Over Her Dead Body(54)
The straps were attached to a winch, which one of them operated while the other steadied the load to keep it from swinging. As Winch Boy turned the crank, the coffin floated out of the hole like a moonrise, slow and steady against the black sky. Once aboveground, two sets of hands reached over and swung the box away from its crumbly trough, then eased it onto the earth by our feet. Stout Man offered a crowbar to one of the boys, who jammed it under the lid, then jumped on it to break the seal.
With a hollow pop that sounded like a jar of spaghetti sauce opening, the crowbar pierced the seal. The coffin lid shuddered as the boys stepped back and hung their heads. The stillness was terrifying. I half expected Mom’s bony fingers to slither out from under the lid, then throw it open to reveal her undead head. Would she be scowling? Or happy to see us?
When Mom did not pop out of her coffin on her own, our corpulent host took a step toward it.
“Shall I?” he asked.
He was looking at me, so I looked at Charlie, who bit his lip and nodded.
“Go ahead,” Nathan said, hunching forward for a better view.
The portly man bent over and lifted the lid.
I steeled myself, then took a tentative step closer.
I’d been scared to look at her, scared to be forever haunted by the image of her chalky dead face.
But when I peered inside, I didn’t see the ghastly visage of my dear departed mother. I saw something that scared me a whole lot worse.
PART 5
* * *
BEFORE
LOUISA & ASHLEY
CHAPTER 43
* * *
LOUISA
“Are you sure you want to do this?” my lawyer asked over the phone. I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled to get an urgent text from me at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but my struggling actress friend would be over soon for her “audition,” and I wanted to get this squared away before she arrived.
“Read that last part back to me,” I said. “The section about disinheriting my presumed heirs.”
He cleared his throat and read: “I have intentionally omitted all of my heirs and persons who are not specifically mentioned herein, and specifically disinherit each and every such person whomsoever claiming to be, or who may lawfully be determined to be, my heirs at law; to any person who is determined to be lawfully entitled to any part of my estate, I hereby give and bequeath to such person the sum of ten dollars and no more, in lieu of any other share and interest in my estate.”
“And that protects my chosen heir from anyone coming after her?” I asked.
“Yes. It sets their maximum reward at ten dollars.”
“So not worth the trouble.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“OK, prepare it for signing.”
“Are you absolutely sure about this, Louisa?” he asked again, and I rolled my eyes through the phone.
My greatest asset was that people underestimated me. Just because I called Nathan to come fix my computer didn’t mean I didn’t know how to do it myself. I was old and sick, but I wasn’t helpless. It just served me to sometimes let people think that I was.
Besides knowing how to swing a hammer and snake my kitchen sink, I had a vast repertoire of esoteric knowledge. I was very well read. I’m not talking the classics—Hemingway, Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens—though I’d read those, too. No, I was talking about more relevant, useful fare: namely, movie scripts.
In my job as a casting director, I read upward of twenty scripts per week—horror, drama, thriller, true crime, biopic, heist, rom-coms. Before Hollywood became overrun by superheroes, Hollywood screenwriters wrote about clever mortals who outwitted their adversaries without superpowers and a cape. They robbed banks (The Bank Job, The Town, Ocean’s Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen), stole identities (Sneakers, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, The Talented Mr. Ripley), and swindled unsuspecting rich people (Dirty Rotten Scoundrels), bad people (The Usual Suspects), and family members (Knives Out). Most of the stories were made up, but some of the best ones were true (Catch Me if You Can, Argo, Goodfellas). I admired the cunning of my on-screen counterparts. And I was ready to produce my own twisty caper that would rival the best of them.
I had a compelling premise: woman betrayed by her children uses her wits to exact her revenge. I was a fascinating protagonist—physically fragile but with a brilliant mind and nerves of steel. My antagonists were indisputably vile—selfish, entitled do-nothings who stole the best years of their mother’s life, then abandoned her in her hour of need. And the setting was divine—spooky old house with a secret history no one knew but the owner herself.
The particulars of my situation were unique, but there was no need to reinvent the genre. My ingenious con would invoke some tried-and-true tricks but also take advantage of the technology at hand. With the help of a Google number, I could make anonymous texts right from my laptop, no additional hardware needed. As for how I would watch my hapless victims tear each other apart, I had a full complement of cameras—in all the downstairs rooms and outside. They weren’t miked, of course, but I was a seasoned casting director—my subjects’ body language would tell me everything I needed to know.
“I am absolutely sure,” I said, for the third time. Getting the technology working was important, but it wasn’t the only thing I had to work out. Just as important as the how was the who. Technology is predictable. People are not. And it is not always easy to get them to do what you want them to do. I couldn’t do this by myself; I needed a coconspirator. Yes, mine was unwitting, but she’d walked right into it. I didn’t feel bad for tricking her, because if watching their presumed inheritance go to a stranger didn’t compel my selfish children to finally give me that damn kidney, she’d get her reward: all $10 million of it. If I had to throw her a few pennies to fend off a lawsuit, I would; I had enough to make her go away if my children came around. Which of course was the hope.