OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (7 page)

Gus reined in his shock just as the waiter showed up. “Your vodka, sir?” The server stood over them, tray in hand, his gaze darting between him and Hagan.

“No point in letting a perfectly good drink go to waste,” Hagan said, nodding at the tray, then settling back in his seat. “And bring some menus, will you? I’m hungry as a starved dog.” He glanced at Gus. “Plus we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“How do you know Farrell?”

“I don’t. What I do know is that Dinah has been sending money—my money—to support that house she’s living in for over thirty years.”

“And you know this how?”

“Divorce has a way of exposing things—especially ugly divorces.”

“Then my next question is, so what? It isn’t the only charity Dinah supports.”

Hagan snorted. “It’s the only one she keeps quiet about. All the others are strictly for PR and name-dropping privileges.” He snorted again. “Do you honestly believe Dinah gives a shit about kids starving in some godforsaken African village, whether or not some poor schmuck knows how to read, or some fag somewhere is dying of AIDS?” He shook his head. “No way. All Dinah cares about is Dinah getting lots of good press.”

Gus couldn’t argue with that. “Same question. So?”

“So I want to know why she’s paid out thousands over the years to support a women’s halfway house, or whatever the hell it is, in the middle of nowhere.” He paused. “And why she
quit
paying the minute Mary Weaver went toes up.”

“For a longtime ex, you’ve got a lot of current information.”

Hagan eyed him coldly. “Dinah is the mother of my son. I make sure I keep up—make sure his interests are protected.”

“Perry’s a grown man, Hagan. He can look out for himself.”

“She’s threatening to cut him out of the will. When every fucking dime she has is mine—and Perry’s. I won’t let her do that.” The feral glint in his pale eyes set diamond hard.

“First off Dinah
won’t
do that, and you damn well know it. And even if she did, Perry wouldn’t give a damn.” But Gus didn’t put it past Hagan to use Perry as an excuse to get back at Dinah, stir the old resentment pot. Because if ever two people had raised marital discord and outright hatred to high art, Dinah and Hagan Marsden had. No doubt whatever Hagan had in mind, it had more to do with vengeance against Dinah than concern for Perry’s financial well-being. Because unless things had changed, Perry was still living in a drafty apartment in Tribeca, doing the starving artist routine and staying as far away from Dinah and his dad as the planet allowed.

“He doesn’t give a damn. But I do,” Hagan grumbled. “That money is his. And I won’t let that bitch screw him like she did me.”

Gus picked up his drink, swirled the glass, listened to the ice clink against its sides, and took a drink. No way did he intend to get involved in Dinah and Hagan’s endless dispute over which one of the two was the most hard done by during the divorce; Dinah because Hagan was an abusive, egotistical brute, or Hagan because Dinah was a greedy, self-centered money grabber. The way he saw it, their son had the right idea, take off and don’t look back. Gus glanced at his watch. “This is fascinating stuff, Marsden,” he said, “but I’ve got a late date.” He tossed some bills on the table.

Before he could stand, Hagan leaned forward, his expression hard. “I know Dinah asked you to come down here and buy off the Farrell woman. That she wants Mayday House shut down for good. She’s hiding something, and I want to know what it is, Hammond, and I’m willing to be generous to the person who finds out.”

“Not interested. Not only do I not give a damn. I’m not inclined to work against my former employer.” Gus sat back in his chair, puzzled and more than a little interested. “But I’m interested in how the hell you know so much about Dinah’s plans.”

Hagan said nothing but managed to look smug as hell all the same.

An errant, unwelcome thought slid into Gus’s logic. “Can’t be,” he muttered, more to himself than Hagan. But, damn it, he couldn’t see any other way Hagan could access this kind of information. “You’re paying off Cassie, aren’t you?”

Cassie was Dinah’s manager, bookkeeper, secretary, and any other thing Dinah wanted her to be. She was a twenty-four/seven employee, quiet as an unplugged radio, and was—or so Gus had thought—as loyal as a hound. She’d also been endlessly good to Josh, who was nearly the same age as her daughter when Gus first went to live with Dinah.

“A no-brainer. The woman’s a single mother. Wants to put her kid in college. Dinah treats her like shit and pays her the same.”

“She’ll be making less than shit when Dinah hears about your cozy relationship.”

“Dinah’s not going to hear about it. Because you’re not going to tell her.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because if you do, there’s a good chance that nun will get herself roughed up, good and proper.”

“Are you actually threatening the woman?” Gus’s stomach tightened. Visions of out-sized jeans, bright red hair, and those oddly dark take-no-prisoner blue eyes flashed across his mind.

“No. Not
me!
” He shook his head. “You honestly don’t get it, do you?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Marsden?”

“I’m talking about Dinah’s goddamn secret, that’s what. Something my hellish ex-wife will do anything to protect. Hell, there’s nothing the bitch won’t do to get her way. If that nun doesn’t oblige—” He picked up the knife Gus had been toying with and dragged its point across the stiff white tablecloth, leaving a clear, straight rut in the linen. “Shame to see the woman hurt.” He eyed Gus carefully. “You want to be responsible for that?”

Gus eyeballed him back but said nothing. Dinah was forceful, stubborn, calculating, and yes, selfish, but capable of violence? He wasn’t so sure. The woman had her dark side, but that was mostly sexual—and consensual.

Dinah physically hurting someone?
He turned the thought over, and over.

She’s not above hiring the services she needs. He was proof of that.
Still, the idea didn’t process.

“And you want this information, so you can hold it—whatever the hell
it
is—over Dinah’s head.” Gus smiled thinly. “You can’t tell me you give a shit about Keeley Farrell.”

“Oh, I give a shit, all right, and so should you. Farrell’s the keeper of the keys, born and grew up in that house. If anybody knows anything about anything, it’s gotta be her. And if the little lady crosses Dinah … well, then I’d like to be the beneficiary on her insurance policy. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand you’re talking about blackmail.”

“Better a little all-in-the family blackmail—and one live nun—than the alternative.”

“And if I do find out what’s going on, why the hell would I tell you and not Dinah?” He’d done a lot of things in his time, but he’d never knifed someone in the back, figuratively or otherwise. He didn’t intend to start now. “Your IQ is even lower than I thought, Hagan.”

“Is that so? Then maybe this will take it up a notch.” He leaned forward. “Because if you don’t do what I want, I’ll get someone who will, and it’s you who’ll be the loser, Hammond. Big time.”

“I don’t want your fucking money, Marsden. You got that?”

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on giving you any. What I’m after is a trade. Your services for a little information.” He settled back in his seat, looking like a tomcat about to down a rat steak. “That sister you’ve been looking for? What’s her name again? April, right?”

Gus fused to the chair.
What the hell…

Hagan dropped the tight smile. “Cute, those parents of yours naming you and her for your birth months.” Smoothing his red silk tie down his chest, his voice as cold and flat as dank water, he added, “The thing is, I know where April is, and if you’re a good little whore-boy, and get up close and personal with that Mayday House woman—get me the information I want—I’ll drop her address on you.” He snickered and leaned back in his chair, enjoying himself. “Hell, you’ve fucked for money before, Hammond, all I’m asking is you do the same for information. Farrell, being an ex-nun and all, is probably panting for it. With your creds … should be no problem at all.”

Keeley headed out at first light.

With the house so quiet—neither Bridget nor her new guest had a fondness for mornings—she had the next couple of hours to herself.

The graveyard called, and until now she hadn’t had time for a proper visit.

Now that’s a whopper, Keeley Farrell. You’ve been putting it off because you’re afraid. Afraid, you’ll start crying and never be able to stop.

She went out the back door of Mayday House, careful to close the screen door soundlessly, not because she thought anything short of a semi ramming the house would wake her sleepers, but from force of habit. Plus she reveled in the clear, soft stillness of the morning air, the scent of last night’s light rain clinging to it like an exotic fragrance, and the deep silence surrounding the stirring of birds in the trees. She had no wish to disturb it.

She crossed the backyard, the grass squishy under her feet, and went past the garden shed and the lumpy old sandbox. When she got to the tangles of the overgrown, misshapen cedar hedge, she stopped, uncertain if she was in the right spot. There was a chance that over the years it had grown over, that her “peephole to heaven,” as Mary and her mother had called it, had closed up. Brushing aside some wet leaves and branches, she realized she was a few feet off her target. A couple more steps, a bit of pushing and pulling at sodden branches, and she was there; the secret passage had grown over, but with effort she pushed through the grasping shrubbery to the graveyard beyond.

A torn shirt was a small price to pay for entry to St. Ivan’s Churchyard, the final resting place for over three hundred of St. Ivan’s early parishioners—her mother being among the last of them.

Keeley stepped carefully around the gravesites with their old sod and aging markers, some wood, some granite, and some merely iron plaques embedded in the grass.

Her mother’s grave was two rows in; its headstone, a simple stone marker in the shape of a Celtic cross, stood straight and strong, as had the woman now lying beneath it. The words on the stone were simple.

This is my Mom, who I will love forever. She has gone to be with God.

Keeley swallowed, remembering Mary coming to her, asking her for the words, telling her she was the only one who knew exactly what to say.

She ran her hand slowly over the epitaph. “I still mean it, Mom.” She choked up.
Oh, God, she was going to weep buckets. For Mom, for Mary, for everything.
“And I still miss you,” she whispered.

“Are you here for the morning service?”

The soft voice came from behind her, a few feet away, and she turned, rubbing at her nose, to see a balding man, probably ten or so years older than her own thirty-five, approaching her. He wore jeans and a sweater that appeared too large for his tall, thin frame.

“No,” she said with a not so subtle sniff. “I’m visiting my mother.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and daubed at her nose. “She’s been gone for years, yet she’s here.” She nodded at the grave. “It always gets to me.”

“I’m the same. In a graveyard time stops.” He came up to her and put out his hand. “Glen Barton. Father Barton if you’re of the faith.” He smiled.

His hand was big and warm and their greeting brief. “Keeley Farrell. I live behind the hedge.” She gestured to the high shrubs and cedar trees at the edge of the churchyard.

“Ah, Mary’s … what? Godchild?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s right.” Grandchild was more how she saw it.

“And a nun?”

“Ex-nun, Father.” She looked him in the eye, beat back the vaguely uncomfortable feeling that came with any conversation with people of the cloth. “A few years now.”

“But still a believer, I hope.” He tilted his head.

She met his steady gaze. “You looking to make a new convert, Father—or an old convert new again?”

He laughed and his eyes crinkled as if they were used to it. “No. I’m getting too old for the arduous work of changing minds. From here on I’m counting solely on my charm.”

“Smart,” she said, smiling.

“Lazy,” he replied. “Charm takes much less energy.” He glanced at the headstone where Keeley rested her hand. “Your mother, you say?”

“Yes. She was almost the last person buried here.” She gave the stone one final caress and pulled her hand back. “Twenty-four years ago now. I was eleven when she died.”

“That would have been Father Randall’s time,” Father Barton said. “He went to God a couple of years ago.”

“Yes, I remember him.” She paused, her chest thick and tight again. “He was kind to my mother, to Mary, and me. A good man.” It was Father Randall who’d arranged for her to stay on with Mary. And it was Father Randall who’d assured her that her mother was “happy and healthy again in paradise,” a thought she’d clung to with the passion and heart-wrenching need of a little girl who’d lost her mother, her only family, far too young.

As if sensing her pensive mood, Father Barton said, “I’ll leave you to your privacy now, but perhaps we’ll meet another time.” He raised both brows and smiled down at her. “Sunday Mass, perhaps?”

“Be careful, Father. It wouldn’t be wise to use up all that charm of yours the first time out.”

He laughed again. “If nothing else, you’ll make an interesting neighbor, Keeley Farrell.”

When the priest left, Keeley knelt beside her mother’s grave. It had been too long since she’d been here—far too long—and it was comforting in some strange way to think of her mother resting beside the church she’d loved and attended so faithfully, only a few yards from the only home she and Keeley had ever known together.

She scanned the gravesite. At first, it had been raised, a soft grassy hump in the earth, but time had flattened it, leveled it to the rut of the path winding through the graveyard. She ran a hand over the plot, carefully and with intent, pressing her palm into the damp earth, stopping when the familiar rough lines of the stones touched her palms.

They were still here…

As Mary had promised they’d be. “The grass will grow around them, Keeley, darlin’, and protect them. They’ll be with her forever. Like our love for her.”