Death Of A Dream Maker (25 page)

“I want to talk,” Auntie Lil said. She stepped inside
before Sabrina could block her way. “Perhaps about a compromise
regarding Max's estate.”

“I'm not talking without my lawyer here,” the widow
announced.

“Always a wise policy for someone like you,” Casey
agreed. She brushed past her to the living room and flopped down on
the couch, glaring at the dog when it sniffed about her ankles.
“Interesting pet,” she remarked. “What species is it anyway?”

“Make yourself at home.” Sabrina's sarcasm did not
disturb either of her visitors. Auntie Lil perched on the edge of a
chair and smiled brightly at the widow, pretending that all was
nice and cozy. This forced Sabrina to grab the dog and sit down
where she could see them both. Her pet nestled in her lap.

Casey prayed for a repeat of the dog's earlier
incontinence while Auntie Lil did her best to get the widow to
talk. “I suppose you know who I am?” she began. “Or, rather, what I
was to Max at one time?”

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Sabrina's fall from grace
had included a drop-off in elocution. She spoke in nasal tones and
made no effort to conceal her defiant accent. Auntie Lil would not
have been surprised had she popped gum in her mouth and begun to
loudly smack. “You're the lady who cadged all of Max's money from
him.”

“Cadged?” Auntie Lil asked. “I had not seen him in
over twenty years.”

“Hah. That's what you say.” Sabrina rolled her eyes,
glanced at her wristwatch, then used a three-inch-long talon to
flick a speck of dust from her dog's coat. She wore long spike
heels and dangled one shoe impatiently from a toe as she spoke.

“Are you implying Max was unfaithful to you?” Casey
asked. “Because I hadn't realized that marital fidelity was one of
your strong points.”

“Who the hell are you?” the widow demanded, her eyes
narrowing in suspicion.

“My niece,” Auntie Lil lied. “Surely you remember her
from the reading of the will?”

“All I remember is that I got shafted and you walked
away with the bucks. Five years of my life I put into that man.
Five years and what do I get?”

“About sixty thousand a year,” Casey said. “Plus room
and board.”

The widow stood suddenly, sending the small dog
plopping onto the rug with a clunk. Her shoulders trembled. “I
don't think I like your attitude,” she said to Casey.

“Please.” Auntie Lil held up a gloved hand. “This is
difficult for us all. I simply came to see if you were willing to
reach a compromise instead of pursuing a lawsuit. And to ask some
questions about our mutual business interests.”

“What kind of questions? I'm not discussing the
lawsuit at all.” Sabrina sat back down, establishing beyond doubt
that she was not a rocket scientist.

“Were you involved with the management of Max Rose
Fashions?” Auntie Lil asked.

“What kind of question is that?” Sabrina examined her
nails and spotted an imperfection in the right-hand pinkie. She
gnawed delicately at its surface. “I was the wife of the owner,
remember? I didn't have to work. What's it to you?”

“We have this issue of shared ownership to deal
with,” Auntie Lil explained. “I am just trying to get a feel of who
wants to be involved in daily management and who wants to remain a
silent partner.”

“Silent?” Sabrina snorted, and the sound that her
slender frame emitted would have made a water buffalo proud. “I'm
not remaining silent about anything. I want my share of profits, if
that's what you mean. J.T. can take care of business for me.”

“J.T.?” Casey asked. “Who's that?”

“Jacob Thomas Rosenbloom,” Sabrina repeated very
slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. She glared at Casey from under
false eyelashes. “Max's loyal nephew. Remember him? He got shafted
by Max, too.”

“Oh, yes. Davy's brother. You were quite close to
Davy, weren't you?” Auntie Lil asked. “You knew him very well,
people say.”

“Yeah, I knew Davy. Why? Is that a crime?” She sat
back in her chair and crossed her legs, hitching her already short
skirt up past well-toned thighs.

“I was just inquiring.” Auntie Lil kept her temper.
“If so, I was going to say that this must be a very trying time for
you.”

“I'll say. Very trying.” She yawned and did not
bother to cover her mouth. Casey thought she looked like a vampire
bat getting ready to pounce.

“Must be a hassle dealing with all the bereavement
calls,” Casey said.

“Are you being smart with me?” Sabrina glared at
Casey, then spoke to Auntie Lil. “You better spend some of your
money sending your niece here to charm school.”

“Yeah. And maybe to a good plastic surgeon, too,”
Casey said. “Then I can be just like you.”

“Casey dear, shut up,” Auntie Lil requested firmly.
The widow fumed in speechless rage. “You were saying you knew Davy
well?” Auntie Lil prompted.

“Look, I know what you're getting at and it's not
true. People are just nasty and jealous.” Sabrina dangled one foot
so violently that her high-heel shoe flew across the living room
and hit the fireplace screen. Her dog scampered over for a
sniff.

“What are people saying?” Auntie Lil asked
sweetly.

“Cut that innocent crap,” Sabrina said. “About me and
Davy having an affair. That's bullshit. We were friends, and so
what? We were the same age. We had a lot in common. He was
fun.”

If Sabrina was the same age as Davy, then Casey and
Auntie Lil were Lewis and Clark. But neither of the other women
felt it politic to mention it at that particular moment. Especially
since they were interrupted by the doorbell.

Before Sabrina could answer, the door opened and Jake
Rosenbloom stepped into the hallway. He immediately peered upstairs
and yelled, “Hey, I'm here! Make it quick, will ya? I got to be
back at the office in an hour.”

“We're in here,” Casey called out. “Join the
party.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jake Rosenbloom demanded, not
recognizing Casey. His voice softened. “Hurry up, Sabrina. The
lawyer's not going to wait all day. We have an appointment at
three.” He noticed Auntie Lil sitting by the fireplace and his face
changed. His doughy features scrunched together toward the middle
like a bun baking inward. His face grew red and his fists clenched
unconsciously at his sides. “What do you mean by bothering my
parents?” he demanded.

That hadn't taken him long, Casey noted.

“I beg your pardon?” Auntie Lil asked.

“You heard me. My mother called me to say that you
came by to see my father today. She says you were sneaking around
while she was out grocery shopping. What business do you have at
any of our homes? You stole our money.”

“I was good friends with your father at one time and
I have a right to see him if I wish,” Auntie Lil stated firmly.
“Besides, it is not your money and it has never been your money.
You just acted like it was.”

“Get out of this house,” Jake demanded. He marched to
the front door and opened it.

“Yeah,” Sabrina belatedly chimed in. “You get out of
my house this instant. Or else.”

“Or else what? You'll have your dog pee on our feet?”
Casey asked as she grabbed Auntie Lil's elbow to escort her out the
door. This did not sit well with Auntie Lil, who was perfectly
capable of marching out on her own. Casey, however, was determined
to make their exit look as pitiful as
possible.         

Sabrina and Jake glared at them from the doorway as
they took their time negotiating the flagstone walk. What little
self-control the widow possessed snapped when they were halfway to
the sidewalk.

“You think you're so great,” she screamed at Auntie
Lil. “I'm sick of you, you hear me? Five years of my life wasted
listening to him yap about you. You don't look so great to me.
You're old and you're ordinary looking.”

“My dear,” Auntie Lil said, “age is a state of mind.
You'd know that if you bothered to use yours.”

The widow slammed the door in reply, but the effect
was spoiled when she locked the dog outside and had to reopen it to
rescue her pet.

“What was Max thinking of?” Auntie Lil asked. She
shivered. “I'd have sooner brought a tiger cub home than that
woman.”

“Seems a shame to waste these good suits,” T.S. said
to Herbert. “Took me an hour to get dressed.”

“We are most presentable in our current attire,”
Herbert agreed. “Perhaps we should call on Mr. Thomas Brody.”

“You make an excellent adviser,” T.S. told him.
“You've read my mind. Of course, Aunt Lil is likely to throw a fit
that we made a move without her.”

“I will placate Lillian,” Herbert promised. “Besides,
she is busy elsewhere.”

They reached Max Rose Fashions in style. Grady opened
the door with another bow. It was after four and the chaos of the
garment district was winding down. They sidestepped a rack of
hanging suits and dodged a pack of buyers in the building
entranceway. The downstairs lobby was nearly deserted, and T.S.
doubted if the company was up and running at full speed yet. They
took the huge elevator up to the seventh floor, sharing it with a
heavyset man toting what smelled like a bag of garlic-and-onion
sausages. When the elevator car stopped at the fifth floor to let
the stranger off, T.S. and Herbert were assaulted by a huge wave of
sound from the cutting floor, the area where samples were prepared
for inspection by buyers. The steady din of sewing machinery
mingled with the chatter of clerks and the shouts of supervisors.
How anyone could navigate through the racks of hanging clothes,
bolts of cloth, and rolling tables of supplies was beyond T.S.

“Now you know why Aunt Lil talks so loud,” he told
Herbert when the closing doors had restored calm.

“At least Max Rose Fashions is back to work,” Herbert
observed.

The executives were back to work as well. Or back to
not working, depending on your perspective. Some strolled through
the halls behind the receptionist and three were clustered on a
couch in the waiting area conferring over fabric samples.

Behind the anteroom, the showroom was bustling with
activity. Potential buyers roamed the long rack dominating the
middle of the area, inspecting the upcoming season's line. Max Rose
Fashions specialized in dresses and ladies' sportswear. Obviously,
florals were in. Bright splashes of color marked the section of the
line reserved for dresses; the back half of the rack displayed a
variety of comfortable pant and top combinations in different
pastel shades. Cubicles on each side of the line were occupied by
salespeople and potential customers. The concentration was almost
palpable as pairs of buyers examined fabrics, fastenings, and the
quality of hems—all against a backdrop of constant patter by eager
Max Rose representatives.

“Back to business,” T.S. repeated. It occurred to him
that all these people were now toiling, at least in part, on his
behalf. The thought was overwhelming and he pushed it from his
mind.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. She was
slender, with smooth black hair. Her accent was British.

“Mr. Thomas Brody, please,” T.S. said in his most
executive voice.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Ah. The universal question wielded by the guardians
of corporate citadels everywhere.

Herbert intervened. He bowed and produced a charming
smile. “I am sure he will wish to see us,” he told the woman
politely, with just the right touch of self-deprecation. “This man
is Theodore Hubbert, who is now part owner of the company and thus
Mr. Brody's boss. I am his adviser. We wish to speak to Mr. Brody
about his continued employment here and a possible infusion of
cash.”

“You catch on quickly,” T.S. said in admiration as
the receptionist scurried down the hall. This was too important a
mission to entrust to the office intercom.

“It is often best to let others speak for you,”
Herbert intoned wisely. “Particularly if you are attempting to
project the air of a very important cheese.”

Thomas Brody came out to greet them. T.S. recognized
him from the cemetery. He was a tall man in his mid-fifties with
military bearing, trim, with a powerful torso. His face was
unexpectedly welcoming: rounded, with a near-button nose and
twinkling eyes set beneath the pixie eyebrows. He had a thin mouth
and was not smiling, but this did not spoil his deceptively
harmless look. He wore no jacket, but his custom-tailored shirt fit
perfectly. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his tie
was slung over one shoulder.

“Come in, come in,” he insisted, ushering them down
the hall. “Preston Freeman phoned not ten minutes ago to say that
your meeting with him went well. I assume you want to look over the
financials, discuss recent events. I may be able to help, though
there are matters unknown to me, of course. Let's talk in here.” He
spoke at rapid-fire speed, but his tone was beguiling. The effect
was to sweep along listeners, guiding them to the course of action
that Brody preferred before his audience realized what was up.

It worked with T.S. and Herbert. They sat down in
visitor chairs and waited as Brody made himself comfortable in a
leather captain's chair. The tie slung over his shoulder was
explained by several slices of pizza leaking grease onto a paper
plate on one corner of his desk.

“Late lunch,” he explained with a shrug. “I've been
working round the clock trying to keep the place going. I know
you've been briefed. Here's an update: everything is under control,
but with Max's death, the suppliers and client base have naturally
lost some confidence. I've been running around most of the eastern
seaboard this week, trying to plug holes. Meanwhile, the production
floors are madhouses trying to catch up, we're stumbling over the
cops every time we turn around, my accounting staff is threatening
to quit
en masse,
there's no one here to back me up because
neither one of Max's nephews was ever worth a damn, and to top it
off, I'm exhausted and this pizza stinks. I asked for sausage. They
brought me pepperoni.”