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VINCENT VAN GOGH kept fussing with the bandage covering his left ear. It was held in place by a long strip of white fabric, which passed under his chin and disappeared beneath his blue cap, trimmed in black fur. A shapeless green jacket completed the look. You might recognize this fetching ensemble from his famous Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, completed in 1889.
Vincent sat at one end of a ponderous leather sofa in the large, wood-paneled office of Sten Jakobsen, attorney-at-law. A human-size cactus sat at the other end.
And yeah, there was indeed an actual human inside the bulky green neoprene cactus costume, which was studded all over with lethal-looking but harmless rubbery spines. A large pink blossom adorned the top of the cactus, which extended almost a foot above Lola Rutishauer’s scowling, green-painted face, framed by an oval opening in the neoprene. The unwieldy costume thwarted her attempts to cross her cactusy arms in annoyance.
Vincent van Gogh—real name Austin Rutishauer—spoke up. “I’m getting rid of this itchy thing.” He whipped off his cap and started to untie the bandage. At fifty-two, he was three years younger than his sister, Lola, but at the moment he came across as a whiny toddler.
Sten Jakobsen responded from behind his massive mahogany desk, speaking in his usual slow, precise way. “As has been explained to you, Mr. Rutishauer, failure to adhere to every detail of the requirements laid out by Opal Stenger will nullify any claim you might have to her estate.”
“Aunt Opal was a damn crackpot,” Austin snapped as he retied the bandage and jammed the hat back onto his head. “No, I take it back. That woman was certifiably insane. What kind of sadistic nut makes her heirs wear dopey costumes to the reading of her will?”
His sister decided the rhetorical question merited an answer. “A sadistic nut with eighty million in the bank, mansions in Crystal Harbor and Palm Beach, and a six-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue with a view of Central Park. Go ahead, Austin, ditch the costume. More for me.” The glint of anticipation in her eyes told me she was mentally redecorating those six thousand square feet.
I observed all this from the comfort of a cushy leather chair tucked into a corner near a potted tree. If my client Opal Stenger had required me to don a silly costume that day, I would’ve obeyed without complaint. Trust me, it would have been way down on the list of embarrassing things I’ve had to do during my bizarre career. Happily, she’d made no such demand, which meant I was free to wear the same forgettable outfit I’d worn to Stu Ruskin’s funeral the day before: the gray skirt suit, pearls, and plain black pumps I thought of as my Death Diva uniform.
Opal was not, in fact, certifiably insane, though it would be hard to argue with “crackpot.” She had her own reasons for scheduling this particular meeting, and specific ideas about how she wanted it conducted. Which brings us to the costumes.
I’d delivered them to her relatives several days earlier. You can imagine how that went over. However, once they’d accepted that there was no arguing with their aunt at this point, they’d grudgingly accepted her terms: wear the embarrassing costume or be cut out of her will.
Opal never had children. Her closest relations were Lola, Austin, and their cousin, Clive Rutishauer. Speaking of which...
“Where the heck is Clive?” Austin said.
Lola had to shift her entire neoprene-clad body to squint at the big brass clock on the credenza. “He’s seven minutes late. Let’s start.”
“We will proceed when all parties are present,” Sten said, “not before.” The lawyer was in his early seventies, his amber gaze sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, his blond hair nearly as white as his trim beard. Sten’s erect six-four stature, noble bearing, and quiet intelligence gave him an imposing presence that he’d used to good effect during his long career in the law.
I said, “If Clive doesn’t show up soon, I’ll give him a call. Would you like some water or soda? Coffee?”
“What I’d like,” Austin said, “is to find out how much cash I’m getting and which one of those mansions is mine so I can sell it and retire.”
I couldn’t fault the man for his impatience. He’d been a salesman in a children’s shoe store for the past thirty-four years.
The door swung open and Bigfoot lumbered into the room.
Lola’s jaw dropped. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Actually, that kinda makes sense,” Austin said.
He was right. There was a reason Opal Stenger chose this particular look for her nephew Clive. A big guy in both height and girth, he filled out the shaggy, apelike costume, which included a full-head mask with little eyeholes. Predictably, it also featured huge feet that slapped the Oriental carpet as he crossed the room to Sten, who stood to greet him.
I stood, too, and made introductions. Sten shook Bigfoot’s massive paw. “Thank you for coming today, Mr. Rutishauer,” he said.
“Call me Clive.” Bigfoot gave a sad shake of his big head. “Poor Aunt Opal. I can’t believe she’s gone. She was a hell of a lady, I’ll tell you that.”
Lola snorted. Austin rolled his eyes.
“She made it to eighty-three,” Clive continued, “but if you ask me, she went far too soon. It’s not fair. That wonderful woman should’ve lived to a hundred.”
Lola emitted a bark of laughter. “Another seventeen years putting up with that harpy?”
“More to the point,” Austin said, “another seventeen years working our butts off until we’re too old and used-up to enjoy our inheritance.”
“Aunt Opal could’ve thrown us a few million anytime she wanted,” Lola griped. “She wouldn’t have missed it. But no, the stingy old bat made us wait till she croaked.”
“That’s not fair. You two never got to know her like I did.” Clive wagged a big, furry finger at his cousins. “When’s the last time you visited her?”
“Why would I willingly spend time with that horrible woman?” Lola said.
Austin backed up his sister. “She was abusive.”
“‘Abusive,’” Clive scoffed. “Poor little Austin, the boy without a backbone. I like that Aunt Opal never took crap from anyone.”
“Yeah, you can do that,” Lola said, “when you’ve inherited zillions from a husband who was old enough to be your grandpa.”
“And what about her fantastic sense of humor, huh? Pulling a stunt like this from beyond the grave?” Clive indicated his woolly self, laughing. “Trademark Aunt Opal, am I right?”
“Clive,” I said, “can I get you something before we start? Coffee, tea—”
“I’ll take a beer.”
“Um, I’m afraid we’re all out,” I said. “How about a soda?”
“Nah, that’s okay, then. Nothing for me.”
I invited him to have a seat. He got into the part, striding with a gorillalike swagger, swinging his long arms, and emitting the occasional simian grunt before settling his shaggy bulk in the center of the sofa. Between his sheer size and his widespread knees, Lola and Austin ended up squashed against the armrests. Sasquatch appeared to be a fan of manspreading. Who knew?
“We’re just waiting for one other person,” I said. “As soon as he gets here, we can—”
The door opened and I spent long, dumbfounded moments struggling to process what I was seeing. An eighteenth-century nobleman stood leaning against the doorframe with ankles crossed, insouciantly posed as if in a period painting. It was a case of visual overload as my stunned gaze skidded over the elaborately embroidered ice-blue frock coat and ivory waistcoat; the frothy lace cascading from sleeves and throat; the gold-trimmed knee britches and blue silk stockings; the ivory satin shoes with jeweled buckles and high, stacked heels; the gigantic powdered wig; and finally, the full-on makeup and rouge—historically accurate, believe it or not—complete with a small, black beauty patch on the left cheek.
Opal’s niece and nephews lost no time before debating the newcomer’s identity. Lola claimed he was their aunt’s studly accountant, a man equally at home in both spreadsheets and bedsheets. Austin insisted he was the studly plumber Opal kept on call twenty-four seven because dangerous leaks can happen any time of the day or night. In her bedroom. Clive claimed they were both wrong and that this guy was her studly personal chef. Which led to the inevitable gag about Aunt Opal’s prodigious appetites, and if you didn’t see that one coming, you haven’t been paying attention.
Lola said, “He’s too tall for the chef, and too young for the plumber.”
“Well, you can forget about the accountant,” Austin said. “He quit the biz to become a monk.”
“I hope this doesn’t mean we have to split everything four ways.” Lola glared at the weirdo in the doorway. “Who the heck are you, anyway?”
“Eez eet not obvious?” the man drawled, in a snooty French accent. He bowed, with a flourish. “Zee Marquis de Sade, at your service.”
I finally managed to find my voice, which came out as more of a growl. “Excuse us.” I grabbed a fistful of the marquis’s lace jabot and hauled him through the doorway, past Sten’s gawking paralegal and receptionist, and down the hall to a vacant conference room. I slammed the door shut.
“What the hell, Padre?”
“Did I misunderstand zee theme of zee day?” Martin asked, still all Frenchy, still striking a foppish pose.
“You know very well the costumes are for Opal Stenger’s heirs.” I gave him a good, hard shove. Alas, he was immovable. The fancy shoes added several inches to his six-foot frame. I found his elevated height, in conjunction with the outlandish makeup and wig, more than a little unnerving.
“You also know that Sten hired you for security,” I said, “in case one of Opal’s unloved ones decides to get physical. How are you supposed to do your job dressed like that? And why the Marquis de Sade, of all people?”
“Beats me.”
Well, I walked right into that one.
Why did we need security? you ask. I knew Opal’s three heirs expected their aunt’s estate, which was worth close to a hundred million bucks, to be divided equally between them. I also knew they were in for a surprise. Sten was concerned about their reactions. Once he learned about Martin’s side gig as a bodyguard, he decided he was just the fellow to keep order during this unorthodox meeting.
I was tempted to demand Martin go home and change, for all the good it would do me. However, we were already running late, and I was eager to get this whole thing over with.
“Well, at least take off that idiotic wig,” I said, “and wipe off the makeup.”
“Nonsense. Eet eez all part of zee ensemble.” If anything, the marquis’s French accent was growing more pronounced. “And if you continue being zo mean, I weel not tell you what zee gendarmes are saying about our dairly departed ’ot-tub enthusiast.”
All right, now he had my attention. The padre had at least one loquacious buddy on the force. I pictured Martin sliding free beers across the bar at Murray’s Pub last night and being rewarded with the latest cop-shop gossip.
I jumped as someone knocked on the door and cracked it open. Sten’s paralegal stuck her head in. “Um, Mr. Jakobsen wants to know when—”
“In a minute, Jeanie,” I said, as politely as I could manage. The instant the door closed, I turned back to Martin. “Okay, spill.”
He dropped the accent. “They’re definitely leaning toward a finding of suicide.”
I made no attempt to conceal my surprise. “I saw Howie and Cookie at the funeral yesterday. Looked to me like they were at least keeping an open mind.”
“I don’t know the specifics,” he said, “but it seems there just isn’t enough compelling evidence to indicate homicide. For what it’s worth, I think they’re getting pressure from Bonnie. She probably wants to close the file on this one.”
Bonnie Hernandez, Dom’s ex-fiancée, happened to be the town’s chief of police.
“Did they find a suicide note?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I know you thought he was murdered.”
“Still do,” he said.
“But—”
“There’s more. Have you been wondering whether they recovered fingerprints from the gun?”
“Yes!” I said. “Please tell me they did.”
“They didn’t.”
“Dang!” I said. “Because it was in water?”
He shook his bewigged head. “Because it was in warm water dosed with sanitizing chemicals. But guns just don’t hold fingerprints well. The textured surfaces, for starters.”
“Really?” I said. “Someone should tell the folks who write all those TV crime shows.”
“Come, ma chérie.” Martin opened the door and ushered me through it. “Zee othairs weel begin to wondair what we are up to in here.” He punctuated this with a lascivious Gallic chortle.
“Are you trying to channel Pepé Le Pew?” I asked. “Because if so, you nailed it.”
Back in Sten’s office, I made no attempt to explain the marquis’s presence. Whatever stories they’d concocted were preferable to the truth.
You see, guys, Sten and I are pretty sure that one or more of you are likely to be Very Disappointed by what is about to transpire here today, so we brought in the Marquis de Sade in case you decide to express that disappointment in a socially unacceptable and potentially lethal fashion.
The padre took up a position near the sofa, one hand on his hip, the other dangling a lace hanky. What did it say about me that he still looked kinda sexy, even now?
Okay, you can just keep it to yourself. Not every question needs an answer.
Sten, being Sten, didn’t so much as bat the proverbial eyelash in the face of the bodyguard’s preposterous getup. “Before we proceed with the formalities,” he intoned, at his signature glacial pace, “your aunt requested that each of you, in turn, share your favorite memory of her.”
Lola and Austin groaned in unison. “Do we have to?” Lola whined. “I mean, is this another one of that crazy old bat’s moronic requirements before we finally get to find out how rich we are?”
“This part is compulsory, yes,” Sten said.
“It doesn’t have to be long,” I offered. “A few words will do.”
Clive waved his shaggy arm and said, “Ooh! Ooh! Can I go first?”
“By all means,” Sten said. “I applaud your enthusiasm, Clive.”
“Well, when I was a kid, I just loved hanging with my aunt Opal.”
Lola slumped in her seat, to the extent she could do so while encased in all that green neoprene. “Oh, here we go.”
“I was nine.” The eyes peering out of the Bigfoot mask squinted in concentration. “No, I guess I’d already turned ten. It was the summer after fifth grade.”
Austin did that rolling motion with his arm, telling his cousin to get to the point.
“Okay, okay, so you know how many cats my mom had, right?” he asked his cousins. “I loved Mom, but face it, she was the original cat lady. I never got a clear count, but there were at least seven or eight at any given time.”
“We remember the darn cats,” Lola said. “What about them?”
“So Aunt Opal comes over for dinner one day and she brings this big bakery cake for dessert. Decorated all fancy, with flowers and what-all. And right in the middle, in elegant script, it says, ‘Your house smells like a litter box.’ I laughed so hard, my mom sent me to bed without supper. But it was worth it.”
“Thank you for sharing your special memory.” Sten turned to Austin. “Mr. Rutishauer?”
“My favorite memory of Aunt Opal is when this one over here—” Austin tossed his hand in my direction “—called to tell me the old broad had dropped dead.”
“Argh!” Lola smacked her cactusy forehead. “Wish I’d thought of that one. Okay, let me see... Well, there was that time Aunt Opal let me drive her to Jones Beach.”
“So?” Clive said.
“So I was eleven,” Lola said. “I had to stand up to reach the brake pedal in that baby-blue Caddy she had back then. Aunt Opal was totally calm, coaching me the whole way. We almost got creamed getting onto the Meadowbrook Parkway, but I got us there.”
Austin thought about it. “Actually, I’ve gotta admit, that sounds kind of cool.”
Sten said, “Well then, if we are all finished...” He turned to me and nodded.
I rose and crossed to a door that connected to the adjacent office. I opened it and said, “I think we’re ready for you.”
“Not another heir,” Austin griped. “They’re coming out of the woodwork.”
In the next instant he was gawking, along with the others, at the woman who’d marched into the room.
“Whaddaya know,” Lola said, as she took in the newcomer’s sleek white hairdo, vivid orange lipstick, purple silk pantsuit, and heavy diamond jewelry. “This one’s done up like Aunt Opal.”
“That is Aunt Opal, you idiot!” Clive launched himself off the sofa and ran over to wrap her in a furry embrace.
“You’re—You’re not dead?” Austin sputtered.
Opal turned her steely gaze on her hapless nephew, making him flinch. “I take back all those cracks I made about your mental capacity, Austin. You’re twice as dumb as I thought.”
Lola sprang off the sofa, nearly taking a header on the coffee table, thanks to her cumbersome costume. Martin stuck close to her as she stalked over to Sten’s desk and slammed her fists onto it. The official Marquis de Sade security detail stood ready to do battle with a cactus, should the need arise.
“You lied to us!” she accused the lawyer. “You told us she was dead.”
“Correction,” I said, “I told you your aunt Opal was dead. I told you today’s meeting was for the reading of her will. Mr. Jakobsen never said any such thing.”
It was true. Being the conscientious lawyer he is, Sten wasn’t about to directly lie to his client’s relatives. That didn’t mean he was above playing along with her little charade. At this point in his long career, he wasn’t averse to pushing the boundaries.
Austin was on his feet now. “So this was all, what? Some kind of sick joke? Just a way to make us all look foolish?” He yanked off his cap and bandage, and tossed them onto the carpet. Turned out he actually looked a lot like the great artist he was meant to impersonate, right down to the red hair and perpetually mournful expression.
His sister was beginning to figure it out. “No, this was a way to trick us into telling her what we really thought of her. She was probably behind that door the whole time, listening to our conversation. Right, Aunt Opal?”
Opal said, “At least you’re not as dumb as your brother. Which isn’t saying much.”
Austin began to panic, clearly envisioning millions of pictures of George Washington slipping through his fingers. “All those things you heard me say, Aunt Opal, I didn’t really mean them. They were... well, they were kind of a joke.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a sad little wheeze. “I think I said something like... oh, I don’t know, that you were ‘certifiably insane’? Who would take that seriously?”
“According to you, I’m also ‘abusive,’” Opal said, with a flat little smile, “and a ‘sadistic nut.’ Oh, wait, that one’s true. I’m cutting you out of my will. Sadistic enough for you?”
The padre spoke up. “Nothing eez evair sadeestic enough for moi.” When this was met with blank stares, he added, “Not to boast, but zee word sadeestic comes from my name.”
“Who the hell invited the Marquis de Sade?” Opal demanded. “Are you related to me? Never mind, I like your style. I’m putting you in my will.”
Martin executed another flourishy bow. “You are too kind, madame.”
“What am I going to do now?” Austin wailed. “I was counting on that money. As soon as I heard you were dead, I bought a Maserati and a timeshare in the Hamptons.”
“You just keep proving my point,” Opal cackled.
Lola wheeled on me. “This is all your fault! You lied to us. You set us up.”
She flew at me, a big cartoon cactus with vengeance in its heart. Martin moved like lightning, seemingly unencumbered by his elaborate suit of clothes, enormous wig, and high-heeled shoes. He grabbed Lola around her middle and flung her onto the sofa.
Never breaking character, he wagged a beringed finger at her and said, “You weel behave yourself, madame, or suffair zee consequences.”
“It was supposed to be mine!” Lola struggled against her bulky costume in an attempt to sit up. “The penthouse apartment. A third of all that money. What did I ever do to deserve this?”
Opal said, “You mean besides running me down to anyone who’d listen? Getting in touch with me only when you wanted something? It’s been going on for decades. You think I don’t have feelings, just because I don’t fit the mold of a sweet little old lady from central casting?”
Lola gave up trying to sit and instead rolled off the sofa onto the carpet, then grabbed the coffee table and pulled herself to her feet. She stabbed a green finger toward her brother. “It was Austin, Aunt Opal. He was always running you down. I stuck up for you. Punish him, not me.”
Austin gaped at her, the picture of outraged betrayal. “You called her a stingy old bat, not five minutes ago. And a whaddayacallit. A harpy.”
“Don’t forget ‘horrible woman,’” Opal said. “That one’s my favorite. If either of you ever had the guts to say those things to my face, I’d at least have a little respect. As it is, you’re both out of my will and I’m leaving everything to your cousin Clive.”
Bigfoot blinked in surprise. Clearly he was the only one in the room who hadn’t seen that one coming. “Aw, Aunt Opal, I don’t know what to say.” He hugged her again. “Except I hope that inheritance doesn’t happen for a long, long time.”
“Well, my doctor says I have the heart of a twenty-year-old marathon runner,” she said, “so you might get your wish. In the meantime, I’m going to take Lola’s suggestion and do what I should’ve done ages ago.”
Lola looked alarmed. “My suggestion?”
“I’m giving Clive a big chunk of his inheritance right away,” Opal said. “You were right. Why make him wait?” She put her arm through his shaggy one. “Let’s blow this joint, big fella. You can afford to buy me a beer.”