CHAPTER 27

MONA WAS IN MARK COHEN'S OFFICE at eight Tuesday morning. She was wearing a very conservative lightweight black gabardine pantsuit, a purple turtleneck cashmere sweater that matched her purple alligator bag, and very high-heeled purple alligator shoes. She had not slept well in Le Refuge. Anxiety about Mitch's condition had roiled the acid in her stomach and the suspicions in her head. He had been perfectly well when he'd left her in Paris, and now all he could do was wink.

During the night she went over every single one of her discussions with Mitch on the subject of marriage, divorce, and beneficiaries. Since he'd been so ardent about protecting the future of his precious children, the talks had always centered around protecting them, not her. Over a period of years, however, she'd managed to persuade him that she was more likely to take good care of Marsha and Teddy (both of whom she truly did adore) than Cassie, who had no idea about money. She'd assured him that even after they married, the children would still get everything in the end. She had no parents, no sibling, no family but his; after all, who else could it go to? What Mitch had done was throw in a condition that put her in jeopardy now. The condition was that if Mona had already passed on at the time of his death, the assets would go directly to his children. Mona knew that Teddy would never in a million years harm her, but Marsha was another story. Would Marsha and Cassie kill her? Would they kill her to cut her out of Mitch's will? she asked herself. Yes, they would.

During the long night Mona had kept her expensive new drapes open. She couldn't bear being shut in at the best of times, but now she was afraid of being murdered in her sleep. The house was equipped with two sets of lights. Some came on at dusk and went off at eleven, like the runway lights along the driveway and the spotlights in the trees. Others were strategically placed in the eaves of the vast roof and were equipped with motion detectors that flashed on a battery of powerful sodium lamps every time a cat or squirrel ran across their field of vision. The lights were activated four times.

Each time darkest night had become day in her bedroom, Mona sat up in a panic, thinking that Cassie's hit man had come to kill her. She was sorry she'd misplaced the pistol Mitch had bought her in Florida a few years ago. She was sorry that she'd left the telltale Jaguar out in the driveway. The property's five-car garage was about an acre away, down a hill. Same damn thing as Roslyn. She'd moved up in the world and still didn't have an attached garage.

Dr. Cohen's office in Manhasset was near the hospital in the kind of modern four-story medical building with an elevator that spoke for the blind. "You have pressed two. Elevator doors close," it told Mona when she got in and pushed the button.

"You have arrived on the second floor. On this floor are the suites of Drs. Cohen, Garfeld, Saperstein, and Gelfman. Have a good visit," it recited.

Mona's blood pressure was way up. She entered the doctor's office wheezing badly. "Marta, I have to see him right away," she cried.

Marta was the sort of invisible woman well past middle age that Mona and Cassie alike had a total horror of becoming. She was plump and had pale, crepey skin that she overblushed and overpowdered. Her boyish haircut was steely gray. She was all business; and no matter how nice Mona was to her, Mona knew this difficult, jealous old woman was going to refuse to like her.

"Mona, you should have called first. He's fully booked all day. I know you're upset about Mr. Sales, but-" she started in on her now.

"I'm not just upset, Marta, I'm ill. I had a very bad night. I have crushing chest pains, and my left arm is numb. I guess I'm having a heart attack."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, why didn't you call?"

"Some people believe consideration comes first, even with doctors. I didn't want to worry him. Or you." Mona checked the waiting room. Two half-blind old people (clearly the ones for whom the elevator had been given that wonderful upbeat voice) sat next to their walkers. Other than that, the place looked pretty empty to her. She coughed up a mouthful of phlegm. "And my asthma is kicking up, I need a shot of Adrenalin."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Come in here right away." Marta took Mona into an examining room and left her there.

Mona weighed herself just for the hell of it. In spite of Paris, she'd lost a pound. Gratified, she quickly climbed up on the table and crossed her legs. In less than a minute Mark raced in with her chart under his arm, looking appropriately concerned.

"Mona. What's this about chest pains?"

Mona was wheezing terribly. "This is so terrible about Mitch." She took his hand for support.

"Take your time." He went to the sink and filled a tiny cup with water.

"I'm just so sorry to bother you, Mark. I know how busy you are and how much you have on your mind."

"This is what I'm here for, Mona. I called you last night, but you didn't pick up." He handed her the cup.

She took a moment to sip from it. "Well, I couldn't. Cassie followed me home! Mark, I was so terrified. She threatened my life. I had to leave and check into a hotel."

"What?"

Mona burst into tears. "What happened to Mitch?"

"He had a stroke." Mark gave her a handful of tissues and took her pulse. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he indicated that she take off her black jacket so he could listen to her heart.

"How could he have a stroke? He was fine Friday." She took off her jacket, hopeful that this would lead to a hug. He must have pushed his little button, because just at the moment he flicked his fingers at the eyelet blouse, the nurse came in. Off came the blouse. He didn't even look at the bra or cleavage as he used his stethoscope to listen to her chest and back.

"Have you been using your inhaler?"

"Of course."

"How often?"

"Four or five times a day. It isn't working."

"Have you been taking the Aminophyllin?"

"It makes me nauseated. Mark, how could he have a stroke? Everything was going so well."

"Sometimes the stress of a divorce can do it." He let the stethoscope drop on his chest. "Your asthma needs attention, Mona. That's probably why you're having chest pains. But we'll do an EKG and Crow enzymes. And of course you need new pulmonary tests. I want to do it while you're in crisis."

Mona grabbed his hand again. "Did he tell you we are getting married?" The nurse, Irene, looked on from the door, placid as a cow.

Mark went on unfazed. "And he was ignoring his high blood pressure."

"What high blood pressure?" Mona cried.

"He called me from Paris a week ago. He had headaches, felt dizzy. I warned him that he was playing with fire and told him to come right home. He waited until Friday. That's not good."

Mona gasped. Her fiancé was sick? This was news to her.

He turned to Irene and ticked off the procedures Mona was getting, including a shot of Adrenalin. As soon as she was gone, he turned to leave. Mona was crushed. After all the gifts she'd given his silly wife, the dinners they'd had together. The patients she'd referred him! Getting this kind of short shrift was unconscionable.

"Mark, wait! I'm very concerned about Mitch. I need to discuss this with you."

He stood with his hand on the doorknob, his face as neutral as a blancmange.

"What's his prognosis?" she asked softly, softening toward him immediately, her breathing now deep and even. She was falling apart. She needed a hug, any idiot could see that.

He shook his head. "Wait and see," he murmured.

"Mark, I'd like you to consider moving him."

His expression didn't change. "He's on life support, Mona. He can't be moved."

"But I'm afraid for his life." Mona was so upset at the cold reception she was getting, she almost forgot to cough.