she could get it for.

Over the course of the next year, Claire had two mammograms, a CT scan for unexplained side pain, and an MRI when the CT scan was inconclusive. Then, three unnecessary root canals, two wisdom teeth removed, complained of insomnia, suffered from restless leg syndrome, and fibromyalgia.

Her days floated off into a serene haze, her nights in a dreamless, catatonic-like sleep. For a time.

When she’d suspected Liam had a steady on the side, the runaway thoughts and panic woke with a vengeance. She accelerated her fake illnesses and the valium dosage, then chased them with a small glass of wine or two in the late afternoons.

Claire pulled out of the parking lot and onto the outer campus road where traffic moved quicker. When Liam died and her hair fell out, she got a whole round of new doctors. Dermatologists, specialists, a shrink or two. She’d found the perfect setup and a different, yet similar, drug. It was an ace in the hole with her hairless widowhood. A well-placed tear brought out the prescription pad every time.

Then, she discovered she could buy the drugs online…and from Guillermo.

She turned onto the main road, out of the university. She reached back into her purse. Her pulse quickened, her mouth felt full of yarn. She decided to take a pill—just the one—when the car died. What the—?

It slowed almost to a stop. The car behind her swerved, the driver hung out his window and hollered something about her mother. It felt impossible to steer. The wheel would barely move. She pulled, hard. The sedan rolled slowly before coming to a complete stop about six inches from the sidewalk. Shit. Shit. Shit. She banged the steering wheel with both hands. What’s the deal with this goddamn car? She just put gas in it the other…at that station on…shit crap shit! She never put gas in it. The last person to put gas in this heap was probably rental car, lip ring boy back at the airport.

Now what? She’d call for help. Claire looked down at her purse. Hit the steering wheel once more for good measure. Goddamnit. Call on what? A cord? She leaned her wet forehead on the wheel. Guess hoofing it was her only option. Her hotel was a few miles away. She obviously had no idea where a gas station was and hated to ask a stranger. Have to deal with the staring, the awkward politeness, or rudeness. Claire opened the door without looking. An oncoming car nearly slammed into it, skidded out of the way, horn blaring. She jumped back. Didn’t any of these hicks watch where they’re going in this Podunk town?

After looking in all directions, she got out and started walking toward her hotel. Not five feet from the car, she heard a familiar voice.

“Claire Corrigan?” asked Rob Rhino.

If she wasn’t in such dire straits…

Claire stopped and turned. Rob and Freddie Eddie drove next to her at a crawl in Freddie Eddie’s ‘Vette.

“We’ll pull over right up there.” Rob Rhino pointed to Freddie Eddie.

Freddie Eddie stayed in the car. “What’s up? Something wrong with your car?” Rob Rhino walked as fast as his stubby legs would let him, his clogs squeaking and slapping on the sidewalk, toward Claire.

“It’s out of gas.”

Rob dropped his head and wagged it back and forth. “You’re kidding. Claire Corrigan, what am I gonna do with you?”

“Take me to get some gas.”

“Two-seater car. Hang on.” Rob did a quick waddle back to Freddie’s lech-mobile and leaned into the driver’s side window. In a few seconds, he doubled back to where Claire stood helpless, on the sidewalk. Freddie Eddie peeled away from the curb.

“Where’s he going?” Claire asked.

“Gas station, I hope.”

“By himself? How does he know what kind to get?”

“No telling what kind of trouble you’d get into alone. Unleaded. It’s a rental. Won’t need premium grade.”

“Aren’t you smart?” Claire had a less generous observation on the tip of her tongue for Freddie Eddie and his ridiculous car, but since he’d gone to get her ass out of a sling, she swallowed it. “Let’s go sit in the car. Only thing it’s good for right about now.”

They walked the few feet back to the sedan and got in.

“Now, we’re even.” Rob Rhino said.

“Even? Huh?”

“Yeah, I kinda owed you one.”

“For what?” An odd duck, this porn star.

“You picked me up on the highway and gave me a ride that first day.” He rapped the dashboard like a snare drum. “This is karma, I guess.”

“If that were true, you’d have run me over first.”

Rob cracked up. “Well, I wasn’t gonna mention that part.”

Claire’s mouth felt parched. Beads of moisture lined up across her upper lip like tiny soldiers. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and reached into her purse. Claire felt one of the many pill bottles at the bottom but didn’t pull one out. She didn’t want to take a pill in front of Rob Rhino. Why she cared, she didn’t know. She caressed the pill bottle in the dark recesses of her Kelly bag.

I believe in love.

She glanced up to find him looking at her arm sticking out of her purse. His eyes moved to hers. Caught with her hand in the pharmacist’s jar.

“You can wean off those things.” He looked stern, professor-ish.

“Why would I?” Her doctor(s) never said she should. “Not like its heroin.”

“You’re gonna end up dead, nonetheless.” Rob glanced out the window.

Claire yanked her arm out of her bag. “Not everyone dies of an overdose like Gloria.”

“What makes you think Gloria died of an overdose?”

“Didn’t you say—”

“I said Gloria had a drug problem.”

Freddie Eddie pulled up alongside her.

Claire felt exasperated. She rolled her eyes. “How’d she die, then?”

Rob grabbed Claire’s arm, his gray eyes wet, big. “I killed her.”

Chapter Thirty

They put gas in her car, and Rob insisted on following her to the hotel. Better safe than sorry. Freddie Eddie made stern faces at her and only grunted when necessary. Claire drove to the hotel and pulled into the closest open space in the parking lot still full of Trustee Week revelers. Freddie Eddie idled behind her, and Rob jumped out.

“This is me. Days Inn.” Claire got out, locked the rental, tossed her keys into her bag. She’d taken a few stress relievers as soon as Rob jumped out of her car when Freddie Eddie delivered the gas. Her anxiety ran rampant after Rob’s bombshell.

“Oh, so this is where the Princess sleeps on the pea.” The murderous porn star seemed casual as ever.

Claire licked her peeling lips. She wondered if he could hear her blood running, smell her sweat, her alarm. “I appreciate all the help.”

A dual cab truck roared up behind Freddie Eddie, revving its engine.

“Better get going, before Freddie Eddie starts kickin’ ass.”

“Wait.” Claire crept close to Rob’s ear. “Why’d you kill her?”

“She needed to go.”

* * * *

Housekeeping dollied up the biggest FedEx box anyone there’d ever seen. They had to send someone back for something sharp and heavy-duty to get it open. Claire had a few hours to sort out its contents before heading to the farm for the last supper with Liam’s family. Conchita worked her usual magic. All were well chosen, wrapped in plastic, shoes in cloth bags, a few coordinating purses, all ready to wear.

Her pills were neatly boxed, as promised. She opened them. Three full bottles. Enough to kill a horse or make this trip palatable. Guillermo knew where to go on vacation.

A manila envelope of mail. She dumped it out on the bed. This month’s Vogue—she was surprised Annabelle hadn’t snag it—and a handwritten note from Conchita letting her know that she’d kept all the bills. A brochure from Inner Peace Palace in Hawaii, junk from AAA, a subscription reminder from Bon Appetit, and a letter from Ellen’s attorney. A letter from Ellen’s attorney. One. Claire held the manila envelope upside down and shook it. Where was the other one? There should be two. When she spoke to Annabelle yesterday, she’d said there was another one. Where was it?

Claire looked at the postmark. It was dated just a few days ago, so it was the most recent. The first letter was missing. Annabelle. She picked up the phone and dialed. Her own voice on her answering machine greeted her. She dialed Annabelle’s cell. It rang once and went to her voicemail. Even Claire knew that meant it was turned off. Goddamnit.

Claire’s panic began its insidious takeover. Calm down and think. Maybe it’s lost. Got thrown away by accident. Any number of things could’ve happened. None of them bad. Maybe, it fell out the envelope and into the box. She hopped off the bed and searched. It didn’t take long, since the box was empty. Nothing. Not on the floor, either. Maybe Conchita kept it. After all, she knew about the whole mess. Conchita knew everything. Perhaps, she didn’t want Claire to get upset while she dealt with Liam’s family. Annabelle intercepted the second letter before Conchita could see it and keep it, too. That explained it.

Whew. She’d feel better if she could talk to Conchita to confirm. She looked around for her cell phone where she kept Conchita’s home number stored. Where is it? It used to be on the TV. Not anymore. It wasn’t next to Liam, either. Just the bottle of vodka. The phone was dead, anyway. She’d have to wait until tomorrow and call the house.

She opened the latest from Ellen’s attorney. Andrew said it was too early to hear anything about their offer. She scanned it. Same illegitimate son, different day. Must’ve sent it before Andrew made their offer. She tossed it into her open suitcase that sat on the floor since she got there and lay back down on the bed.

She’d been too preoccupied to give tonight’s dinner much thought. It was for the best, probably. All things Rob Rhino took up the space in her brain. Claire’s lids felt weighed down. She gave in, closed her eyes.

* * * *

The incessant ringing in her ears woke her up. Damn it. She stretched out across the bed and snatched the receiver.

“Are you all right? We just got in. Annabelle left a couple messages. Hard to know if she’s just her usual, slightly hysterical self or what.”

“What are you talking about, Jordan?” Claire closed her eyes, again.

“She thinks you’re off the deep end. More than usual.”

Don’t start. “Is that so? Speaking of, where’ve you been?”

“Do you really want to talk about that?”

Yeah, on the twelfth…of Never. “Not now.”

“You sound terrible. How much crap are you taking?”

“I just woke up. What did you need, Jordan?”

“Need? Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Claire could hear commotion in the background.

“I’m fine. What’s all that noise?”

“Steven. He’s cleaning around me.”

Steven. Great. Change the subject. “Hey, didn’t you say you had more Rob Rhino info—”

“Oh, yeah. Still hot and heavy? Don’t tell me. Let’s see…let me find it, I printed it.” She could hear drawers opening, Jordan shuffling things around. “Oh, here we go. You’ll never believe this. He was a history professor.”

“Crazy, right?”

“You already knew that?”

“He told me.”

“You saw him, again?”

“Yeah…never mind. Go on.”

“Every time I talk to you, the tale gets more lurid. Where was I? Oh, right. His wife died of a drug overdose in nineteen…wow…how long ago was that…” He paused to calculate, “…thirty-five years ago. So, you’re probably right. The guy’s a wasted druggie.”

Claire’s eyes snapped back open. “It says drug overdose?”

“It says…let’s see…actually, it says drug related. That’s code for ‘she was a junkie’.”

“Yeah, yeah. Probably right.”

“Anyway, I thought this was interesting. He’s made most of his money producing and distributing.”

“Producing and distributing what?”

“Films. Porn. Amateur, mostly.”

“Really? He never mentioned that.”

“Lover boy’s holding out on you.”

“Go on. Is there more?”

“He’s a partner in the company.”

“Did you say amateur porn?”

“That’s what it says.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Seriously?”

Rob Rhino and a nurse zipped through her mind. “Seems to me they all look pretty amateurish.”

“You’d know this, how? No, that’s okay. I’d guess amateur porn doesn’t use contract actors or scripts. No real production value. Just weirdos off the street filming in the garage.”

“Oh, you’d guess, huh?

“You asked.”

“Why would Rob Rhino produce a film with no production? How is that possible?”

“Well, maybe he wrangles the weirdos. Runs the hand-held. I dunno. He was a teacher. Maybe he taught—”

“Stop. Ick. What a bizarre world.”

“Now, all of a sudden, you’re a prude? Well, you’ll love the name of his production company.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Fresh Flesh Films.”

Chapter Thirty-One

“Your face is still pretty—around the edges.” Deborah smiled, patting Claire on the leg.

Claire looked around for help. None came. Connor gazed at his wife with indulgent adoration. Grace sat huddled in the corner with Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s husband William sat next to Claire, observing her head like a mutant germ in a Petri dish. They’d finished Deborah’s mother’s recipe for Yankee pot roast with all the fixin’s and moved from the mauve-painted dining room to the dusky blue living room—it worked in the eighties. No liquor at dinner. Claire didn’t hold out hope for any after.

“Raquel Welch has a line of wigs that look just like real hair. She’s on QVC all the time,” Deborah blathered on…so helpful. “I almost bought one myself, just to change it up. Didn’t I, sweetie?” She nodded her round head—with its own bad perm from Curl Up and Dye—at Connor, who agreed with enthusiasm. “She did. Honest.”

“Doesn’t it get chilly in the winter?” William found his tongue. Too bad.

“California is mild, so—” Claire assured him. She had to hand it to these people. They could get down to it.

“Oh, right, right.” He nodded. He went off on a tangent about temperature and weather patterns while Claire tried to absorb her surroundings. The farm was QVC and Franklin Mint purgatory. No doubt Deborah planned to keep the whole living room in its original wrapping, along with the certificate of authenticity, to cash in for their early retirement.

Claire arrived fashionably late. Deborah clucked and fussed over her like the terminally ill prodigal daughter. She and Connor seemed a good match—Eager and Beaver.

Right after Claire made her entrance, she zipped into the restroom. Eager and Beaver’s happiness at her presence made her want to induce her own coma. Elizabeth and Grace’s disdain for her offered a welcome balance. Claire hung by William—the family’s Switzerland.

Dinner passed with small talk. It occurred to her not one person asked about Annabelle since she’d arrived in town. Nor had they mentioned any other children. She hadn’t seen any photos of any, either. She guessed they assumed, or didn’t care, whether or not she and Liam had any children together.

She looked at the grim faces around the table. If anyone wanted to talk about Annabelle, or Liam for that matter, they weren’t going to do it here. She thought Grace might ask again about Liam’s ashes. Not a peep. She showed no interest in Liam dead any more than alive. None of them did. They didn’t ask a single question about his life. Deborah shuffled them all out to the living room.

Claire needed to get her business settled and leave this snake pit.

“Isn’t that right, Claire?”

“Hmmm? Sorry…I—” She fantasized about all of them in drawers in the mausoleum.

“I said you haven’t spent much time on the East Coast? Isn’t that right?” William asked.

“No, that isn’t right. We own an apartment in Manhattan.”

“That’s only two hours from here.” Elizabeth looked like she’d taken a swig of sour milk with lumps in it.

“Yes, it is.” Claire nodded. Was this a geography lesson?

“Well, it’s nice you’re here. No matter what anyone says.” William looked sheepishly in his wife’s direction, like a kid who’d just peed his pants. If she heard him, she pretended not to.

“Well, now that you mention it.” Claire wanted to get out of there. “We should discuss Liam’s memorial service, the family crypt, and everything.”

With bat radar, Grace and Elizabeth moved in closer. So far, Grace hadn’t shed any tears. No Kleenex turned up wadded and torn in her hands. She appeared made of sterner stuff this evening, perhaps fortified by the group. Strength in numbers.

“You know what I’d like to do.” Claire rubbed her head in case they forgot she was bald. “I’d like to lay the past to rest, bury Liam with his father and eventually, the family.”

“….and we don’t even know her.” Elizabeth’s voice grated on Claire’s last nerve.

Claire went on, “I’m sure you know by now I made a significant donation to purchase the newest addition to the university cemetery. As you also know, it’s a requirement.” Claire stared at Grace, looking for a sign that she knew Claire just got a dig in. Nope. Talk about a death mask. “There’ll be a lot of local press around the gift. Of course, I’d like it to be from all of us. The whole family.”

“What do you mean from all of us?” William said.

“The press release will say the gift is from the Corrigan Family and will spell out everyone’s—all of your—names. As well as mine, equally.”

“How much is the gift?” Only Elizabeth would ask that question. Claire counted on it.

“Five million dollars.”

“Merciful Father in heaven.” Grace fanned herself with an invisible fan.

“What sort of press?” The second question only Elizabeth would ask.

“Newspaper, radio…TV.”

“We’ll be famous.” William smacked Elizabeth on the back, and she flew forward. “William, really. Have some class.” Elizabeth righted herself on her chair.

“My goodness…five million dollars. I’ve never known anybody with that kind of money,” Deborah said.

“There’re a couple of things I’d like to ask you to do for me, Elizabeth.” Claire met her sister-in-law’s swooning eyes. “I’ve been asked to sit on the board of the university. I can’t. I should say, I won’t, because I don’t live here. I’d like you to do it for me. As the family representative.”

Elizabeth’s head swelled to twice its size. “Me? A board member? There?”

“Who better? If anyone will fit right in, it’s you. When I told Joe Lansing, you remember Joe, that I wouldn’t consider it, he thought of you immediately. Said you were the perfect choice. I agreed, of course.” Claire felt her nose to see if it’d grown a few feet.

“Well, I do know how to conduct myself in any situation. I did attend the DeVry secretarial course that one year.” Elizabeth’s nearly non-existent lips pursed, and her sparse lashes batted like a coquette’s. She fluffed her bad perm with one man-hand. “You said there are two things?”

“There’s the interview….”

Grace sat up, along with her daughter. “Interview?”

“Yes, a TV interview. I’d like Elizabeth to do it, since she’ll sit on the board…family rep and all. Probably this week.”

Elizabeth’s head nearly blew off her neck. “What? Television? William, did you hear that?” She popped his leg so hard, he yelped.

“My goodness. This is really something—” Deborah rubbed her chapped hands together.

“This is assuming we go forward as I suggest, of course,” Claire said.

Elizabeth looked stunned. “I wouldn’t hear of doing it any other way.”

Game, set, match.

A hard tap on her shoulder jerked her head around.

“Are you feeling all right?” Connor said, offering up her purse.

* * * *

Claire left Elizabeth and Deborah in the living room, yapping about what Elizabeth should wear for her fifteen minutes. All bodies accounted for, if not quite dead, yet. Too bad the sweating and palpitations put a cramp in her victory. She needed to duck into the bathroom then hit the road back to relative civilization. She trooped down the hallway with this season’s “It” bag in a hopeful grip. The devil really did wear Prada. Whispered voices as she passed the kitchen alerted her, drawing her in.

“Are you sure she’s not sick?” Claire couldn’t see from her spot in the dark hall, but it had to be William.

“She’s not. Unless you count dope addict as sick.” Was that Grace? Dope addict? What did she know? Who said dope, anymore?

“That explain the way she looks.”

Claire clung to the wall, stiff and straight—a cigarette and blindfold away from an execution.

“Connor said she’ll probably croak soon.” Grace didn’t bother to lower her voice.

Claire felt her mouth and eyes drop open like trapdoors.

“I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen concentration camp victims better lookin’ than her.”

What was he talking about? This outfit cost more than he made in six months! Big talk from a doofus wearing short sleeves and a bow tie.

“Those black circles under her eyes. Jesus, she weighs like, what? Eighty pounds soakin’ wet? She’s tall, too.” William continued.

Claire’s fingertips went to the puffy bags under her eyes.

“You can see her collar bone from a mile away.” Grace said. “Talk about soaking wet. She sweats like a teamster.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. Blech. It’s even cold in here with the refrigeration on.” William coughed, as if to make a point.

Claire dropped her head, humiliation too heavy to keep it up.

“Liam always did like the fragile ones. Like Bonnie. He sure could pick ‘em,” Grace said. “She liked her pills, too. Remember?”

“She used to call Elizabeth when we lived in that apartment over on Center Street, when they first moved to California. Always crying, high as a kite,” William reminisced.

“Here, too.” Grace sighed. “She always wanted to talk to Emmet. Not that she did.” Grace made a sharp, snorting sound. “Like I ever knew where Emmet was. Bonnie didn’t like me. Neither did her parents. Especially after. They blamed all of us for her slittin’ her wrists.”

“This one doesn’t like you much, either…looks to me.” William chuckled. “What’s the deal with the hair, again?”

“She says it fell out, but you never know with those California weirdos. She could be one of those Scientolo—”

Claire hurried down the hall, hand over her mouth. She got to the bathroom door, but it was closed. Goddamn it. Tears pooled in her eyes. Who did these yokels think they were talking about? She raised both fists to bang on the door when flickering lights and the unmistakable smell of hot wax caught her attention. On a low table at the end of the hall, candles burned. She walked toward them, mesmerized. Who lit the candles? They weren’t lit before, were they? She hadn’t noticed any of this when she’d used the bathroom earlier.

In a smoky silhouette, like some voodoo sacrifice, three framed photographs stared down at Claire from the wall. Shadows jumped across them, candle wicks dripped and hissed. Up close, the acrid smell stung Claire’s nose. One black and white photo looked like young Liam—a graduation picture, maybe college. Another of an older man who bore a strong resemblance to Liam in a suit with a flower in his lapel. Emmet, she bet. Maybe at someone’s wedding. The last one, in color, was a white-faced, young Deborah cradling a newborn wrapped in a lamb-covered blanket. Tight, cocoon-like, its eyes closed. Was it sleeping or dead? Claire could see her grimace reflected back in the glass.

So, Connor and Deborah had a child. No one mentioned it during all the talk about the family crypt. The colors in the baby’s photo had faded with time. How much time was hard to tell—ten, fifteen years? She looked down at the blazing candles. At least twenty votives in glass jars flanked a two-foot statue of the Virgin Mary.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

Hail Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

A shrine at the end of the hall of tears.

Claire’s false peace-making mission gave her a feeling of crushing sadness…and guilt. Her stomach hurt. Her eyes traveled from Liam’s picture back to Emmet’s. What was it like for the two of them before it went bad? Were they ever close? If they could speak now, what would they say? Grace said Emmet would want to be with Liam in death. Would he? Claire knew what Liam would say. The road to retribution was paved with Liam’s protests. Maybe Rob Rhino got it right. Revenge was wasted on the dead.

Claire’s tears finally ran over. She brushed them away. The last thing she needed this late in the game was second thoughts or a conscience. She looked again at the baby. Just an infant, never lived at all. She reached up and touched the small, glass-covered face. Claire covered her eyes, like she’d seen an eclipse unprotected. She didn’t want to know about anyone else’s loss but her own.

About to try the bathroom again, a darkened room by the shrine, with the door ajar, beckoned her. She pushed the door open. In the blaze of the candlelight, she could see the nursery furniture. The crib, changing table, and a lamb-covered dresser. A rocking chair with a thick pad, most likely handmade by Deborah. Even in the glimmer, the furniture looked new. Like a sleepwalker, Claire wandered to the middle of the room with its thick carpet, ruffled curtains, and stuffed animals. It smelled like fresh paint.

She went back to the bathroom to knock when the sounds coming from inside stopped her. She put her ear to the door. No mistaking it. Whoever sat on the other side was crying. Claire leaned back and looked down the hall toward the front of the house. Grace and William still stood in the kitchen, gossiping about her. Elizabeth and Deborah plotted Elizabeth’s rise to national fame in the living room. Claire laid her palms against the door.

Connor.

She rested her forehead on the cool surface, closed her eyes, and listened.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Claire, unplugged. She stood in her hotel bathroom under the glaring light, naked, in front of the mirror. Sans Chanel, Burberry, Prada, McQueen, or Carolina Herrera. No expensive designer label to cushion the blow. Not even a mid-priced one like DVF or DKNY. Just her. She touched the sharp edge of her collar bone where it jutted out at the bottom of her neck—her flesh pale as the belly of a tuna and just as wet. She could see her veins and count her ribs through her papery skin. Her breasts were sad, empty flaps of stretch-marked skin—the slashed tires of her womanhood. Her lips, cracked and chapped, were a purplish, inhuman color. Her already big eyes bulged out of her alien-like head. Even when she shut them, her ghoulish image stayed tattooed on her brain. She could only see herself from the waist up. A small mercy.

“I’ve seen concentration camp victims better lookin’ than her.”

She toppled over to the bed and fell down on it. Pissed, she noticed the maids left the empty vodka bottles next to the new half-full one. If they were going to sneak sips of her sauce, they could at least throw out the empties.

She needed to get these next few weeks over with. She’d already been here nearly a week. She’d see if Joe could hurry along that damn crypt. She needed to get this memorial service out of the way. As a shrink would say, she needed closure. She needed to stop thinking about Liam and how much he’d hurt her, shamed her, and move on with her life. There was Ellen, though. Claire’s eyes filled. What was the use? She still hadn’t heard anything from Andrew. Ellen would probably drag this thing out for years. Claire’s tears ran unchecked. She struggled up onto her elbows.

Drunk-dialing cheered her up at home. The nice lady at information—though, she kept saying “You’re slurring, ma’am…I can’t understand you”—told her there was no listing for a Rob Rhino; or, a Roberto Hoskowitz; or, Reynaldo Harmon. What the hell was his real name? What was that he said about love? Did he think she was beautiful? After a couple more ridiculous designation combinations, and some miraculous operator intervention, she finally got it right.

“Claire? Jesus Christ. Where are you?” Rob said.

“In this black hole of a town. Where do you think?”

“At your hotel?”

“Duh.”

“Are you all right?” His voice sounded incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re calling me. What’s wrong?”

“A lot of shit.” Claire felt the room changing shapes. “Do you think I’m ugly?”

“Ugly? What the…well, you could use a few pounds.”

“Blah, blah…”

“It wouldn’t kill you to wear a rug now and again.”

“Fuck a rug.” What imbecile would call this asshole, anyway? “And, fuck you, too.”

“I’m just sayin’…” He brightened. “Hey, I could hook you up with a bodacious set of knockers. On the cheap, too. I know a—”

“You’re a hideous…” Claire’s sobs cut off her insults.

“Hey, hey. Now…there I go, again. I’m an asshole.” Rob’s voice purred. “I was just messing with you. Trying to cheer you up, make you laugh. I’m an idiot.”

“You are an asshole.” Claire kept crying. “And an idiot.”

“You’re not ugly, Claire. Mean as a snake but not ugly.” He made “mean as a snake” sound endearing. “More like a fixer-upper.”

Claire wanted to ask him about love, but in her crazed state, she didn’t know how. She couldn’t put the letters in the right order. “Love. What about love?” She said, in a low, slurred mutter.

“You’re stoned. How much shit did you take? I’m coming over.”

“They think I’m dying. No reason.” Claire threw it out there, like a fishing line.

“Who?”

“Liam’s weirdo family. Fuckers.”

“We can talk about them when I get—”

“You don’t know where I am.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you say you killed your wife?”

* * * *

“I never should’ve told you that. I’m sorry.” Rob’s odd presence in her room threw her off. More than she already felt. “I just wanted to scare you, so you’d stop taking all those pills.”

Claire couldn’t focus. She couldn’t remember how he got in her room. Had she called him, let him in? Why was he there?

“I wasn’t scared.” She wasn’t, was she?

“I know, but I wanted you to be. So you’d stop.” He kept talking, but she stopped hearing. Like the day he gave his speech. She watched him, acted like she comprehended, yet didn’t really.

Was he saying something about Gloria? Why was he always wearing the same clothes?

She looked down at herself on the hotel bed. She had on a T-shirt, barely covering her butt and the top of her stick legs. She grabbed the bottom of it and tried to pull it down, make it longer. Rob sat across from her on a nubby chair. His hair gleamed unnaturally black, wild. He reached for her.

“It’s okay, Claire. I’ve seen it all. I’m a history professor, remember?” He made a lopsided smile. “How much have you taken?” He scanned the mess of a room “Did you drink all this tonight, too?

Claire’s eyes closed, her lips felt made of lead. She fell over on her side. Rob yanked her up, shook her.

“Is this how it’s going to end? Like this? Here, in this shit hole?” She didn’t answer. He shook her harder still. “You’re gonna go out like some street junkie?” Her head flung backward with a vicious sting. He’d slapped her. She opened her eyes wide. Her hand touched her face where she could feel the imprint of his hand, his fingers. It burned, throbbed.

“What’s it gonna be, Claire?” He smacked her again and dragged her off the bed. “Tell me. Wake up and tell me if you want to die.”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

* * * *

She laid her head on his chest, pressed against a coconut-covered tree. “Don’t you have a family in California?” he asked.

She couldn’t move her mouth. Her jaw felt sore from vomiting and the force of his hands. She nodded.

“Kids?”

Claire nodded, again.

“They’ve already lost their father. Don’t be this selfish, Claire.” He hugged her tightly against his gut.

“Why do you care?” Claire’s vocal chords, ragged and uncooperative, eked out frail sounds.

“I just do.” He held her out, away from him. “Why don’t you?”

She wondered what it felt like to kiss him with that gap in his teeth. Would her tongue fit in it? She felt herself getting warmer, hot. She wrapped her leg around his.

Claire’s trashed brain cells flung a memory to its surface, urgent. “Was it an accident?”

“What?”

“When you killed her?”

“I told you. I was just trying to scare—” Rob squeezed his eyes shut.

Claire pried them back open with her fingers. “Was it?”

“Would it matter?”

Claire felt bile rushing up her esophagus. “I hope so.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“You’ve reached Annabelle. Leave a message.”

Shit. Still turned off. Claire called like a stalker, to no avail.

Her head pounded, her hands shook. Snippets of the night before tortured her, making her cringe. Liam’s family, the dead baby. Rob Rhino. He’d been there, at her hotel. Until the wee hours, she guessed. She woke up alone. She bent at the waist—a dry heave—and jerked back up. God forbid.

Somewhere, a vague whisper of memories…she sat on the bed, smoothed her hand over the sheets, and tried to recall. Claire could still smell his musky scent in her room, lush and ripe. She licked her lips, inhaled. She could still hear his whispers, feel the flat of his hand against her face, taste blood from the inside her cheek. He’d held her, she couldn’t breathe…the choking…his hands had been on her, rough. A fleeting vision of skin, tousled covers, hovering shadows. Sweet entanglements, little deaths, silent hallelujahs. Hot, fresh, flesh.

He’d brought her back to life.

Like hanging onto fog, her thoughts dispersed. She didn’t know anything for certain. Other than she didn’t want to think about it or know for sure. She covered her face with both bony, bruised hands. If she never saw him again, it’d be too soon.

* * * *

She’d stayed away from the diner down the street since that first day, but she didn’t know of anywhere close to eat. The place clamored, busier than ever. Trustee week must mean big business in a little town like this. She stood in the crowded doorway with the other schmucks waiting for tables, and tried to decide whether or not she wanted to stay. She needed to settle her stomach, eat bread or something. The usual points and stares made the drive-thru a more attractive option when she heard her name over the racket.

“Over here, Claire. Here…” A long-fingered hand waved atop an outstretched arm encased in a lavender, long sleeve. Nice cufflinks from what she could see while squinting, but a little gaudy.

Claire elbowed her way through the waiting diners to stumble to Joe Lansing’s booth.

“Come, come. Join me.” Joe motioned toward the empty side across from him.

The thought of another meal spent like a leper made Claire grateful to see Joe. He felt like an old friend compared to the gawkers. She slid into the booth. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Are you kidding? Delighted.”

She knew he’d say that. He glowed…Queen for a day.

“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” Claire didn’t have any idea about his usual neck of the woods.

“We don’t live too far from here. I pass this diner every morning on my way to work, so I often stop in for breakfast. Lawrence and I aren’t compatible breakfast eaters.” Joe chuckled.

Claire put down her bag and smoothed her powdered cheeks. She’d put makeup on this morning for the first time in months, in an effort to hide last night’s episode. She knew Deborah’s mother’s Yankee pot roast had smelled funny. She’d tossed a cashmere pashmina around her neck to hide the finger-shaped bruises near the bottom of her cheek, neck, and collarbone. Good thing Conchita thought ahead and threw that scarf in the box. She would, having slapped Claire to her senses a time or two herself. By the look on Joe’s face, she could tell the combined affect was more Baby Jane/Norma Desmond than she’d anticipated.

“Are you feeling all right?” Joe said.

“Having trouble adjusting to the time change. Not twenty anymore, you know.” Claire rubbed her cheeks in case her blush wasn’t blended.

“When I hit fifty, it all went downhill. Everything’s around my knees, now.” Joe eyed her scarf.

He’d just ordered, but the waitress brought Claire a menu so she could catch up. They got coffee and ate their breakfasts over talk about the crypt, the upcoming memorial service, and the odd, unfinished piece of business here and there. Joe dug a piece of paper out of his man-purse to take notes.

Claire munched her toast, sat back in the booth, and looked Joe over. He was a solicitous, gentle man underneath his gold-digging—grave-digging—exterior. Funny, Joe didn’t seem too swishy. Not like the dean.

“Lawrence tells me your sister-in-law, the charming Elizabeth, will take your seat on the board of trustees,” Joe said.

“She seems the logical choice.” You poor bastards.

“She won’t be worse than a lot of them.” Joe took the last bite of his blueberry pancake.

Claire buttered her English muffin. “By the way, I saw Rob Rhino’s speech a few days ago.” She balanced her knife at the edge of her plate. “At the auditorium.”

“Ahhh…Doctor Horowitz. The infamous history professor.” Joe laughed. “Quite a character.”

“Quite. Surprising, though. The speech, the topic.” Claire sipped her coffee. “It’s not like he’s a professor, anymore. He’s a porn star for Christ’s sake. Isn’t anyone offended?”

“Perhaps a few.” Joe stacked their plates, putting them to one side. “Although, this is a liberal arts college. The dean is quite progressive.”

“Takes all kinds,” Claire said, her nostrils pinched.

“Well, Rob’s a good man.” Joe wiped the crumbs off the table onto the floor. “When he’s in town, he volunteers at the hospital’s rehab program, at our literacy outreach center, and hands out food to the homeless. Not what comes to mind when you think of a porn star.”

“A real saint.”

“His father-in-law doesn’t think so.” He pushed the stationary he’d been taking notes on toward Claire, pointing at the list of names running down one side.

She stopped mid-chew and pulled the paper toward her. “What?”

“Jesse Metcalf.” Joe tapped his buffed fingernail on the university letterhead. “He’s a trustee emeritus.”

“Rob Rhino’s father-in-law is on your board?”

“Honorary, now. He’s old. He shows up to the annual events to ramble on about how much he hates Rob. After all this time.” Joe smiled the satisfied grin of a blue-haired old lady at a coffee klatch. “You know poor Rob lost his wife many years ago. Drug addict, I’ve heard.”

Claire ears almost flapped. “Why would her father hate Rob for that?

“Who knows? Better to blame someone else for her drug habit, I guess.” Joe motioned for more coffee. “He’s so old, no one can make sense of anything he says, anymore. Nonetheless, he’s a father. Can’t blame him for not appreciating the finer points of porn. Rob was a history professor when he married her, after all.”

“What would possess him to change, well…careers?”

“Probably genetics.” Joe laughed.

Claire laughed, too. “What about her mother?”

“She’s a recluse. No one ever sees her, but she’s alive as far as I know,” he said. “She’s rich, which explains the trustee seat. Rob’s wife, I can’t remember what her name was, isn’t buried here, though…something weird about that whole thing. Can’t remember what…way before my time.” Joe shrugged. “As the World Turns.”

Claire squinted down the sides of the letterhead, printed in a tiny elegant cerulean font. “How many trustees are there?”

“Thirty governing, ten emeritus. Or, is it emeriti?” Joe laughed. “I can’t keep that straight.”

Distracted, Claire said. “He never remarried?”

“Not that I know of.” Joe poured more cream in his coffee. “Once is enough for a lot of us.

Claire’s coffee went down the wrong pipe. He said what?

“You were married? To a woman?” She didn’t mean to sound astonished…or, offensive. Not out loud.

“Surprised?” Joe laughed.

Too late to pretend she didn’t come from three generations of white trash. “I’ll say. I thought…well…you and the dean…I thought you were—”

“Gay?”

“That’s it.”

Joe laughed more. “Yes, afraid so. Card carrying but I pretended I wasn’t. So, I married a wonderful, unsuspecting woman and ruined her life.” Joe stopped laughing. “I had a kid just for kicks, so I could drag her through the whole mess, too.”

Claire’s coffee cup froze in mid-air, halfway to her mouth.

“I’m sure that’s more than you wanted to know.” Joe took off his glasses and wiped them with his napkin.

“No, no. Well, I…I’m sorry. I had no idea.” Claire put her cup down. “How long were you married?”

“Ten years. A decade of keeping the closet door, and Pandora’s Box, shut.”

“That’s heartbreaking.” Sorrow tiptoed, fragments crept to the surface.

“Yes. Terrible, lonely years for her. Then, several more to heal, to forgive.”

“No, for you.” Claire didn’t realize until she said it that she meant him. “All that pressure, the faking. Then, the guilt.”

“Well, we all got lucky in the end. Our daughter is healthy, happy, and married, now. How she came through relatively unscathed is a testament to her mother. My ex-wife went on to marry a man worthy of her, but unfortunately, she died of cancer last year. Five years ago, I met Lawrence.” Joe opened and closed his eyes, blinking back tears. “Not before kissing a lot of toads.”

Pictures, flashes, like butterflies caught in a net, worked free behind her eyes. A dark-haired child, tap, tap, tapping across the asphalt playground in his five dollar Payless cowboy boots, cherished for their heels. His boy pumps. Every Halloween embraced with fervor—the littlest drag queen. Lips pressed against a young forehead, hot from trying. A mother mourning a son who wasn’t.

“It’s not luck, Joe.” Claire had torn her English muffin into a pile of crumbs. “It’s courageous, you and Lawrence…you deserve your happiness.”

Joe reached over and put his spindly hand over Claire’s. “You’re a good person, Claire, and a lovely breakfast companion.”

She fingered the bruises near her jaw.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Hola?”

“Conchita?”

“Sí?”

“Conchita? It’s me, Claire.”

“Sí.”

“Conchita. I said, it’s Claire.”

“Sí, sí. Hola. ¿Cómo estás?”

Claire took a deep breath and counted to ten. Conchita spoke better English than Claire. Yet, she loved this Abbott and Consuela phone routine and did it any time Claire called. Jordan liked to say that Conchita loved to yanko Claire’s chaino.

“Conchita, I’ve been in an accident. I have about an hour to live.”

“Oh, good one, Claire. Good one.” Conchita laughed. “Maybe, you should talk to Guillermo instead.”

Claire got no respect. If she wasn’t so lazy, she’d fire her and look for a new…what was Conchita, anyway? What did you call a person who knew where all your illegal drugs and bastard children were? Oh, that’s right—employed.

“Hey, thanks for packing up all my stuff and sending it. Perfect choices, like always.”

“No problem.” Conchita could pack a suitcase like most people could make a peanut butter sandwich. Without thinking and in no time flat. “How are you, really?”

“How long do you have?”

“I knew you should’ve stayed home. Away from those people.”

“Well, I’m on the home stretch. Ummm…is Annabelle around?”

“No, not today. She only comes by to raid your closet.” Conchita made clucking sounds. She worked her ass off to put her two kids through college. Twenty-year-olds in two thousand dollar outfits didn’t sit well with her. “I keep telling her she has her own place, now. Time to fly the nest. Our little chica is too spoiled.”

“Good luck with that. Hey, I’ve gotten a couple of letters from Ellen’s attorney since I’ve been gone. Only one made it into the FedEx. Did one get left there?”

“¡Ay, Chihuahua! That woman. Not that I’ve seen.”

“So, you didn’t keep it there on purpose?”

“No, but I would’ve if I’d seen it. She’s waited this long. She can wait a few more weeks.”

“Shit. If you come across it, call me at the hotel. My cell is…not working right. Try to keep Annabelle out of the mail. No, better yet, I’m going to be here a while. Forward it but keep the bills. If you see or hear from her, tell her to call me pronto.”

“Sí, Señora.”

“Adios, Amiga.” It made Conchita happy when Claire threw her a bone.

Not good. Where’d that goddamn letter go? If Annabelle opened it…no, that couldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

Claire put the receiver in its cradle and her head on Liam—right where she kept leaving him, by her cell phone. Both still dead.

* * * *

The message light blinked. Claire pressed it, hoping to hear Annabelle’s voice. Two messages. Daryl Post, the university’s PR man, called to let her know Elizabeth’s television debut was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Dean Sumner would appear as well to talk about the university donor program, and Elizabeth would speak briefly about the Corrigan Family gift. The dean or someone from his office would call later to get information about Liam, so they could say a few words about him on air. A press release went out to all local media. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, there’s some good news. She hit “2” for delete and continued on.

“Claire, it’s Connor.” Claire’s already sour stomach clenched. “Hey, I…ah…I’d like to talk to you about the crypt. The service and well, everything. Give me a call tonight at the house. I’d like to have coffee or something, away from the family. I can come wherever’s close to your hotel. Thanks.”

Great.

No Annabelle, either.

* * * *

“You’ve reached Annabelle. Leave a message.”

Goddamnit. She’d called her cell like a compulsive maniac all day. Claire beat the phone receiver against the dresser. A good-sized dent appeared in the cheap plywood, and only the phone’s ringing stopped her from whittling it down to firewood. Could she get her hands on an axe?

“Andrew, tell me something I want to hear for a change.”

“She’ll take a one-time cash settlement. Ten million. Everything else goes away.”

No beating around the bush. He had that going for him. “Ten million? Are you high?”

He coughed and made choking/strangled sounds so forceful, she thought a lung might hurl through the receiver. “Ahh…no,” he finally said.

“You must be. Or, you have a head injury.” Claire’s heart jumped, kicked, and did somersaults.

“Claire, it’s a good deal.”

“For who?” Claire felt like she’d been dropped into a vat of acid.

“You’re gonna pay close to five million over time anyway, with the child support, tuition, etc.” Claire could hear birds in the background. “That doesn’t include any part of Liam’s estate or any adjustments she might ask for over time.”

“Adjustments?” Claire said, loud.

“Child support is never a closed issue until they’re of age.”

“Forget it. I won’t consider it.”

“I don’t understand, Claire.”

“Really? You’re an Ivy League graduate. Get your head out of your ass.” Claire trembled with fury. “Let me say it, again. My answer is no fucking way.”

“So, you want to go to court? ‘Cause that’s where this is going.”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

“Then, you’re not willing to negotiate? Look, we’re going to have to sell the apartment, anyway. Maybe let Conchita go. Do you even really need a ten-acre estate with all that maintenance, now that Liam’s gone?” He took a breath. “Keep in mind; this would get rid of her. One payment, and she’s gone…forever. Her and the kid. That’s got to be worth something to you.”

Andrew might as well have been humming elevator music. “Jordan and Annabelle didn’t get anywhere near ten million. They got a quarter of that and won’t see another penny ‘til I’m dead. If there’s none left, that’s what they’ll get. They aren’t guaranteed another cent. Why would I hand over ten million dollars, free and clear, to his bastard?” The phone slipped in Claire’s sweat drenched hand.

“We could negotiate down, but I don’t think they’ll go for it.”

“Well, isn’t it your job to persuade them to go for it?”

“Claire, I’m just playing devil’s advocate—”

“Why don’t you try playing my attorney for a change? My answer is no.”

“I’ll see what they say.”

“You do that.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Connor wiped his upper lip, his eyebrows, and fidgeted in the diner booth. They’d agreed to meet at the diner during his lunch hour. The waitresses were getting used to her baldness now—not staring so much.

“Your mother gave me the impression she wanted to weigh in on some of these arrangements—”

Connor slapped his water glass down. “Oh, don’t worry about that. She let me know what she wants.” With pale hands, he wiped the spilled water with a twisted napkin.

“Okay, well…” Claire craned her neck and head forward, wished more than ever her damn eyebrows weren’t gone. She hoped the wrinkles in her forehead worked as a kind of Morse code for the hairless. Connor called this meeting. Now, he wasn’t talking. He must think she had all day. She did, but still.

“She wants some special hymns,” Connor said.

“I’ll never remember.” Claire searched her bag for something to write on. Joe left the university letterhead with his scribbled notes behind by mistake. She collected it off the table. Might as well make good use of it. A passing waitress surrendered her pen. “Write them down.” She gave both pen and paper to Connor.

He roused. “Ah, the illustrious board of trustees.” The pen clicked against the Formica as he wrote. “I guess Bonnie’s dad is still around. What a nut job. He always blamed Liam for his unstable daughter.”

Bonnie’s dad? First, Gloria’s father. Now, Bonnie’s? Both trustees? Claire’s ass left the booth pronto so she could lean across the table.

Connor pointed with the ballpoint. “He’s listed as a trustee emeritus—Elgin Grady.”

Jesus H. Christ. Is everyone a trustee emeritus?

“Bonnie’s parents are still living?” Claire said, still ass up.

“They’re breathing, far as I know. More religious fanatics.”

“This place is full of ‘em.”

“Elizabeth ought to have a high time, tonight.”

“Tonight?” Claire plopped back down.

“Didn’t you know? She’s beside herself. It’s Trustee Night, or some such crap. All the trustees, past and present, have their shindig. The dean invited her personally. I assume that means all of these codgers,” he pointed to the emeritus list, “will attend, too.”

* * * *

The bottom-of-the-sea tin can aroma of Connor’s tuna-on-rye sandwich tested Claire’s grit. She was still not 100% since her food poisoning. She straightened the high collar on her Thomas Pink button-down, hoping it hid her bruises, and fiddled with her multiple-strand Mikimoto pearl necklace. Connor shoveled mouthfuls of his lunch. One arm guarded the outside of his plate, eyes fixed on Claire—the standard prison dining room stance.

She studied him, his inmate-style eating, and tried to conjure up the dead baby photo. Had she imagined it? What had she overheard Grace and William blathering about from her spot pressed up against the ugly wallpaper?

“Are there no other grandchildren, besides Annabelle?” Claire never knew when her Tourette’s would rear its barking head.

Connor’s last bite of sandwich hit the plate. His mouthful of fish sagged open, like she’d just stretched a nylon over her head and pulled a loaded gun out of her purse.

He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ummm…no…no…more.”

Claire stared him down.

“Elizabeth and William couldn’t. They tried for several years.” Connor twirled the ice around in his glass.

Claire gave him her “don’t make me go there, because you know I will” look—peering down, neck bent.

“Deborah and I, we…we…had a baby…” Connor’s face burned bright red. He started to sweat. He looked like Claire, except for all the hair. “It was years ago. Twelve, to be exact.”

Claire leaned forward, cutting him no slack.

“He died shortly after birth from a congenital heart defect. Nothing anyone could do.” Connor took a drink of Coke, then swirled the ice, again. “We didn’t want to try, again. Didn’t want to risk it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to—”

“Don’t be. It’s been a long time.”

“He’s not…not at the university cemetery?” Claire already knew he wasn’t. She needed to say something.

“No, no. He’s at Creekside—the other cemetery across town.”

Claire’s thoughts turned over like bingo balls. “Won’t you want him…laid to rest with all of us in the crypt?”

Connor jumped up, throwing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “I’m late. I need to get back to work.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“We hope our gift helps the university—” Elizabeth—lips so lacquered, she could barely open her mouth—squealed at the dean. She stared, glassy-eyed, like a hillbilly in the headlights.

“The Corrigan family’s generous gift endows the cemetery and will help pay its upkeep long past my tenure, I can assure you.” Dean Sumner smiled into the camera.

Claire sat on the edge of the hotel bed, glued to her TV while watching Elizabeth and Dean Sumner on Hip Happenin’s with Hobbs. Elizabeth looked downright frightening. The camera added ten pounds all right, plus a striking resemblance to Milton Berle. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much. Her medication didn’t hurt. The alcohol helped kill the e. coli, peritonitis, or whatever horrible virus she’d picked up out at that godforsaken farm. She sipped from one of the glasses she’d taken out of the bathroom and squinted at the set. Definitely a fresh perm. Not just on the dean. Where in the name of Ethel Merman did Elizabeth find that outfit? Just seeing her in it was worth five million. The wrist corsage was a nice touch. Giggling, Claire kicked her bare feet.

The local yokel, Charlie Hobbs, lobbed goofball questions at both the dean and Elizabeth, as if they were three-year-olds. Given Elizabeth’s answers and the star-struck look on her face, it was probably a good policy.

“You told us earlier that this colossal gift—and $5,000,000 is nothing short of colossal—is in honor of your brother Liam and your father. We talked a little bit about your brother, but can you tell us something about your father?” Charlie crossed one maroon, leisure-suited leg over the other. His white loafers kept time with the cheesy background music.

Elizabeth sat at the edge of the red, white, and blue couch with her back ramrod straight. Her false eyelashes periodically stuck together, which made her look like she’d pulled the straw out of the gin bottle right before air time. She cleared her throat, loud, every time she spoke.

“Well, Charlie,” she said, looking around the studio like a beauty pageant contestant, “my dad, Emmet Patrick Corrigan…” She enunciated the name like Charlie’d gone Helen Keller. “…supervised the sanitation department at the University for over forty years. He made sure the campus stayed beautiful, the buildings remained in good repair and clean, the cleanest, and the bathrooms—”

“That sounds just swell.” Charlie leaned forward and patted the dean on his back. “This lovely lady is the newest trustee, too. Is that right, Dean Sumner?”

“Yes, she is. She represents the Corrigan family. We’re lucky to have her. Yes, we are.” He smiled. Claire thought she could see “help me” behind his eyes.

Charlie asked a couple more lame questions, until the crappy music squawked louder, cut him off, and he was forced to sign off. Claire shook her head, laughing, and got up to turn off the TV. She was about to congratulate herself on a job well done when her phone rang.

“Annabelle?”

“Claire Corrigan?”

She held the phone away from her ear. Goddamnit. Him, again. He’d left messages, worried about her, and she’d ignored them.

“I need to talk to you. Can we meet somewhere?”

“Rob Rhino…look, I’m fine.” She could feel her face getting hot, remembering. Her hand crept to her still tender throat. “I think I ate rancid—”

“Right, right. Good…I mean, whatever. I just saw your sister-in-law on TV.”

“Elizabeth?”

“Yeah. Yeah, her.”

“So?”

“So, I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” Claire could feel her blood moving fast, her scalp prickling.

“I knew your father-in-law…and your husband.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Claire schlepped into the diner. She felt sick of the place. The same old gum-smacking waitresses, shitty food. Now, she had to listen to whatever ridiculous fable Rob Rhino had cooked up. He probably wanted to get back at her for whatever happened the other night—for performing the Heimlich maneuver, or whatever the hell he’d done on her. The two blocks seemed too far to walk, so she drove and beat Rob there.

“What now?” Claire heard her own shrewish voice. She slurped her water. “How could you possibly know my husband or anyone in his family?” She hoped her indignation hid her deep shame.

“Claire, hey now. It’s cool, it’s cool.” Rob Rhino slid into his side of the booth, his green clogs flapping against his heels. He motioned to the waitress.

“I doubt it.” She searched him over the rim of her glass for any sign. He looked dorky, as always. No knowing smirks, no intimate glances. She wondered if he expected thanks for having come to her aid. “Start talking.”

“I spoke to him on the phone—your husband. A coupla times.” Rob patted his girl-covered shirt, his face blank. “I never met him in person.”

“Speed this up.” Claire’s tongue flicked the ice cubes in her glass. The dreamy sedation she’d so enjoyed while watching Hip Happenin’s with Hobbs died a tragic death.

The waitress asked if they wanted anything, as if all was well in the world. Rob ordered them both cheeseburgers. Claire stared straight ahead.

“I didn’t recognize the name. I knew Emmet Corrigan as Pat the janitor when I was a prof.” He fidgeted in the booth, getting comfortable. “He’d been retired quite a while when he died. I didn’t see him too much the last few years. He and Freddie Eddie never hit it off.”

“There’s a surprise.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest. The sweat beads started under her bra, armpits, and upper lip. She grabbed a handful of napkins and thought a minute…oh, right. Emmet Patrick. She wiped her neck.

“Don’t know if I ever knew his last name. When I heard your sister-in-law talking today about the head of the sanitation department, I knew it was him. He used to joke about that,” Rob said.

Elizabeth didn’t have an original thought in her head.

“Pat was my friend.” Rob’s eyes watered. He clasped his hands in front of him. “He’s the one who switched Gloria’s ashes, broke into the church.”

“Liam’s father was the ash thief?” Her heart beat a little faster. She dabbed her upper lip and forehead.

“God love him.”

Claire moved the napkin holder closer, yanking out a handful. “Well, I never—”

Rob went on. “I went into the porn business. Gloria and I left town. She died. The years passed. Freddie Eddie and I hooked up with a distribution company. We got into producing and distributing. I wanted out from in front of the camera.”

Doctor Rhino, naked but for his stethoscope, whooshed through her memory. “Good idea. Go on.”

“We distributed amateur porn—regular schmoes off the street, no script. Keep in mind when we started, it was pre-Internet. Before everybody and their horny brother could use their cell phone camera to film their honeymoon and put it on YouTube. There was money in amateur stuff in those days.”

Claire had no patience for Rob’s prance down memory lane. “Is this disgusting story going anywhere?” She wiped her sweaty collarbone, under her pashmina.

“Alex had just moved into that huge warehouse. We’d film there. That’s where Pat came in.”

Rob Rhino stopped talking while the waitress set their cheeseburgers down. Claire took a big bite of her burger. “Came in for what? Clean up after your sordid sexcapades?” If her mouth hadn’t been full, she might’ve yawned.

“Not exactly.” Rob spread mustard on his bun.

Claire stopped mid-bite. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

Rob laughed. Chewed up cheeseburger flew out of the hole where his tooth used to be. “No, Claire.” Rob patted his lips with his napkin. “By then, Pat was Father Pat, the very naughty priest.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Emmet Corrigan was a porn star?” Claire said it so loud, everything in the diner came to a halt. Heads turned in their direction. After a few seconds of no motion, their waitress hustled over.

“Ma’am, is everything all right?”

Claire shut her out.

“Mild retardation.” Rob smiled a weak apology.

The confused waitress shuffled back to the counter.

“You’re gonna get us kicked out of here. Keep it down.” Rob put his greasy finger to his lips.

Claire sat forward, her sopping wet chest flush with the table. “Are you retarded?” Her voice came out in a venomous whisper. “Emmet Corrigan disowned his own son, because he got divorced and left the church. He was a devout Catholic—fanatical.” She picked up the pile of napkins, patted herself down.

“Well, that explains the frock coat and collar—”

Claire slapped the table with her open hand like a school mistress. “This isn’t a joke.” She thought she’d die from the heat. She knew she flushed red as fire.

“For fuck’s sake, Claire. Take a pill.”

Claire slumped back against the vinyl booth. “What?”

“Take a pill. You need the drug. You’re a fucking mess. Take a pill, so you can get through the next hour without having a seizure or something, and take off that wrap or whatever the fuck it is.”

Claire wanted to tell him to go to hell, mind his own goddamn business, but if she didn’t take a pill, she knew there’d be trouble ahead. She took off the pashmina and fussed with the collar of her shirt around her blue jaw to see if recognition would flicker.

He frowned. “Jesus, Claire. Call the rehab center. I left the card for you on the dresser, remember? I volunteer there. They’re great. They’ll get you started while you’re here.”

“I missed my regular dose. That’s all.”

Rob Rhino pursed his lips. He said nothing else about it or her bruised jaw.

“I can’t believe it—Emmet Corrigan in porn,” Claire said, moving it along.

Rob Rhino reached to the side and put a box on the table. “Look familiar?”

Like passing a ten-car pileup on the interstate, Claire couldn’t look away. On the front of the DVD box stood a man resembling Liam dressed as a priest—only older. A lot older, with a girl—hopefully legal—in a plaid mini-skirt with plump DD’s pushed out over the top of her unbuttoned, white blouse. The catholic school girl uniform, X-rated style. That’s the best they could come up with?

Claire picked it up. She held it so close, her nose brushed the cardboard. He looked a lot like he did in the picture at William’s shrine. “What was he thinking? His family acts like he ascended into heaven with Christ.” She traded the box for the menu, fanning herself, eyes blinking fast.

“Porn’s not so bad.” One of Rob’s over-dyed eyebrows headed up toward his over-dyed comb-over. “Consenting adults…”

Claire waved her hand, exasperated. “Believe me. It’s not on their agenda. Saint Emmet…I heard it with my own ears.”

“He had his contradictions. Lonely, bored, getting old. Dangerous combination.”

“It’s quite a leap from lonely, old man to…to…Friar Fuck, for God’s sake.”

“Well, he was a man, Claire. He’d been a patron of Alex’s for years. When we started filming in the back, he hung around. He got a kick out of it.”

Claire screwed up her face, still fanning. “Pathetic.”

“After a couple of years, he joined in. Energetic for an older guy. Those crazy Irish.” Rob chuckled, remembering.

Claire put the DVD back on the table. “Speaking of old. Wasn’t he?” She pointed to the box. “Christ, he died five years ago. He was like, 200—had to be too old for this.”

“In this country, yeah. For sure.” Rob bit into a pickle. “In Japan, no siree Hiroshima. All Father Pat’s films went straight to Asia. They love their old folks.”

Claire looked up over the menu. “Insanity.”

He smiled. A satisfied grin stretched across his floppy face. “No. Niche, as a matter of fact,” Rob said.

“What is?”

“Elder porn.”

Two words that don’t ever belong in the same sentence. “Of all the crazy, disgusting—” Claire flapped the menu harder.

Rob shook his scraggly head back and forth. “Elder porn is big over there. They live to be, like, five hundred. Now, thanks to Viagra? Yoko, bar the door. Of course, it’s just the men who are old. Chicks still have to be young.”

“Only you, Rob Rhino, could corrupt an elderly, church-going man.”

“Hardly. He had ideas I’d never heard of. There was that thing with the plunger and the collection plate—”

“Grace, of course, had no idea.” Claire tried to imagine her mother-in-law in leather, a spiked dog collar, whip in hand.

“Pat used to say if you wanted to know where the Dead Sea Scrolls were, all you had to do was look between their sheets.”

Let the church say amen. Her heart calmed down a bit. She felt cooler.

“Anyway, she didn’t know…didn’t want to know. Until he died.”

“He spilled his guts on his death bed?”

“Might as well have. He died on set, in a confessional, with Parishioner Patty.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Claire studied Rob Rhino, now a balding, dumpling-shaped Lothario with missing teeth, then looked back at the video. Grace Corrigan’s saint of a pre-historic husband died dressed like a priest, humping a blonde bimbo in a fake confessional. She burst out laughing until she cried.

“This was worth the trip.” She wiped her tears with her hands. “Emmet Corrigan, a porn star. Of all the improbable—”

“I knew you’d like it.” Rob laughed, too.

Claire, still laughing, handed her empty plate to the hovering waitress. “I’m afraid to ask what Liam had to do with this mess.”

“When Pat died, we had to call his wife.”

Claire sucked in her breath for a second then laughed more. “You talked to her?”

“Freddie Eddie did.”

Just the thought of Mister Personality and Grace was too much for Claire. She laughed so hard her sides ached. “I actually feel sorry for Freddie Eddie.”

“Grace wasn’t pleased.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second.” Claire chuckled but put some effort into pulling herself together.

“When poor Pat keeled over, they took him straight to the hospital. Freddie Eddie called her like five times, but she wouldn’t come. Finally, she told him to call her son, Liam.”

So, she had known Liam’s number.

Rob scratched his chin. “We tag-teamed. So, I called him.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Freddie Eddie shoved a phone number into my hand and said ‘call the son’.”

“What’d he say?”

“Not much. I told him what happened. His mother wouldn’t come make the arrangements…next of kin and all of that. He said something like, ‘I appreciate the call’, and hung up.”

Claire shook her head. “That’s so Liam—direct, to the point, and polite. Given how they’d treated him, I’m not surprised. He must’ve been shocked though.”

“If I remember right, it took us at least two more calls to Grace, and one more to Liam, to get poor Pat identified. Liam never budged.”

“He could take a hard line.”

“We felt sorry for poor Pat. We were gonna make a hefty donation in his honor—”

Claire knew where this was going, “You’re the anonymous donor?”

Rob stopped. “You know about that?”

“Joe Lansing told me. He said an anonymous donor paid for Emmet Corrigan’s cemetery space.” Claire looked Rob up and down,taking in his bald spot and pock marks. “It’s you.”

“Not just me. All of us at Fresh Flesh Films chipped in.” Rob Rhino’s droopy eyes filled up. “I could never repay what Pat did for me.”

“Thought you said he and Freddie Eddie didn’t get along.”

“Freddie Eddie gets along with money, and Pat’s films made it.” Rob poked the table with his index finger to make his point. “I guess he did it for me.”

“How did it all get resolved?”

“Only by force.” Rob shook his big head. “The hospital told us if she didn’t get down there, they’d send the police out to find a next of kin. We knew Pat wouldn’t want the police parading his secret life all over town. They gave us an hour to get somebody down there.”

Claire felt like she was part of her own reality show.

Rob kept talking. “So, we went over there.”

“Get out.”

“She let us in only to keep the neighbors from seeing us at the door. Freddie Eddie told her the deal. She never made a peep. We told her we’d take care of the university burial and vowed discretion. She held the door open and pretty much kicked our asses out it.”

The thought of Grace suffering was Claire’s favorite part of the story. “I don’t know what to say.” Clarity hit her. “All this happened while Liam and I were married. He never said a word.”

“You never know about people.”

“There was a lot I never knew about Liam.”

“It’s a crazy life, right?” Rob Rhino ran his hands through his ratty hair and sat back in the booth.

“I can’t figure out why she’d give you Liam’s number. What’d she think he’d do?”

“There’s a sister, too?”

“Yep, and a brother. They both live here…always have.”

“Probably didn’t want them to know. Why poison the other fruit? She might’ve hoped to rustle up a little sympathy, look victimized by the husband with the secret porn life. Get Liam to rush to her aid, forgive past grievances. Take care of the whole mess, so she didn’t have to.”

“Sounds like Grace.”

He threw up both hands. “So, that’s how I know the Corrigans.”

Claire shook her bald head. “Grace Corrigan’s got her nerve. Holier than thou is her middle name. She went on ad nauseam about Emmet’s piety and Liam’s sins. Yet, all this time, she’s known her husband was a big fake.” She grabbed her purse and got ready to leave. “Can you imagine anyone in more denial?”

Rob Rhino smoothed his moustache and scratched his nose. “Hard to imagine.”

* * * *

“Looks like Freddie Eddie’s here.” Rob Rhino said, his eyes fixed on the parking lot through the diner window.

“What’s he doing here? Did he drive you?” Claire’s foe.

“No, I took a cab. I called Freddie Eddie right before I left to have him come pick me up in an hour or so. We’re gonna zip out to Alex’s. Freddie Eddie gets nervous if I don’t let him chauffer me. Especially this week.”

“Why?” Freddie Eddie seemed like a clinger.

“Gloria’s dad. Freddie Eddie thinks we still have unfinished business. The guy’s a religious nut. He’s out and about a lot during Trustee Week.”

“Jesus freaks aren’t in short supply around here.”

“A fire and brimstone preacher if there ever was one.” Rob laughed. “Freddie Eddie worries he wants to speed me on my way to Hell.”

“Are you worried?”

“Nah. He’s got one foot in the grave. What’s he gonna do? Gum me to death? I can take him.” Rob grinned, his black hole showing. “Besides, I’ve been coming back here for thirty years. If he meant me harm, I’ve been an easy target. He’s a nut but a lazy one.”

“I’ll be so glad to get back to California. You all make our weirdos seem catatonic.” Claire put some napkins in her purse for the road. “Does Freddie Eddie know about all this…Corrigan coincidence?”

“Not yet. He’ll sure be surprised. Small world.”

Claire stood up. She felt better, but it wouldn’t last long. “I guess so. If that’s what you can even say about it. It’s quite a story. Not sure what to do with it.”

“Nothing, I hope.” Rob stood, too. He’d already paid their check. Such a gentleman for a porn star. “What’s to be gained after all these years?”

The look on Grace’s sour face for one thing. “Nothing, I suppose. Sleeping dogs and all that.” Claire headed for the diner door.

From behind her, Rob Rhino laughed. “Claire Corrigan, you are the end all.”

“What now, for Christ’s sake?” Claire stopped.

Rob pointed down at Claire’s feet. They were bare.

Chapter Forty

Claire walked across the asphalt in her bare feet with whispered ouches and ows—like those half-naked natives who walked on hot coals. Hopefully, no one saw the crazy, bald lady doing the high-step across the hot, dirty asphalt parking lot in bare feet, talking to herself. Maybe, she looked like she danced for rain. Maybe, she just looked like an idiot.

She climbed the steps to her room, two at a time. As she got closer, she could hear the TV was still on. She got to the door and dug her key card out of her bag. They never worked right. After the fourth time, the green light lit up, staving off a full meltdown. She pushed the door open with one dirty foot and dropped her bag with a thud.

Annabelle jumped up, muting the sound. “Claire, don’t kill me—”

Claire, not easy to surprise, stayed rooted to the spot, stunned. “What in Christ’s name? How did you get in here?”

“I know, I know. I had to see you, to talk to you. In person.” Annabelle stood in front of the flickering kaleidoscope of the TV. Her long, dark hair spilled around her. “I told them I was your daughter. Family emergency.”

Claire didn’t blink.

“I gave the blue-hair at the front desk $100 to let me in.”

“You flew in? Today?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get from the airport to here?” Was Claire in a hotel or the Titanic? Her nausea made the room sink, go sideways.

“Car service.”

For a zillion dollars. Rich kids…

Claire slammed the door shut and reswallowed the half-digested cheeseburger re-booting on the back of her tongue. She sat on one of the chairs at the small table by the window. Bribed the front desk. Great. A serial killer for all they knew. Inbred rednecks. Since when did Annabelle get so good at greasing palms?

“I’ve been calling you for days. Why didn’t you answer, tell me you were coming?”

Claire’s stomach cramped as she leaned over a little.

Annabelle opened her lips and started to answer.

Claire held up her hand. “No, better yet. Why didn’t you ask me if you could come?” These goddamned, entitled kids. Damn Liam. Leave them a couple of million dollars right out of the gate. Annabelle Marie-Antoinette’d her way across the country, and Jordan shacked up with Stephen in his massage parlor/love den.

“I knew you’d say no. That’s why.” Annabelle started to cry. Her gray eyes—just like her father’s—welled up.

“You’re right. I would’ve.” Claire felt the walls go up around her. Like Alcatraz. Her chapped lips almost welcomed the sweat forming over them. “Annabelle, you coming here doesn’t change anything. I’m going forward as planned, and your ass is going out on the next plane.”

Claire eyed Liam. She didn’t think Annabelle noticed he sat next to the TV. Claire wanted to keep it that way. She didn’t want her to get any ideas.

“It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m here. Not really.” Annabelle wiped her dripping cheeks, reached into her backpack, and held out an opened envelope. “This is.”

The letter. In all the excitement with Rob Rhino, Claire had forgotten about it.

Claire got up, took it from her, flopped back down, and squeezed her eyes shut. Panic, like a suicidal scorpion, worked its way up from her ankles. Her lungs felt like pin pricked balloons.

“Claire? Oh, my God. Are you all right?” Annabelle’s voice squeaked. “Where are your shoes? Jesus, where’ve you been? What’s going on here?” Her head made a full turn around the room, even cleaned up, it looked like Girls Gone Wild.

“Give me my purse,” Claire said, more of a cough than a request.

Annabelle threw Claire’s bag on the table in front of her. Like a madwoman, Claire dug out her pills. With shaking hands, she swallowed two. Annabelle ran to the bathroom for water.

“You look like hell,” Annabelle said, trying to get a better look around Claire’s collar.

Claire laid her head back on the nubby chair. “What would possess you to read this? It’s none of your business.” She took a napkin out of her purse and wiped her neck.

“I knew it had something to do with why you’re here, your craziness.” Annabelle sat on the floor at Claire’s feet. “I was right.”

Claire kept her eyes shut, to keep the room from spinning out of control. Her whole body felt contracted, muscles cramped. This couldn’t be happening. The one thing she didn’t want. The thing she’d tried so hard, and spent so much money, to avoid. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I take it the other letter, the one I sent with your clothes, is more of the same?”

Without raising her pounding head, Claire nodded.

“This thing’s been going back and forth since Dad died?”

Claire nodded, again.

“He was born around the time Dad died, a couple months before?” Annabelle sounded like the orphaned child she was when Claire first met her.

Claire’s chest rose and fell, her breathing deep, ragged. “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

She laid her head in Claire’s lap and wrapped her arms around her wet calves. Without lifting her head or opening her eyes, Claire smoothed Annabelle’s hair. The skin on her trembling hand was thin, translucent. Claire could hear her own tears fall on the wooly cushion underneath her ears. The heat from Annabelle’s body radiated through the damp legs of Claire’s jeans. She inhaled the comfort of her familiar scent—sweet, like cherries. Annabelle—the mother-less, now father-less, girl.

Chapter Forty-One

“What are we gonna do?”

“We aren’t gonna do anything.” Claire stepped into her leopard print ballet flats. She and Annabelle spent a restless night in the same bed. Between the chills, nausea, and the stomach cramps, Claire hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time. “I don’t want you to worry about it. You’re going to get on the next plane back to California.”

“I meant today…here.”

Annabelle put her hair in a ponytail and looked out the window. It seemed she didn’t fully grasp the situation with Ellen and Shane. She’d stayed silent about it the rest of the night. Claire wasn’t sure what that meant, but she wanted her to go home.

“Annabelle—” Claire didn’t intend to take her on a tour of Bizzareville. “We need to see about getting you out of here. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I want to see my mother’s grave.”

Not what Claire expected. She didn’t have a response.

“You’ve been to the cemetery, haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you think we can find her?” Annabelle looked like she’d just come up for air from the bottom of the pool.

“I know someone who can.

* * * *

Bonnie Colleen Corrigan. Her headstone stood near a shade tree and wasn’t far from the chapel. Joe Lansing looked it up, no problem, and drew them a nice map. Claire and Rob Rhino must’ve walked past it and not known it.

Annabelle and Claire stood in front of the stone for a few minutes in silence.

“I don’t remember if I came to her funeral,” Annabelle said.

“You were only a baby,” Claire said.

“No flowers.”

“No, guess not.”

“People probably lose interest after a while.”

“Maybe, we came on an off week. Could’ve been some a few days ago for all we know.” Poor kid.

Annabelle looked around. “This place is really pretty. I like it here, you know…if you have to be dead.”

“Yes, it’s quite something. Peaceful and beautiful.

They walked.

“What could’ve been so bad that she didn’t want to live?” Annabelle said.

“I think some people are too delicate for this world.”

They stopped at a bench and sat.

“Maybe, some people are just fine until they marry my dad.”

* * * *

Just what she’d wanted to dodge. Claire turned to face her stepdaughter.

“It’s true. My mother killed herself…and…and…look at you.” She covered her face with both hands and sobbed. “You’re the walking dead.”

Claire reached into her pocket, feeling her stockpile.

Soon, this will be over.

While Annabelle wasn’t looking, she gulped a buffer.

“Your mother’s death was not, absolutely not, your dad’s fault.” Claire rubbed Annabelle’s back. “You know that. Everything is screwed up in your head right now. I’m fine, I am.”

Annabelle put her hands down. “Have you seen yourself? You’re not fine. Everything is screwed up in your head.” She started sobbing, again.

Was it? Claire frowned. She didn’t know what she was, anymore. For now, she needed to make it right for this young woman who’d lost too much. That’s all she knew.

“Annabelle, your father loved you, loved us, but he wasn’t perfect. He made a mistake—one you never should’ve known about. Don’t let that wipe out what he meant to you for a lifetime.” After he gets what’s coming to him, maybe I’ll feel that way, too.

Annabelle sniffled. “Aren’t you mad at him?”

Tread lightly. “Well, I can be mad at him and still recognize what’s true, can’t I?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, you will. Takes time.”

Annabelle brushed the hair that escaped from her ponytail away from her face. “Speaking of time, how long are you going to be here?”

“Didn’t I tell you? The crypt takes three weeks.” She tried to figure how long she’d already been there. The inside of her head felt like mashed potatoes. “A couple more weeks, I guess.”

Annabelle didn’t seem to care much about the answer.

“What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?” Claire took Annabelle gently by the chin and turned her face toward her own.

“I don’t know. I saw that letter, and I wanted to see you.” Annabelle’s eyes overflowed. “I’m scared. I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

Jesus, how bad do I look?

“Why would you think that?”

“Just a feeling. You…you’re barely hanging on, Claire.”

Claire sighed. “I need to get this behind me. As soon as I do, I’ll get better.” She would. She’d look into going vegan. Maybe, she’d get a colonic.

Annabelle looked skeptical.

“We better get back.” Claire unfolded out of the bench. “You need to get home, forget about all this, and get to school.”

Annabelle stood. Words shot out of her mouth like coins from a nickel slot. “Give her what she wants.”

“What?”

“Give Ellen the ten million.”

“How in God’s name do you know about the ten million?”

Annabelle faced Claire full on. “I talked to Andrew. We decided it would—”

“We decided?” Had an anvil fallen on Claire’s head?

“Claire, these decisions need to be made by…someone else. You’re not competent to—”

Claire grabbed Annabelle by both shoulders, with strength neither of them realized she possessed. “If you know what’s good for you, that sentence will stay in your ignorant mouth.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Claire took Annabelle to the diner for lunch on the way back from the cemetery. It was the most comfortable choice. Claire tried to calm her rattled nerves, find some perspective at the bottom of her Prada. Annabelle sniffled, wiped tears, and whimpered apologies.

“I thought I could help. I’m sorry, Clairsicle. I—”

“Don’t you ever talk to Andrew, again. Is that understood?” On the heels of food poisoning, was she getting the flu? Would it ever end?

Annabelle nodded. Ribbons of tears ran down her perfect, unlined face. “He said you’d never survive a trial or dragging the whole thing out. I—”

“Andrew doesn’t have a clue about what I’d survive.”

Annabelle’s cell rang. It was Conchita with her flight arrangements. They’d have a couple of hours to throw Annabelle’s stuff together before the car service came.

Picking up where she left off, Annabelle said, “He’s looking out for you, Claire. For us.”

Claire would’ve jumped out of the booth if she hadn’t been so weak. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a naïve babe in the—”

The waterworks started down Annabelle’s cheeks, again. “You’re sick, Claire. Not in your right mind. You need to come home with me. See someone, a professional, for an evaluation. I tried to get you to go to that place in Hawaii. Andrew says there’s a place here. As your family, we need to step in, do the right—”

“Do what right thing?”

Annabelle looked at her hands. “Well, we could force this, Claire. You don’t have to agree to—”

Claire leapt across the table, sent silverware clattering, and grabbed Annabelle’s too-expensive T-shirt front. “You and Andrew think you’ll have me committed?” Claire’s breath blew into Annabelle’s face. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

The waitress already heading to their table turned on her Doctor Scholl’s and went in the other direction.

“See? You’re out of control.” Annabelle sobbed and tried to worm away.

Claire pushed her back toward the booth, flung herself backward, and sat with her head in both hands. With a sigh, heavy as bricks, she met Annabelle’s wide eyes.

“What would possess you?”

Annabelle wiped her running nose with the back of her hand. “I’m just trying to help. It all came out wrong, but I’m worried about you. We all are.”

Something stank. “What’s in this for you?”

Annabelle glanced down at her lap. “I am worried about you. I am.”

Claire lunged across the table again and mashed her step-daughter’s cheeks together with an iron grip. “Do not fuck with me.”

She crumpled like a piece of tin foil. “Andrew said if I helped bring you around on this, he’d pay me…make it worth my while.”

The waitress sneaked in with their lunches and hurried away without making eye contact.

“Pay?” Claire said. “You just inherited two and half million dollars.” Was she kidding?

Annabelle turned pink. “I spent most of it.”

Claire dropped her fork on the floor. “You spent most of it?”

“Okay, all of it.”

“That’s almost unbelievable.” Claire’s body felt like jelly.

“It’s not like a couple of million goes very far these days.” Annabelle’s whine made Claire’s skin feel like it shrank three sizes. “I bought that condo, my Beemer. I went in on that yacht with Kimmie and Dale. I have to have clothes. Now, I might have to get a job. I—”

“How did you pay for your trip here?”

“Andrew.”

Judas and his silver. “What’s in it for him?”

“Nothing, Claire. He was Dad’s best friend. He promised to take care of—”

Annabelle’s phone rang, again. It saved her from getting Claire’s French dip thrown in her stupid face.

“Jordy, hey…what?” Annabelle’s eyes, as big as the plate her Chinese chicken salad sat on, glanced at Claire then away. “No, she’s right here.” Annabelle got up and ran out the diner door. Claire followed, telling the waitress, “Be right back.”

“…at home? Did Stephen bail you out?” Annabelle paced, wiping at her eyes and her still wet face.

Claire ripped the phone out of Annabelle’s hand so hard, her step-daughter tripped backward on the sidewalk.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Mother, it’s not a big deal.” Jordan blew her off. “I didn’t know you were sitting right there. Annabelle’s got a big mouth.”

“Answer me.”

“Don’t freak. I got arrested. I—”

Claire felt the sidewalk come up. “You got arrested?” A passerby, already staring, stopped. She flipped him off.

“I said don’t freak.” Jordan’s voice started to rise. “I’m already home. Bailed out. Taken care of, for now.”

“Arrested for what?” Bad taste in men?

“Drug possession.”

Claire reeled. “Drugs? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I had some pot in the car, Mother. A little coke. Nothing earth shattering. First offense—”

Claire looked up at Annabelle, who rocked on her Chloe wedges with her arms crossed, shaking her ponytailed head. “You’re some pot smoking coke-head?”

Jordan laughed a sharp, short sound. “Really, Mother?”

“Yes, really.” Claire would’ve hopped up and down with anger and disappointment if she hadn’t been so sedated. “You were not raised to do drugs. That Stephen…this is his—” She spit her words.

“Don’t go there.”

“You’ve never taken drugs. Not even prescription. Not since your ADHD medication when you were a kid.” Claire couldn’t believe her ears. This all had to be a nightmare.

“I didn’t have ADHD, Mother.”

“You did. You used to get that medication, remember? Every month, like clockwork.”

“Yeah, I remember. You took it all.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Claire grasped for her head. It hurt. Before her arm reached its target, she winced and dropped it. The IV stuck in her vein pulled when she tried to move it. Her brain was a mass of disconnected scenes, moving pictures, recollections in triple time. She thought hard. Bits of chaos, bright lights, and madness ran through like worker ants. A dangerous jumble, mixed up like everything else she didn’t like thinking about.

“Claire?”

She turned. Her head throbbed, felt huge. Were her eyes burnt? A nurse, smiling in that way they do. Like you’re about to croak, or they wished you would. Maybe, she was about to. The nurse’s teeth resembled piano keys minus the black ones. Claire shouldn’t knock it. At least the last person she’d see looked happy.

“How are you feeling? Better, I hope.”

Better than what? “I feel like shit. Am I in a hospital?” Claire looked around her room. She was the only one in it. “I’m in a hospital, right?”

“You are. I’m afraid you overdosed last night.”

“How long have I been here?”

The nurse picked up her chart while looking at her watch. “Looks like about twelve hours.” She listened to her heart, did all the nurse stuff, while Claire tried harder to remember the night before. Other than the hospital acoustics, the cold steel, and the white coats that came first to her addled mind, there was nothing. Annabelle, Jordan…God damn ungrateful brats…she’d taken a nap…or tried to, after a bawling Annabelle got whisked off in the limo…couldn’t sleep.

“The doctor will be in to see you, soon. Oh, and your fiancé…he’s here. He slept in the hall all night. Since they brought you in. He’s worried sick about you.”

“Fiancé?”

“Rob, Rob Rhino. Quite a character. He’s well-known around here.” Nurse smiled and made notations. “He sure seems devoted to you.” She put the chart back and left.

Claire felt her wrist for a pulse. She must not’ve survived the overdose and gone straight to Hell.

* * * *

Rob Rhino bustled in, his rubber clogs squeaking across the tile floor. Did the man own another shirt?

She followed his candy green feet across the floor. Her head felt a little better. She might not have to crack her own skull open like a walnut. All right was a stretch though.

“Rob Rhino, if I wasn’t so exhausted, I’d strangle you. My fiancé?” Claire felt too frail to sit up or lift her head up off the pillow.

If she expected him to look sheepish, she was mistaken. “Listen, you’ll thank me when you get the skinny. It’s against the law, you know.”

Claire managed to lift her head a little, “What’s against the law? Having you for a fiancé? It should be.”

“I see you’re not too sick to bust my balls.” Rob laughed too loud for a hospital. “No, Miss Priss. It’s against the law to try to kill yourself.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Kill myself?” Her voice a snake-like hiss, she said, “That’s ridiculous. I never…is that what you think?” She breathed the heaviest sigh she could. “I suppose that’s what everyone here thinks?”

“Yes, that’s what everyone thinks. Claire, you popped a whole bottle of pills, again. Plus the booze.” So, she had some hooch. Not like she drained the bottle…bottles…or drank every day. Okay, not a ton every day. Who was Mister-Cock-of-the-Walk to judge?

Claire rewound the last couple of weeks in her spinning head on speed dial. The porn palace, the religious fanatics, Liam’s Soprano-like family and their patriarch—Father Pat, the parishioner-plugging priest—and realized she didn’t care what everyone thought. They thought she tried to kill herself? Whatever. Bingo was her name-o.

“So, okay. Let’s say I did. It’s against the law. Am I going to jail? How does having you for a fiancé help? Sympathy vote?”

Rob rested his scaly elbows on the metal hospital bed railing. “They can commit you to the psychiatric ward for…well, for however long they think is necessary.”

Claire’s head left the pillow for that one.

“As it is, you’d better behave. It’s up to the doc how long you stay.”

Claire gave Rob the stink-eye. “So far, having you for my betrothed hasn’t done diddly for me.”

“Not so fast. They like it better if you have somewhere to go and someone to go there with. If you don’t blow it, they’re probably going to let me take you home sooner rather than later, no matter what kind of fruitcake you turn out to be.”

“Are they? You must be awfully charming. Even more than I thought.”

“I introduced Doctor Levinson to his wife.”

* * * *

The nurse came in with a little, blue pill. “You’re giving me these?” Claire couldn’t hide her surprise or relief. Her head felt better, but she’d started to sweat. Her pulse began its usual hokey-pokey. Rob moved out of the way.

The nurse nodded. “You can’t stop cold turkey. The doctor will talk to you about it when he comes in later.” She handed Claire the pill with a paper cup of water.

Claire swallowed the pill with a pale, trembling hand. “They tell me you brought me here.”

“No, we found you and called the ambulance.” Rob Rhino sat in a plastic chair that he’d pulled up close to Claire’s bedside. “I left a bunch of messages, but you never called back. I got a bad feeling. Freddie Eddie and I headed over and found you. You were unconscious. We couldn’t revive you.”

Freddie Eddie. Why did it have to be him? She didn’t remember it.

“I wanted to sleep, that’s all.” The look on Rob Rhino’s face made Claire nervous. “I didn’t die. I’m fine, right?”

“Barely.” Rob looked like a man who’d seen a ghost. Claire knew he had. “You’re lucky they didn’t need to put you on a respirator. I thought they might. Gloria—”

“I’m not Gloria.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Did Gloria have to go on a respirator, before she died?”

“No.”

They stared at each other. “Did the front desk let you into my room?” She finally asked.

“Of course. We called from the car. Said we thought you’d overdosed. The paramedics met us there.”

“You did what?” Claire’s mortification drilled her to the mattress.

“Claire Corrigan, stop with the pretense. You almost died.” Rob Rhino gave her his professor face. “I’d have said you were in a gang bang with a horse and a peg leg if I’d had to.”

“Of course you would’ve. In all my years—”

“You’re welcome.”

Claire stopped. She folded her hands in front of her and looked down at her blanket-covered lap. “Thank you, Rob Rhino.” She glanced up at his baggy face. “I mean it. I’m such an asshole. Thanks for giving a shit.”

Rob tilted his head to one side. “I’d say with that scalp, more like a dickhead than an asshole.”

“Laughter’s the best medicine.” A young man with short, curly hair in a white coat said. He walked over to a still laughing Claire and stuck out his hand. “I’m Doctor Levinson. You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

Chapter Forty-Four

“How long have you been taking Xanax?” Doctor Levinson sat in the chair Rob Rhino vacated when he left the Doctor and Claire to get acquainted. Traitor.

“Only as needed.” Claire balled the blanket up into her fists.

Doctor Levinson sat quietly for a few seconds, crossed his legs, and folded his hands over his knee. “Months? Years?”

“I don’t keep track.”

He cleared his throat, waited a few seconds. “When did you lose your hair?”

“How do you know it’s lost?” Presumptuous ass.

“Just a wild guess.” He smiled, too superior for Claire’s taste.

She hoped her displeasure showed on her hairless face. “Year or so.” He seemed young for a doctor. That was a sign of advancing age. Everyone else looked young. She supposed he was a shrink, come to evaluate her mental health. Better cooperate. She had a dead husband to get even with.

“Alopecia,” the doctor said.

“So they say.”

“How long have you been taking Xanax with alcohol?”

“I don’t usually.” Claire crossed her ankles under the blanket and her arms across her chest. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Do you know how much Xanax you took last night?”

Seemed like not enough right about now. “No.”

“Let’s just say you ought to play the lottery.”

Claire cut to the chase. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was trying to sleep.”

“Do you normally take a whole bottle of Xanax and a bottle of booze to sleep?”

“No, of course not.” Claire’s patience was as thin as the sheet.

“You have some bruising around your jaw and—”

“Rough sex.” Mind your knitting, Doogie Howser.

He flushed crimson, rearranged his chair, and coughed.

Claire bailed him out. “The pills have stopped working. They were making me feel worse, more nervous. Like I was having a heart attack, sometimes. I sweat all the time. I’ve had to take more. A lot more than I realized, obviously.”

The doctor nodded, reached for her chart at the end of her bed. He clicked his ballpoint pen so he could write. “You’ve built up a tolerance. You have to take more to get the same benefit. When the drug wears off, and it does quickly after you’ve taken it so long, you start to feel withdrawal symptoms, because you’re an addict. So, you’re battling the withdrawal and trying to sedate yourself. A double whammy. You’re constantly on the edge of overdose.” He clicked his pen closed.

“Now what?” Claire said. Sounded like a junkie hamster on a wheel, and she’d never get off.

He leaned forward and put her chart back. “We need to wean you off the drugs, slowly. It’s imperative that you do not stop all at once. You can have a seizure.”

Wean. Did she want to wean? What about a different drug? A better one? This was the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake. If the Xanax worked, she wouldn’t have had to take so much of it.

“I started taking Xanax, because I needed it. If I stop taking it, what good will that do? I’ll still need something, won’t I?” Probably not smart to ask that. She should wait and talk to Guillermo. She’d probably never get out with questions like that.

“Needed it? For what?” Doctor Levinson grabbed her chart and clicked his pen, again. She’d probably have to marry Rob Rhino now to break free of this cuckoo’s nest.

Don’t get me started, Doogie. Claire pointed to her head with its lost hair and made her duh face.

“Xanax isn’t prescribed for Alopecia,” Doogie said.

If she killed the kiddie doctor, how long would she have to stay?

“No, it isn’t. It is for panic attacks and anxiety,” Claire said. “Which the Alopecia didn’t help.”

Doogie considered her for a few seconds. “These types of drugs aren’t for the long-term treatment of anxiety.”

Claire could feel her mouth go dry, her hands and feet start to tingle. Breathe, breathe. She shut her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, Doogie still sat at her bedside, yapping.

“I’m not going to lie and say this process is easy. It’s not.” He looked down and wrote in her chart. “The good news is there are other drugs that you can take, longer term that can be helpful while you’re detoxing. I don’t recommend you do this on your own. I strongly advise a rehabilitation program. We have an excellent one here, at this hospital, as you know.”

How would she know? Oh, right. Her fiancé, the rabid volunteer…and Annabelle and Andrew.

Doogie paused and looked at her with thoughtful deliberation. “In a rehabilitation setting, they’ll help you deal with why you feel so anxious all the time. Until you get to the root of your anxiety, your recovery is limited.” He got up out of the chair and stood next to the bed. “What’s bothering you, Claire?”

* * * *

The nurse came in again with another blue pill and a new, yellow pill that the doctor wanted her to try for shits and giggles. Satisfied by Claire’s vitals that she still lived, the nurse fiddled with her IV, made more notes on the infamous chart, then left. After giving her a reassuring pat on the arm, Doogie murmured something about food for thought and promised he’d be back in the morning. Ready or not.

Claire felt better in the hospital setting. Taken care of, like when Liam was alive. Someone looked after her. She relaxed and let whatever flowed through the IV run its course through her veins.

“What’s bothering you, Claire?”

* * * *

She dreamt, remembered.

“What’s this?”

“Looks like a piece of paper.”

Claire held it out to him. She rattled it, frightened and furious. “Don’t be an asshole. What is it?”

Liam took the statement from her, his expression cut from concrete. “It’s a Vanguard statement.” He held the paper out again, as if he meant for her to take it back.

“Okay, don’t be a fucking asshole. I know it’s a Vanguard statement. Why is a Vanguard statement coming to our house for Shane Corrigan? Who is Shane Corrigan? Better yet, who is Ellen Ryan?”

“I have no idea.” Liam turned toward their dresser and took off his Patek Philippe watch like he did every day when he got home from work. Just another day at the office.

Claire grabbed him by his custom-made shirt and jerked him around to face her. “I’m not an idiot, even if you treat me like one. You and Ellen Ryan are the custodians on this account. Who are these people?” Claire felt like she was choking. Her grip on Liam’s shirt was death-like. She knew who they were. He knew she knew it, too. The only question was, how long would the dance go on?

He wouldn’t meet her eyes—a dead give-away.

“I called Andrew, already,” Claire said. She let it hang.

Liam turned to look at her. His face handsome, painfully so. Claire brushed her hair out of her eyes. Wouldn’t want to miss anything on the day her life went down the shitter.

“You already know. Why are you asking?” Liam put both hands on the dresser and stared at the wood.

“What was I supposed to do? Wait for you to volunteer it?”

“I don’t know, Claire. Who knows what you do?”

The sound of Claire’s open hand meeting his cheek with all the force she could put behind it rang loud in their master suite. He took it like a man.

“How dare you? This isn’t about me. It’s about you and your tramps…and your bastard.” Claire heard herself yelling. She didn’t try to wipe the tears that ran down her face.

Liam slammed the double doors to their bedroom shut. Claire didn’t know why he bothered. No one else was home. She’d made sure.

“I’m afraid not. It is about you, Claire. About us.”

“Don’t think for a second you’re going to blame me. You think you’re Master of the Universe. You can have it all. You’ll trade me in for a younger model to impress your cronies. You’re such a pathetic cliché.” Claire paced their cavernous room. Her voice boomed, bouncing off the walls and the vaulted ceilings.

Liam covered the distance between them and grasped her shoulders. “I’m a cliché?” He pulled her close, hissing his words. “That’s rich coming from a trophy wife. You want to know who has it all? You. You have everything and didn’t work for any of it. You go to lunch, Pilates, shop, drive your Mercedes, have your own parking spot at Neiman’s. Yet, all you do is bitch and whine while I pay your fucking bills.” He shook her, tossing her hair around like a rag doll. “That’s if you’re not stoned. You want to talk about pathetic?” He held her inches away from his face. She could smell his mouthwash.

Claire was caught off guard. For a second. She rallied.

She yanked free. “Is that right?” She held up her left hand, with its diamond and platinum wedding rings. “We’re married, remember? Ever hear of the wedding vows? Faithfulness? You don’t get to pick and choose the ones that suit you. That’s what commitment is.” Claire’s righteous indignation fit like an Hermès glove.

Liam ran both hands through his salt and pepper hair. “Vows? You want to recite vows? Okay, go. Just so happens, there’s more than one, Claire. What about love and cherish? How about honor? Or was I the only one who uttered those?”

Claire almost stomped her feet. “What are you talking about? I loved you. I honored you, our home, our family. I’ve raised your daughter, for Christ’s sake. Raised her like my own, and you know it.”

“Get the violins.” Liam yelled, too. “You honored our marriage? What marriage? You love me? How would I know?”

Claire stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. What makes this a marriage? How could I tell you loved me?” Liam sat down on the chaise so hard, it almost tipped over. “When’s the last time we had sex?”

“What?”

“Sex? I’m sure you’re vaguely familiar with the term?”

Claire wiped her eyes. “I don’t know when. Since you asked, I’m sure you can tell me.”

“You bet I can. A year ago.”

“A year? Please, let’s not get ridiculous. It hasn’t been that long.” He lied.

“Yes, it has. You graced me with your presence on our anniversary. So, it’s been more than a year. Even then, I had to wheedle. Not my finest moment…or yours. Nice impression of a quadriplegic, though.”

Claire shut her eyes. He was right.

“There’s more to marriage than sex, you know. More to love.”

“Like what?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? I could’ve gotten a roommate or a nanny. It would’ve been cheaper. I wouldn’t have to trade in their expensive German import every other year. Intimacy is what makes a marriage what it is and not just a friendship, an acquaintance.”

Claire wasn’t going to let him off the hook. Not like this. Not this easy. A secret kid for God’s sake. A sob slipped through her lips.

“You’re a pig. What about illness? Or, if one of us had been in an accident and couldn’t? Then, it’s carte blanche? You can do whatever you want with whomever you want?”

Liam jumped out of the chaise. “We’re not sick. There’s been no accident. You avoid me like the fucking plague, because you don’t want to have sex. There’s nothing between us. We don’t sit together, we don’t hold hands, no physical contact of any kind. You won’t be alone with me unless it can’t be avoided. That’s not love, Claire. Not any that I recognize, and it’s certainly not a marriage.”

He went to her. She stood, not moving. She wanted him to hold her and never touch her. She wanted him on his knees.

“What are you? A horny, sixteen-year-old boy who can’t control himself?”

“No. I’m a grown man who wants a grown-up wife and a real relationship.”

“Well, grown-ups in real relationships don’t chase the first piece of ass they can find the first time they don’t get laid.”

Liam’s eyes opened wide, like someone shoved a knife in his back. “This has been going on for years. The only time you’re interested in me is on payday.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” Claire felt shocked at his audacity.

“Yes, it is. You can’t look me in the eye and say it isn’t.”

Claire couldn’t. “I’m not as worthless as you think. There were kids to raise, multiple households to run. I had responsibilities as your wife. You’re successful, because I helped you. Endless dinners, parties, and entertaining rounds of bores here, abroad…those demands are tiring, and you never appreciated any of it.”

“How demanding do you think my life is, Claire? I work a sixty-hour week when I’m taking it easy. I don’t recall any thank you cards coming my way. You didn’t raise our kids alone. I raised them, too. I’m not too tired. I don’t consider our sex life a burden. To me, it’s a bonus.”

Claire could think of no rational response. “You’re trying to take the heat off yourself and your sins. The fact is I loved you, I was faithful, and you betrayed me.”

“I don’t know what you feel for me, Claire, but it isn’t love. Gratitude? Loyalty for taking you and Jordan in? Whatever it is, it’s not enough.” Liam looked away. She thought he’d started to cry.

She wasn’t about to feel sorry for him. “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt? You never once talked to me about it. You deal with 200 employees every day. I’m sure you could handle one wife.”

Liam laughed a brittle sound.

“By the time I get home from work, I’m lucky if you’re still coherent enough to string a sentence together.”

It was Claire’s turn to laugh. “What a joke. I’ll tell you why you never talked to me about it, Liam. Then, the problem might’ve been fixed. Maybe, I would’ve wanted to change, but then you couldn’t justify your women. Assuage your Catholic guilt. No. This way, you could tell yourself your sad story. I’m so misunderstood and neglected. I deserve this.”

Claire struggled out from under his assault and hit a nerve.

Red-faced, he said, “You think you know everything. You don’t.”

Not about to surrender the upper hand, her rage reached its boiling point. “Don’t I? I know I’m not going to sit idly by while you run around with whores and father their bastards.” She balled up her fists and started to strike him.

Liam grabbed them mid-swing. “Claire, I’m sorry. I am. If I could take it back—” His voice lowered. She could barely hear him.

“Couldn’t you have had the spine to divorce me? Did you have to lie and humiliate me this way?” She spoke loud enough for the both of them.

The Master’s universe imploded. “It happened. I didn’t plan it. I tried not to humiliate you by not telling you, which only made it worse. I tried to handle it.”

“Handle it?” Claire felt an eruption coming on—volcanic, historic. “I guess you’ve been laughing at me, right? What a dumbass Claire is…you and your baby mama behind my back. It’s a real drag I’m stoned all the time. Until it isn’t. Makes it a lot easier to sneak around when I’m semi-conscious.”

“No, Claire. It hasn’t been like that—”

She put both hands on his chest and shoved him. “Get out, and don’t come back. You’re right, Liam. I don’t love you. I never have. Do you know what I feel for you? Hate. I hate you.” She shoved him again, harder.

Liam grabbed the keys to his Range Rover and headed toward the closed doors with Claire on his heels, her hysteria climbing like the Donner Party through the Sierra Nevadas.

She screamed at his broadcloth-covered back, “I wish you’d die.”

* * * *

Claire woke up, gasping and pawing at the air. She fought off an attacker, someone holding a pillow over her face, suffocating her. Only, there was no one—only regret, and her addiction.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Morning, Camille. How’s the deathbed?” Rob Rhino strolled in carrying a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and a small bouquet of baby pink roses.

“Rob Rhino, you’re something else.” Claire hoped the donuts were for her. She was starving. She hadn’t eaten since lunch with Annabelle. She’d been in the hospital more than twenty-four hours but hadn’t felt like eating, even though her stomach’s contents had been thoroughly vacated. She didn’t think the crap they brought her on a tray looked worth eating, anyway. Deep fried fat rolled in sugar. That was a food group.

“A girl can’t be in a hospital room with no flowers.” He gave her the flowers, flushing like a schoolboy.

The nurse had removed her IV. She took the spray with feeble hands and held the beautiful, blush-colored buds under her nose, inhaling their sweet scent. “They’re the loveliest flowers I’ve ever seen.” They were. He was one gracious porn star. “You’re so thoughtful, really.” She handed them back. He set them on the table next to her bed.

“Trained by the best.” Rob Rhino rewarded her with his finest, toothless smile.

“Gloria?” Claire looked at the donuts.

“Uh…no, ma’am. That would be Grandma, thank you very much.” Rob handed her the bag. “You get to pick first, I’ll eat whichever ones you don’t want.”

“Grandma?”

“Yeah, she brought me up. My mom died when I was four. Dad split way before that.” Rob put a chubby hand into the donut bag and came out with a maple bar. “My grandma took me in and raised me. One hell of a good woman. She died when I was seventeen and left me a little money, which is how I got my undergrad degree here. Private school was beyond my means without her help.”

“So, no family?” Claire couldn’t remember eating anything as good as the cinnamon sugar goodness exploding in her mouth. The soft dough slid down her throat, slick as wet noodles.

“No. Just Freddie Eddie. He’s close enough.” Rob talked with his mouth full.

Claire savored her cinnamon twist. Freddie Eddie. Close, like a fungus…or chiggers.

“Speaking of family, I don’t want mine to know where I am. They—” They’re felons and Linda Tripp’s, but they’re all I’ve got. “You’ve done so much for me, already. I hate to ask you to do anything else—”

“Anything.” Rob was already wiping his hands on a napkin, ready to jump into action.

“Could you check the messages on my hotel room phone? All you have to do is push the blinking light if there are any.” Claire talked with her mouth full, too.

“Can do.”

“Oh, but I can’t call them from here. The number will show up on their cell phones. They can’t find out about this…this…unfortunate accident. They’d…” They’d use it against me.

“Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“I think it’s around there somewhere. Maybe near the TV. Can you grab my purse? The tan Prada bag—”

Rob Rhino looked confused.

Claire explained. “It’s the only Prada bag there. It has P-R-A-D-A on the outside by the clasp. The phone cord’s in it, I hope.” Claire swallowed her bite of donut. “Can you check on Liam? He’s the one in the urn. By the TV.” Just taking a couple bites of donut tired her out, despite the sugar rush.

Rob chuckled. “He probably ran amok while you were gone. Had a kegger.”

* * * *

“Jordan says, ‘Mother, if you’re not too pissed, give me a call, so I know you’re reasonably well. My watch-a-call-it isn’t as bad as you think. Really.’” Rob looked over the paper. “Jordan’s your son?”

Claire tried not to move any facial muscles. “So they told me at the maternity ward.”

“Okaaay.” Rob glanced over the top of his bifocals.

“Continue, please.”

“Next up…Annabelle? Says you probably don’t care, but she made it home.” Rob’s voice went falsetto. “Please, please, please, don’t be mad at me. I know I look bad ‘cause of the money, but I thought I was helping, Clairesicle.” Rob laughed. “Clairesicle? Like Icicle? Perfect. Who’s Annabelle?”

“My step-daughter, who would benefit from an ass whipping.” Claire narrowed her red, bleary eyes at Rob Rhino. “Are there more?”

“Two from Annabelle. The second one, because you haven’t called since she left the first. She’s worried. You look like something the dog drug—”

“I get it. Anything else?”

Rob’s PhD-sized brain whirred. “She was here?”

“Unfortunately. Next?”

“Grace.” Rob stopped and smiled. “Almost called her back myself. Rehash old times. Have a few laughs.”

Claire smirked. “What’d she want?”

“Has her dearly beloved been exhumed?” Rob twitched his bushy, upper lip. “She hates to be a pest and all. Poor Pat.”

Claire wrinkled her naked brow. “Now, she’s in a hurry? Bloodsucker.”

“Good ol’ Joe Lansing says the mausoleum is ahead of schedule.”

“Seriously? For once, some good news.” Was she the first person in history to have her mood considerably brightened by a crypt delivery?

“Not by much. Just a few days.”

“I’ll take what I can get. I’ll need to call him right away.”

“No, you’ll need to get some rest. Another day or two won’t matter. Dead is dead, sister friend, and Liam still will be in a day or two.”

Normally, an argument would’ve ensued. A new normal moved in. Claire kept her mouth shut.

Rob paced as he read. “Here’s a promising one—Conchita called.” He stopped, his eyes misting over as he stared off into the distance with a smile. “I knew a girl named Conchita, once. She had this weird nipple and could pick up quarters with her—”

“For God’s sake, can you just give me my messages without the disgusting commentary?” Conchita did seem limber, now that he mentioned…maybe….no. God, now he has me doing it.

“Okay, okay…last, but not least, someone named Andrew. Needs to hear from you pronto, while you still have a prayer.”

“He said that?”

Rob consulted his paper. “Yep.”

“Fucker.”

“Oh…well, not a friend of yours?”

“He’s my attorney. Supposed to be handling the mess with Liam’s kid and his girlfriend. Instead, he’s conspiring behind my—” In no shape to revisit ground zero, she stopped. “Is that it?”

Rob handed her the hotel notepaper with the scribbled messages on it. “Here you go, if you need written reminders. Good luck deciphering my handwriting.”

“Thanks again, Rob Rhino. I’ll be glad to get out of this booby-hatch. Never thought I’d say it, but I’ll be thrilled to see that ratty hotel, again.”

“Yeah, well. About that.” Rob pulled up the chair to his usual bedside spot.

Claire didn’t like his tone. “What do you mean by ‘about that’?”

“The hotel…you see…ummm…” Rob licked his lips.

“Spit it out, would you?”

“They kicked you out.” Rob ducked down in the seat.

“They what?”

“You can’t stay there, anymore. Vamoose. The overdose. They can’t have that kind of thing at their establishment. At least, that’s what the manager told me.”

The same manager of the fine establishment that let Annabelle into her room for a hundred bucks?

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She could see he wasn’t. “What now? My clothes, the car, Liam—”

Could her life get worse?

“Got it all under control. We took all your stuff to my place. Liam, too. Freddie Eddie got your keys out of your purse and drove your car there.” Rob’s usual shit-eating, missing tooth grin took up most of his fleshy face. “You’re gonna bunk with me.”

Welcome to worse…a lot worse.

Chapter Forty-Six

Her cell phone had thirty-three old messages on it. She ignored them. Was there anything else she wanted to know?

Claire called Conchita to update her on the situation. Sort of.

“The hotel was a dump. Turns out the dean is offering up a nice cottage near the university for the rest of my stay. When you drop a load of cash here, they accommodate you.” The lie ran like melted butter off her tongue.

“Christ must be descending from the heavens if you’ve actually plugged in your cell phone. I’ll get Jimmy to get your money refunded from the dump.” Claire could tell she wasn’t sold on the university’s generosity story. Conchita was a tough sell.

“Can you let the kids know the deal? I’ve got a ton of crap to do, yet. No time to yak on the phone. You know how they like to go on and on.” No way would Claire talk to Annabelle until she figured out what to do about that whole debacle. Jordan needed to cool his cocaine-fueled jets before she’d reward him with a phone call.

Claire wished she had the strength to think of Plan B. So far, Plan A wasn’t working out so well. Maybe she ought to suck it up. Rob Rhino, her roomie? Why did she have to pick now to give up her drugs?

Doctor Levinson worked out a weaning schedule and started her on it. He reminded her that the new, yellow pills weren’t like the old ones. They’d take three to four weeks to kick in and weren’t sedatives. He was hopeful she’d have good results, but he reiterated that he’d prefer she check into a rehab center.

“You’re more than welcome to come see me on an outpatient basis, when you and Rob are here in town, if I can’t talk you into an inpatient program.”

She had to admit she already felt a little better than she did before, although she had no reason to. Maybe, she felt hopeful. The mausoleum would be here sooner. Her job here was almost done. She could see an end date. The burden she carried felt lighter, and soon, it’d be tucked behind a concrete slab.

The doctor and Rob Rhino conferred in the hallway while Claire gathered up her meager belongings and got dressed in the clothes she wore when they brought her in. Rob had taken all her other clothes from the hotel to his place. He’d had on the same outfit since he’d been in town. Bringing her a fresh set of clothes wouldn’t make the top of his list. She’d need to remember to peek in his closet when he turned his back…see if he owned anything else.

“Well, Claire. I think you’re ready to go.” Doctor Levinson handed her a prescription. “Your fiancé here will fill this and take good care of you. He assures me.” He winked at Rob and looked like Doogie Howser, again. “He sure takes care of a lot of people in our rehab facility.”

Claire tried not to visibly shudder. “Oh, he’s a regular Ghandi.”

Rob put his arm around Claire’s shoulders. “That’s right, honey bunch. We’ll get you home, tucked in, and I’ll take real good care of you.”

He’d pay for that. She fidgeted out from under his smelly armpit. “Thank you, Doctor Levinson.” she said, and left it at that. What could she say? Good call sending her home with the perv and his giant prick?

Claire and Rob Rhino headed toward the hospital doors and the outside. Claire moved slowly. The overdose had taken a lot out of her. Not that she’d been in great shape before. Annabelle was right. She looked like something the dog drug in well before her hospital stay.

“Freddie Eddie’s waiting. He brought your car, since it has more than two seats.”

Claire stopped dead. “Freddie Eddie? Is he still chauffeuring you around?” All she needed was Freddie Eddie looking down his pierced nose at her. “Isn’t Trustee Week over, yet?” Claire stuck her bottom lip out.

“Yeah, a few days ago.” Rob pulled her arm gently to keep her moving. “He’s worried about you, too. He insisted on coming to the hotel with me when you overdosed. You should thank him.”

“I’m gooey over it.” Claire glared.

Rob pushed through the double glass doors, maneuvering a complaining Claire through. Freddie Eddie waited at the curb with the engine running. When he saw them, he jumped out of Claire’s rental and popped the trunk.

“She doesn’t have anything, remember?” Rob Rhino said, his voice a boom, so the back rows of the lot could hear. “It’s just me and her.”

Freddie Eddie slammed the trunk, slithered around to the passenger side, and opened both the front and back doors.

“Claire.” Freddie Eddie nodded his head at her and gestured for her to get in the front seat. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. You gave us quite a scare.” His eyes flickered over her jaw and neck. If he had an opinion about their condition, he kept it to himself.

Claire met him with defiance. If she’d planned to shop for a fight, he disappointed her. Freddie Eddie looked, for lack of a better description, sad…but for who? At least there was no smarmy attitude, no thinly veiled I told you so. She felt disarmed, not quite sure how to respond. So, she didn’t. She got in the car—in the back.

Claire wanted to lie down in the backseat but didn’t dare. Not with Thelma and Louise in the front seat. She looked at the back of their heads as they drove through the quiet, Pennsylvania streets. One a balding, badly-dyed, combed-over porn star and the other a badly-dyed, greased back West Side Story reject.

Freddie Eddie turned on the radio. Rob Rhino squealed. “Tammy Wynette. Who doesn’t love her?” He sang along, off-key and loud.

Freddie leaned in toward the center of the car, closer to his duet partner. In full torch and twang, they stood by their man.

“Her catalogue suffered after she and George called it quits.” Freddie Eddie told Claire in the rearview mirror. His mouth spoke softly, his eyes glinted hard.

Claire rolled down her window and put her head out, like a trapped, bald dog. How bad could the psychiatric ward have been?

Chapter Forty-Seven

The house that porn built was grander than Claire imagined. She didn’t know for sure, but she bet it was in the nicest part of town. It looked nicer than any part she’d seen. A far cry from where Liam’s mother lived, and not exactly the nothing fancy Rob had described earlier.

Like most things in town, it looked at least 100 years old—red brick, possibly historically significant. The large yard, no doubt kept perfect by a professional, buzzed with bees and hummingbirds. The wrap-around porch had a Better Homes and Gardens welcoming feel to it, right down to the wicker furniture and rag rug. Not a place a porn star would fit in, much less call home.

“I thought you said your place here was small and no big deal?” Claire slammed the car door behind her and headed up the stone walkway. She shook off Rob’s hand on her arm.

“Compared to your estate, I’m sure it is,” Rob said.

“What makes you think I live on an estate?” Claire stopped.

Both Freddie Eddie and Rob Rhino came to a standstill and stared at her, eyebrows lifted.

“Never mind.” Claire continued toward the house. “It’s beautiful. Seems big.”

“Five bedrooms.” Rob opened the front door. “These old houses always have lots of bedrooms. Back in the day, families were bigger.”

Freddie Eddie went straight into the house, down the long hall next to the impressive staircase, and disappeared in the back.

Rob Rhino’s grandma must’ve come back from the grave to decorate. Where would a man like Rob Rhino get doilies? Claire could see her reflection in the wood floors where they weren’t covered by carpets. She supposed the old lady décor was called Victorian or Early American—Claire got those mixed up—and fit the house.

“Want a tour?” Rob said.

“Love one.”

They strolled through some of the rooms. “Don’t tell me you did all this yourself.” Claire couldn’t believe they hadn’t come across a beanbag chair or a lava lamp. No Daisy Duke posters, and not one of the curios had an erection. She’d only seen part of the first floor, though.

“Nah. Afraid not. Had a decorator—Mavis Applebee. She’s famous.” Rob leaned against the wall of the dining room, tastefully covered in velvet-flocked paper. “I haven’t lived here long. It’s quite an upgrade from the house I owned before. This one is a historical landmark. I wanted to respect the period.”

“You’re a marvel, Rob Rhino.”

They got to the end of the hall where she last saw Freddie Eddie ducking down. Claire was shocked to see a large office, in complete working mode. With a young girl in it, tastefully dressed.

“Oh, Melissa. I forgot you were here, today.” Rob slapped his hand on his forehead. “I’m sorry. Did you find everything okay?”

Melissa smiled. “Yes, fine. No worries. I’ve been coming a while, now. I know where everything is.” She looked at Claire’s head, then the ground, then her computer screen.

Freddie Eddie intervened. His specialty.

“Melissa, this is Claire. She’s a good friend of Rob’s. She’ll be staying here a few days. She’s in town for a family memorial service.” He was a smooth operator.

Claire’s lips made a slight smile—tight, fake. She probably looked like an embalmed corpse. “Hi, Melissa. Nice to meet you. I won’t be in the way.”

“Melissa helps us out with all the paperwork, orders, scheduling. You name it,” Rob said. “She’s the brains of the outfit.”

“Really?” Claire felt surprised. Surprised he knew a woman with a brain. “I guess I thought your gig at Alex’s and the reality show was it. Oh, and I guess the film distributing, but—”

“Rob’s got lots of irons in the fire.” Freddie Eddie leaned back in his ergonomically correct desk chair. “We’ve got another realty show starting up in the fall. He’s got tons of merchandise—T-shirts, lingerie, baseball caps, vibrators, lube, coffee mugs, mouse pads, and more in the works. There’s Fresh Flesh Films, of course. A few legit film offers, some other TV roles coming up, some talk shows. Speaking engagements, personal appearances, his charities, and he’s working on his autobiography.”

Claire was impressed. “Wow. You’re a conglomerate, a brand.”

Freddie Eddie laughed. “He’s the biggest dick on campus.”

* * * *

Rob held her elbow like a country squire as they climbed the wide staircase. She didn’t shake him off this time. Claire felt pooped. They poked around some of the bright, spacious bedrooms upstairs. The closets were not. They stopped at the room Rob chose for her—the girliest so far. Pink, floral wallpaper, a window-seat with a mauve, tufted cushion, and porcelain figurines scattered about. The room’s centerpiece was the king-sized, crochet-canopied bed sitting directly in front of an ornate fireplace. Claire’s clothes covered half the room. Rob tried to fold, stack, and arrange them in neat piles.

“I put some stuff in the closet, whatever fit. Your shoes are all in there. Holy mother of God, you’ve got a lot of shoes.” Rob whistled through his missing tooth gap.

“All women do. You forget.”

“I put the unmentionables in the dresser over there.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and pointed to the tall, oak chest of drawers.

Rob Rhino man-handling her underwear. Nice.

“This is a magnificent room. The whole house—” Claire glanced around the room. She loved it. It was the house she wished she’d grown up in. If only.

“Liam’s there.” He pointed to the nightstand by the bed. Liam’s urn sat on a tea-stained, crocheted doily.

“He’s been passed around like a joint at a frat party.” Claire said. “Soon, he’ll be where he belongs.”

Rob clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Looked like he had something to say but thought better of it.

She’d seen three of the five bedrooms. He hadn’t said if one was his. She hadn’t asked. She preferred denial. The cock king’s domain was better left a mystery. Who was she kidding? She’d die to know what it looked like but preferred the self-guided tour. Not the VIP one with the dick-docent.

She started to sweat. “What time is it?”

“Shit. Your pills.” Rob reached into his pocket and gave her a pill.

“Now, you’re carrying pills in your pocket? That’s a shift.” Claire swallowed.

“I’m taking care of everything. No worries. It’s all cool.”

“Hey, what about your gig at Alex’s? I hope you’re not going to bail because I’m here.”

“Nah, I’ve already been a few times. Just found out I’ve got to make a trip to Los Angeles, after your memorial. It’s part of the reality show deal, so I’ve got to cut my engagement short out there for now.”

Claire sat on the bed. Heaven. She toppled over. Her smooth head landed on a pillow. Rob put her legs up on the antique, white duvet and took off her loafers.

“Excellent idea. You get some rest. You can see the rest of the house later.”

“Rob Rhino?”

“What?”

“Are you really writing your autobiography?”

“I don’t know. Freddie Eddie wants me to. We have a publisher chomping at the bit.”

“What would you say about Gloria?”

He climbed on the bed, kicked off his ugly clogs, wriggled his sock-covered toes, and laid down next to her. Claire didn’t yell at him to get off.

“I’d say, for a few years, I had everything.”

Claire felt so tired. The heat from Rob’s body made her even sleepier. “What did you love about her?”

“Truthfully? The way she made me feel about myself.” Rob put his arms behind his head. “She was so beautiful, perfection. Everybody knew she was too good for me, but she didn’t see it that way at all. I have a thousand faults, but when she looked at me, she saw the good stuff first. That’s a life, right there.”

Claire couldn’t break the spell to ask about her death. He seemed so happy.

“You must’ve loved her very much.”

“Still do.”

Claire’s lids drooped. She rolled onto her side, toward Rob Rhino, rested her bare head on his hula girl shirt—a constant comfort. He didn’t yell at her to get off.

“What about you, Claire? What would you say if you wrote a book about yourself?”

She snorted. “Good God. I’d never write about myself. I’m too horrid.”

Rob laughed. “That’s true…and you’re a bad dancer.”

Claire laughed, even though she wanted to sleep more than anything. “You’re an asshole.”

“You’re not so bad.” Rob reached for her face and gave it a soft rub. “You’d do the right thing if it came down to it.” He felt her forehead like a fevered child. “You’re good. Under all that anger, there’s heart.”

Claire yawned against his beefy chest. “Is that right?”

“You have a thousand faults, Claire Corrigan. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

Claire felt her weary eyes getting wet. “What?”

“You’re really bald.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

The bed beneath her creaked. Claire rolled over, restless and agitated. She took deep breaths like Doctor Levinson told her to and tried to calm herself. “Close your eyes, and watch the lightshow behind your lids,” he’d said. Self-soothing without an overload of pharmaceuticals wasn’t her strong suit. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“You’d do the right thing.” She wanted to believe Rob Rhino, her new friend.

Would she? Had she ever? Claire started to cry. She rocked herself back and forth. All she wanted was the absence of pain. Even when she did the right thing, it felt wrong.

Claire’s stomach knotted. She looked to make sure the bedroom door was shut before reaching for her purse on the floor and her phone. It took several minutes of digging through her wallet for the number, but she found it. She could barely make out the numbers, anymore—scribbled in faded pencil on paper torn from a prescription pad. She punched the numbers into her phone.

“Volunteers of America, this is Abby. Can I help you?”

Claire didn’t know what to say, right out of the gate. It’d been so long.

“Hello? Volunteers of America, this is Abby. Can—”

“Yes. Yes, hello.” Claire cleared her throat. “Can I speak to—”

“Ma’am, I can hardly hear you. I think we have a bad connection or something.” Abby yelled like she hoped to set the example.

Claire had been whispering. She swallowed and spoke up. “Can I speak to Mercedes Miller?” She cleared her throat, again. “This is…it’s her…her daughter. Claire. Claire Corrigan.”

“Do you know what unit she’s in?”

“Yes.” I pay for it. Of course I know. “She’s in Jonah’s House.”

“I’ll transfer you.”

Jonah’s House. Claire hated the biblical names. As if it softened the blow of total lockdown. Like Ronald McDonald House made cancer fun.

“Hmmm?” The voice on the other end sounded dreamy, childlike.

“Mom?”

“Who is this?” Coquettish, flirtatious.

“It’s Claire. Your daughter.”

“Oh…Claire.” Disappointed, skeptical. “Where are you?”

“Same place. California.” No point going into it all. Far from you still. “How are you feeling, Mom?”

“Is Dad with you?”

“No, Mom…he’s—”

“Is he coming to get me?” Mercedes’s girlish tone quickly changed to grown-up.

“Dad passed away…a long time ago, remember?”

Claire could feel Mercedes’s damaged brain churning over the phone. “Did you ever have that kid?”

“Yes, Mom. His name is Jordan. He’s all grown up, remember?”

“Oh, I remember, now. I remember.” Mercedes said in a whisper.

“How’s the weather there, Mom?” Was there a dumber question?

“Hmmm? I’m having soup. You hate soup.”

Claire had to laugh. She did hate almost all soup. “Yes, I do. You remembered.”

“I remember you. That’s what. Are you still so pretty? Remember how pretty you always were?”

Claire laughed, feeling her head. “Well, not so much these days, Mom.”

“You got your looks from your mother,” Mercedes said, her voice strong. Somewhere in a mind destroyed, a truth wormed to the surface. Mercedes had once been as beautiful and exotic as her name. She struggled on. “Your dad said he thought I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.”

“I’m sure he did.” Claire wanted to end the call.

“Remember what your dad used to say about you?”

“Yes.” You’re worthless. All girls are.

“He used to say you were a real beauty. A long, tall drink of water, and all the men would want you.” Mercedes giggled. “Wasn’t that funny?”

“Something like that.” Creepy, yes. Funny, no.

“Is he there with you?” A note of suspicion crept into Mercedes’s voice.

“No, Mom. He’s dead.”

“That’s what you said.” Mercedes sounded like she didn’t believe it, like if it was true, Claire probably had a hand in it. “You always were trying to steal him from me.”

“Are you eating, Mom? Getting exercise?” Was that what you said to people in the loony bin?

“Yes. I think so. I like the pudding. It’s chocolate.” Mercedes sounded like a child, again.

“I’ll send you some.” Thank God for the Internet. You could have anything delivered. Appease your guilt with a single keystroke.

“Have your dad bring it when he comes.” Mercedes said in a “let’s play school, and I’m the principal” voice. Before Claire could tell her once again that her husband died a long time ago, Mercedes said, “Never mind. I can make it myself when I get home.”

“Okay, Mom.” No use. She should hang up.

“Are you still rich?”

“I just wanted to say hello and see how you were doing, Mom. I should let you go.”

“Let me go?” Mercedes said, her words a whisper, again. “I’ll say.”

Claire stayed on the phone too long. “I’ve gotta go, Mom. I—”

“Your father’s dead, isn’t he?” She hissed, accused.

“Yes, you know that.”

“He’s dead, because he worried himself to death about you. Always sneaking out. Running off with boys in the middle of the night.” She started whimpering.

Worried? Wasted, out at Lucky’s or Dixie’s was more like it. When he wasn’t pinching me on the ass or beating the shit out of you.

“Mom, I was just a kid.”

“He’s dead, and you left me there. You left me alone. Then, you left me here—”

Claire realized she was pouring sweat. Her hand ached from clutching the phone. The veins on both sides of her neck bulged against her skin, pulsing.

“I couldn’t take care of you, Mom. I was just a kid.” Claire said in the softest voice.

“Where’s your father? Put him on the phone right now—”

“Mrs. Corrigan?”

Claire jumped. “Huh? What?”

“Mrs. Corrigan? I’m sorry. This is Nancy Wright. I’m the day nurse. Please, don’t let what your mother says upset you. She isn’t having a good day, today.”

Claire’s mouth felt full of sand.

* * * *

“Looking for something?”

Shit. Claire rifled through her clothes, looking for her stash of pills. No luck. She’d hardly napped at all and was armpit-deep in a mess of designer duds when Freddie Eddie sneaked in and startled her.

“My cell phone.” Good recovery.

“Is that right?” Freddie Eddie looked snarky. “That one?” He pointed to the bedside table and her phone. Right where she left it after she’d talked to her mother.

“Oh, well.” Claire got up off her knees. “There it is. Hiding in plain sight.” She faced Freddie Eddie. They were the same height. “I guess we can go downstairs, then. Or do you want to lurk around up here some more?”

She moved toward the door and snatched her phone off the table. He side-stepped in front of her, blocking her way out.

“What is your deal? Get out of my way,” she said, pissed.

Freddie Eddie didn’t move an iota, his face a sculpture. “You need to go back to wherever it is you came from.”

Claire tried to push past him. Even though they were evenly sized, he was compact, solid as a boulder, and unmoving. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Rob is my business.”

“He’s a big boy, or haven’t you noticed?”

Freddie Eddie grasped her wasted shoulders with both his hands, though not as harshly as she expected. “Go home. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” His smooth, ferret-like face moved next to hers. She could count his pores. “Or this won’t end well.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

“Up already?” Rob met her at the bottom of the stairs.

Freddie Eddie bounded down behind her, mumbled something about seeing them tomorrow, and went out the front door.

“He goes in and out,” Rob said. “Kinda the bad part about having the business here. No real private life. People come and go like any other office.”

Claire watched Freddie Eddie’s Corvette peel away from the curb.

Rob circled his baby chick. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Fine, I’m fine.” She didn’t want to meet Rob’s eyes. “I should make some calls.”

“Wait right here.” After a few seconds, he came back with her purse and her cord. “Come with me to the most comfortable place in the whole house.” He beamed.

Like the rest, the room was in the same rich, hip-Granny style, except for the ugliest, tackiest, and biggest love seat Claire’d ever seen. A hideous, pea-soup green color, the monstrosity sat directly in front of a flat screen TV with some kind of console in its center. A crocheted afghan hung on the back of one side in shades of lime, like his clogs. Claire made a face, and not a nice one.

“You don’t like it?” Rob said.

“Well…I’m sure it’s comfortable. It just…it’s…it’s an unusual choice, considering the rest of the décor.”

Rob cackled. “Yeah, well, a man’s gotta have his chair. Sit, sit.”

Rob went to her side of the loveseat and pulled a lever. Claire flew backward.

“It’s a recliner.” Rob clapped his hands with childlike glee. “You can recline both sides, or not. Independent of each other. An engineering miracle.”

Claire laughed. Furniture that did tricks. Comfy. Maybe, she loved it.

Rob reached for the center console. “If that isn’t cool enough, this is an ice chest.” He pulled out a cold beer.

She loved it.

* * * *

Rob Rhino nominated himself beer Nazi and wouldn’t let Claire imbibe. Instead, he made her a cup of the best hot chocolate she’d had in her life. Not that she’d had a lot of it.

“Mexican chocolate. That’s the secret, and real cream mixed with the milk.” Rob gave her a steaming mug with her pill and covered her legs with the afghan.

He was good to her. He probably would’ve been a good father. Except for the porn. Everyone had their quirks. Freddie Eddie hated her, jealous old…what? Probably a closeted queen.

“Okay, make your calls, but be quick about it.” He sat on the other side of the reclining loveseat. “I’m going to be right here to make sure you’re not overdoing it.” He pulled a book out of a side pocket—did the damn thing fold out into a plane, too?—pulled his lever, and leaned back.

Claire dug out her wallet with all her phone numbers. Better call Grace first. Get that over with.

Grace sounded perturbed. More than usual.

“Had the flu. Really took me out of commission the past few days.”

“I finally called the chapel director myself. Whatever his name is. John, I think.”

Oh, I’m fine, now. Thanks so much for asking, bitch. “Joe Lansing. His name is Joe.” Claire looked over at Rob and rolled her eyes. “What did you need, Grace?”

“We need to decide on the arrangements. I let Mister Lansing know what I wanted. He told me he’d pass it on to you.”

“We do? I met with Connor a few days ago. He said you told him what you wanted and to pass it on to me.”

“What? I…he…oh. Well, he must’ve misunderstood.”

“Whatever.” Bunch of weirdos. “If you talked to Joe, it’s settled. Just in case, I’m going to give you my cell number. I’m not staying in that hotel, anymore.”

“Oh?” Grace said.

Nosy hag. She’d perked up for that morsel. “Yes, I’m…staying with a friend,” Claire said. What was it to her, anyway? Like she cared.

“I didn’t know you had friends here.”

“You don’t know anything about me, do you?” Claire couldn’t pass that up.

She knew Grace was still on the line only because she could still hear her vampiric breathing.

“I know Liam didn’t cotton to the Church—”

The artful dodger. Claire snickered. “No, he didn’t.”

“I’d really like to have a mass…a Catholic mass.” She said the last part loud and slow, like Claire’s mother used to when she was speaking to a non-English speaking immigrant.

“I’m familiar with the term.” Oh, Liam would love that. A Catholic mass, the icing on the retribution cake. “Of course, we’ll have a mass. I’ve already talked to Joe Lansing about it.”

Rob Rhino coughed and rattled the pages of the magazine Claire knew he was only pretending to read. She glared.

“Oh, okay. We talked about moving Emmet. How that would work—”

“I need to call over there, Grace. I’ll talk to Joe Lansing, and I’ll let you know all the dates and if we need anything else.” She hung up.

Rob put his magazine down. “Nice touch, the mass.”

“Stop judging me.”

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his disapproval.

Claire started to dial the chapel then changed her mind. She took a sip of her now lukewarm chocolate before turning to Rob. “She’s sure anxious, now.”

“Who…what?”

“Grace. She’s raring to go forward with this whole thing, now.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yes.” Claire took another drink. “Just odd, that’s all. She was so reluctant at first. Downright nasty.”

Rob mumbled something under his breath. Claire couldn’t make it out.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Out with it.”

Rob picked up his magazine, thumbing through it.

Claire reached across the console and yanked the magazine out of his hands. “Out with it, I said.”

“She was faking.”

“Huh?”

“She was faking—her reluctance. Bet the farm on it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Manipulate her kids. Make them think she didn’t want to do it.”

Now that was making some sense. “Why?”

Rob rubbed his chin. “Habit more than anything by now, I’d guess. Poor Mom, so victimized. First by Liam, then by you. So bullied.”

“To what end? If she was faking her reluctance, that means she wanted to bury everybody together. With Liam, the son who so disappointed her.”

Rob laughed. A short, harsh sound. “Yeah, the son who humiliated her with his spiritual and marital faux pas, whose first wife killed herself here in Peyton Place. Who then refused to bail her out when she found out Saint Hubby had a secret porn life and died on film, with his pants down, or his frock up, so to speak.”

“All the more reason to be against this whole scheme.”

Rob’s tone suggested Claire wasn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. “Maybe you’re not the only one who wants revenge.”

Chapter Fifty

Out of the mouths of porn stars.

“Think about it, Claire.” Rob picked up his magazine.

So the old shrew beat her at her own game…and on her dime, no less.

“You’re probably wrong, Rob Rhino.” Claire picked her phone up again to resume dialing. “You usually are.”

Rob peeked at her over the top of his magazine. “Or, I could be right, and you have a lot more in common with the old swamp lizard than you think.”

Claire grabbed the magazine and swatted him with it. “That’s a low blow, Rob Rhino.”

Rob leaned down and pushed the lever on the side of the loveseat forward. His chair back resumed its upright position.

“Think about it, Claire Corrigan.” He got up and shuffled toward the kitchen.

* * * *

“You’re not bothering me one bit. I’m delighted to hear from you,” Joe said. Delighted—the gay man’s constant state.

“Grace said she called you?”

“Ohhh…yes.” Joe’s voice dropped, sounding more Raymond Burr, less Richard Simmons. “She seems quite anxious to get the funeral dirge moving along, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Indeed.”

“I confirmed the mass, the exhumation, and some minor details. I think she was satisfied.”

“I’m sorry if she made a pest of herself. She’s an odd one.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.” Joe chuckled. “Before I forget, you’ll want to meet the priest prior to the service. So, we can set that up now, if you’d like.”

“I will?”

“Won’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I guess I will.”

“Let’s see. We’ve got about a week left until the service. How about Monday? That’s about midway.”

“Sure, fine.”

“I’ll call you back with a time.”

Claire gave him her cell number and heard him scramble for a pen.

“How did Trustee Week end up?” Claire made conversation.

“Fabulous. Thanks to your gift, we raised a lot more money. Totals aren’t in yet, but I’m sure Lawrence will let you know. He’s greedily counting donations and pledges as we speak.”

“I’m sure he is. Well, glad I could help.”

“By the way, your sister-in-law was Prom Queen on Trustee Night.”

Elizabeth. She’d forgotten all about her and her debut.

“Really? Do tell.”

“I think everyone had a marvelous time. You were right.” Joe sounded amazed. “I think she’ll fit right in. They all loved her. Especially the old-timers. She spent most of the night chatting up the emeritus, or is it emeriti? Whatever they’re called. Lawrence gets so exasperated with me. I can’t keep them straight. A gaggle of old geezers.”

Bonnie’s father. Charming. Bet he was thrilled to see her.

“I’m sure she knows some of those folks. This is such a small town.”

“I’d guess. Can’t swing a cat around here without hitting someone you know, whether you want to or not.”

* * * *

Claire’s legs felt wet, so she kicked off the blanket. Her head hurt. Pill time. She took close to her usual dosage, minus a couple the first few days and less every few days after, but Doogie didn’t have a sense of humor about the occasional cocktail alongside. Those were a no. She closed her eyes, inhaling. Goddamn it. She needed a drink and a handful of pills.

She could hear Rob puttering in the kitchen. Making dinner, she supposed. The renaissance porn star—there was nothing he couldn’t do. He’d bring her drugs with her plate. He did every night, on time. Claire knew it was time to medicate. She wouldn’t want to have a seizure, or anything. Her skin felt like it crawled, threatened to leap off her body. Didn’t Doogie say something about not going cold turkey for fear of seizures? So, she wasn’t going cold turkey. Felt like it, though.

Her phone rang. Andrew. Somebody—she could take her pick of who—must’ve let him know she wasn’t at the hotel, anymore. He could leave a message. Claire wasn’t ready to talk to him. She couldn’t yet wrap her addled brain around what had gone down or what she needed to do, yet. Normally, she’d have medicated. Maybe after she got home, she still would.

The ringing stopped, but then nothing. No annoying beeping sound to indicate he’d left a message. Fuck him, then.

* * * *

“You’re such a Jew.” Claire slurped the homemade chicken soup with matzo balls Rob Rhino brought her on a tray. “This is superb. I don’t even like soup.” Another of his weird secrets: he was a fantastic cook. Every night, something more delectable came out of the kitchen. Claire never lifted a finger, as though she could’ve…except to ring the dinner bell.

They sat in front of the flat screen with their TV trays, ate dinner, and watched Wheel of Fortune—their old, married couple ritual they’d developed since Claire moved in.

“My grandma’s recipe.” Rob picked up his bowl and drank the remnants. “She was the Jew, a real one. Not like me, a jack-Jew. Like Liam was a jack-Catholic. We were born to it, but we don’t practice.” Rob wiped his face with his cloth napkin. “I have a bad taste in my mouth for the religious, since Gloria’s family, but not for this soup.”

“P, you idiot.” Claire said to the fat, female contestant in the polyester pantsuit on the show. “Good decision. Take the recipes, leave the dogma.”

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Rob put down his bowl and pushed his tray out of the way.

“What? You can’t guess, already.” Claire took another quick slurp. “Besides, there’s no P in that.”

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” the fat idiot in the bell bottomed, jumpsuit cried out. She tried to jump up and down—all 275 pounds of her.

In an orgasmic frenzy, Vanna turned letters. Her skinny neck barely held her oversized head upright. “Ohhh…looks like Margaret’s going home with $7,500.00” Pat Sajak smiled, his orange face arranged in its fake way for the camera—dead from the chin up.

“Smart ass,” Claire said.

“What can I say? I can spell.”

“That sounds like something my son would say.” Claire laughed. She hadn’t thought anything about Jordan that would bring a smile to her face in days. “He’s a smart ass, too. Plus, he thinks the answer to everything is Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Claire pushed her tray aside, too. She reached down and jerked her lever. Both of them reclined, settling in to let their dinner digest.

“How old is he?”

“Almost thirty.” When did that happen? “I’m getting old.”

“Married?”

Claire felt her right eye twitch. She looked straight ahead at the TV. Rob turned the volume down. “No. He has a roommate, Steven.”

“What does Jordan do?”

“He’s a writer. Screenplays, mostly.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” Rob reached into the ice chest console and pulled out a soda. Claire declined the one he offered her. “Does he live near you?”

“No, San Francisco.”

“Queer?”

If Claire had been drinking soda, she’d have choked. “What makes you ask that?” she asked. “Just because he lives in San Francisco and isn’t married?” She felt the steam rise.

“Queer, huh?” Rob took a swig.

“Rob Rhino, of all the—”

“Look at you. All hot under the collar, again.” Rob laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know. Who cares?”

“I didn’t say there was. If he was, and that’s a big if—”

“Claire…hello? It’s me. Let’s wake up and smell the K-Y, shall we?”

“Goddamnit, Rob Rhino…I—”

Rob was laughing so hard, tears came out the corner of his eyes. “It’s cool…it’s cool…calm down. I’m sorry.” He looked over at her stern face. “Really. I’m sorry.”

“You are too much—”

“You are homophobic.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“You are too.”

Claire’s face felt as red-hot as it had right before she overdosed. “I am not.” She was seething.

“I saw the way you acted around Joe Lansing and Dean Sumner. You don’t like gays. If you don’t like gays, you’re homophobic, Claire.”

Like an overripe watermelon hit with a hammer, Claire burst. Everything underneath her rind-like skin spewed out. “I am not…I am not…you don’t know what you’re talking about. I love my son.”

Rob jumped out of his chair and rushed over. “Claire…I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. Really. I shouldn’t—”

Claire cried. Her shoulders shook. “No…it’s not…you don’t understand…I—”

“You’re right. I don’t. More reason I should keep my big trap shut.” Rob tried to rub her arm, then stopped then started, again.

“Jordan…he’s…he’s…he’s gay.” There. She said it and buried her face in her hands.

Rob sat on the hardwood floor at her feet. “That’s okay. He sounds like a great guy, Claire. He loves you, right?”

Claire sobbed harder. She nodded, her head still covered by her palms.

Rob kept talking. “It’s no big deal. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

Claire’s head flew up so fast, she thought it’d fly off. “I’m not ashamed of my son, and I never would be. It’s just…it’s just—” She couldn’t speak.

“It’s just what?”

“Nothing.” She wiped her nose with the back of hand but not the tears. “You don’t have kids. You can’t appreciate what it’s like.”

“Try me.”

“It’s just—”

“It’s just what, Claire? Come on, now. It’s just what?”

She leaned down and grabbed Rob by both arms. “Do you think I want my son strapped to a barbed wire fence and beaten to death in some Bumfuck town like Laramie, Wyoming?”

Rob looked like Vanna just told him he’d run out of vowels. “What?”

“Matthew Shepard. Ever hear of him? That’s what they did to him. They tortured and beat him to death, because he was gay.” Claire could her hear own voice—loud, hysterical. “Tied up, defenseless, no one helped him. That’s what happens. Here…in a civilized world.” Claire cried like she’d never stop. “It was all over the news in the late nineties. Jordan was eighteen, only five years younger than Matthew when they killed him. Do you think I want that for my son?”

“Oh, Claire—” Rob started to comfort her.

“It’s not like I didn’t know.” Claire’s washboard chest puffed up as she sucked air. “He’s my son, for God’s sake. I knew before he did. I felt so sorry, scared. He didn’t have a father to guide him when he was young. It could’ve made a difference—”

Rob said, “Claire, that doesn’t matter. He was born that way. He’s who he is, no matter who guides him.”

“That’s what Liam used to say, but I’d lie awake at night, sick with worry that he wouldn’t fit in. He’d be an outcast, lonely…then, the hate crimes, AIDS—” Claire sobs began again in earnest. “I couldn’t sleep or stop thinking about it. I still think about it. The pills helped for a while…”

Rob Rhino put his arms around her. She let him.

After several minutes, he whispered, “Claire, Jordan is going to be fine. Nothing like that would ever happen to him.”

Claire sniffled. “How could you know that?”

Rob held her out away from him, so he could see her face, look into her eyes.

“We’ll send him condoms and won’t let him go to Laramie.

Chapter Fifty-One

Claire hadn’t yet seen Warden Rhino that morning when she noticed a missed call from Jordan on her cell phone screen, as well as several from Andrew and Annabelle.

“I’m impressed, Mother. The cell phone is still working.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Does the leaf check messages?”

“What are you blabbing about?”

“Your voicemail is full. No one can leave you a message.”

Crap. No wonder Andrew wasn’t leaving messages. She had over thirty of them she’d never bothered to listen to from way back when.

“I’ll get around to it.”

“Maybe you need someone over there to do your bidding.”

“I wasn’t going to call you back. I’m already sorry I did.”

“Mother, you can’t stay pissed forever.” Jordan, exasperated. “I screwed up. I have to pay the piper, now. I’m taking care of it. That isn’t why I called.”

Claire couldn’t take him to the mat on it, now. “I’m all ears.”

“So, were you going to enlighten me on Liam’s girlfriend and the kid, or what?”

“I figured Annabelle would tell you in that drama-fest way you love.”

“Well, she did. It was fantastic.” Claire expected Jordan to laugh, but he didn’t.

“I knew I could count on your heartfelt and sensitive reaction. So, everyone got what they expected,” Claire said, her throat tight. Annabelle must’ve left out the part about having her committed.

Jordan didn’t reply for a few moments. Claire thought she could hear him light a cigarette. She thought he’d quit smoking. She thought a lot of things.

“I know you might not believe this mother, but I feel terrible about the whole thing.” Jordan exhaled. “What I feel worst about is you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve helped.”

Claire started to cry. Jordan, the smartass, was the suit that fit.

“How could I tell you something like that? I didn’t want you to hate Liam, to feel badly about him. Especially since he was dead.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“What?” He wouldn’t have? She lied. Damn straight she wanted Jordan to hate him.

“Well, I wouldn’t have been happy about it. I’m not thrilled about it, now.” Claire closed her eyes and tried to picture her son as he spoke. “Relationships are tough, complicated,” Jordan said.

“So?”

“I loved him, Mother. He was good to me.” Jordan’s voice got soft. “I think he did the best he could.”

The lump in Claire’s throat felt unmanageable.

“I’m so sorry about it all. Clearly, he didn’t make a good choice there, but…for now, Mom, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. That’s all…and to offer our help.”

Claire knew her son. There was something he wasn’t saying.

“Jordan, what do you want to say?” She could take it. Couldn’t she? She dried her tears with the bottom of her shirt.

“You need to finish up whatever familial fiasco you’re intent on pulling off over there and get home. We’re all worried about your health. Annabelle—”

“Jordan, forget about all that for now. What were you going to say before?”

Claire could hear him smoking. “Mother, I just…” Jordan exhaled, again. “It’s just…you know, we’re all stumbling through life, licking our wounds. Sometimes, we’re doing it so much, we can’t see we’re wounding someone else. I hope you can appreciate that eventually.”

No, she couldn’t take it, after all. What she could take was pills, but those were rationed out. She let go of the chair and made a tight fist.

“Mother, are you there?” Jordan asked.

“Ummm…yes, yes.” Best to talk about something else. “How does Annabelle seem to you?” Claire looked at the sore palm of her hand. Her nails left moon-shaped marks where they’d dug in.

“Hysterical, as usual.”

Rob Rhino tiptoed in. Claire almost laughed. A stealth, pudgy porn star in screaming-green, plastic clogs holding a white envelope against his chest. He paused, on pointe, set the envelope down in front of her, mimed some weird interpretive dance kind of thing, then tiptoed out.

“Mother? Hello?”

“Oh, sorry. Right. Have you talked to Annabelle since her surprise visit here?”

“What?” Jordan coughed. “She flew there? To Pennsylvania? What in the—”

“She didn’t tell you she talked to Andrew?” Claire picked up the FedEx envelope, puzzled. Room 244 blared across it in red, felt-tip marker—her hotel room number. She flipped it over. It was addressed to her, from Conchita. Rob must’ve picked it up from the hotel.

“Yes, she did.” Jordan let out a big puff. “She didn’t say much. Come to think of it, I guess I didn’t give her much of an opportunity. Well, Steven didn’t. He ripped into her about the inappropriateness, lack of ethics, blah blah blah. You need to fire—”

In a rush, a random thought bounced to the tip of Claire’s tongue. “You said we could help. Who’s we?”

“I misspoke. I’m pretty useless. I should’ve said Steven’s help.”

Him. “Steven? What on earth could he do for me?” Floral arrangements for the memorial had already been decided.

“Steven is an attorney. Let him help you with this Andrew mess.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The contents of the envelope hit the smooth, shiny antique table top with a thud. A thick wad of correspondence rubber-banded together in a neat packet fell out. Conchita’s signature—organized neatness. Claire’s mail. She forgot she’d asked Conchita to forward it.

A letter from her great-aunt Charlotte in Milwaukee. A reminder from AAA, since her membership expired in thirty days. A condolence card—right on time—from someone she’d never heard of in Florida. Must be another of Liam’s business associates. A postcard from Frank’s Luxury Auto Service—the 40,000-mile reminder for Liam’s Range Rover.

Claire almost doubled over.

Her trembling fingers felt the raised letters of the printed address on the card, like a Braille reader. Somewhere in Rob Rhino’s house, a phone rang. Like it had the day Liam died. Her eyes closed. Slow, deliberate, weighed down.

Claire never told Liam she hadn’t gotten the brakes fixed. They’d held out a while longer after the missed repair appointment. Not long enough. She’d never said a thing. Not even when he stormed out in a rage that day, while she screamed at his back. She followed him, never letting up. The driver’s side door slammed behind him. Claire wished him dead, knowing it was a definite possibility.

* * * *

“What are you doing?” Rob hit the floor on both knees.

Claire, caught but not caring, barely glanced in his direction. “Where’d you put ‘em all?” All of Rob’s period-correct kitchen cabinets hung open. The Viking restaurant-size fridge waved open, its contents in chaos. Claire’s bony ass stuck out the last cabinet she searched, under the sink.

“No drugs under there.” Rob tried to squeeze into the cabinet with her.

“I know.” She pushed him out, sucking herself out, too. “It’s not my birthday.”

“What’s going on?” He yanked her by the arms, sat her upright.

“Where’d you put the beer?”

“I threw it out.” Rob sat cross-legged across from her on the black and white tiled floor. “You didn’t answer me. You’ve been doing so well.” He looked stricken.

Claire lay prone on the cold floor. Must be what it’s like in the morgue, on a slab.

“Rob Rhino, give it up. You can’t save me.” The tears ran down her neck. “I don’t want to be saved.”

“I want it enough for the both of us. That’s enough for now.” Rob lay next to her.

“Rob, it’s not that simple…it’s—”

“It’s like they say, as stupid as it sounds. One day, one hour, at a time.” Rob gripped her hand.

“You don’t know me, Rob. I’m not worth saving.” Claire took her hand away from his. “I’m not what you think I am.” She wrinkled up the corner of her T-shirt with one hand. “Underneath the anger, is…is…something else.”

He snatched her hand back. “I know, Claire. I know about Liam.”

“What about him?”

“You know…the car.”

Claire went still. “You can’t possibly—”

“You told me. About the brakes.” He clutched her hand, as if he knew she’d try to run. “You got stoned, drunk, forgot about the appointment. Forgot to tell Liam. Then, he got in the car. You were so angry, still half pie-eyed—”

“How—” She cried out the words in a rasp. “I never told you.”

“You did. That night in your hotel room. The night you’d had dinner with Liam’s family and called me. The first time you almost overdosed. It was just you and me.”

“You’ve known all this time.” Not a question.

Quid pro quo, Rob Rhino.

“Gloria?” she prodded. Their hands stayed clasped.

“What about her?”

“What happened to her?”

His breathing stayed even. “Her heroin addiction ruled us. We had nowhere to go but down.”

“And?” Claire propped her foot on his calf. They lay still on the cold floor.

“We had her trust fund money, so I had to cut that off to discourage the supply. She started whoring herself out for cash.” His voice got quieter. “I’d come home. There’d be men there, off the street, zipping up. She sold our car. Got the clap.” Claire could hear him start to cry. “I had to give her the money back, thinking it was the lesser of two evils.”

Claire wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind.

“With cash, there was no stopping her. She’d overdose once a week. Looked like shit, a dead woman walking. She started popping pills too, and her veins were so fucked up, they couldn’t take a needle. She was so loaded, such a fucking mess. She couldn’t swallow and almost choked to death every time.”

Claire’s disgraceful memory of Rob’s adeptness at finger-induced vomiting made her stiffen.

Rob paused. Maybe to summon courage, maybe to reconsider his confession. “Gloria was hell-bent, headed to the grave. Time was the only question.”

“Some people are. You can’t save them from themselves.” Lame, but what else could she say? It’s what she felt, about Gloria and about herself. Without letting go of Rob’s hand, she closed what little gap there was between them on the floor. Her body pressed right next to his, for shelter, comfort. To make him keep talking, make him stay.

“That last day, I knew she couldn’t last. I couldn’t, either. I knew she’d never get help. She’d made that clear. I’d grown to hate what she’d become, what I’d become with her.” Rob covered his face with the hand that wasn’t hanging on to Claire’s. “She was so high, weighed next to nothing. Her beauty trashed like a used syringe. She tried to swallow a bunch of pills and started choking. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that look on her face—the pleading. She thought I’d put my fingers down her throat, keep her alive. Only I didn’t.”

Claire stared at the ceiling and watched the faux turn-of-the-century gaslight fixture.

“I left her there to die, like a junkie, in her own vomit.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Claire drifted into the back-room office in time to hear Freddie Eddie utter the most disturbing words she’d heard him say since they’d been introduced. “…you know you’re my only baby doll…” Rob Rhino sat at one desk, his bifocals perched at the end of his nose, his stubby fingers hunting and pecking at the keyboard in front of him. Einstein with a dyed comb over. Melissa worked at the desk next to Rob’s at a much quicker pace while Freddie Eddie continued a cutesy wootsie conversation with some poor sap on the other end of the phone at the desk toward the back.

“Hey, you.” Rob looked up from his computer screen. His heavy head swayed ever so slightly, like a giant bobble head. “Thought you were napping.”

“Stuff to do.” She leaned against the door jamb, manila envelope firmly in hand. Claire couldn’t take her eyes off Freddie Eddie. Cupcake? Get outta town.

Rob looked over his glasses.

Melissa piped up. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

The girl had a brain and a halo. “No, but thank you,” Claire said. “Oh, wait. Actually, there is something. Can I sit at one of these desks to finish going through my mail?” She could’ve used the dining room or stayed holed up in her bedroom, but truth told, since their mutual purges, Claire felt shaken. She wanted to be near Rob. He had that way about him. He made her feel safe, despite his story. Rob was like a quilt in the winter. Without him, she felt cold, exposed. Besides, who was she to cast stones? Maybe, he should be scared of her.

“Pick any one.” Melissa smiled like an angel and motioned around the room.

Claire plopped down at the first empty desk, next to Melissa’s.

“I’m making a mess of this. Back in the day, we used pens and paper.” Rob Rhino peered down. His eyes traveled back and forth, searching. “Aha! M…there it is.” He hit the key with a loud clack. “God, my eyes are worse than yours, Claire Corrigan.”

“Didn’t you learn to type, Doctor?” Claire said.

“Yes. I am typing.” Rob’s sausage fingers stabbed out a key here and there.

Freddie Eddie hung up after making kissing sounds into the receiver. Claire almost gagged. “Afternoon, Claire. Are you feeling better?” Freddie Eddie said, his eyes reptilian.

They hadn’t exchanged two words since their confrontation on her first day in Rob’s house. Claire tried to peer into his mouth, to see his forked tongue.

“Been gone too long. I usually don’t stay away from the Missus more than a week or two,” Freddie Eddie announced to the room.

Away from who?

“He gets all moony after a few days.” Rob rolled his eyes. “You’d think they were newlyweds.”

Did he say Missus?

Melissa giggled and kept clacking away, diligent at her work.

“You have a Missus? There’s a Mrs. Freddie Eddie?” Claire didn’t hide her horror.

Apparently not the sensitive type, Freddie Eddie let out a loud guffaw and smacked the desktop with the flat of his hand. “Yes, Ma’am. There is indeed a Mrs. Freddie Eddie.” Rob Rhino and Melissa cracked up, too. “For the past thirty-two years, if you can believe it.”

She couldn’t believe it. Freddie Eddie married for over thirty years? From what she could tell, happily as well. Even he was better marriage material than Claire.

* * * *

“You never told me Freddie Eddie had a wife.”

“Thought I did.”

“Ahhh…no.”

Rob laughed. “Marie’s a kick in the ass.”

“I’ll bet. Probably kicks his ass every day.” Claire looked around the empty office. The man in question had just waltzed out with the threat that he’d see them tomorrow. Right behind Melissa. Rob Rhino and Claire had the place to themselves.

“He’s pretty well behaved.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.” Claire had a vague memory of Freddie Eddie and a young usherette in the parking lot at Rob’s speech.

“Oh, that’s all show. He’s too chicken.” Rob laughed.

“Doubt it.”

“Marie is what you’d call…sturdy.” Rob looked down through his glasses at Claire with a “you know what I’m talkin’ about” look on his face.

“Freddie Eddie married a fat chick?” Claire howled.

“You’re not supposed to say that, anymore.” He frowned. “She’s a great Italian cook.”

“Now that’s funny.”

“I’ve heard him call her mommy.”

“Stop…stop…you’re killing me—”

“Oh….don’t say that.” Rob’s face crumpled.

Claire stopped, feeling bad for her insensitive choice of words. “Oh, sorry.” She looked at his pouting face and drooping jowls. Then, she burst out laughing, again. “Get over yourself, Rob Rhino. Mommy, for Christ’s sake.”

* * * *

She took another pass at her mail. After sorting through it earlier and finding the reminder card from Randy, she’d stopped. Randy’s Luxury Auto Service’s postcard rested comfortably in the trash, so Claire could buck up and carry on. Rob resumed his hunt and peck. She tried to squint her way through.

“Do I look like I want a Victoria’s Secret credit card?” Claire huffed, shooting silent accusations in Rob’s direction and tearing up an envelope. “Want to know what Victoria’s Secret is? She’s a slut.”

Rob didn’t look up from his keyboard. “Not touching that one with a thirteen-inch—” He giggled to himself. “Never mind.”

A small, party invitation-sized envelope came up next. No return address. Something disagreeable slunk around her skin. She ran her pencil under the glued flap and tore it open with a quick rip.

“Jesus Christ. I need to use a computer.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Check your e-mail.

A simple phrase turned ominous. In the decade Claire had known Andrew’s wife, Meg, she’d never paid a social call. They’d known each other through their husbands, ran into one another at the occasional holiday or cocktail party—the usual.

“Guess she left me a few messages on my cell. They’re still on it, since I’ve never checked them. She gave up.”

Rob shook his fat finger at her. “Maybe, you should get with it. Start taking care of business.”

Claire balled the engraved stationary in her fist, and the MC monogram crumpled. The note had been short. Meg tried to reach Claire by phone, but no luck. She had information Claire might find interesting.

Claire and Rob Rhino sat close to the computer screen.

“Wish I had a drink.” Claire keyed in her e-mail address.

“I hear ya.” Rob rubbed her back. “Use these.” He handed over his bifocals. “Good God, woman. Get yourself some reading glasses. You’re sad with all that squinting.”

Meg was only too happy to spill her guts, air their dirty laundry. Like thousands of men before him, Andrew e-mailed, texted, Facebooked, and voicemailed his ass into a sling. Complete with photos. Copies of which Meg was delighted to e-mail to Claire, as long as she promised not to have him disbarred until after Meg took him to the cleaners.

Here comes da judge.

They read through e-mail after incriminating e-mail, detailing less a romance than an extortion scheme—at least on Andrew’s end. Ellen appeared pretty clueless, at least from her side of the correspondence. Claire almost pitied her. Andrew talked money almost exclusively.

“She spends more on drugs.”

“We need to speed this up. She might not live to trial.”

“She has no idea your ‘lawyer’ is me.”

They shared Rob’s glasses and each read to themselves. Claire could feel herself get tense, her eyes filled. Without taking his eyes off the e-mails, Rob put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. He had her back.

“Oh, my God. What the—”

Rob turned back to look at the screen and cackled. “Oh, brother.”

There was an all-too-clear photo of Andrew, naked, alone, and pointing at his not quite but probably the best he could do hard-on with a proud, semi-smile on his pampered, botoxed face. His gray hair artfully mussed, and his flabby body oiled up, ‘cause it looked much better that way.

“Oh…gross. If that’s not bad enough, he’s got man-boobs.” Claire covered her mouth with one hand. She didn’t need the glasses to see what pitiful corner the situation had just turned.

Rob Rhino pointed to Andrew’s crotch and talked to the screen over his glasses. “Claire, how do you work that “zoom” thing? Dude, you call that a prick? Please. Stop embarrassing yourself. I could beat that with a—”

Claire elbowed Rob in his gut. “Stop it.”

* * * *

She got up to stretch her legs and try to absorb some of what she’d read. There seemed to be no end to the e-mails. She couldn’t read any more.

Rob whistled through his gap. “Christ on a cracker. I’ve never seen anything like this.” He rubbed his eyes.

Claire leaned on a desk. “I can’t deal with it, now. I need to get this memorial over with. It is what I came here to do, remember?”

“Still with that damn revenge scheme.” He put his glasses back on, turning back to the screen.

“I think I’m heading upstairs. I’ve had it for one day.” Claire could see the stars out the office window. They’d missed dinner.

“Hey, Claire? Who’s Connor?”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Claire felt a wave ripple through her, but not of fear exactly. Something else disturbing, uneasy. She made short work of the space between her and Rob.

“Connor is Liam’s brother.” She sat back down in her chair with a heavy flop. “What the hell are you looking at?”

Rob stayed focused on his computer. “There’s a bunch of e-mails between him and Andrew.”

Claire almost shoved Rob out of his chair to see.

“Looks like the adoption might be on, again.”

“Thought that died with Liam.”

“Ellen will take ten million to ride off into the sunset, leave the baby.”

Claire’s already challenged vision blurred. She could hear Rob’s blood rushing…or was it her own? Rob’s arm around her kept her from falling. She glanced at him to make sure he wouldn’t leave, even though she knew he wouldn’t. He nodded and pulled her closer.

“Don’t forget. You’re not supposed to know she’s bald.”

“Keep her stoned. She might be easier to deal with. Her purse is like a pharmacy.”

“Not sure what’s going on with her. Should be easy to control her with all the drugs.”

“I don’t know if I can do this. She was my brother’s wife. She doesn’t seem so bad.”

“You want the kid, right?”

Claire started to cry.

“I don’t know where she is. She won’t answer my calls. Her voicemail is full. She’s not at the hotel. My mother says she’s staying with friends.”

“She doesn’t have any friends.”

Rob hugged Claire close. “You sure have bad taste in men.”

* * * *

Who knew Jordan would have such good taste in men. Steven turned out to be an actual lawyer in real life. Not too swishy, either. He hadn’t liked the idea of Claire calling Andrew directly. He wanted to handle it all for her. He wanted to press charges, blah, blah, blah, but Claire didn’t want to. Steven hadn’t liked that, either. Whatever Steven learned in law school, he must’ve missed catching a clue class. Claire did a shit load of stuff no one liked. He might as well get used to it.

“I hope you’ve had some time to come to your senses,” Andrew said, indignant.

“Yes, I have. I have a proposition for you.”

“You have a proposition for me? I think you should worry about yourself and not me.”

“Of course you do.” This was fun. “How about this? Are you sitting in front of your computer?”

“Yes, actually.”

Ron Rhino sat across from her and gave her two thumbs up for courage.

“I’m e-mailing you a couple of things.” She had her finger poised over the send key. “You and Ellen go fuck yourselves with her kid. I will pay her….say….zero. Starting now, and I’ll consider not bringing you up on extortion charges. You can also refund me all the money I’ve paid her and you for the past year.”

Rob clapped his hands together without making noise. He smiled his big, missing tooth, goofball smile.

“That’s crazy. Extortion? Refund? I don’t know what Meg told you, but she’s as delusional as you are. What Ellen’s case has to do—” Claire could feel his distraction over the phone. “I don’t know who you—” His voice sounded further away. “What the fuck…where in the hell—?”

“Get your e-mails?”

“Where did you get these?” Claire wondered if he was as purple-faced as he sounded. She looked at Rob Rhino and nodded “we got him”.

“Does it matter?” Claire felt like laughing, but refrained. “You can sell that kid to anybody you want, but I’m sure as hell not paying for it.”

“Claire, it’s not like that.” Andrew stumbled for excuses. “Liam just tried to right a wrong. His brother couldn’t have kids. He—”

“You can tell my loser brother-in-law I’ll see him in hell.”

After a couple of beats of silence and some heavy breathing, Andrew said, “You’ll hear from my attorney.”

Claire smiled. “I doubt it, and before I forget. You’re fired.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Claire cleared all thirty-three messages from her cell phone. She listened to them all, too. Most were from the kids, Conchita, a couple from the travel agent, and three from Meg—that poor woman. Claire felt her slate washed a little cleaner. Sure, she missed all her drugs, her booze, but one day at a time, hour, or minute. Plus, she still had Guillermo’s number. The yoke around her neck that had been Andrew, Ellen, and her kid, was gone. Maybe Claire could carry on.

She’d taken her daily dose doled out by Doctor Rhino, watched Wheel of Fortune again—how Rob always got it right with only three letters filled in was a mystery—and nodded off on her side of the tricky loveseat. Rob shook her awake, mumbling it was time to call it a day. She dawdled in front of her bedroom door until he disappeared ahead of her, off to bed. It was unusual for him to trot off without a backward glance, though. He liked to helicopter over Claire a lot longer.

She could resist the call of the wild no more. Her Chanel flats moved over the thick, Persian runner without a sound. Claire could see light from under his closed door—a Van Gogh night out the window ahead. Even the sky looked more picturesque from this house. Without hesitating, she knocked.

The door opened wide, startling her. “Is something wrong?” Rob Rhino said. Claire looked over and around him, ignoring his question to get a good look inside. It wasn’t a bedroom. It was, from what she could see, more like an office or a library.

He stepped back, mercifully dressed. “Come in, come in.”

“I…I’m sorry. I’m invading your space…or something.” She tried to think of a reason why she’d be there. Why didn’t she think of something before she knocked?

“No, it’s fine. Come, sit. This is my private office…and bedroom, over there.” He pointed a dwarf-like finger.

With her eyes, she followed his outstretched arm to the adjoining room off to the side. She walked further in. The room looked like an affluent, history professor’s space seen through the eyes of an over-paid designer. The thick rug, the marble mantelpiece over the fireplace, the ornate yet masculine mahogany desk that sat opposite it, and the deep, burgundy-colored walls lined with bookshelves filled with hardbound books and knick-knacks. Nothing tacky. Behind the French vanilla leather wing-back desk chair hung a nearly life-size painting of a woman with a magnificent head of auburn hair. Gloria…had to be.

“This is where I keep my sanity.” He waved one arm around the spacious room. “Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting ladies.” He gave a lecherous grin and led her onward.

Claire felt herself blush but wasn’t going to miss out. The giant, four-poster bed nearly swallowed the small room. What a mess. Towels on the floor, Time and Newsweek magazines—no porn—the Wall Street Journal, New York Times—no small town Gazette for him—and empty soda cans. The bed wasn’t made and looked like an army slept in it. No clothes. He had one outfit, and he wore it.

“Now, this is what I’m talkin’ about,” Claire said.

“What?” Rob looked confused.

“I expected your whole house to look like this. This I can wrap my brain around.”

Rob laughed. “Yeah, I bet you can. No, I try to keep my mess contained. Having a regular maid helps.” Rob glanced around his wreck of a bedroom. “Gloria hated my sloppiness.”

Claire reached over and touched Rob’s arm. A small comfort.

They stepped back out, and Rob led her to one of the other two matching chairs that sat in front of the fireplace.

Rob nodded his head toward the painting. “Wasn’t she beautiful?”

It wasn’t a widower’s fond remembrance. It was fact. Especially for a man with a face only his grandma could love. Claire got up closer to examine the painting. “Looks like a wedding dress.”

“Yeah, I had this painted about five years ago from one of our wedding photos.”

Gloria looked like a ‘70s bride, wearing a cream-colored, gauzy cotton maxi-dress, as they were called way back when. She’d have looked like Stevie Nicks if she’d had a tambourine. Her skin, skimmed cream perfection. And that hair…long, auburn curls worn loose, almost to her waist. Claire reached for her own head. Nope, nothing. She sat back down.

“This is the only likeness of Gloria in the whole house.” There were no photos of her anywhere. How had Claire not noticed that before? Too busy on the lookout for porn.

Rob fiddled with the armrest rivets. “I don’t think I need too many reminders.” He scratched at something on the leather. “Besides, this house is all about the business. She hated it. It’s why she started taking drugs, to deal with it.”

Rob got up, bent down behind the desk. Claire heard a suction sound and glass shaking around. He came up with two root beers.

“There’s a refrigerator back there?”

Rob smiled and nodded. “Under the desk, there’s a mini one. Never know when I might get thirsty.”

A loveseat and a desk that did tricks. “You live here only part of the year, right?” Claire asked.

“Yeah. LA the other part.” He gulped his root beer. “I hate it there. It’s depressing.”

“Southern California is great. I live there, you know. Just a couple hours north of LA,” Claire reminded him. “You could visit me when you’re there.”

Rob laughed, looking surprised. “Seriously? You’d want me to show up at the door?”

Claire bristled. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Claire Corrigan, what would the neighbors think?”

“Fuck the neighbors.”

He brightened. “Can I?”

* * * *

He seemed melancholy. She looked closer at his paunchy face. Everything drooped more. His hair was greasy, stringy, gray at the roots around his temples and near his bald spot. He’d let himself go. Now, he looked his seventy years, even in the soft light. His hula girl shirt was stained and wrinkled, jeans torn, and his bright green clogs scuffed and dirty. Claire didn’t have to inhale too deep to get a good whiff of him. He could’ve been the homeless man she thought he was at the airport. Why hadn’t she noticed? First Gloria’s pictures, now Rob’s decline. Guess they had to be on fire for Claire to pay attention.

It didn’t take a Mensa candidate to figure out what was on his mind. “We’re a pair. Aren’t we, Rob Rhino?” Claire ran her finger around the lip of her root beer bottle. “You and what happened with Gloria. Me and what happened with—” She stopped. Still, she couldn’t say it. Not sober.

Rob shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Claire’s tears ran before she could beat them back. “I tell myself I didn’t remember it…the brakes. I didn’t remember in time. I’d been drunk, stoned. He’d driven it lots of times after, and it’d been fine. How could I know it’d be that day? I was so angry when he got in the car. As soon as he drove off…I knew he wouldn’t come back. I let him go anyway.”

“Claire, it was an accident. Your head doesn’t work when you’re fucked up.” Rob’s eyes stayed shut. He didn’t lift his head. “You’ve got to put it behind you. You have to get better. You have a lot to live for—yourself, your family.”

“I could say the same to you, Rob Rhino. You need to put Gloria behind you and get well. A lot of people need you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Claire Corrigan. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine to me.”

“Is that why you came in here?” He opened one eye and shimmied a caterpillar brow. “To nurse me?”

“I came in here because I’m nosy.” What’d she have to hide? “You’re a porn star for Christ’s sake. I wanted to see in here.”

Rob let out a bark-like laugh. “That’s priceless, Claire Corrigan. Priceless.” He smoothed back his rat’s nest hair. “You must be disappointed.”

“I am. No whips, no chains. Your reputation’s ruined.” Claire stared him down. “But don’t change the subject.”

They sat for a few minutes, swigged their root beers, and looked at the marble mantle with the expensive bric-a-bracs on it. Her stomach churned. The root beer sat at the bottom of it and bubbled up like lava.

“I’m tired. I’d like to call it good, retire.” He leaned his head back again and closed his eyes.

“Well, didn’t you eventually plan to?” Claire asked, surprised at the subject change.

“Plan? There’s no porn plan.” Rob opened his eyes a slit to see her. “It’s not an old man’s business. I’m not supposed to still be in it.”

“Is anyone older than Hugh Hefner? He’s still in.” Claire remembered Jordan telling her about the pictures he’d seen online of Rob and Hef at the Playboy Mansion.

“Only guys like Hefner and Guccione, God rest him, hang around past their prime, and Jesus…look at Flynt. Who wants to end up like Larry? They’re pathetic. They were never on screen, though. I’m the worst.” Rob picked his head up off the back of the chair and sat up straight to emphasize his point. “I’m sick of talking about my cock. At my age, it’s pitiful.”

“You’re probably not going to get too much sympathy.”

Rob slumped back, again. “No, probably not.” He fiddled with his squirrely moustache. “Who knew it’d turn out like this? Like you said, now I’m a brand…a corporation.”

“Heads of corporations retire.”

“Gotta walk away some time.” Rob shut his eyes, again. Tears seeped down his withered cheeks. “I don’t want to keep it going, anymore. It was all for nothing…didn’t mean a fucking thing.” He spun his big head in her direction. “It didn’t turn out the way I thought it would.”

Claire reached across the divide between their chairs and put her hand on his.

* * * *

She stayed long enough to finish her root beer.

“You’re meeting with the priest, tomorrow?” Rob said.

She nodded, stood up to leave.

“Freddie Eddie’s gonna take us.”

“Us? I can drive myself. My rental is just sitting there.”

“You’re still weak as a kitten.” Rob stood up, too. “I’m going with you. Father McKinley from Saint Theresa’s is a friend of mine—”

“Let me guess. He’s really a porn star.”

“Now that’s funny.” Rob stood poised for battle.

A battle Claire knew she’d lose. “I want to go early, check out the crypt site. See if it’s all kosher.”

Claire stopped in front of the bookcases by the door and squinted to read some of the titles. She expected history books but was surprised to see books with titles like, How to Win Friends and Influence People. She took a better look—Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, The Secret, and I’m OK, You’re OK. There were more, but she stopped.

“You’ve got the self-help market cornered,” she said.

“It’s never too late to make improvements,” Rob said.

Claire got closer to see better. There were several books on the topic of manic depression, anxiety, and schizophrenia. She glanced at Rob Rhino from the corner of her eye.

“I got those from the rehab center. They come in handy for my volunteer work over there,” he said too quickly.

“Do you mind if I skim through a couple of these?” she asked.

“Help yourself.” Rob Rhino laughed at his own lame joke.

Claire stood. She didn’t want to go back to her room, yet. His kicked-dog gloom made her want to stay. He said he kept his sanity there, in his private rooms. It seemed to Claire it’s where he kept his sorrow, the weight of his guilt. As soon as he crossed the threshold, it came at him like a Scud missile. She thought about offering to sit with him, stay and talk longer, but she didn’t know how. Reaching out, offering real comfort wasn’t her thing. She didn’t have the faintest idea what could ease his suffering…or her own, for that matter. A pat on the hand was about the only item on her empathy menu. The words stayed in her mouth.

“Okay, then. Good night,” she finally said. She took a couple of steps with the books in her hands, stopped, and turned. He was still standing in the doorway. She went back, dropped the books, embraced him, and didn’t wrinkle her nose at his pungent aroma. He put his arms around her. She could feel the heaviness of his belly pushing against her, his sweat through his hula girl shirt. His mouth brushed her neck. He could’ve kissed it if he’d wanted to. Her breath quickened, and she pressed into him.

“Claire Corrigan, are you trying to seduce me?”

Ten insults flew to her lips, but she kept them there. All the blood left her face, only to race back. She held him at arm’s length and blurted accidental truth.

“What if I am?”

He didn’t smile. He looked as serious as Claire’d ever seen him. “You’d only break my heart.” He kissed his fingertips then touched her cheek. “Good night, Claire Corrigan.”

* * * *

A long day, stretched into a long night. Claire grabbed her pillow so she could pull the coverlet down. A piece of paper that had been stuffed underneath it fluttered to the ground. With a quick glance, she could see it was a copy of a newspaper article. The bold headline hit her brain with a pop. Her hand jerked to the faded bruises on her throat.

80’s Adult Film Star Found Dead

By Gerald Hill

PENNSYLVANIA—

Elaine Chester, better known to fans of Adult Entertainment as Lana Chalmers, was found dead, yesterday. Local authorities say her body was discovered by a warehouse employee behind a local adult movie and gift store, Alex’s Adult World Gift Emporium and Warehouse. Lana had appeared at Alex’s with former co-star and reality TV star, Rob Rhino, to sign autographs. No official cause of death has been released pending a full investigation. The warehouse employee, who has not been identified, said he found Lana “propped against the building, in a sitting position, partially clothed, with bruises around her jaw and neck.” Rob Rhino, her co-star in the cult classic, The Postman Always Screws Twice, said, “Lana struggled with drugs. I thought she was doing better. She had a lot to live for—herself, her family. We are all saddened by this terrible loss.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“So, this is what five million gets you?” Claire turned to Freddie Eddie, surprised he spoke to her. She only nodded.

Claire looked at the recently sodded ground and the orange-flagged stakes that marked off the mausoleum site. The outbuildings were gone, and the parcel, other than its lack of dead people, looked like the rest of the cemetery—flawless creepiness.

This won’t end well. Claire couldn’t stop thinking about Freddie Eddie’s words, the article he must’ve put under her pillow.

“…will be out here?” Rob Rhino asked.

“Huh?” Claire said.

“I asked when the mausoleum would be out here.”

“Today or tomorrow. It’s a pre-fab, so—”

“A pre-fab? Like a…like a mobile home?” Freddie Eddie asked. His forehead wrinkled.

“Just like that.”

She and Freddie Eddie sat on one of the new, wrought iron and concrete benches placed under one of the new, yet miraculously mature—even mother nature had her price—shade trees near the Corrigan family’s final resting place. Rob Rhino stretched out on the lawn next to them.

“Quite a coincidence, all of this,” Freddie Eddie said.

Claire did a double-take. Yeah, two dead women. Was he going to bring it up in front of Rob?

“Old Father Pat, your father-in-law.” Freddie Eddie sucked on a toothpick he must’ve brought with him.

“That coincidence. Right,” Claire said.

“Beats all, doesn’t it?” Rob asked from below.

Claire let out a heavy sigh. She was about to go on a “woe is me” tirade about Grace’s shortcomings and the family’s ill will, when the sounds of snoring wafted up from Rob Rhino. She looked down. She’d forgotten how nearly narcoleptic he was. Certainly, he wouldn’t take Dramamine for such a short car ride.

“He’s gone downhill quickly this time,” Freddie Eddie said. “Just found out about that meeting in LA and wham! It’s like a one-way ticket to Psychoville. He sleeps a lot, doesn’t shower, looks like shit. Rob’s a different man as soon as he hears Los Angeles. Gloria died there.” He let it sit.

“I noticed,” Claire said. She wanted to ask him about the girl, the article, and what he knew about Gloria, but she didn’t want to risk Rob overhearing them. She glanced down at Rob sleeping like a well-hung baby on the grass at her feet. “She must be on his mind a lot, especially here.”

“She’s always on his mind, I think.” Freddie Eddie leaned down and stared at his friend and client of so many years. His hair and clothes were a rumpled, dirty mess. “Rob loves an underdog. Always has, but he can’t handle it when they don’t come out from under.” He stared at her.

Claire felt herself blush. “My husband’s first wife committed suicide. My mother lost her mind.” Freddie Eddie kept staring. “Some people aren’t made for disappointment.”

He nodded. The sun glinted off his nose jewelry.

* * * *

“How far is it?”

Claire hollered back without stopping or turning around. “Are you going to make it?”

“I don’t remember it being this far. I’m draggin’.”

Like a whippet, Freddie Eddie darted back and forth between Claire and Rob, yipping.

“Come on, Rob. You’re bottom heavy.” Freddie Eddie cackled as he zigged and zagged his way up the walk.

Claire could see the chapel up ahead. She stopped by a shade tree and glanced at her watch. She’d worked up a bit of a sweat on the walk. Her head felt slick. She swiped at it with one hand.

“Look at this name.” She pointed to a headstone. “Charles Darwin. No way.” Claire looked back at Rob for confirmation. He shuffled to catch up.

“Different Darwin,” Rob said.

Freddie Eddie kept walking toward the chapel, slower, while Rob and Claire dallied. The cemetery grounds were fairly empty, since Trustee Week was long over. A small group of tourists mingled near the chapel doors. Claire was about to crack wise about the town and Darwin’s waiting room when she suddenly didn’t. Someone said something she couldn’t make out from behind, like an echo. Her joke stopped cold. Claire turned and tried to see who said it.

A small, wrinkled man jerked his shrunken, bald head in their direction. His rickety movements were almost comical. He seemed old as Methuselah or fresh out of a grave—the walking dead welcome wagon. His outstretched hand held out something too small to be a fruit basket.

“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?” he asked, his ancient voice a jagged rasp. “Let my daughter rest in peace.” He never stopped moving. Not quick but moving.

“Did he say ‘daughter’?” Claire was pretty sure he did.

“Let my daughter rest in peace.” Crazy old man, the broken record, kept coming. “Let my daughter rest in peace.”

Rob smiled a funny, crooked, and cavernous grin—obviously at a loss for words, because he wasn’t saying any. Freddie Eddie came toward them from one side…or she thought he did. Rob’s back dashed in front of her, fast for a fat man. His arms spread out and waved like batman’s cape. The heel of his clog smashed the toe of her Chanel flat.

Claire jumped at the crack. First one, then another, and one more. Sharp, quick, and brutal.

Later, she’d say it happened just like in the movies.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Batman’s cape folded. Rob dropped to the ground.

Claire blinked. The place in front of her, taken up by Rob Rhino just seconds before, emptied. She didn’t get it at first, even with all the blood. Rob’s mouth was open a little, his weird smile still plastered on his face. Claire stared at the gap where his tooth should’ve been. Freddie Eddie knelt to one side of Rob Rhino, his hands pressed to Rob’s gushing chest. His hula girls and palm trees were soaking red. Was someone screaming? Most of Claire’s senses had stopped working. She’d gone deaf and dumb.

She dropped to her knees, almost on top of him. She still gripped her cherry-red Hermès bag in one hand. He smelled like sweat, grass, and something new—rancid. She played possum. A small crowd gathered. Only moving her eyes, Claire spied the old man through the tourist’s legs. He was lying soles up with a gun flung there like it was no big deal. Blood sprayed on the walk and something else… something fleshy. A few more legs, clad in dark blue, hovered around the old man’s body.

Rob Rhino’s chest gaped open, overflowing. He’d be so mad. His favorite shirt, maybe his only one, ruined. Claire opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She could see Freddie Eddie’s mouth moving, his eyes like pinballs. He patted her down, like he was looking for something hidden. The two blue men hunkered down next to her, their lips flapped. She couldn’t figure it out.

Claire thought she still lived but couldn’t be sure.

Joe Lansing shoved his way in with the priest who made the sign of the cross over Rob. Claire wanted to grab the gun, shoot him. She thought she saw Evelyn Wallace’s funny, blue hair weaving through. Hours or seconds went by. She didn’t know which. She watched Rob’s blood spread, drip, run onto the sod. Claire sat drenched in it. Two paramedics pushing a stretcher made their way through.

Heads shook, faces grimaced. One of the paramedics said something to Freddie Eddie, squeezed his arm. He pressed his eyelids shut with the fingers of one hand and nodded. Claire could see him crying. They were ready to put Rob on the stretcher. She snapped to, dropped her bag, and scrambled on her knees toward his body.

“Don’t,” she said, finding her voice.

They looked surprised, not sure where she’d come from. This hairless woman, covered in blood.

Claire smoothed Rob’s ratty hair and pulled the bottom of his shirt down to hide his exposed belly. They’d closed his eyes. She gently leaned down, laying on his wet, bloody body like she had all the time in the world. The gathering stepped back, a respectful distance, to observe the oddball pair. The bald woman and the dead porn star, locked in a macabre embrace.

He felt warm. His shirt drenched, the smell of blood sweet, metallic, and sickening, like raw meat. She didn’t care. Claire scooped him into both arms and held him close. She pressed her ear hard to his chest, looking for familiar refuge in the sound of his heartbeat.

She couldn’t hear a thing.

* * * *

The on-call nurse walked by her with a stack of folded up something or other.

“Where’s Freddie Eddie?” Claire’s skin felt scalded, the top of her scalp seared. “Where did they take Rob?”

“Someone will be in to talk to you in a minute,” the nurse said.

After they’d scraped the bodies up, they’d made her and Freddie Eddie go to the hospital. She heard someone say they thought she was in shock. Is that what this was? She’d heard they brought both Rob and the shooter here. Claire and Freddie rode in separate police cars. She hadn’t seen him since she’d arrived.

She put her face in her hands.

Freddie Eddie walked in.

“Oh, thank God. Freddie Eddie.” Claire almost collapsed with relief. “Where have you been? What’ve they done with Rob?” She could feel the nervous breakdown making its way in. “What in the name of…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. She broke down.

He tilted his head in Claire’s direction and spoke to the hovering nurse. “Her doctor’s name is Levinson. She’s been at this hospital before, not too long ago. She’s in recovery, and I think he needs to know she’s here and what happened. Thanks, honey.” Freddie Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue pill. Claire swallowed it dry, like the old days. So like Rob to make sure Freddie Eddie had her covered…just in case.

Claire sobbed. She hadn’t thought of a pill. She couldn’t remember when she’d last taken one. They must be right. She was in shock. Freddie Eddie pulled a chair up next to the exam table she sat on. She’d been in this room before but didn’t remember it. She’d had a stomach full of Xanax, then. Now, her hands and face were covered in the dried blood of Rob Rhino.

This time, the on-call doctor gave her a clean bill of health. No wounds. The blood was Rob’s. The bullets lodged in his chest—no passing through. The shooter turned the gun on himself immediately after. The been-there-done-that murder suicide.

Claire had taken off her bloody shirt and still wore the open-in-the-back gown. Freddie Eddie looked like a combat survivor.

Claire could feel the heaviness of their grief in the room.

“You were right, Freddie Eddie.”

“About what, kid?”

Claire could hear the ancient man’s voice, old as dirt. She would forever hear it bouncing off the walls of her skull. “Let my daughter rest in peace.”

“About Gloria’s dad. Rob told me you were afraid he’d do this, get revenge.” Claire tore a hole in her paper gown with her blood-stained finger.

Freddie Eddie turned his chair so he was facing Claire. “The shooter wasn’t Gloria’s dad.”

“What? He said my daughter—”

“I know.”

Claire felt dizzy, nauseous. Her mind pushed away the information. “What are you saying?”

“He was talking to you, Claire. The shooter was Bonnie’s dad.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“The shooter’s name was—”

“Elgin Grady,” Claire said, more to herself.

“Ummm…yes,” the police officer continued.

“Go on, officer.” Freddie Eddie still had Claire’s hand. He squeezed.

“His wife, Marta, is here and identified the body.” The policeman rocked back on his heels. “She came out to the cemetery, but too late. She tried to talk him out of his…folly, before he left home. Didn’t think he’d do it. Said she didn’t know he had a gun. Apparently, their daughter Bonnie was married to your now deceased husband, Liam Corrigan?”

Claire nodded.

“Mrs. Grady says she committed suicide after their divorce. Her father, Elgin, blamed your husband for her death.”

“So I’ve heard,” Claire said. “That was over twenty years ago. I didn’t even meet Liam until she’d been dead several years. I wasn’t the reason they divorced. So, why would he want to shoot me?”

The silver-haired officer took a small pad of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Marta Grady told us you’re here to bury your husband. In the university cemetery. You’ve made a multi-million dollar donation and bought a family crypt. Put Mister Corrigan’s sister on the Board of Trustees. Is that correct?” He read down the list of the crimes committed by Claire, perhaps punishable by lethal injection.

“So what? She can do all of those things if she wants to.” Freddie Eddie stiffened.

“She can.” If she wanted to cause trouble was the not so subtle undertone. “Marta Grady said they heard it all over town, in the papers, on TV.” He consulted his notes, again. “The sister cornered Elgin at some function. Marta said he wasn’t the most stable guy, anymore. It pushed him over, and he lost it. He didn’t want your husband or any more of his family anywhere near his daughter.” The policeman put his pad back in his shirt pocket and crossed his arms in what looked to Claire like silent agreement. “She said Elgin didn’t think it was right. Your husband’s family getting pats on the back for good works when his daughter killed herself.”

“How the hell did Elgin Grady know Claire was going to be at the cemetery today, and what she looked like?” Freddie Eddie got out of the chair.

“Well…for one thing…” The officer licked his too-full lips. “She’s got a distinct look, don’t you think?”

“I’m bald, Freddie Eddie. Hard not pick me out of a crowd.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that, but how did he know where you were?”

The policeman consulted his trusty notes. “Elizabeth Corrigan. Your husband’s sister told him at Trustee Night.

* * * *

Claire and Freddie Eddie were free to leave the hospital but didn’t. The police said they’d continue their investigation and keep them posted. Since Elgin took himself out, only Elizabeth was the missing link. Marta Grady was an old lady, in her nineties. Miraculously, she’d driven herself to the cemetery. No wonder she didn’t get there in time. She’d probably started out three days prior. No one would look at her too seriously as any kind of accomplice.

Claire felt like she’d been hit with a stun gun. Freddie Eddie sat back down in the cheap, rickety chair. Claire’s lips quivered.

“I can’t believe it. It’s my fault,” Claire said, tears falling.

“Claire—” Freddie Eddie didn’t look at her.

“It is.” Claire and her schemes. She swung her legs back and forth on the edge of the table. “You don’t know.”

Freddie Eddie got up and hopped up on the table next to her. “I do know why you’re here. This might come as a shock, but not everything is about you.”

Claire cried, the waterworks running faster than her nose. “Well, this is.”

“Claire—” Freddie Eddie smoothed back his heavily gelled hair with one hand. “Everyone does what they want. Rob was no exception.”

“Rob was your friend for so many years…and mine.” Claire clamped her eyes down like lids. “If it weren’t for me, he’d still be alive.”

Freddie Eddie reached over and turned Claire’s face toward his by her chin. “You don’t get it, because you don’t want to. You’re not ready, I guess. Rob walked in front of that bullet because he wanted to.”

Tears ran down her cheeks and onto Freddie Eddie’s hand.

“I told you, he loved the underdog. More than anything, he wanted to save you and himself.” Freddie Eddie wiped her face with a tender swipe. “So, he did.”

* * * *

Claire stared at him through the glass, laid out on the steel gurney, covered to his double chin with a white sheet. Cleaned up a little. She knew it was him—his wild hair still recognizable. It was Rob Rhino, only different. He looked made of something other than skin and bones—the way the dead do. She’d gone to view her father when he’d died. He looked similar. A body without life. The color of paste, their features familiar yet strange. Liam had been mangled and burned beyond recognition, identified by dental records.

The fluorescent lighting in the hospital basement morgue—why are they always in the basement?—cast a greenish tinge. Even the living didn’t look it. Claire pressed both palms and her nose against the glass, as if Rob could feel her there if she did.

Freddie Eddie stood next to her, his hand on her back. Claire felt breathless, overwhelmed. Freddie Eddie’s hand felt like steel against her spine. If it hadn’t been there, she’d have fallen. Her eyes spilled over. Hard to believe she’d only known Rob Rhino for such a short time.

She’d wanted to see him before they left, to remember him. Most of her time with Rob had been spent in a narcotic daze, on the desperate edge of an overdose. Her mind a puddle, distracted by her pill obsession. She stared at Rob’s pock-marked face and stroked the glass. If she’d known the end of the road would come so soon, she’d have wanted to be more conscious for the journey.

She never wanted Rob Rhino in her life, didn’t realize he wormed his way in. She guessed she didn’t care how or why. She backed away from the window. Her gut wrenched at the thought of the dead porn star behind Alex’s Warehouse. Claire had no way of knowing what really happened to Gloria. She couldn’t bear to think of those things while her only real friend lay with two bullets in his chest, dead on a table behind glass in a basement. Maybe, she should’ve done everything different…or nothing at all.

“What’s next?” Claire said.

Freddie Eddie looked almost as dead. “Well, I need to gather my wits. I told the police I’d need time to find his next of kin, so they agreed to not release his name to the press until I give them the go ahead. Not sure how much time I have. I’m calling in favors. They’ll keep it quiet for me as long as they can.”

“Next of kin? I thought there was no next of kin.”

“There isn’t, but I don’t want the press swarming around right now. Neither do you.” Freddie Eddie led her to the only two metal chairs in the stark hallway. “I talked to Joe Lansing, too. This isn’t great for them, either. So, I’ll get with their Public Relations guy and decide the best way to handle it.”

Claire rubbed both temples with her hands. “This is all a nightmare.”

“Do you still want to go through with your memorial?”

“You better believe it.” Claire set her teeth, grinding her molars. “It’s what I came here for. I won’t let Elgin Grady win.”

“When is it?”

Claire thought, counting. “Thursday.”

“In the meantime, I’ll make Rob’s arrangements. I told them he was Jewish, so we can get a quick burial.”

Jack-Jew. “He’s not, though,” Claire said. “He’s not any religion.”

“No, he’s not.” Freddie Eddie closed his almost black eyes, his voice terse. “I don’t want anyone posting anything disgusting on the Internet. I want him off that table, out of the morgue, and cremated, so we can give the man a decent burial.” He nodded his head toward a nondescript guy in a uniform sitting in the corner of the room with Rob behind the glass. “I’ve got twenty-four hour security.”

Claire felt her face fold in. The Internet. She hadn’t thought of that.

“Please, Freddie Eddie. Let me help you. I insist on paying.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to pay for. I’m going take his ashes home with me.” Freddie Eddie kept staring at Rob. “Rob let Gloria’s parents stash her remains who-knows-where, so I’m gonna take Rob home with me. Rob doesn’t meet the guidelines for burial at the University, so—”

Freddie Eddie didn’t know about the switch. She started to tell him but didn’t feel good about betraying Rob’s confidence. She’d done enough damage for one day.

“Rob hated Los Angeles.”

“I don’t live in Los Angeles. I live in Connecticut.” Freddie Eddie gave a weak smile. “Beautiful place. He loved it there.”

One of the long, tubular light bulbs above their heads flickered, popped, and burned out. Claire lifted her head. She remembered when she’d first met Rob—the day she almost ran him over, drove him to Alex’s Warehouse, and asked his name.

“There it is,” he’d said, pointing up to the marquee lit up with sparkling neon.

She looked up, and there it shone. In lights. The Last Day for Rob Rhino.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth, dried blood still under her nails.

Freddie Eddie prodded her upward by the elbow of her blood-covered shirt. “Let’s go home, kid.”

Chapter Sixty

“I can’t believe Elizabeth had a role in this. I can’t.” Grace’s voice shook. “However misguided. What with all the swanning around she’s been doing lately—”

“Grace, what do you know about Elizabeth and this mess?”

“Well, the police questioned her. She said she struck up a friendship with Elgin. She felt bad about how Liam treated Bonnie. Of course, we all did. He told her he was upset about everything he’d been hearing. Elizabeth said she told him that if he could meet you, he’d know you meant well.”

“So, Elizabeth’s story is she told him I was going to the chapel today, just so he could come meet me, talk to me?” Claire glanced over at Freddie Eddie who looked almost asleep on Rob’s side of the recliner. “She was also kind enough to offer a description of me?”

“Yes. That’s what she assures us and the police. She had no idea he went with a gun or bad intentions.”

“It wouldn’t have made sense to call me and ask me about it?”

“Now, why would she have done that?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, the police are satisfied with Elizabeth’s explanation.” Grace got snippy. “As am I.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“This isn’t going to postpone the memorial or anything, is it?”

On this, they were in agreement. “Absolutely not.”

“Good, good,” Grace said, obnoxious with relief. “Have they identified the poor man Elgin killed, yet?”

Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. “Not that I’ve heard. They’re still trying to find his family as far as I know. Probably a tourist.”

* * * *

Claire padded up the stairs, phone in hand, leaving Freddie Eddie asleep in the loveseat. She’d called Jordan against her better judgment. She wasn’t sure when the shooting would make the national news. So, she thought it was better if he heard it from her. She still wasn’t speaking with Annabelle. In due time. She knew Annabelle was just a spoiled kid, but they’d have a lot to talk about when Claire got home.

She wanted to head to the nearest alleyway to see if she could find some nice man in a trench coat with some pills in the inside pockets. She’d love a drink. She thought of Rob’s bleeding body on the ground, his life running out around her loafers. Her hands started to shake.

She’d talked to Joe Lansing, who made the kind offer to bring dinner over, which she declined. He assured her the memorial arrangements were set, without the face-to-face with the priest. He’d received the photo of Liam from Conchita; they’d have that in a frame at the service. All Claire needed to do was bring his ashes to the chapel.

Claire headed for her room but paused. At the end of the hall, Rob Rhino’s sanctuary offered silent solace. She felt Rob’s presence in her chest, behind her knees. She stumbled, catching herself on a tufted chair. For a moment, she thought she’d throw up. She knelt, trying to squelch her panic underneath Gloria’s serene gaze. After a few minutes, she stood and looked at the painting of the woman whose unseemly death wreaked so much havoc.

“So, this is it? The man cave,” Freddie Eddie said, startling her.

“You’ve never been in here?”

“Claire, straight men don’t hang out in other straight men’s bedrooms.” Freddie Eddie wandered into the room. “Where’s the bed?”

Claire pointed to the bedroom. Freddie walked over, peeked in, and turned on the light. “Good night, Nurse. What a mess. That’s more like it.”

“Right?” Claire laughed. “That’s what I told him.”

Claire sat in the same leather chair she’d sat in the night before. Freddie Eddie took Rob’s. “So, you’ve been in here, have you?” Freddie Eddie smiled and winked.

“Oh, for God’s sake. The man’s not even cold—”

“Don’t get your dander up.” He ran his hands along the smooth surface of the supple, leather armchair. “Stranger things have happened.” Freddie Eddie shrugged and laughed.

Claire felt herself turning crimson, remembering the close calls. Freddie Eddie laughed harder.

* * * *

“Cheers.” They clinked their root beer bottles together. Freddie Eddie drank almost the whole bottle in one throw. He’d been sufficiently impressed by Rob’s hidden desk fridge.

Claire took a much smaller sip of her root beer along with the pill Freddie Eddie gave her. She didn’t know what she’d do when she went home. On her own.

“What really happened to Gloria?”

Freddie Eddie balanced the almost empty bottle on the edge of chair’s arm. “I only know what he told me. She died of an accidental overdose. I knew she was a junkie, knew he tried to save her.” He scratched the side of his nose with one long finger. “Next thing I know, he’s calling, and crying that she’s dead.”

“Were you around?”

“No. She’d already been cremated by the time I got back.” Freddie Eddie got up and fetched another root beer. “I’d been out of town with Marie when it happened. After that, he started with the charity stuff. You know he’s a donor…a big one. He gives a couple of million dollars away every year anonymously.”

Claire swallowed hard. “The other one? The porn star? You think he had something to do with that?”

Freddie Eddie lowered himself back down into the chair and let his air out. “I do.”

“Was she an addict?”

“Yes. When the dust settled, the investigators chalked her death up to accidental overdose, too.”

“What about the bruises?” Claire fingered her own.

“Never any suspects, no motive.”

“Rob wasn’t suspected?”

“Are you kidding?” Freddie Eddie crossed his polyester, bell bottom-covered legs at the ankles. “He was beloved around here. No way.”

“Why would you suspect him? Could be coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Claire had said that herself to Rob Rhino. Freddie Eddie continued. “She wasn’t the only girl who ended up dead.”

Claire grabbed both arms of the chair. Her root beer bottle headed toward the rug. Freddie Eddie swooped to catch it. “What do you mean?”

“She was just the only one they found,” Freddie Eddie said.

“How could that be?

“Pat the janitor was Rob’s good friend for a reason.”

* * * *

Claire knew if she opened her mouth, she’d weep.

“Everybody loved Rob. My wife is inconsolable,” Freddie Eddie said. “He wanted the best for the worst. When it didn’t happen; he went off the deep end.” He stared into the empty fireplace. “Like a magnet, he’d suck right up to ‘em. The worse off they were, the harder he’d stick. He’d get real involved. Sometimes, his help worked. One recovering addict married a doctor, one a day trader. Sometimes, it didn’t.”

* * * *

It felt weird to sleep in Rob’s house without him in it. Freddie Eddie promised not to leave, so he slept down the hall in one of the other bedrooms.

Claire pulled off her jeans and lay on top of the beautiful, canopied bed in just her Michael Kors top. She thought about taking it off when she saw Liam in his usual spot. The thing about dead husbands, you always knew where they were. One of the perks. That and all the money they leave you. She reached over and pulled off the top of the urn. There he was, up in smoke, tied in a neat, little baggy.

She remembered how terrible she’d felt the day he’d died. She’d been so stunned, felt so guilty. She found out you can’t die of shame, because she hadn’t. Her rage possessed her and never left. Then, all her hair fell out, the worsening anxiety, and the never ending quest for pills. More rage, the plotting, her quest for revenge.

So different than how she felt about losing Rob Rhino.

Claire slammed the urn lid down and leaned back against the headboard. She felt an overwhelming sadness at his absence. Her heart ached, knowing she’d given so little to him. Yet, he’d given everything for her.

Claire realized when Liam died, she felt bad only for herself, for what she’d wished, done, found out, and omitted.

“I don’t know what you feel for me, Claire, but it isn’t love.”

Liam’s words kept coming back to her. Claire had been tapering off her drugs, and this was the thanks she got. Reality bites. Claire brought her legs up and rested her forehead on her knees. Liam took care of her, protected her. His money ensured it for her lifetime. She’d taken care of his child, his home, did her part…but love? No. She didn’t have it in her, then. Maybe, she didn’t have it in her now, but she wanted to.

If only she could’ve known Rob Rhino first.

Claire took her last pill of the day, got undressed, and crawled under the coverlet. A few more days, and her quest would come to its satisfactory conclusion. She’d get with Freddie Eddie to see when Rob’s name would be released to the public, when his cremation would take place. The death details, a nasty business.

The two most important men in her life were dead. Soon, they’d both rest in peace. Well, not Liam. He’d rest, but not necessarily in peace. Rob would, she hoped. Rest. In. Peace. She turned out the light. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness after half an hour, her mind rumbled. Shit. She got out of bed, pulled on her jeans, and padded down the stairs in her bare feet.

“Freddie Eddie, wake up. Get a shovel.”

Chapter Sixty-One

“Oh, my God. I’m so glad you’re all right. If anything had happened to you, I’d have died.” Elizabeth threw her arms around Claire’s neck and yelled in her ear.

She’d have died?

Claire stood with her arms straight at her sides at the front of the chapel.

The surviving members of the Corrigan family paraded up the center aisle. Elizabeth led the brigade. She’d seen Claire first, and like a goony bird attempting flight, she squawked to her, wings spread and beak flapping.

“Elizabeth, this is a church. Keep it down.” Grace, the Madonna herself, didn’t greet Claire. She took her place in the first pew on the right, in front of the easel holding her husband’s framed photo. Liam’s stood on the left. In opposition for eternity.

Connor, eyes downcast, veered into a front row pew, silent and somber. Claire had to admire his nerve. Deborah was a no-show.

“I got it all straightened out with the police.” Elizabeth grasped her throat with a hairy-knuckled hand. “Why, I had no idea—”

Father McKinley saved Elizabeth from the bitch slap Claire itched to give her.

Joe Lansing and Dean Sumner fussed over her. Joe handed out programs. They both sat in the pew designated for Claire, in front of Liam’s photo.

Father McKinley took his place underneath the stained glass window, as the stirring sounds of some church type music filled the stone room. Claire peeked over at the other side of the church. Elizabeth’s eyes were closed tight, her hands together in a steeple. Who was she kidding? Grace looked smug. She could hardly hide her satisfied smile. Claire held her program tight. Bitter hag.

“Grant them eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them…” Father McKinley droned.

Claire sneaked a glance at Joe Lansing. She’d miss him when she left. He’d been good to her.

All the Corrigans were pulling down the kneelers.

Oh no. The kneeling. How many times would they have to do that? It’s a funeral for God’s sake. Not aerobics class.

* * * *

“Claire, I—” He must’ve followed Claire to her car after the chapel service.

Claire turned, only half surprised to see him. “Connor.”

“I know I should leave you alone. I don’t have the right—”

He looked haggard, old. A lot like Claire. She guessed he wasn’t sleeping. The rage she expected to feel for him didn’t materialize. Something short of pity seeped in. “Whatever you have to say, it doesn’t matter, Connor.”

He hung his head. “As inadequate as it is, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She took his hand. “I don’t think I care about it. I’ll go home, and you’ll still be here, with them. I win.”

He met her eyes, the saddest man. “We were so desperate.” A single tear rolled. “We lost sight of right and wrong.”

Claire got it…desperation, she got.

Her mind rolled on. “You don’t intend to go through with this family crypt, never did. Am I right?”

His head still hung low. “Yes, you’re right. Our son is at Creekside, where we’ll be eventually.”

“You just strung me along.” Claire’s hand on the handle of her bag turned white.

“I didn’t know what I was doing.” He put his head up. “I just wanted to keep an eye on you, keep the drugs—” He cried in earnest. “God, I’m so ashamed.”

She wondered if Liam would have looked like this had he ever cried. “Well, the crypt is there. Feel free. This is a beautiful place.”

Connor swiped at his wet face with an impatient hand. “No, we’ll pass.” He glanced over his shoulder at his mother and sister loitering outside the chapel. “Liam wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to spend eternity with my family.”

Claire almost smiled. “Go home to your wife, Connor.”

He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and tripped toward back toward the chapel.

“Connor?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“When did you and Liam start speaking to each other again?”

“We never stopped.”

* * * *

“Still no idea about the dead guy?” William the buffoon asked.

“Not as far as I know.” Claire lied. “I heard the whole sordid story on the news this morning, and they’re still saying they’re looking for a next of kin. He had no driver’s license, no identification.” She looked out across the lot at the crime scene tape. Her legs wobbled.

“Well, it’s only been a few days,” Grace said, in her Law and Order tone.

“Are you coming with us?” Grace had flagged Claire down before she could drive off. The Corrigan clan, minus Connor and Deborah, were headed for the crypt. Claire opted out. She’d gone to look it over with Joe before the service. Her deed done, she was ready to go home.

Claire started the car. “You guys go ahead. Emmet’s on the left. The stone guy still has to do the engraving. They’re going to plant flowers, a couple more trees. Everything was such a rush job, we’re lucky everybody’s in.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Claire squinted at her boarding pass. She reached into her Prada bag and pulled out Rob Rhino’s bifocals. They worked like a charm. They were too wide for her head, but she didn’t care. They were perfect enough.

O’Hare buzzed. She searched the terminal floor for a hobo-like man, knowing she wouldn’t find one. At least not the right one. Her eyes clouded. A low ringing cleared her head. She pulled her phone out of her bag and took off the glasses.

“Hello?”

“I don’t believe it. Your phone is still working?”

“Hello to you too, Jordan.”

“How far are you?”

“Chicago.”

“Thank God. Civilization.” Sounded like Jordan was driving. “No one’s tried to shoot you or anything?”

“Not so far, but I’m only half way.” Someone else was calling. Claire held her phone away from her ear. Pennsylvania area code. It could wait. She’d just left, for Christ’s sake. The number looked familiar, but hard to tell without the glasses. Maybe Joe Lansing or Freddie Eddie.

“Okay. Well, just checking.”

“So, since I have you on the phone, I ah…well, I—”

“You’re cutting out.”

No, she was chickening out. “I thought I might come up. To San Fran…to see your new place.” Claire twitched. “I mean, when it’s a good time for you…and…and, for Steven. Annabelle could come, too. After we’ve talked some things through. She says she has a new boyfriend and a job. God help us.”

No sound.

Still nothing.

“Jordan? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah…sure,” he said in his “what the hell” tone. “Mother, you know Steven lives here. With me. This is our house together. We sleep in the same—”

“I know. So what?”

“So what? Who is this?”

“Very funny.”

The connection went quiet, again. Then, Jordan said, “We’d love it, Mother. You’ll love the house. You’ll want to decorate.”

Claire didn’t want to cry in the airport, again. “I’m sure I will.” She told him the dates she preferred. He didn’t think there’d be a problem. She didn’t mention his arrest.

“I thought I’d stay a few days before I go to…well…before I go to rehab.”

“What?”

“I’m going to rehab. Sixty days. There’s supposed to be a good one up there.” I’ll go first. Think that over, Jordan.

She could hear him cover the mouthpiece and say something muffled. “Mother, that’s…that’s wonderful. I mean it, really.”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Claire tried to clean a bifocal lens one-handed.

The same someone from Pennsylvania called, again. Pants on fire? She ignored it.

“Anything from Andrew?”

“Stephen was going to wait ‘til you landed, but it looks like they’re going to accept your generous offer of nothing down, zero later, and go away quietly. He’s already sent you a hefty refund. It’s over. I think he realizes it’s only because of Meg you’re not bringing down the house.”

Claire plopped the glasses down and let the tears run. She didn’t care who stared. They stared anyway. Crying or not, she was still bald.

“He’s not going to call me Mom, is he?”

“Who?”

“Steven.”

Jordan laughed. “No, we were thinking more like Mommy Dearest.”

* * * *

Claire rounded the corner of the terminal walkway and headed for the bookstore. Rob Rhino’s face on the TV monitors hanging from the ceiling stopped her in her tracks. His murder wasn’t under wraps, anymore. She read the running captions at the bottom of the screen.

“Reality TV and Seventies Adult Film Star Rob Rhino Killed in Bizarre Murder Suicide.”

Old footage and photos accompanied the story. They interviewed Freddie Eddie. A photo of Liam and Bonnie ran across the screen. Good God. One of her…with hair. She felt sick. Her phone rang, she answered without taking her eyes off the monitor.

“Claire?” Freddie Eddie’s voice, beleaguered.

“Did you just try to call me?”

“No.” Must’ve been Joe. Freddie Eddie sounded hesitant. “Have you seen the news?”

“I’m looking at it right now. In the airport.”

“I didn’t think it was going to air until tonight.”

“Where did they get the pictures?”

“Who knows?”

Claire found a row of chairs. “Well, it was bound to come out. I’m shocked you held it at bay for as long as you did.”

“Yeah, it should fizzle out quickly. He was famous, but he wasn’t Brad Pitt. You’ll get some calls initially, but direct them to me. They’re going to be looking for a woman with hair.”

An upside to bald. Finally. Her phone did that thing it did when someone tried to call through. Again. She held it out…same number. Give it a rest.

“What a scandal.”

“I’ll say.”

* * * *

Claire prepared for landing. The guy sitting next to her seemed perfectly normal. Cretin. He’d even helped her shove her carry-on into the overhead. Like a gentleman. He probably thought she wouldn’t survive the plane ride. She’d caught him stealing furtive glances at her head the whole way. She pushed her tray back up, rearranged her purse, and put her seat into its original position. Her stomach lurched. She felt anxious, panicked. Times like these, she missed taking a bunch of pills with a drink or two. She took fewer now, her intake ratcheted down some, but she missed the lull she got with an alcohol buzz. With no one to monitor her, she could’ve had a heyday on the plane, but she didn’t.

The plane taxied and came to its shriek of a stop. Claire jumped into the aisle. She felt ready to start her life. It was good to be home. She leaned over and peered out the small, commuter plane window. Overcast. As usual. Beach towns were always socked in. The plane door opened. It was time.

Claire bounded down the steps and onto the tarmac. Her Tod loafer no more than hit the pavement when her phone rang. Jesus. Probably that same number she’d never answered or called it back. No wonder she never plugged the damn thing in. She fished it out of her purse, narrowed her eyes, and held her arm out to bring the number into focus. Nope. Hometown call.

“Hello?”

“Hola.”

Christ, not this. “Conchita, I’m on the tarmac. I’ll be home in half an hour. What is it?”

“Oh, sí. I forgot you were coming in this afternoon. I never know what you’re doing on the weekends.” Conchita never worked weekends. “Well, you’ll never believe it. Grace Corrigan called.”

Try me. “Oh? She can call California, then? What, pray tell, did she want?” As if Claire didn’t know.

“She was so mad, it was hard to tell. Said she called your cell, but you wouldn’t answer. Anyway, sounds like there’s been some mistake. At least I told her it must be one.”

Claire stopped walking. “Oh? Mistake?”

“Sí. They engraved the wrong name on Liam’s stone. In the crypt.”

“What name?”

“It’s weird. I had to write it down.”

“Conchita, what—”

“Rob Rhino.”

Claire looked out across the tarmac and smiled.

“Claire? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“It’s a mistake, no?”

“No, no mistake.”

“Who’s Rob Rhino?”

How long do you have? “He was my friend. My very good friend.”

“Excuse me.” The guy she’d sat next to on the plane tapped her on the shoulder.

“I’ll call you back, Conchita. Turn on your TV.”

He’d rolled her Louis Vuitton across the pavement.

“I think this is yours? You forgot it in the overhead.” He handed over her carry-on.

The one with Liam in it.

“Oh, thank you. Yes, it is.”

* * * *

She hit the trunk button on her key fob. It opened almost without a sound. The baggage guy—or whatever they called themselves these days—schlepped her suitcase along with her carry-on. She’d had to ship a lot of her stuff back via FedEx, so she traveled home pretty lightly. She gave him a twenty and slid behind the wheel of her red Mercedes CLS-550 sedan and ran her palm over the coffee-with-cream colored supple leather. Ahhh…to the manor born. Not, but she’d warmed up to it quick.

As she pulled out, a yellow taxi veered to the left and nearly hit the minivan coming around the corner. The driver laid on the horn and yelled obscenities out his window. They hadn’t learned to drive in her absence. Serene as a monk, Claire headed toward home and thought about the switch.

It was easy. Probably a lot easier than when Rob did it with Gloria’s ashes. He’d been right, though. “You can’t get through this life without good friends.” Joe Lansing turned out to be a good friend. He pulled the switch. Freddie Eddie brought Rob’s cremated remains to the chapel right before the memorial service, Joe dumped out Liam’s into a brand new urn and put Rob’s in Liam’s old one, and there you had it. Digging Gloria up was a little trickier. It had been dark, after all, but Freddie Eddie did all the labor. Claire supervised with a flashlight. Gloria’s urn was right where Rob said it was. At least that had been true. No laws were broken. Rob was interred in Liam’s spot, with Gloria, his beloved wife. In the only place he felt at peace. In the cemetery, where he belonged.

That he happened to be next to Emmet Corrigan, aka Pat the Janitor, his partner in porn and crime…well, coincidences do happen once in a while, despite Freddie Eddie’s assurances to the contrary. Claire brought Liam home, where he belonged—near the kids he loved and who loved him, and the wife who liked him just okay.

Claire pulled over, dug out Rob’s glasses, and did a quick search through her missed calls.

“Grace? It’s Claire. Were you looking for me?” Let’s go to the mat, once and for all.

“If you think you’re going to get away with this, you’ve got another thing coming,” Grace said, in a rabid dog snarl. “I know exactly what you did and why.”

“That makes two of us.” Claire felt a calm settle over her. “Game over, Grace. You wanted to get back at Liam for not bailing you out, for leaving the church, for Bonnie, for everything. You wanted to get back at Emmet for his porn…all on my dime. So, don’t cry foul.”

“Well, what if I did? What’s it to you?” Grace yelled louder than Claire thought an old lady could. “I never bought your sob story, your peace-making. Whatever you came here to do, it wasn’t to make peace.”

Claire thought about that for a few seconds.

“You’re right, but I did, anyway.” Claire hung up. She’d had enough of Liam’s mother. They both spoke the truth, though. Claire hadn’t gone to make peace, but she’d found some…and forgiveness. Enough, anyway. Claire pulled back into traffic, horns blaring around her like a presidential motorcade.

Her phone rang.

Her good friend Joe. “I was just thinking about you,” she smiled.

“Just saw the news and heard from your lovely mother-in-law. As soon as it hit the airwaves, my phone rang. Such a treat,” Joe chuckled.

“She might get carpal tunnel with all the calls she’s making.”

“She’s livid. Naturally. Wants us to move Emmet. She called Rob the most hideous names. Some I’d never heard,” Joe made clucking sounds. “From a God-fearing woman, no less.”

“I’m not surprised,” Claire laughed a bitter chortle. “She better not move him an inch.”

“I told her it’s a bit late, with everything and everyone set in stone, so to speak.” Joe laughed at his own cleverness.

“I’m not paying this time. I hope she’s got a lot of money to foot the bill.”

“I told her I suspected that be the case. She hung up on me.”

Claire felt much too pleased. “Oh, well.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of her moving him anyway, even if she could afford it,” Joe said. “No love lost for the dearly departed Mister, if you know what I mean.”

Claire mulled that over. “I think you’re right. In the end, she doesn’t care. I think she hated that poor man.”

“My, my.” Claire could imagine Joe kicked back in his chair. His Brooks Brothers clad legs crossed and propped up on his desk. “That was quite a story you told me about Rob and your father-in-law. The naughty priest. One for the record books. No wonder the old battleaxe is so peeved. Brothers in porn, together for eternity behind the marble walls of a crypt. The gift that keeps on giving.”

“She had it coming.” Revenge—it’s the Lord’s work. Claire was happy to do it for Him.

“Did Freddie Eddie tell you they had a little service out there this morning?” Joe asked.

“No, the last time I talked to him, I was running for my plane.”

“Well, as he said himself, it was quite a gig,” Joe laughed. “We gave the big guy and his missus a lovely send-off.”

“Who’s we?” Claire missed them all, already.

“Well, there was a crowd, I can tell you. I didn’t catch all the names, but I do remember two gifted blonde girls named after an ice cream and a very large man named Alex,” Joe said. “We bought some gorgeous arrangements and planted a lovely shrub. Freddie Eddie led everyone in a rousing rendition of He Stopped Loving Her Today. I’ve never heard a more hideous tune for a funeral. Glorious. Lawrence and I cried like babies.”

Freddie Eddie warbles George Jones. “You know, his catalogue really suffered after he and Tammy called it quits.” Claire’s tears hit her lap.

“What?”

“Nothing. Wish I could’ve been there.”

“Bad timing for you.”

“That’s okay. Everything worked out just fine.”

“Things have a way of working out the way they’re supposed to.” Joe sounded weepy. “Rob was a good man.”

Who knew what sort any man was?

Rob Rhino might’ve been the most fucked up knight in shining armor on record, but he’d been hers. He’d ridden in on his thirteen-inch stallion and saved her.

“I’ll miss him every day of my life.”

“I hate to point this out, Claire,” Joe paused. “I feel bad about the whole thing. I mean, besides losing Rob, not to mention your husband. You went to so much trouble and donated all that money. Only one Corrigan is buried there, and it isn’t Liam.”

Claire drove smiling into the long driveway leading to her Mediterranean-styled estate. She hung her arm out the car window, feeling the southern California sun warm her skin. She pushed in the security code and counted herself lucky.

“Best five million dollars I ever spent.”

About the Author:

Unlike shoe sales or brunch buffets, Kathleen arrived late to her writing career. Writing her first manuscript well after her nest was empty. She and her husband have four children, four grandchildren and divide their time between Denver, Colorado and Santa Barbara, California.

She makes no apologies for loving clothes, food, shoes, weirdos, and Lucy. She’s forever grateful for her family, fried food, and the written word.

Visit Kathleen O’Donnell online at:

http://www.authorkathleenodonnell.com

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Table of Contents

The Last Day for Rob Rhino

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

About the Author:

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