"Do you need anything, you know, to sleep?" Tom asked, trying to clarify.
Cassie didn't think she'd ever sleep again. The serious young man was holding Marsha's hand in a decidedly possessive way, and she didn't know whether to be happy for her daughter or not. He looked too austere for Marsha. On the other hand, he had put out the garbage when asked, and he certainly seemed remorseful about the way things had turned out. Mark had been pretty miserable, too, even though he'd been game for action. He'd whispered in Cassie's ear the little fact that Mitch had promised the hospital a million dollars a year for the next ten years, and wanted to know if she was going to honor that pledge.
Cassie had almost laughed in his face. Mark had released the patient, and he'd died instantly. Parker Higgins had been so upset about the way the situation had been handled that he'd visited the liquor cabinet enough times to require three people to carry him to his car and his wife to drive him home. He had good reason to be concerned. He'd lied about everything.
"No, I don't need a thing. Good night, I'm fine." Cassie tried to shoo Marsha down the hall to the living room and out the front door.
"No, Mom. I'm staying, really. Tom will stay, too, won't you Tom?"
"Of course," Tom said staunchly.
Cassie didn't want Tom to stay. She didn't want either of them. She'd been good all day. No stimulants or tranquilizers. The fortified wines that were so favored by the English and could last virtually forever, along with Mitch's finest liqueurs, were in the bar. Literally hundreds of dollars a bottle. Cassie knew that several bottles of 1908 Cossart Baul Madeira were in there, and two bottles of 1970 Taylor Fladgate Porto, in addition to a lot of other really costly stuff.
The bar had been open to all who knew where to find it and couldn't resist helping themselves. But Cassie hadn't wanted to break out any of the famous cases of wine, mostly the famous reds, the Rhones, Burgundies, Bordeaux from France, the Chianti Classico Riservas from Italy; some famous Spaniards, among them Gran Coronas Black Label and Bodegas Montecillo; the French Champagnes, more than two dozen cases of those, mostly '90 and ' 93. A fine selection of whites and dessert wines, Rieslings, and Zinfindels Cassie knew next to nothing about. The ancient Portos and Madeiras. And, just for sport, the garagists, the new boutiquers, start-ups from old wine families, children taking a few acres of their own and making overblown wines in the California style in very small quantities in Médoc, in Graves on the right bank of the Garonne River, with names like La Mondotte, La Gomerie, Gracia, Grand Murailles. And other newcomers from France, Italy, Spain, Chile, and Argentina. Mitch always had to have the latest, most prestigious thing, wines too expensive for most people to even think of drinking.
All those beauties were in the cellar, from about $300 a bottle to $500, right up to $6,500 a bottle. She didn't serve them because she wasn't really sure to whom those bottles belonged or what she should do with them. But she also resented the fact that everybody who'd come to mourn Mitch had asked which wines she was going to serve for the occasion. It was something he would have cared about, planned meticulously.
Cassie wouldn't consider breaking them out. There had always been such hope for her in that cellar, the promise of many joyous occasions in those bottles down there. Mitch had purchased the magnums of 1990 pink Cristal Champagne at about $400 a bottle in anticipation of Marsha's wedding. They were worth a lot more now. She knew the very best in the cellar were the two cases of 1945 Chateau Petrus Pomerol, the legendary vintage of Bordeaux that marked the year of Mitch's birth and the first production of wine following World War II. He'd lectured her the day he'd acquired it how the '45 Petrus had been blessed with some formidable tannins that had encouraged a particularly fine evolution of flavors. As advertised, the Bordeaux had aged magnificently, tasted of summer fruit, licorice, smoke, and truffles. She'd had some last night. Cassie also knew that the wine would be drinkable only for the next few years. Those aged Bordeaux had almost a Port-like richness that, properly cellared, could be kept as long as sixty years. Mitch had always claimed he was saving this one for his sixtieth birthday party. Unfortunately for him, his number came up short.
In any case, Cassie had carried off her first day of callers cold turkey. No vino. But now she thought maybe she'd have a little sip of something. She gave her daughter a reassuring hug and a little push to get her going.
"Marsha, you've done so much already. I'm fine, really." She wanted to open another one of those off-the-wall Pomerols, or maybe a good heavy Côtes du Rhône. She loved the reds, the deepest, plummiest, earthiest ones, made with the top-quality grapes, Grenache, Mourvedre, Syrah, Cinsault, to be drunk with foods like the ripest cheese, foie gras, truffle-stuffed chicken or squab, venison with wild mushrooms, beef ribs and rice. Roast quail.
"No, Mom. I left you last night," Marsha said. "I can't leave you again. I can't. It would be-"
"Honey, I'm so tired."
"But what if you feel bad later?" Marsha argued.
Cassie clicked her tongue. "Sweetheart, do you know how many nights I've been alone in the last, say, ten years?" And never had a sip, not a slice of wild boar, very little smoked salmon. It was terrible to think about it.
"I know, but this is different."
"Uh-uh. Tom, honey, you're a doctor. Tell my baby I know what's right for me. Take her home. I think she needs comfort right now more than I do."
"Yes, ma'am." The man Cassie thought was a prig almost saluted, and Cassie was moved to give him a kiss. Maybe he'd be all right, after all.
She got them out the front door with many protestations of love on Marsha's part. She'd had quite a bit to drink, but Cassie appreciated it, anyway. Then suddenly they were gone. She appreciated that even more. She closed and leaned against the door with a sigh. Ha. Now the precious grape. Sex would have been first on her list, but one had to work with what one had. Almost guiltily, she headed around the house to lock all the doors and windows. She felt as if she were going to perform some secret self-abusing sex act. She was going to open the bottles and savor the wine alone. Get dead drunk a second night in a row.
In the kitchen, however, something outside caught her attention. She stopped short and hit the light switch, holding her breath until she saw what it was. From the shadows, she watched the other monster climb out of a deck chair and head for the garbage. The words "unstoppable," "unflagging," "indefatigable" came to mind. She switched on the spotlight that had been rigged to discourage the scavenging raccoons. It exposed Charlie Schwab's hunkered form. He jumped sheepishly to his feet.
"Cassie, you scared me to death."
"Jesus, Charlie, you don't have to eat leftovers. If you're so hungry, why didn't you come in when I was serving?" she asked.
"No, no. This is not what it looks like."
"Yes, it is," she said. Cool, Cassie had gotten very cool in her responses. "What's in there, anyway? Let's see what you're looking for. All the missing millions?"
Cassie crossed the patio to the corner of the garage, where the garbage cans were neatly housed in a wooden cabinet. "Oh my God, baked goods!" Cassie stared at the bag of food, stunned by Marsha's treachery. And wastefulness! Then she opened the other cans one by one to see if anything else had gotten there without her knowledge. Oh yes, two cans full of empty soft drink, single malts, port, oh yes, the Madeira, vodka, and Perrier bottles; one and a half cans containing Mitch's National Geographic and Gourmet collections going back twenty-five years. Four old computers, broken printers, and other worn-out gadgets that Mitch had intended to save forever.