"His private life? Come off it." Cassie laughed. "I thought I was his private life."
"You know what I mean." Uncomfortable again.
"No, I don't. He was being audited, did you know that?" Cassie went down the list of things she hadn't known.
"Yes. He talked about that. I suspect that may have contributed to this little event. The stress of having to account for one's life, well…" He spread his arms out. "No one likes having to explain. I'm sorry, Cassie."
"Thanks." She walked quickly through the glass corridor. Mark followed her, trying to catch up without skipping.
"A horrible man came over to assess the house this morning. He was sneaking around, so Edith called the police."
"Really? Who was it?"
"The IRS. It was very humiliating. Why are they doing this?"
"It's rough. Anything I can do to help?" He skipped even with her and tried to take her hand again.
"We have to stop this," she muttered, meaning his attentions.
"You can ask your accountant. Tax audits are not my department."
He didn't get it. "You don't know this woman's name?" she tried again. "I won't be mad if you tell me. It's not your fault."
"Ah, well, I don't know it." He pursed his lips, looking solid and doctorly.
"Why don't I believe you?" She heaved some oxygen into those lungs. Okay, she had the lawyer to talk to, the accountant. She'd find the girlfriend, and maybe murder her for the simple pleasure of it. She had the IRS audit to deal with. Who could she trust? No one. She found Aunt Edith with Mitch, still cajoling him to squeeze her fingers.
CHAPTER 17
CASSIE DROVE HOME SLOWLY, worrying in equal amounts about long-term care, how mu ch it cost, and whether she should come right out and tell Mark not to put his hands all over her. When they were just a few blocks from home, Edith started screaming at her.
"Honey, turn here."
She always turned here. "Here" was the gorgeous Americana, where the North Shore rich went to buy their haute labels. Armani, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Chanel. Hermès. It was just like Beverly Hills or Palm Beach, a mall where shops had awnings, and security guards watched the cars. The Americana was practically her home. The community where Cassie lived was right behind it, hidden by trees. Just driving past it now made her queasy. This was where Mitch's girlfriend did her damage.
"No, don't go straight. Turn left," Edith demanded.
"No, I'm not going shopping now, Aunt Edith. I have to call Mitch's lawyer," Cassie told her.
"I said stop! Can't you hear me?" Aunt Edith didn't like being thwarted.
Her screech was so insistent that Cassie jammed on the brakes when ordinarily she would have kept right on going through the yellow light. The car halted with a jerk, throwing both women forward into their seat belts. There went Cassie's new face.
"What's the matter with you?" Cassie cried, terrified that the staples in the back of her scalp had popped open and blood would soon start pouring out into her hair, down her neck.
"I want to get you a hat," Edith said, all sweetness now. "What's wrong with that?"
"You scared me to death, Edith."
"Well, you need a hat, Cassie, and I'm going to get you one. Come on, turn in. Something soft, you know, with a big brim and maybe a veil. You can't go out looking like that, Cassie, it's upsetting."
"Edith, I don't want a hat."
"You're no Jackie Kennedy, honey. You look dumpy in that scarf."
Cassie glanced at her very heavy aunt bulging in the white jogging suit. Look who was talking about dumpy. "I don't need criticism right now." Cassie tried to ease the hysteria out of her voice. Next to her two children and her sister, Julie, who may or may not have stolen a number of her mother's most valuable possessions, Aunt Edith was about her only living relative.
"Don't get testy with me, young lady. It's not my fault you lost weight and look dumpy in those clothes. You should get a few new things. And a hat. Anybody with a brain would do that."
"I don't need a single thing." Cassie thought her aunt had gone right around the bend talking about shopping while Mitch was in the hospital.
"You always say that. Now, come on, consider your own needs for a change. He isn't getting out of that bed any quicker if you let yourself go."
This was the second time in an hour that someone had made that comment. What made them think she wanted him out of bed? The light turned green. Cassie accelerated, and the Americana swept by them. "Do you think I let myself go?" She couldn't help asking. It was the last thing she'd meant to do. She hadn't meant to let herself go.
"Let's not get too introspective. Let's just say, you have some problems in this area."
"Edith, did you ever suspect that Mitch was fooling around?" Cassie broached the subject quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. Naturally, she regretted it immediately.
"Oh, honey. I didn't suspect. I knew he was. Didn't you?"
"You knew?" Cassie coughed on her surprise. Was she the only one who didn't know?
"Well, sure, honey. Why do you ask?"
"A terrible thing happened on Friday. Uhuh-uhuh." Cassie tried to clear her throat. "After my eye stitches were removed, Marsha brought me this package all wrapped up in pink tissue paper. I thought it was from her to me, so I opened it. Silk pajamas," she said grimly.
"Nice," Edith said approvingly.
"They weren't just nice, they were gorgeous and very expensive. The price tag was still on them. They cost over a thousand dollars."
"My, my. That Marsha is a nice girl."
"I put them on, and that's when Mitch came home. You know his temper. When he saw those pajamas on me, he had his stroke."
"Honey, are you telling me those pj's caused Mitch's stroke?"
Cassie took a deep breath. "Not the pj's, Aunt Edith, me wearing them. They weren't for me, see?" There, the words were out. Those pajamas had not been for her. She'd known it from the minute she'd seen that price tag.
"How do you know?"
"He had a stroke, didn't he? The whole thing was going to come out. There was no way he could explain it. The man had a stroke to avoid me. Just like him." Another block east and Cassie made her right turn into the forty-year-old development, where she and Mitch had lived their whole married life. In front of her neat colonial the mangled post and mailbox were still on the ground. They seemed to symbolize her ruined life.
"That's speculation, not evidence," Edith dismissed her.
"What are you, a lawyer all of a sudden? You said the man was a womanizer. What's your evidence?"
"Oh, you get an instinct about people," Edith said, suddenly as vague as the garden under fog. "You should get someone over to fix that post. It's too close to the street. I've told you that a thousand times."