"Apparently Mr Schumacher thought so," Carella said.
"But you didn't know you were in the will, is that right?" Brown asked.
"Oh my God, no\ Wait'll I tell my mother! She'll die."
160
"He never mentioned it to you."
"Never."
"Not any of the times he stopped by ..."
"Never."
"When did you say the last time was?" Brown asked.
"That he came in? January? February? At least that long ago. I really can't believe this!"
"How about his wife? Did she ever come into the shop?"
"Not after she bought the dog, no."
"You never talked to her after that?"
"Never."
"Or saw her?"
"Never. Look at me, I'm shaking. I am positively shocked!"
Brown was wondering how come he didn't know any people who might want to leave him ten thousand smackers.
Arthur Schumacher had really loved that dog.
He could not have known they would die together in the same angry fusillade, but nonetheless he had made provision in his will for "the burial and perpetual graveside care of the aforementioned Amos," in addition to the ten grand each he'd left to Dr Martin Osgood and Miss Pauline Weed for remembered little courtesies and services.
Of the rest, residue, and remainder of his estate, of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situated, he had given, devised, and bequeathed fifty percent to his wife, Margaret Schumacher, twenty-five percent to his daughter Lois Stein, and twenty-five percent to his daughter Betsy Schumacher. The detectives still didn't know the total worth of the estate, but according to Gloria Sanders, his embittered grass widow, it came to a considerable sum of money.
There was no mention of Susan Brauer in the will.
But in addition to the safe-deposit box Schumacher had kept at Union Savings downtown near his office, there was also a checking account in his name. A perusal of his statements - after obtaining a court order granting the privilege -revealed that he had, in fact, been taking five thousand dollars
161
in cash from this account at the beginning of every month, and there now seemed little doubt that this money found its way into Susan's personal checking account. Unaccounted for, however, was the twelve thousand dollars they'd found in her closet cash box. Had Schumacher been giving her additional money? If so, where had it come from?
Maybe he was stealing it, Teddy signed.
Carella looked at her, wondering how such a generous and lovely person could come up with thoughts that attributed such devious machinations to human beings.
From his firm, she signed. Or from his wife's account, if she had one.
"I don't think he was stealing," Carella said, talking and signing at the same time.
But where had the money come from?
"Maybe he had some other bank accounts," he said. "He was keeping this one from his wife, so why not some others? I mean, the guy wasn't exactly what you'd call trustworthy, was he? Divorced Gloria to marry one blonde and then started carrying on with yet another one. So maybe he kept secret bank acounts as a life-style. In preparation, you know?"
Teddy watched his hands as if she were watching a television mini-series, his words conjuring banks all over town, tall granite pillars and brass tellers' cages, long black limousines and beautiful blonde women, champagne chilling in silver buckets, clandestine passion on red silk sheets.
But he was kind to his dog, she signed, her hands somehow managing to convey the dryness of her words.
"Oh yes," Carella said. "And the vet who took care of the dog, and the woman who'd sold Margaret the dog. Ten thousand each, can you imagine? Margaret," he said, seeing her puzzlement, and signing the name letter by letter. "The first blonde. Susan was the second one. Susan. S-U-S-A-N."
Maybe I should open a pet shop, Teddy signed. Or become a vet.
"Good idea, we can use the money. She was pretty fore-sighted, wasn't she? Gloria, I mean, the first wife. The
162
bleached blonde, Gloria. G-L-O-R-I-A. Getting it put in their settlement agreement, I mean. That he'd leave the daughters fifty percent of the estate? Lots of guys remarry, they forget they ever had kids. Speaking of which . . . Mark!" he yelled. "April! Five minutes."
"Aw, shit!" Mark yelled from down the hall.
"We still can't find the hippie daughter," Carella said. "Remember I was telling you . . .?"
Teddy nodded.
"She disappeared," Carella said. "Let me go tuck them in, I'll be right back. There's something else I have to tell you."
She looked up at him.
"When they're alseep."
She frowned, puzzled.
He mouthed the word Tommy.
Teddy sighed.
The twins were in the bathroom brushing their teeth. Eleven years old already, my how the time flew by.
"Mark said shit," April said.
"I heard him."
"You're supposed to fine him."
"I will. That's ten cents, Mark."
"Did Mom hear it?"
"No."
"Then it's only a nickel."
"Who says?"
"If only one of you hears it, it's half the price."
"He's making that up, Dad."
"I know he is. Ten cents, Mark."
"Shit," Mark said, and spat into the sink.
"That's twenty," Carella said. "Go kiss your mother, then bedtime."
"Why don't you ever curse?" Mark asked his sister as they went out of the bathroom.
"I do," she said. "I know even dirtier words than you."
"So how come I never hear you saying them?"
"I say them in the dark."
163
r
"That's ridiculous," Mark said.
"Maybe, but it doesn't cost me any money."
He could hear them in the living room, saying goodnight to Teddy. He waited in the hallway, very tired all at once, remembering his father all at once. When he and Angela were small, his father used to read them to sleep every night. He sometimes thought his father got a bigger kick out of the bedtime stories than either of the kids did. Now there was only television.
"See you in the morning!" April called. A ritual with her. Saying it would make it true. She would see them in the morning if only she said it each night. He took them to their rooms, separate rooms now, they were getting older, separate prayers. He tucked Mark in first.
"I like swearing," Mark said.
"Okay, so pay for it."