“That’s not completely true. We… we really were unhappy. Pat wasn’t a drunk, he didn’t beat me; that was all a lie. But our lives weren’t going anywhere. He couldn’t keep a job. His job at the silo plant was the best he ever had, and he lost that for filching cases of Pepsi meant for the pop machine. That stuff I told you about him quitting was a cover-up. Pat was a kid-never grew up, still thought he could cheat and con and steal his way through life. But he didn’t have it figured out, did he, Mal?”
“Have what figured out?”
“That when you take things from people, you take something from yourself, too.” Silence for a moment. “Like me ripping you off, Mal. Emotionally. Like I have since we were kids.” Silence again. “There are two really big rip-offs, Mal, the two biggest rip-offs of all. Know what they are?”
“No.”
“One’s death. Guess the other.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s life, silly.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“I know that, Mal. It usually is, though, isn’t it? Can I ask you something?”
“Debbie… I really don’t think seeing each other is a good idea.”
“How do you know I was going to ask you to see me?”
“I just know.”
“I’m glad you do, because… well, it started out with me lying to you, using you, to help Pat… but it became more than that, and I really did… do like you, Mal. Remember that morning you saw Sarah Petersen and me together at breakfast? Know what we were arguing about? I didn’t want to do it anymore; didn’t want to lie to you, use you, just couldn’t stand doing that to you any longer.”
“But you did.”
“I did. I’m not strong, Mal. Neither was Pat. If I’d had somebody strong, it could’ve been different. You made me realize that, Mal. How things could’ve been different.”
“They always could.”
“Good-bye, Mal.”
“Bye, Deb.”
That conversation called for a fresh Pabst. I finished off the dregs of my present can and went for another. I got settled down to relax and couldn’t get my mind empty, so I got up and put on a record album, a golden oldies record, hits from back in my junior high days. I listened to half a song, took it off, put on something newer.
And the phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“This is Edward Jonsen.”
“What do you want, Jonsen?”
I had a good idea what he wanted. Several days ago I’d been contacted by the lawyer representing Mrs. Jonsen’s estate. Seemed she’d made an addition to her will, codicil they call it, leaving all those Christmas plates to me. And the damn set of plates turned out to be even more valuable than Mrs. Jonsen had realized. The lawyer wouldn’t give me their exact worth, but he did admit, “We’re talking in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars, Mr. Mallory.” Which was a nice neighborhood.
Of course, Mrs. Jonsen had had plenty of other valuable antiques, and that fabled hidden loot of hers that Pat, Chet, and P. J. had searched so diligently for turned up in a bank safe-deposit box, and so Edward Jonsen was going to do all right even without the plates. But I’d made my mind up to give him the damn things anyway. What did I want with them? They’d just stir up memories I didn’t want stirred, that’s all. Let the fat bastard have the plates. Let him eat caviar off ’em; what did I care?
“Look, Jonsen, I’ve made a decision about those plates-”
“Don’t bother asking for money, Mallory! I don’t intend to pay you one cent for the plates. They are legally mine. I’m going to have that will broken; I’ve spoken to my attorney and he agrees with me. I’m going to fight this all the way; I can prove my mother was incompetent when she made that addition, I-”
I hung up.
Well, I supposed I could clear the movie posters off one wall and make room for the plates. Or maybe just sell them to some collector; my funds were getting kind of low. A mystery writer can always use a little extra cash, you know.
Edward Jonsen really did have more right to those plates than I, but some people just seem to deserve getting ripped off.
In the meantime, I had some hot suppers to deliver.