J is for Judgment (Kinsey Millhone 10)

I stared at her, saying nothing. Like many people, she was capable of delivering informational asides while in the midst of a highly charged emotional conversation. I hardly knew where to take the matter next. Wait until she figured out that California Fidelity was going to reclaim the insurance money if Wendell showed up in the flesh.

I shouldn’t even have allowed the thought to enter my head, because the minute it occurred to me she seemed to read my mind.

“Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. I just collected half a million bucks. I hope the insurance company doesn’t think I’m going to give the money back.”

“You’d have to talk to them about that. Generally, they don’t pay death benefits if a guy’s not really dead. They’re kind of cranky that way.”

“Now just a goddamn minute. If he’s alive—which I’m not buying for a minute—but if it turned out he was, it’s hardly my responsibility.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t theirs.”

“I’ve waited years for that money. I’d be dead broke without it. You don’t understand the kind of struggle I’ve been through. I’ve had two boys to raise with no help from anyone.”

“You’d probably be smart to talk to an attorney,” I said.

“An attorney? What for? I didn’t do anything. I’ve suffered enough because of Wendell goddamn Jaffe, and if you think for one minute I’m giving the money back, you’re crazy. You want to collect, you’ll have to get it from him.”

“Mrs. Jaffe, I don’t make policy decisions for California Fidelity. All I do is investigate and file reports. I have no control over what they do—”

“I didn’t cheat” she cut in.

“No one’s accusing you of cheating.”

She cupped a hand around her ear. “Yet,” she said. “Don’t I hear a big fat ‘yet’ at the end of that sentence?”

“What you hear me saying is take it up with them. I’m only here because I thought you should be aware of what’s going on. If Wendell tries to get in touch …”

“Jesus! Would you stop this? What earthly reason would he have to get in touch with me?”

“Because he probably read about Brian’s escapades in all the Mexican papers.”

That shut her up momentarily. She stared at me with the panicky blank look of a woman with a train bearing down the track at her and a car that won’t start. Her voice dropped. “I can’t deal with this. I’m sorry, but this is all nonsense as far as I’m concerned. I’ll have to ask you to leave.” She rose to her feet, and I rose at the same time.

“Hey, Mom?”

Dana jumped.

Her oldest son, Michael, was coming down the stairs. He caught sight of us and paused. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were busy down here.” He was lanky and slim, with a dark mop of silky hair much in need of a cut. His face was narrow, nearly pretty, with large dark eyes and long lashes. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt emblazoned with a fake college decal, and high-top tennis shoes.

Dana flashed a bright smile at him to disguise her distress. “We’re just finishing. What is it, baby? Did you guys want something to eat?”

“I thought I’d make a run. Juliet’s out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. I just wondered if you needed anything.”

“Actually, you might pick up some milk for breakfast. We’re almost out,” she replied. “Get a half gallon of low-fat and a quart of orange juice, if you would. There’s some money on the kitchen table.”

“I got some,” he said.

“You keep that, honey. I’ll get it.” She moved off toward the kitchen.

Michael continued to the bottom of the steps and snagged his jacket from the newel post where it was draped. He nodded at me shyly, perhaps mistaking me for one of his mother’s bridal clients. Despite the fact that I’d been married twice, I’ve never had a formal wedding. The closest I’d ever come was a bride of Frankenstein outfit one Halloween when I was in the second grade. I had fangs and fake blood, and my aunt drew clumsy black stitches up and down my face. My bridal veil was affixed to my head with numerous bobby pins, most of which I’d lost by the time the evening came to an end. The dress itself was a cut-down version of a ballerina costume …some kind of Swan Lake number with an ankle-length skirt. My aunt had added sparkles, making squiggles with a tube of Elmer’s glue that she sprinkled with dime-store glitter. I’d never felt so glamorous. I remember looking at myself solemnly in the mirror that night in a halo of netting, thinking it was probably the most beautiful dress I would ever own. Sure enough, I’ve never had anything quite like it since, though, in truth, it’s not the dress so much as the feeling I miss.