"I could ask you the same question. I thought you lived in Roslyn Heights."

"Well, I do. I'm just here checking on this place for Mitch."

"I thought he died today."

"Oh no. I had no idea." She glanced toward the door.

"Looks to me like you're moving."

"Um, I, ah, just stopped by. I don't know anything about this."

"I found those credit cards you were telling me about."

Mona looked at him dumbly. "I don't know what you're taking about."

"The ones that furnished this house, bought your Jaguar, your clothes, etc."

She shook her head. "You're mistaken. Mitch may have given me a few items. Gifts. I had nothing to do with it. I can prove it. I can prove everything." She was pale, shaky on her feet. She coughed, then whimpered. "I've had a shock," she murmured. "I didn't know poor Mitch was dead."

"My condolences."

"Charlie, can you help me clear this up? I have no one. No one, but you," she repeated. "You're an important man. You can help me if you want to."

"I'll help you," Charlie promised.

Mona's face was white. She tried to arrange her body in an attractive way, but her feet weren't behaving themselves. She made a little misstep with one foot and nearly toppled off her stiletto heels. Then she recovered. "You didn't know Mitch. He was a little naive about things. He bought this house. A shelter. Everything. Gifts." She opened her arms to take it all in. The abundance.

"Absolutely, we'll clear it all up," Charlie said.

Mona fixed him with a devastated expression, then moved into the living room, the dining room. Looking for the movers, he thought. Nothing was missing, and no one was around. "What's going on?" she asked finally.

"We're seizing the house," he told her.

CHAPTER 48

BY TEN O'CLOCK, Cassie was standing at the front door saying good night to the l ast of her condolence callers. Marsha had finished putting the dirty glasses and cups in the dishwasher, the leftover casseroles in the refrigerator, and was now bundling everything made with sugar, flour, and butter in the garbage. The platters of half-eaten quick breads, cookies, pies, and coffee cakes filled nearly a whole garbage bag.

"What are you doing?" Tom cried.

"Mom shouldn't eat any of that," she explained to him. "I know she's depressed, and I don't want her getting fat again."

"Sweetheart, at a time like this, fat is the least of her problems."

"Uh-uh. You don't understand. She needs to be protected from herself."

"Honey, but this is unkind. She should eat if she wants to."

"Oh no. This is tit for tat. You know what she used to do to me? She threw away all my trick-or-treat candy. Every single piece, right in the garbage, year after year. I used to forage for it in the middle of the night. Believe me, I'm only thinking of her best interests."

"Then you should stay here with her tonight." Tom leaned against the counter, looking grave.

"Absolutely. She's lost without me. Look what happened last night. I'll never forgive myself. Sweetheart, why don't you go home. I'll call you in a little while." She turned to give him a hug.

"I'll stay here with you, if you want me to," he murmured, squeezing her bottom. "Don't want you foraging, either."

She laughed. "I don't do that anymore."

"Are you going to be that kind of mother? Hiding the sweets?"

"No, it doesn't work at that age."

"I think I'll stay."

"No, no. You'd hate it. Two gloomy girls. And my bed is so tiny." She nuzzled his neck.

"I'd be happy in a closet with you," he whispered.

Cassie came into the kitchen yawning, and the couple pulled apart quickly. "I'm beat," she said, ignoring the clinch.

"Where's Teddy?" Marsha asked, repairing her hair.

"He took Edith home." Cassie glanced around the kitchen. "You did it all," she said, surprised.

"Of course." Marsha closed the garbage bag quickly and tied the top to hide the goodies inside. "Is he coming back?"

Cassie shook her head. "I told him to go home and get some sleep. Is the coffee gone?"

"No more coffee for you. What about the monster? Honey, would you take this outside?" Marsha handed Tom the garbage bag and pointed the way. He went out the back door with it.

Cassie raised her eyebrows at the obedience. "Which monster?"

"The Lorraine monster."

Cassie shook her head. "Let's not go into it now, Marsha. Teddy says she's history. I'd really like a cup of coffee." She opened a pantry door, looking for the bag of beans.

"No, Mom! You need your rest." Marsha closed the door and kept on about Lorraine. "Do you believe him?"

"Who?" Cassie rolled her eyes heavenward on the coffee issue. They were so resistant to letting her make her own choices. Okay, she'd wait until Marsha and Tom were gone, then she'd drink whatever she wanted. Tom came back into the house.

"You know I'm talking about Teddy! He's gotten us into all this trouble. Mom, I'm just so-"

"Shhh, Marsha, not now." Cassie indicated Tom with her head.

"Oh, Tom knows everything."

Tom frowned at Marsha and chose this moment to interject. "Mrs. Sales, I know Dr. Cohen and his wife were here earlier. Did he take care of all your needs?"

"I beg your pardon?" Cassie glared at him. It distressed her that Marsha told him everything. Now she had to worry about gold diggers, too. And this particular question of Tom's seemed to imply he knew that Mark was a creepy womanizer who'd exploit anyone. Mark had patted her ass four times, each time she'd come his way with the tray of coffee and dessert for the throng of mourners who'd probably come for the fabulous grape and foie gras she hadn't served. Almost a billion-dollar company, she'd had no idea.

"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.