The Baby Blue Rip-Off by Max Allan Collins Page B

He’s had dreams for years of Mother’s hidden fortune falling into his hands, and with some justification; he knew that he was the sole heir of her will.”
    “Why is that?”
    “I’m left out of it at my own request, actually, because I knew Mother wanted to leave the bulk of her estate to Edward. You see, Mr. Mallory, I am married to a very wealthy man, and mother wanted to see that her money and valuables went to the one of her children who needed it most, and all I asked Mother for, when she was writing her will some years ago, was an oil portrait of her that was painted when she was in her twenties. And she gave that to me, then, on the spot.”
    “What about all those beautiful antiques of your mother’s?”
    “I have no interest in them, no use for them, no room for them. We live in a two-hundred-year-old house filled with the relics of my husband’s family... the possessions of several generations of wealth... and I’ve come to detest the sight of an antique. We spend our happiest time, my family, in a relatively simple summer cottage in the Ozarks. Possessions are a bother. The only thing of my mother’s I want to keep is her memory. I want to hold the memory of her close to me for the rest of my life. Edward can have the rest. The money. The things.”
    “If they’re found.”
    “If they’re found,” she nodded. “I’m... I’m so embarrassed by this poor excuse for a service. I called Edward last night, and he said he’d made the arrangements, and when I got here thismorning—flew in from Philadelphia; that’s where we live, where my husband and my two boys and I live—when I got here this morning, this shabby little graveside affair is all Edward had arranged. He was... excuse me for being frank, but... he was just too damn cheap to arrange anything better.”
    “Well,” I said, “it won’t matter to your mother. The funeral racket is pretty lousy anyway. I don’t blame anybody for resisting that stupid an expense.”
    She said, “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but it won’t do any good. I was raised traditionally, raised to believe in ceremony and respect, and so was Edward. Mother would have wanted a nice service, a church service. She even had a program written out for the service as she wanted it: the songs she wanted sung, a eulogy for old Clancy Rogers to read, the retired Methodist minister who married Sam and me....” Something caught in her throat; her face reddened. She dug into her purse, found a Kleenex, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose.
    “I... I want to thank you for being nice to Mother. She wrote about you in her last letter. About what a nice young man you were, and how she enjoyed talking to you. And... and let me say that I think it was very sweet of you to come today.”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “It’s a lot. You care more about her death than that fat, spoiled son of hers.” Her face reddened again, this time with rage. “I... I want to apologize for what... what Edward did yesterday. He told me about it—I don’t know what the
real
story is; probably even more embarrassing than the one Edward told me. He told me he confronted you with this idea of his that you... stole....” She stopped, let out a feeble smile, and shook her head.
    “Listen,” I said, “it’s okay. He’s bound to be upset.”
    “Upset! He’s a damn fool. Excuse my frankness. I talked to Sheriff Brennan about you, and he told me how utterly ridiculous Edward’s suspicions are, and he told me how extremely hurt you were by my mother’s death.” She managed another, less feeble smile. “And not just the physical injury those toughs gave you—not just the physical abuse, and the abuse my brother gave you yesterday. But that you were moved by her death. That you cared. Thank you for that, Mr. Mallory. And I’ll do my best to see my brother doesn’t interfere with your life again.”
    I smiled back at her. “You know something, Mrs. Bloom?”
    “What?”
    “You