Maximum Security (18 page)

Steven Collier actually asked if there was a doctor in the house. There were three. It took less than a minute for the white-haired cardiologist to revive Anastasia Rawlings. And then it took more than twenty for the plastic surgeon and the gastroenterologist to talk her up from the floor.

The Kydd and I worked on Louisa’s file while we waited. He began drafting our first round of discovery requests; we should serve them before the week is out. I made a couple of lists: one of the pretrial motions we’re likely to file and another of those we can expect from Geraldine. Harry folded his arms and promptly fell asleep, tilting toward Glen Powers every few minutes until Glen pushed him upright again.

When at last Anastasia was vertical, she keened intermittently as Steven Collier delivered a long-winded account of her father’s magnanimous life, stopping just short of nominating him for canonization. Paul Bagley’s tribute to Herb’s seemingly stellar career was shorter, but it was still too long. In contrast, the Reverend Burrows’s Scripture reading and prayer session were both mercifully brief. The crowd heaved a collective sigh of relief when the whole ordeal was over and then an audible groan when Collier approached the microphone yet again. Our fears were unfounded, though. He didn’t foist a second sermon on us. He just invited us all back to the house for lunch.

It’s almost one o’clock. We’re outside again, by the circular driveway, waiting for the less-than-happy valet to retrieve Harry’s Jeep. Louisa and her uniformed companions are waiting here too. Their driver must have taken a coffee break; the county van is nowhere in sight. The six of us seem to be the last of the stragglers.

Louisa watched in silence as the luxury cars departed, most of them probably destined for the mercy meal at her Easy Street antique. Glen Powers promised her he’d visit before he leaves the Cape and an elderly gentleman waved to her before climbing into a vintage gold Cadillac with a flying silver lady on its hood. A ’38, the Kydd informed us. Those two were the exceptions. The other guests said nothing at all to her; walked past as if she were invisible. More than once I saw Louisa’s eyes light up at the sight of a familiar face, only to dim again when the familiar face turned the other way.

Steven Collier, Anastasia, and Lance emerge from the club as a stretch limousine pulls up. I’m surprised; I had assumed they’d left ahead of the others. The driver opens the back door and stands at attention as Steven and Anastasia descend the steps and breeze past us without so much as a backward glance. Lance looks over his shoulder at us as he climbs in, though, his nonchalant expression suggesting he travels by limo all the time. He has a sizable lump on one side of his forehead, undoubtedly the result of his front-row fall. It’s the same color as his girlfriend’s fingernails.

Anastasia starts to follow him, but then hesitates. She turns, fixes her still-veiled gaze on Louisa, and marches back toward all of us. “Anastasia,” Collier says, reaching for her arm, “don’t.”

She pays him no mind, steamrolls in our direction, her veil fluttering in the breeze and her fists clenched. One of the matrons takes Louisa by the elbow and pulls her back a step. The other one moves forward, to the edge of the curb. “Hold it right there,” she says.

Anastasia stops and glares through her sheer black mantle, her nostrils flaring. “You people,” she says, “are
not
invited to the luncheon.”

“Damn,” Harry mutters, clutching the lapels of his suit coat. “Story of my life. All dressed up and no place to go.”

Louisa smiles at him and then turns to me. “I’m going,” she says matter-of-factly. “Aren’t you?”

She’s not, of course. Even Judge Long wouldn’t authorize a luncheon. His order allowed her to attend the service only.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her.

“Me neither,” the Kydd adds, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving.”

The matron at the curb turns, almost smiles at the Kydd, and then faces Anastasia again. “Sure we’re invited,” she says. “That’s why I signed up for this duty. Warden promised there’d be a good hot meal.”

“You’re not welcome in my father’s house,” Anastasia says. “None of you. If you show up, I swear I’ll call the po-lice.” She pronounces the word as if she’s a brother from the ’hood.

The matron folds her arms and laughs. “In certain circles, missy, we
are
the po-lice.”

“Never deal dialect with a prison guard,” Harry says.

“It’s time to go now.” Collier cups Anastasia’s elbow, the way he cupped mine in Louisa’s kitchen, but it doesn’t have the same impact. She doesn’t budge. “You have guests waiting,” he tries.

Guests or no guests, Anastasia stays put. It seems she plans to spend the rest of the week glaring at us.

Louisa stares back, unblinking. Her face is drawn and her dark eyes reveal the enormous toll the last four days have taken on her. The set of her jaw, though, tells me she doesn’t intend to fall apart now. She won’t give Anastasia that satisfaction.

The county van pulls up behind the limo, Harry’s Jeep following. “Oh, look,” Louisa says, sounding genuinely pleased. “It’s my ride.”

Harry, the Kydd, and I head for the Jeep. The matrons start for the van’s side door, Louisa between them. She turns and waves to all of us—even Anastasia—before she gets in. “I’m afraid I have to go now,” she says. “But I’ll see y’all at lunch.”

It’s seven o’clock when I pull up to the cottage and discover I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is Luke’s truck is parked in the driveway. It’s not in the shop. The bad news is Luke’s truck is parked in the driveway. He’s not at school.

The two-day job at the garage turned out to take more than three. Luke has been having a great time all week. Turns out he really is a grease monkey. He thought they’d finish today, though, in time for him to make his afternoon classes. Looks like he thought wrong.

Harry’s Jeep is here too. He and Luke are back on either side of the coffee table when I reach the living room. They’re at it again. And again, Luke is exasperated. Harry sits frozen on the living room floor, no more animated than Rodin’s
Thinker
.

“Would you
look
at this guy?” Luke says when I join them. “He’s been sitting there like that for an hour.”

Harry tears his eyes from the chessboard and blinks at both of us, looking like he’s surprised to find us here in his chess studio. “I have? Well, then, I should take a bathroom break.”

“Good,” Luke answers. “I’ll rearrange the board a little while you’re gone.”

“No, you won’t,” Harry says as he gets to his feet. “I’d never expect it from a person of your caliber, Luke. So that would be cheating.”

“Oh, great.” Luke grabs the hair on top of his head with both hands as if he’s going to yank out clumps of it. “Just what we need.
Another
Harry-ism.”

Harry heads down the hallway, whistling, and Luke flops sideways onto the couch. I squeeze in to sit on the end, near his size-thirteen sneakers. Danny Boy joins us, always on the lookout for a group hug. His wet nose nudges my cheek and he paws my lap, as if he might have buried something there, while his tail thumps against Luke’s legs. I thump Luke’s legs too—hard. “Are you
ever
going back to school, my son?”

He laughs. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I swear. We didn’t finish with the truck until late today and I don’t have class tomorrow until ten. I’ll go up in the morning.”

“And back in the afternoon,” I tell him.

He props himself up a little and looks at me, baffled. He’s his mother’s son. “Tomorrow is Friday,” I remind him.

He sits up straighter and counts—days, I presume—on his fingertips. “Cool,” he says when he finishes, a surprised look on his face. “It’s the weekend.”

Maybe his father is right after all.

Harry returns and settles on the floor again. Without hesitating, he moves a rook and then smiles at Luke.

Luke jumps up from the couch and gapes at the board. “I don’t believe it,” he says.

Harry’s smile widens. “Inspiration. You just never know when it’s going to hit.”

Luke sinks to the floor to plot his next move.

“Speaking of inspiration,” Harry says, looking up at me, “that was quite a performance we saw today, huh?” His upper body stiffens and he falls over sideways, a half-baked imitation of Anastasia’s collapse.

“
That
part wasn’t a performance,” I tell him, “but the keening sure was.”

“The fainting was too,” he says, falling over again. “Trust me. She’s up for an Oscar.”

“How could anyone fake a faint? She’d have instinctively reached out to break her fall.”

“The skinny guy with the ponytail broke her fall,” Harry says. “He’s the only one who got hurt. Well, besides me.”

“You?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, looking forlorn. “That mean lady with the eyes said I couldn’t come to her party. She hurt my feelings.”

“I wonder how the mean lady’s luncheon went. I’m guessing Anastasia doesn’t shine in the hostess department.”

“I wondered too,” he says, “so I drove by there about an hour and a half after we got back to the office.”

“You drove
by
there?” No one drives
by
Easy Street. It’s not on the way to anywhere.

He shrugs. “I was curious. Anyhow, all the guests had already left by the time I got there. Just one car in the driveway, a jalopy. Aside from that heap, the place looks like a magazine cover. No more cops. No more yellow tape. It looks like the goddamned Cleavers live there.”

“Right now Anastasia Rawlings and Lance Phillips live there,” I tell him. “A far cry from the Cleavers.”

“The Addams Family?” he tries.

“Now you’re talking. And now that Morticia and company have set up camp in there, I’m wondering if Louisa will ever be able to get them out.”

Harry looks up at me and shrugs. “It might not matter in the long run.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your move,” Luke announces.

“If Louisa goes to prison,” Harry says, focusing on the chess-board again, “the house will pass to Morticia anyhow. Along with everything else her father owned.”

He looks up at me again and I shake my head. “Why do you say that? Anastasia is specifically excluded from Herb Rawlings’s will.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Harry leans back against the overstuffed chair behind him and Luke groans.

“If Louisa is the sole beneficiary of Herb’s will,” Harry continues, “and she’s convicted of his murder, the will is automatically null and void. It’s as if he died without one, intestate. And if he
had
died intestate, Anastasia would have inherited the whole kit and caboodle—aside from the government’s take, anyhow—because she’s his only child.”

I knew that, of course. But I hadn’t given it a thought until now. And I’m astounded that Harry knows it. It’s not the kind of information that normally interests him. “Now who’s the nerd?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you actually attended your trusts and estates classes?”

“Hell, no.” The look on Harry’s face suggests I accused him of showing up for ballet lessons—in a pink tutu. “That’s one of the many legal principles I learned when I got
out
of law school,” he says, “about ten years out, as a matter of fact. I was assigned to a guy who couldn’t wait to get his mitts on his wife’s family money. She’d left him everything in her will, but dammit, she just wouldn’t die fast enough. So he fed her a lethal overdose of barbiturates with her nightly highballs. Then he realized he couldn’t move the body.”

“Speaking of moving,” Luke interjects, “why don’t you?”

“I don’t remember anymore,” Harry continues, “but I guess she must’ve been a full-figured gal.”

Luke groans again.

“’Course, my guy wasn’t exactly Atlas,” Harry adds.

“Bet he could’ve lifted one of those pawns,” Luke mumbles.

Their banter continues, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m registering that feeling again: my stomach running laps around my brain. I force myself to ask the question a second time. I have to be certain about this. “So because the guy was convicted of his wife’s murder, her will leaving everything to him was
automatically
null and void. It was as if she’d died intestate.”

I had been talking to myself, really, but Harry nods anyway. “That’s why her schmo of a husband ended up in the Public Defender’s Office.” He looks over at Luke and arches his eyebrows. “The guy wasn’t playing with a full deck.”

“At least he was playing,” Luke answers.

I move Danny Boy’s head from my lap and leave the couch. I hurry into my bedroom, change into jeans and a turtleneck, leather jacket, and hat—all black—then check to make sure the Lady Smith is fully loaded. It is. I tuck it into my inside jacket pocket and head for the kitchen door. “I forgot something,” I tell Harry and Luke. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Don’t worry,” Luke says, “take your time. We’ll be here. Right here. Right in this very spot.”

Harry looks like he’s full of questions, but I’m not hanging around to answer them.

The Herb Rawlings jigsaw puzzle isn’t finished yet, but the border pieces are starting to connect. Whoever used a TFR to secure Herb to his watery grave knew exactly what he was doing. He knew the pop-up would let go. He knew Herb Rawlings’s body—whatever was left of it, anyhow—would float away from the weight that held it on the ocean floor.

Taylor Peterson’s words come back to me as I start the Thunderbird and back out in the moonlight. He was wrong about Herb Rawlings being at the helm when the
Carolina Girl
left the dock. But he was right about a few other things. Whoever dumped Herb’s body in the Great South Channel knew how to negotiate the cut. He also knew a pop-up when he saw one. And, as Taylor put it, the dead guy surfaced on schedule.