“There are always choices,” Rose said.
“True,” Liz said. “But there aren’t always good ones.”
Liz could be quick to judge, but the truth was she was probably the softest touch of all of us. No one said anything for a moment. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rose reach her hand over the seat toward Liz. “Elizabeth Emmerson Kiley French, I love you,” she said softly.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody does,” Liz said.
I looked in the rearview mirror and blew Liz a kiss. She never ceased to amaze me.
The community center was easy to find in Rockport. Liam actually found a place to pull in at the curb in front. We retreated to the back row of the parking lot across the street, according to plan.
I set Mr. P.’s laptop on my knees, turned it on and followed the instructions he’d given me. After a few moments we were looking at the dashboard of Cleveland’s old truck. Rose pulled out her cell phone.
Mr. P.’s cell played the first notes of “Ode to Joy” as his ring tone, the sound coming clearly through the computer as I turned up the volume.
“Sarah has everything working,” Rose said.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Mr. P. said.
I gave Rose a thumbs-up.
Everything went smoothly after that. Liam played the role of the good son, walking Alfred inside, standing awkwardly around for a couple of minutes and telling him, within earshot of others, that he didn’t need an inheritance and maybe they should just go home.
For his part Mr. P. was the epitome of a hardworking dad. He patted Liam on the arm and said he’d call if he needed a ride home.
Liam pulled the truck into the parking lot a row ahead of us and sprinted back to the SUV, sliding onto the backseat next to Liz.
“How was I?” he said with a grin.
“You were perfect,” Rose said, beaming. Charlotte nodded.
“Good job,” Liz agreed, giving him a fist bump.
He looked at me. “What do you think, Sarah?”
I smiled at him. “Good job, big brother.”
Mr. P. had chosen an aisle seat and he looked around a couple of times, which gave us a good view of the small meeting room. It was about five minutes before the start of the seminar when Mr. P. said softly, “She’s here. I’m going for a cup of coffee.”
I looked at Rose and the hand folded in her lap gave me a thumbs-up.
Mr. P. was a born actor. He got himself a cup of coffee and managed to knock over the container of plastic stir sticks. It was all the opening our con woman needed.
“Let me help you,” she said. “I don’t know why they can’t just put out some spoons.” Then she gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry—I sound like an old fogey, don’t I?”
“No, you don’t,” Mr. P. said. “Excuse my language, but those plastic thingamajigs aren’t worth a damn. Someone can’t wash a few spoons?”
That was all it took. It shouldn’t have been that simple, but it was. Mr. P. carried his coffee back to his seat, and his new friend, whose name was Leila, took the empty chair next to him.
The presentation was mind-numbingly boring and from my perspective seemed to be geared to five-year-olds, not people with decades of life experience.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Liz exclaimed after the first five minutes. “How stupid do they think the average person over sixty-five is?”
“It is a little . . . insulting, isn’t it?” Charlotte said.
Liam leaned his elbow on the back of my seat. “So why don’t you do something better?” he said to Liz.
“I could,” she said.
“So why don’t you?” he asked. “Seriously, those two guys”—he gestured at the computer screen—“are acting like they have an audience of kindergarteners who get two quarters for an allowance. I know you could do better. Why don’t you put together a program that actually gives seniors some decent advice? Because this one sure as hell doesn’t.”
“You know that Channing Caulfield would help you,” I said.
Liz made a face at me.
“Well, he would,” Rose added.
“It’s not a bad idea, you know,” Charlotte said. “You’ve been looking for a way to get Jane Evans to come work for the foundation. This might be it. She used to work for the bank.”
“I’ll think about it,” Liz said. We all looked at her. “I promise,” she added.
I held up a hand. “I think Mr. P. is getting the pitch,” I said. I nudged up the volume.
“If it makes me old-fashioned, then fine, I’m old-fashioned,” Leila was saying, “but if I’m going to invest in something, I want it to be something I can see and touch.”
“My father used to say, ‘Invest in land, boy. They aren’t making any more of it,’” Mr. P. said.
“He was right,” Leila agreed.
Mr. P. sighed. “I don’t have that kind of money. I just, I just want to be able to leave something for my boy. He’s got an ex-wife who pretty much took him to the cleaners a couple of years ago.”
Liam put a hand to his heart and tried to look wounded. I rolled my eyes.
In short order Leila had confided in Mr. P. about the money she’d made with her “tiny” wine collection and offered to introduce him to the wine broker she dealt with.
“Yes!” I said, softly, doing a little fist pump in the air.
“Does he have references?” Alfred asked.
“Of course,” she said, “and I can promise you I checked Mr. Logan out very carefully. You can’t be too careful with your money.”
Now came the tricky part. Mr. P. had to find a way to get the meeting to take place in North Harbor, instead of Rockport. The Angels had agreed to bring the police in on their meeting, which meant it had to happen in Michelle’s jurisdiction.
“I don’t want my son to know,” Mr. P. said. “He keeps telling me I don’t need to leave him anything, but I want to. Maybe next time your broker friend is in North Harbor, he could give me a call.” He tapped his chest with one hand. “I got a bum ticker, so I can’t drive anymore.” Then he got to his feet and held out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Leila.”
I held my breath, wondering if she would let him walk away.
She didn’t. As luck would have it, Mr. Logan was going to be in North Harbor the next day—big surprise—and Leila could set up a meeting with him. Mr. P. hesitated, all according to script, so he wouldn’t seem too eager and then agreed to meet Leila and Thorne Logan at McNamara’s.
“It was lucky for me, meeting you,” Mr. P. said.
Leila smiled. “Sometimes things work out the way they’re supposed to.”
“Yes, they do,” Rose said softly beside me.
I didn’t get to see Mr. P. face-to-face until we got back to the shop. “You were terrific,” I said to him as he climbed out of the old truck.
He smiled. “Thank you, my dear. I was onstage many years ago. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it.”
“I suspect you have many talents I don’t know about,” I teased.
“Indeed I do,” he said with a wink. Then he headed over to Rose and the others.
Liam came around the back of the rust-pocked pickup. “You walked right into that one,” he said with a laugh, putting an arm around me.
I shook my head. “Yeah, I guess I did.” I looked up at him. “You were good, too.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It was probably because there were no elephants in this story.” He ran a hand over his hair. “I’m heading over to the apartment. I don’t know what this stuff is that Liz got from her granddaughter, but it smells like bear grease.”
I laughed. “Admit it. You like smelling all flowery.”
He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Let’s just say it makes me very popular with the ladies.”
I held up both hands. “I don’t want to hear about your love life, especially if it involves Jess.”
Liam started swaying from side to side, pulling me with him. “I haven’t said a word about Jess,” he teased. “I haven’t, for example, told you that she’s a good kisser . . . or a bad one.”