Chapter 7. Heirs Apparent
Jacquetta drove her aging Datsun past the Cleese house at a quarter to two, and kept driving. There were no other Datsuns on this street of Mercedes, Audis and BMW’s. She drove back and forth for a few minutes before she nerved herself to park. A short walk in the lightly misting rain would refresh her, it would do her good.
The nuns had been charming when they heard “a friend” had died. “Take as much time as you need,” said Sister Agatha, she who was in charge of “Formation” – a word frequently altered by Honey into “Deformation” or “Reformation.” Jacquetta’s mother, who had never believed in this monastery business: “Don’t you have to be a virgin?” was considerably harder to quiet.
“She was obviously just a crazy old lady,” she told her daughter crisply, “They’ll set that will aside. Don’t waste your time.”
But Jacquetta’s mother had not been in charge of Jacquetta’s “formation” since Jacquetta was twelve years old. Jacquetta did what she wanted to now, and her mother would just have to lump it.
The door to the modernist castle was opened by a girl who could have been Jacquetta’s double. Long dark hair, fresh skin, no makeup, standing about five seven in her stocking feet. But when she smiled, revealing the bad teeth of an impoverished childhood the illusion vanished.
“Welcome,” said the girl. “I’m Rose-Alice, the au pair. The rest of them are in the library.”
The library was a room at the back of the house with more glass than books. A gas fire played merrily. The wealthy – whom Jacquetta considered were always late on principle, had been punctual on this occasion. Probably even early. A out-of-place balding man with unflatteringly long wispy hair that caressed his collar hurried forward. Jacquetta wondered about his crumpled 70’s corduroy suit.
“Miss Strike? I’m Attorney Dettler. We’ve saved you a seat here. Now we can begin.”A maid handed her a glass of sherry which was gratefully accepted. The seat was a modest straight chair at the back, Jacquetta was pleased to see. So, probably not the entire estate. She sat, dropped her bag to the floor and scanned the other guests.
George Cleese she recognized immediately from his campaign ads. Honey called him “a greasy politician” but he looked better in this soft light than in the harsh glare of a TV studio. Almost human, one would say. Something about his sad face and the proud features of the woman beside him told Jacquetta whose house this really was.
She was good looking in a shellacked sort of way, the kind of person you’d be afraid to touch for fear of messing her effect. She had a puff of silver-gilt hair, very red lips, a lot of heavy gold jewelry and wore a mohair sweater and pink ski pants that showed off her large bosom and narrow hips. She returned Jacquetta’s look with no friendliness whatever.
“How do you do,” whispered the man seated to her left, “I’m Ivor Powell, and this is my associate Blade Bogwell.”
Jacquetta was first distracted by the impossibly handsome and blond “associate”. Was anybody actually born with the name “Blade?”. Ivor had the slicked back hair and heavy glasses of a nascent T.S. Eliot. He was who, exactly?
Jacquetta summoned up as best she could the obit she had read but it was mum on Blades and Ivors. Hopeless to attempt to tell these players without a program. She shuffled her sherry glass into her left hand so she could shake the hand he offered her.
“Jacquetta Strike,” she told him.
“I know,” he underlined, “The mysterious new heir. Did you hear they think it was suicide?”
“Suicide!” Jacquetta said so loudly eyes turned to stare. She flushed deeply. “I heard heart attack.”
“Wasn’t,” said Ivor. “They opened her up.”
“Well, suicide is out of the question,” hissed Jacquetta. She was amazed by her own certainty. She’d just met the woman! Was she flattering herself that Beatrix would never have missed that lunch? But thinking back on that decided face, those self-satisfied gestures – suicide? Never!
Ivor was probably one of the grand nephews and he had a brother…wasn’t that right? Chester. Could only be that fellow over there with the obvious toupee. He winked at Jacquetta as if her blush was for him alone. Fancied himself a lady-killer!
“My aunt made a will every other day,” hissed Ivor. “It was a hobby of hers, like mah-jongg.”“All right,” said Dettler, seating himself in the center of the group, “Let’s get down to business.” As he unsnapped his attaché case the others leaned forwards, like cats watching an opening can of tuna.
Alysse Aallyn 