Dean mustered his best smile. "I'm delighted. That's very generous of Mr. O'Connor. Atlantic City must have paid well this week. He takes the bus down every Wednesday-with the rest of the old folks." Fred made a professional recovery with the help of a gulp of lemonade as Dean continued to address Mrs. Byrne. "Have you been here long?"
"Just since 5:30. I had to stop at the church to make arrangements. We're...going to have a service next week. Mr. Mayer at World Wide suggested it."
Dean held his tongue. Mayer was something else-have a service, bury the guy in absentia and get him the hell off the books.
"You'd better put on a shirt and tie," Fred said. "Café Richard is a pretty swank place," Fred said, rising and refilling Mrs. Byrne's glass from a crystal pitcher Dean hadn't seen since his mother died.
Dean ignored his stepfather and instead pointed out Jeffrey Byrne's belongings and suggested Mrs. Byrne might want to check them over before signing a receipt.
"Can't I just sign for them without having to go through everything? I'd rather sort them out at home...alone." Then she asked, "Was there a wallet..."
"Yes. It's in the suitcase."
"Good," she answered with a slight smile. "There should be about seventy-five dollars."
"Seventy-eight," answered Dean.
"This is embarrassing, but I really need the money for groceries. World Wide can't issue any more paychecks. Something to do with their legal department. Mr. Mayer did say he was going to talk to them about some sort of advance to hold me over. Mr. Mayer has been very kind. He's called three or four times."
Kind, my ass! thought Dean. The lecherous bastard didn't waste any time getting Byrne off the payroll and now he's trying to hustle his wife before the body even floats in.
Fred reached for a paper from his notes. "This is sort of an inventory of the stuff. Perhaps if you just sign it...."
Dean grumbled some sort of agreement, trying to keep the edge from his voice, as he turned and climbed the stairs to change.
Café Richard was new, sleek, pretentious and looked like its half-page newspaper ads, Dean's only previous exposure to the establishment. While not strictly a meat-and-potatoes guy, he felt more comfortable with a meal he could recognize, like the weekday special at Uncle Sally's Galley, not something tiny and exotic, wrapped in dainty strands of imported grass.
The most enjoyable part of the meal was Cynthia Byrne. Though the weight of sadness from the past few days was still in evidence, she was obviously brightened by Fred O'Connor, the perfect host. The old man perused the wine menu with a studious eye, mispronouncing the items with enough of a smile so you never knew if he was kidding or ignorant.