That would explain it, then.”
Tony walked to his car and felt better. At least he’d dragged some emotion out of her on behalf of his friend. He got behind the wheel of his expensive sports car and revved it out of the funeral home parking lot, his mind already on his appointment with the bank.
Millie Evans sat at the wheel of her little black VW Beetle and watched Tony drive away, out of her life. She was still crying. His coldness, his fury, had hurt her. She’d had to deal with John’s histrionics and threats for two years, watching her life and career go down the drain while he told lies about her to anyone gullible enough to listen. He’d persecuted her, tormented her, made a hell of her daily life. Now he was dead, and Tony wanted to make her pay for driving his poor, helpless friend to suicide.
She wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. Poor friend, the devil! Perhaps if he and Frank had realized that John was mentally ill years ago, they might have made him get help. He might have straightened out his life and gone on.
Millie was secretly relieved that John hadn’t carried out his last, furious threat to end her life. He’d told her that she wouldn’t get away with rejecting him. He had friends, he told her, who wouldn’t hesitate to kill her for the right amount of money. He had savings, he’d raged; he’d use it all. He’d make sure she didn’t live to gloat about pushing him out of her life!
She’d worried about that threat. The news was full of people who’d gone off the deep end and killed others they blamed for their problems, before killing themselves. It was, sadly, a fact of modern life. But she’d never dreamed that she—plain, prim little Millie Evans—would ever have something like that happen to her. Most people never even noticed her.
She’d wanted to be noticed by Tony. She’d loved him forever, it seemed. While his foster mother was alive, she’d coaxed the older woman into talking about her adoptive son. Tony had come a long way from North Carolina. He and his sister, both Cherokee, had lived with their mother and her abusive husband—but not their biological father—in Atlanta just briefly, but the man drank to excess and was brutal to the children. Tony and his sister went into foster homes in Georgia. After his sister, also in foster care, died, Tony’s nurturing foster mother moved him to San Antonio, where she had family, to get him away from the grief. She worked as an archivist at the public library in San Antonio, where Tony was a frequent patron; and where Millie worked after school and between classes while she went through college.
Millie had loved hearing stories of Tony as a boy, as a teenager, as a soldier. Sometimes his foster mother would bring letters to the library and show them to Millie, because they were like living history. Tony had a gift for putting episodes in his life down on paper. He made the countries where he was stationed come alive, and not only for his parent.
Millie had hoped that Tony might spend some time at the library when he came home on leave. But there were always pretty girls to take on dates. Frank Mariott worked as a bouncer in a nightclub and he knew cocktail waitresses and showgirls. He introduced them to Tony, who always had a night free for fun.
A library, Millie supposed, wasn’t a good place to pick up girls. She looked in her rearview mirror and laughed. She saw a plain, sad-faced woman there, with no hopes of ever attracting a man who’d want to treasure her for the rest of her life. It was a good thing, she told herself, that she’d stockpiled so many romance novels to keep her nights occupied. If she couldn’t experience love, at least she could read about it.
She wiped her eyes, closed up her purse and drove herself back to work. She’d forced herself to go and see John, out of guilt and shame. All she’d accomplished was to find a new enemy and hear more insults about herself. She knew that she’d never meet up with Tony again after this. Perhaps it was just as well. She’d spent enough time eating her heart out over a man who couldn’t even see her.
* * *
Tony made his funds transfer, got the plat from the safe-deposit box, had the bank copy it for him and replaced the original before he went back to the funeral home.
All the way, in the back of his mind, he kept seeing the fear in Millie’s face when he’d moved toward her. That reaction was odd. She might have been surprised by the speed of his movement—a lot of people had been, over the years. But she’d expected him to hit her. It was in her eyes, her face, her whole posture. He wondered what had happened to her in the past that made her so afraid.
Then he chided himself for that ridiculous compassion, when she’d caused John’s death. At least he’d made sure that she wouldn’t come to the funeral. That would have been the last straw.
He pulled up at the funeral home and locked his car. It was getting colder. Strange weather, he thought. First it was like summer then, in a matter of days, winter arrived. It was normal weather for Texas in late November, he mused.
As he walked into the funeral home, he saw some of John’s family gathered, talking among themselves. Frank spotted Tony and came out into the hall. They shook hands.
“I just have to drop this off,” he told Frank, lifting up the copy of the plat. “Then we’ll spend a minute talking to John’s people before we go out to eat.”
The funeral director spotted them and came forward. He took the copy of the plat, smiled at Frank and went back to his office.
“You may get a shock,” Frank murmured as they walked into the viewing room.
“What do you mean?” Tony asked, surprised.
John didn’t have much family. His parents were long dead. He did have a sister, Ida. She was there, dry-eyed and irritable. She glanced at the doorway and put on a big smile.
“Tony! How nice to see you again!” She ran up to him and hugged him. “You look great!”
“Sorry we have to meet like this,” Tony began.
“Yes, the idiot, what a stupid thing to do!” Ida muttered. “He had a life insurance policy worth fifty thousand dollars. I paid the premiums for him, me and Jack, and look what he does! Suicide! We won’t get a penny!”
Tony looked as if he’d been hit in the eye.
“Oh, there’s Merle. Sorry, honey, I have to talk to her about the flowers. She’s giving me a good deal on a wreath…”
John’s cousin Ben came forward to shake hands.
“What a mess,” he told the two men. He shook his head. “I bailed him out of jail. He didn’t exactly skip bond, but I’ll forfeit what I put up,” he added heavily. “Two thousand dollars,” he grumbled. “He swore he’d pay me back.” He wandered off, still shaking his head.
An elderly woman with dyed blond hair and wearing a hideous black dress, peered at Tony. She grinned up at him. “You must be that rich friend of Johnny’s,” she said. “He said you owned several islands out in the Atlantic and that you were going to give him one and a yacht, too, so he could get to and from this country.”
“That’s right, Blanche,” Frank said, smiling. “Now, you’ll have to excuse us, we’ve got an appointment. We’ll see you at the funeral.”
“I sure would like to see that yacht,” Blanche added.
Frank took Tony by the arm and propelled him out into the lobby.
* *
