Page 51 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

He winced. “Oh, Jesus. How many other people know about this?”

“Just Beth, and she promised not to say a word to anyone.”

“I can’t believe I fell for her bullshit,” Lizzie said.

“I fell for it too,” my father said. “And those men—she took them for a lot of money.”

“And you were next,” I said.

He put a hand to his face and rubbed his forehead. “I guess I was,” he said, “but... why did she leave before she got her hands on my money?”

“She got the car,” Lizzie said.

“She didn’t move here for a car. I don’t understand why she decided to walk away in the middle of the scam.”

“I went to see her on Sunday,” I said. “I told her what I knew, and I said I’d keep it a secret if she backed off. I thought she’d just let the relationship go cold. But I guess she panicked and left town. I had no idea she’d take Mom’s car.”

“Call the cops,” Lizzie said. “How hard could it be to find a red Mustang convertible?”

“And what happens if they catch her?” I said. “Dad, do you really want her back? Do you want the story in the paper?”

“Of course I don’t, but if God forbid she plows into a school bus, it sure as hell better be on record that I reported the car missing. Plus she’s a career criminal driving a stolen vehicle. She’s not going to keep it long. If we’re lucky, the cops will find it in a parking lot at JFK.”

“Even if they do,” I said, “I doubt if they’ll find Mom’s jewelry.”

It was a gut punch, and my father reeled. “Jesus... don’t tell me.”

“I just checked Mom’s jewelry box when I went upstairs to get the report. The good stuff is gone. Did you lend her anything besides the earrings?”

“No, but she had the run of the house,” he said, sinking into his chair. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“Don’t,” I said. “She’s a professional. She’s done it to other men, and she’ll do it again.”

“You dodged a bullet, Dad,” Lizzie said. “And I hate to admit it, but Maggie was right.”

I gave her a sisterly smile. “Aren’t I always?”

“Don’t gloat, kiddo,” my father said. “You saved my ass, but I don’t appreciate the fact that you mucked around in my private life.”

“Sorry, but we promised Mom we’d take care of you,” I said.

He smiled. “So you’re blaming this all on your poor dead mother? Did she say how long you’re supposed to watch over me?”

“Until you get your head screwed on straight,” I said.

“Sounds like you’ve got a lifetime job ahead of you,” he said.

“So are we calling the cops or not?” Lizzie said.

“I’ll go down to the station,” Dad said. “I’ll report it so we have an insurance claim, but I’ll talk to someone at the top of the food chain and ask him to keep it under wraps, so it’s not the main topic of conversation at the beauty parlor tomorrow morning.”

“What about her paintings?” Lizzie said. “They’re still hanging at the bar.”

“Two of them sold,” my father said. “I’ll give Connie the benefit of the doubt, and if I don’t hear from her in a week, I’ll donate the other twenty to St. Cecilia’s for their rummage sale.”

He didn’t hear from her in a week. In fact, we didn’t hear from her in decades.

Until that day, twenty-five years later, when Connie Gilchrist resurfaced to haunt us one last time.

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