“Well, Roscoe?”
“You were right, ma'am. I spotted him hanging around a Motel 6. Then a 21-year-old coed named Ericka pulled in a little while later and they had a . . . rendezvous.”
It was at this moment Catherine knew that she would die. Sighing, she let her head sink back into the pillows and closed her eyes. Then, as if summoning up her last bit of strength, she sat back up.
“Did you get some photos?”
“I have them right here, ma'am.”
Holding up a manila envelope, he pulled out several 8x10s showing the couple meeting and then entering a motel room.
“Registered under the name Nick Jordan.”
“Certainly sounds a bit more masculine than Tim Palmer. I wonder if she knows his real name?”
Roscoe took a breath and opened his mouth. She quickly waved her hand.
“Oh, never mind. That's just the idle curiosity of the estranged wife. Thank you, Roscoe. Continue to watch him, will you?”
“Of course, ma'am.” Roscoe turned and walked toward the door. He paused in the doorway as if to say some parting word of comfort, but then turned and slowly closed the solid oak door.
Catherine relaxed on the pillows again and rested awhile. Three weeks ago the doctors had told her the chemo wasn't working, but she hadn't resigned herself to die. Thatchers—which she still was, not taking on Tim's name even by hyphenation—always won out, and this was simply another obstacle to be overcome—that would be overcome. But, now she felt weak, and that tenacious spirit had drifted off as soon as she saw the pictures. A fatigued smile slightly curved her mouth. There was a slight moral victory in all this. Yes, she was beaten all right, but not by cancer . . . not by cancer but by that blue collar Romeo, that interloper of high society. Her father had warned her, and, of course, she hadn't listened. She never did.
At least her father wasn't here to have his triumph, to gloat over her situation, although she imagined him looking down on her now—or, more likely, looking up—with that condescending grin. Well, he might have his last laugh, but she certainly would also have hers.
***************
“This is, to say the least, quite unusual.”
“Yes, and that is why you're here.”
Richard shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
“There are certainly legal aspects you must consider.”
“That's what I pay you to do,” Catherine sighed. “Just get it done and get it done quickly.”
“But, not even a memorial service?”
“For whom to attend? My druggy son—oh, that's right, he's in juvie. My free-spirited daughter? Wait, she won't even come to see me on my deathbed. My dear, cheating husband?” She paused. “Richard, just do it.”
“As you wish, Cate. The client is always right.”
“Client or not, I am always right . . . except for that low-life academic excuse I have for a husband.” She grimaced. “Remember, he is to get them as soon as they are ready. Use some other firm to notify him about them and have them say it's from some distant relative or something. Above all else, make it plausible. I'm counting on you to ensure this happens.”
*******************
“What do you mean she's already been cremated? I just got a call from her doctor 30 minutes ago.”
“Pity you weren't at her bedside,” said Richard tonelessly. “She had some charming things to say about you.”
“I'll just bet she did. But, are you serious? She's already cremated? She was my wife after all.”
“You know how she liked to be prompt and organized, no unnecessary sentimentalities. And as to your input, you do remember what you agreed to in the prenuptial?'
Tim remembered all right; however, at the time he had been so in love he hadn't seen how it could become a problem. She alone had the say over her funeral proceedings, and, as for her assets, well, they went into a trust fund set up for a variety of charitable organizations. Oh, and he was allowed a $20,000 annual stipend. She was worth $20 million, and he got $20,000 a year . . . and the house in Everett, Washington. Well, it could have been worse, although he had hoped it would be much better. He had married her for love, primarily, hoping to set aside the prenups when it was apparent how much he loved her, but when he found that she had no intention of having all their assets in common, his affection cooled and went south, quite literally, South Seattle Community College, where he worked as an adjunct history instructor. Finding the coeds much freer in their affections, especially when grades were involved, he spent more time at work. Overall, he had hidden it from Catherine fairly well; although they weren't very affectionate any more, she seemed too busy to really notice, or care. Then, when Catherine got cancer, little reason for affection remained. Just releasing dead weight, he had thought.
“So, when do I get my first installment?”
Richard's eyes narrowed.
“It will take at least three months to get all her affairs squared away. By then it will be February. Catherine set up the trust so that you would receive your stipend on January 1 every year, so you won't see any money for well over a year.”
“#$%*! You have got to be kidding me. Even in her death she screwed me over.”
“She did want you to have this, though.”
Richard handed Tim a small square package. Tim ripped it open and pulled out a cd.
“The Best of the Police? Well, I guess it's at least something, and I always did like them.”
**************
The main source of light in the restaurant, a large chandelier in the foyer, cast shards of light and shadow in a sharp pattern across the ceiling, while the pillar candles at the tables emitted a glow muffled by wisps of smoke. Wandering ivy rested on the wall partitions and then fell down over the many potted plants throughout the dining room. It looked much like a verdant field covered by a slight morning fog. Enjoying the pleasant melody of the Andante of Beethoven's 6th Symphony, Tim breathed deeply the mixed scent of the roses on the table mixed with a hint of peppermint, which he imagined must be growing in the planters on the partitions. Life was beginning to turn for him.
The various people who moved in and out of the foyer appeared as shadowy forms outlined by the bright light of the chandelier, yet Tim recognized Ericka immediately as she stepped into the dining room. Beethoven's peasants danced merrily. As he rose, she swanked over to him and took a seat.
“So nice to see you, Ericka.”
“You too, Tim. Took her long enough to go.”
Tim coughed. “It has been freeing. I can't believe what a weight she was on me.”
“Yes, it's positively invigorating.”
“Would you like some champagne to celebrate with?”
“That'd be great.”
As Tim reached for the bottle, the dripping from Beethoven's Allegro began. Tim filled the glasses, then raised his in a toast.
“To us.”
“Yes, to us.” Ericka drank deeply and swallowed. “Well, darling, what is the date of our happy event?”
Tim choked on his champagne and coughed.
“What would you think of eloping?” he muttered.
“Eloping? Are you crazy! You're sitting flush with all that money and you talk of eloping?”
“Well, I'm not really all that flush. Things have gotten a bit more complicated than I expected, and I won't be seeing any of that money for about a year. We could do an extravagant ceremony or get an expensive wedding set, but not both. Why don't we just have a nice wedding and I'll get the rings next year.”
“What? Listen, buddy, this is not what I signed up for. I'm not getting married without the proper hardware, and I'm not running off to Reno regardless. This has got to be an event. You better find out a way to make this happen or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or I may just hook up with that med student from UW.”
“All right, all right. I'll just need a little time.”
“Well, that's exactly what you don't have. You have just two weeks to get things arranged. Call me by then . . . or don't call at all.”
Ericka quickly left.
Peals of thunder burst from Beethoven's storm.
***************
“How was the flight from Chicago, John?”
“Wonderfully boring, but you've really gotten my interest up with this scenario. It seems simple enough. This wedding set was left to him by his distant aunt in Illinois. He actually never met her, but he is her last remaining relative, so it has fallen to him. Their value is estimated at $15,000. What a lucky guy!”
“Well, I don't envy him and certainly wouldn't want this gift.”
“Why's that? There must be about 2 carats between the two rings.”
“Because they're not real diamonds. They're zirconium.”
“Could've fooled me. They certainly look like the real thing.”
“And, they are . . . unique . . . in a quite unusual way. There is a new process now by which one can make a diamond out of human ashes.”
“You don't mean . . .”
“Yes, actual human ashes compressed into a diamond so that your loved one can always be with you.”
John shuddered.
“And whose ashes are these?”
“One Catherine Thatcher, late wife of your client. She paid for all the arrangements including your stipend.”
“And so she's giving him her blessing to remarry?”
“They weren't on the best of terms when she passed, so I wouldn't exactly call this a blessing.”
************
Tim stared down at the box in disbelief.
“I can't believe this! It couldn't have happened at a better time.”
“Well, congratulations are in order then,” said John.
“There was absolutely no way I could have raised the funds for these and the wedding. You say it was a distant aunt of mine?”
“Yes, Elenore Sappleton. She lived most of her life back in Illinois. I have spent the last two months tracking down every possible relative of hers, and you're the first one I found that was still breathing. If you would just sign these papers, I'll be going.”
“Certainly.” Tim scribbled out his signature. “Thank you very much.”
“No, thank you. I was getting tired of looking.”
****************
“Ericka, are you up for a night on the town?” Tim braced his cell phone with his shoulder while pocketing his small velvet treasure box in his coat.
“You really got it done? Just the way I wanted?”
“Well, I'll let you be the judge of that, but I don't think you'll be disappointed.”
“In that case, I'm up for anything.”
“I'll be by your place in about 15 minutes.” Which should give me just enough time to pick up some flowers. “Make sure you're looking good.”
“I'll be ready.”
Tim, jumped in his car and started it up. He patted his pocket again, just to be sure, and was surprised to feel a hard squarish object, Catie's parting gift. He been in that habit of referring to her as Catie, lately; how she had hated it. Then a wave of reminiscence tinged with spite washed over him. He felt as if he were back in high school going to prom, and this called for some good 80s music. Wouldn't it just twist her all up to know what he was up to while listening to her cd?
“Thanks for the tunes, Catie.”
He put the cd in the player and turned it up, losing himself in the past. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the box. Then, he took out his ring and gazed at it a moment, rubbing the smooth indentation on his ring finger his previous band had left.
“Well, Catie, guess it's off with the old and on with the new.”
He slipped the ring on his finger, a perfect fit. He then stuffed the box back into his pocket.
The music blared. I'll be wrapped around your finger
“Free at last,” he thought.