Innocent Mistress

“Okay.” Against his better judgment Jude deferred to their wishes. “Mel, you might like to settle your mother in a more comfortable chair.” Myra was perched like a budgie on the edge of a small antique chair that looked like it was only good for decoration.

Melinda put her arm around her mother, leading her to an armchair. Myra took her time, her movements those of a woman twenty years her senior. Jude suspected Dr Atwell had given her medication to get her through the service. She was pretty much out of it. Meanwhile, Ralph was shaping up to be as nasty as his late father.

“Sit the hell down, Mum,” Ralph confirmed Jude’s assessment by crying out in utter exasperation.

“You’re awful, Ralph,” his sister croaked, as if she couldn’t get past the big lump of misery in her throat. “A real pig.”

“Like Dad.” Ralph looked back at her out of his deep-set dark eyes. “Okay, Mr Hotshot, read the will.”

Jude stepped right up to him, two inches taller, a stone or more lighter, but obviously fitter by far. “Jude will do, thanks, Ralph, and a little more respect all around. I’m your late father’s lawyer, not your lackey.” Jude didn’t give a damn about how much money the Rogans had. Never had. It showed in the sapphire glitter of his eyes.

“So take it easy.” Swaying slightly from side to side, Ralph backed off. “Surely you can understand I’m anxious to hear how Dad left things between the three of us.”

“Of course.” Jude took a seat in the armchair nearest the big Oriental style coffee table so he could put the document down to read it. He withdrew the will from his briefcase, the collective eyes of the family trained on him. They wouldn’t be seeing shades of his father. Jude bore little physical resemblance to him, apart from his height. He even had his mother’s dimple in his left cheek just so he could never forget her.

“Hang on a moment I’ll get myself a drink. Anyone else want one?” Ralph lumbered off looking over his shoulder.

“Haven’t you had enough, Ralph?” Myra roused herself sufficiently to ask.

Ralph snorted. “Been countin’, Ma?” He poured himself a generous shot of whiskey from a spirits laden trolley, tonging a couple of ice cubes into it. “You, Jude?”

“Thank you. No.” As instructed, Jude wanted to get on with it, his expression as professional as any lawyer’s could get.

Ralph positioned himself on the opposite side of the coffee table, swirling the amber contents of his crystal tumbler, hunkering down his broad shoulders.

Jude showed them Lester Rogan’s will with the seal intact. He viewed their faces intently, then he broke open the long, thick envelope, beginning to read with suitable gravitas…

“This is the last will and testament of me, Lester Michael Rogan…”

Instantly he was interrupted by Myra’s stricken cry, one of many to be ripped from her throat. Was this for real? Jude agonised, wanting to shake his head in amazement. She had no reason to love her husband. Mel grabbed her mother’s hand and held it. It didn’t appear to be a gesture of comfort, more to shut her mother up.

“Would you mind keeping a lid on it, Ma. Is that too much to ask?” Ralph slewed another disgusted look at his mother. “Continue, Jude.”

Jude continued, managing from experience to keep his voice perfectly level despite the rippling shock he felt. “This will is to be held in terrorem,” he announced, looking up for a reaction.

“What the hell’s that? I haven’t a clue.” Ralph waved his glass, empty now except for a melting ice cube.

It means this will is going to be one big surprise, Jude thought without immediately responding. Any member of the family who contested Lester Rogan’s wishes could finish up with nothing. Ralph pre-set to take over his father’s real estate empire was visibly disturbed.

“Why don’t you let me read on,” Jude suggested. “I’ll explain all the legal jargon later.”

“Fine,” Ralph muttered through gritted teeth.

“This relates to disposition of property,” Jude advised them. “To my wife, Myra…” Not the usual beloved, that would have been too much to ask. This highly dysfunctional family knew little about love, Jude thought. It took five seconds for Myra to let out another agonized wail this one so sharp Jude winced. Both of her children however ignored her, continuing to stare fixedly at Jude. “To my wife, Myra,” Jude started off again, “I bequeath sole possession of the family home, land and all the contents therein plus the adjoining five acres. In addition she is to receive the sum of ten million dollars which should allow her to see out her days comfortably. In the unlikely event she remarry, the house and all land reverts to my son, Ralph. Myra can do what she likes with the contents.”

Ralph made a dramatic grasp at his heart. He had expected his mother was due for heaps more. Lester had to be worth around $85 to $100 million. Everyone knew he’d been shovelling money in! Wasn’t Myra legally entitled to a sizeable percentage of the estate? Ralph wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was she wouldn’t put up a fight. More for him. Like his dad, Ralph couldn’t seriously believe another man would lavish love on his mother.

Jude continued. “To my daughter, Melinda—” again no expression of affection, this was becoming a habit “—I bequeath an annual income of seventy-five thousand dollars to be paid from the trust established for this purpose. The payments will continue up until such time as she marries. On her wedding day she will receive as final payment five million dollars.” No gifts, no mementos, not even a pair of Lester’s favourite cuff links. What code had Lester stuck to?

Peanuts, Ralph was thinking, a triumphant laugh escaping him. “Mean old bastard.” That only meant one thing. He was the big winner. At long last after all these years of humiliation he was going to score big time. He’d have control of everything. As long as he lived he’d never have to take anything from another living soul. He was powerful. Rich. Ralph’s bloodshot eyes began to gleam. He could buy and sell Golden Boy Conroy.

“To my son, Ralph, named after a man he couldn’t in any way hold a candle to, I bequeath my collection of sporting trophies and motor cars, my motor yacht, Sea Eagle, my portrait by Dargy in the study and the sum of five million dollars in the hope he can do something with himself in the future.” Jude glanced up. The tension in the room was so thick he could have cut it with a knife.

“Go on, go on.” Ralph jumped to his feet as though he’d been attacked with an ice pick. “There’s more. There’s gotta be more. I’m the heir!”

“Of course there’s more, dear,” Myra consoled him, albeit fearfully, the pale skin of her face and neck mottled red.

“Of course there’s more,” Melinda chimed in, characteristically satisfied with her lot. “Please sit down again. Go on, Jude.”

Jude felt a certain tightness in his chest. He didn’t want to say this. “To Jude Kelsey Conroy, son of the only man I’ve ever trusted, Matthew John Conroy, a most honourable man, and in recognition of Jude’s devotion to his father and his own outstanding merits I bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand dollars knowing he will use it wisely. The residue of my estate, land, houses, rental properties, share portfolio I hereby bequeath to Catherine Elizabeth Costello, spinster, of the…”

Whatever else Jude, more dismayed than pleased with his windfall, was about to say, it was cut off by Ralph’s bull roar. It would have been pretty scary to a lot of people.

Jude wasn’t one of them. “Do you want to hear the rest of this, Ralph?” he asked crisply. “I should say I knew nothing of my bequest.”

“When your dad drew it up?” Ralph snarled with a curl of the lip. “I bloody well don’t want to hear any more of this.” He picked up his crystal tumbler and hurled it across the living room where it smashed to smithereens against a large bronze sculpture of a rodeo rider atop a bucking horse. Rage, shock, contempt was written across his face.

“Did the old fool go mad?” he demanded of them all, though no one came up with an answer. “Catherine Elizabeth Costello. Who is she? Some fancy whore he had on the side? What hold did she have on him? I can’t believe this. It’s like my worst nightmare. Who is this woman? The woman he wanted to marry? Not Ma?”

Jude was struggling hard to master his own shock. Now he knew for certainty that Cate Costello and trouble went together. He stared at each member of the family in turn. “Do none of you know her?”

Myra shook her head vigorously. At least she seemed to have snapped out of her catatonic state.

“I know of her,” Melinda admitted, staring at Jude. She looked the very picture of bewilderment, which seemed to be her general condition. “She runs a gallery, the Crystal Cave, near the beach.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Ralph bellowed, reaching down for his father’s will with the obvious intention of tearing it to bits.

Jude swiftly removed it from harm’s way, while Ralph glared at him. “You knew about this?” he demanded.

Jude shook his head ready to give Ralph a good shove if he decided to get nasty. Not that he altogether blamed him. Who was Catherine Elizabeth Costello and what had she been to Lester Rogan? “You saw me break the seal. I’m as shocked as you are.” For various reasons he didn’t announce to the family he had already met Rogan’s heiress. One of them was to protect her, another was to avoid getting into a fistfight with Ralph. Ralph in this mood was as destructive as a boxer with a sore head.

“She’s young,” Melinda frowned hard in concentration, gripping her mother’s hand as if it might assist her recollections. “Younger than I am. She’s beautiful. She has the most wonderful hair. The colour’s sort of indescribable, red-gold. I’ve seen her in the town any number of times but we’ve never actually met.”

“She moved here,” Ralph growled, banging his muscular arms together. “I remember now. The chick at Mandel’s old place. I’ve had her description from quite a few of the guys. To think I meant to check her out when I had the time! Dad saw I had as little spare time as possible. I don’t get this? What would a good-looking young chick have to do with my big ugly geriatric dad?”

Myra whistled indignation through her nostrils. “No one could have called your father old or ugly,” she burst out, in her loyal, long-suffering wife mode. “He wasn’t even sixty. Sixty these days is young I might remind you. Your father was handsome as you’re handsome but you’d better lose some weight. And very soon. I’m amazed you can still get into your clothes. For Heaven’s sake, Jude,” She turned her attention away from her near apoplexic son. “You have to advise us. This has taken us all by shock. You’re telling me Lester has left the bulk of his estate to a young woman none of us knows?”

“That’s it, Mrs Rogan.” Jude threw up his hands. “I don’t understand what’s happened here. I confidently expected the estate to be divided between the family. I have no idea why your husband did what he did, but as the appointed executor of your late husband’s estate, I promise you I’ll find out. I have my responsibilities.”

“You bet you do!” Ralph dredged up a lifetime of jealousy and irritation. He was breathing hard through his large, straight nose, making a surprisingly loud whistling noise. “I always knew my dad was a mean bastard. I never figured he was a lunatic as well. He’s shafted me. He’s shafted the whole family. Even when he’s dead he’s punishing us.” The destruction of his hopes and dreams was written all over Ralph’s face. “He won’t get away with it. The money is rightfully mine.”

“Ours,” Melinda piped up to keep the record straight. “Mum’s.”

“What the hell would you two know to do with it?” Ralph glared at his sister, standing up to get himself another drink. “You and Ma know nothing about business. You’ve spent your life on your backsides. He mightn’t have loved you but you had everything else you wanted. You never even had the guts, Mel, to find yourself a job. How many chicks your age haven’t actually had a job? Anyone would think you couldn’t read or write.”

“You can stop that now, Ralph,” Myra admonished in an astonishingly severe voice. “I needed Mel at home.”

“So both of you could watch the flowers grow?” Ralph threw back his head and laughed. “Ah hell!” He reached out in extreme frustration sending a pile of glossy magazines flying. “You’re the big shot lawyer, Conroy, what’s your advice?”

“Nice of you to ask me, Ralph. The will would only be invalid if your father had been of unsound mind when he made it,” Jude pointed out in a deceptively calm voice. “As far as I know there wouldn’t be a soul around who could prove he was. Your mother has rights by law, family home, etc. In that regard, she’s been provided for. You and Mel don’t actually have rights as such, Ralph. Your father was free to do as he liked with his money. You and Mel have been provided for. In terrorem means in layman’s language if any of you contest the will you’ll get nothing.”

Ralph executed a full turn, swearing violently. He slammed his fist down on the mahogany coffee table, the steam of anger rising off him. “What if the old devil was insane? What if this girl had him wound around her little finger? What if she bamboozled him into making the will in her favour? I wish I knew where she came from.”

That makes two of us Jude thought. “You could contest the will on that basis, Ralph,” he offered a legal opinion, actually feeling sorry for the guy. “Work the duress angle. But I’m duty-bound to tell you legal proceedings could risk your inheritance. What’s more, your mother has first claim on the estate. If you wanted to fight it your mother has to initiate the action. She could lose. That would be a terrible result. What I have to do is meet with this young woman and establish the connection.”

“Even your dad, that honourable man, betrayed us.” Ralph looked across at Jude with open hostility.

Jude’s whole body tensed. “Don’t bring my father into this, Ralph. You’d better know right now I won’t stand for it. My father carried out your father’s wishes.”

“Shame on you, Ralph.” Melinda’s soft voice turned shrill with rebuke. “You know the respect Dad had for Mr Conroy. Dad was always interested in Jude, too. Dad put a lot of store in brains.”

“You were behind the door when they were handed out,” Ralph taunted his sister. He turned his glance back on Jude. “I bet your dad told you all about it.”

“I’ve got a couple of things to say, Ralph.” Jude, who’d had just about enough of Ralph even given the years in-between, looked at him out of steely eyes. “Mel was actually considered a good student, remember? She got good grades.” He never added “unlike you” but it hung in the air. “My father said nothing whatever to me.” Jude stood up, quietly returning the time bomb of a will to his briefcase before snapping it shut. “It’s called lawyer-client privilege. My father was absolutely clear about his role. I’m very sorry, believe me, your father’s will wasn’t what you all wanted, and confidently expected. As your father’s executor I have to pay Ms Costello a visit.”

“Just be sure you report back to us straight away,” Ralph threw up his big head belligerently.

“I’m not your lawyer, Ralph,” Jude pointed out. “I act as executor for your late father’s estate.” He turned to Myra, his hand out, a sympathetic smile in his eyes. “As a family friend, Mrs Rogan, if you do wish to retain me I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

Myra stood up, still holding his hand. “Thank you so much, Jude. We do need your help. My boy needs help. I can’t take all this in. Everything has been such a shock.”

“I can appreciate that, Mrs Rogan.” And how!

“I’ll walk you to the door, Jude,” Melinda offered catching hold of Jude’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re here for us. I guess we’ll find out soon enough what this Catherine Costello was to Dad.”

What indeed! Jude felt all kinds of horrors creep along his skin. He and Cate Costello were strangers though they had spoken briefly. Nevertheless he wasn’t sure he could deal with the possibility she might have been Lester Rogan’s mistress. It wasn’t as though such things didn’t happen. Rich powerful men, even geriatrics as Ralph had suggested, didn’t have much of a problem picking up female trophies. But how could a young woman so beautiful and seemingly so refined as Cate Costello be part of anything so totally ugly? The very idea didn’t so much disgust as numb him. Life was so complicated. He doubted he would ever reach a period in life when it wasn’t.

CHAPTER THREE

HE DIDN’T mean to deal with the issue today. He wanted time to think about the whole situation at least overnight.

He went home. Jude focused his gaze on the high beach road that was the quickest route to his house at Spirit Cove some three miles from the Rogan mansion. The narrow road, divided by a white line down the middle, clung on one side to the glorious blue ocean; on the other, beyond an open space of lush tropical vegetation were the plantations; sugar cane, banana, mango, pineapple, avocado, new species of tropical fruits some of which he’d never even tasted.

The town had grown, extending much further south along the coast road and up the low indigo hills of the hinterland. The hills, tropical rain forests, were full of beautiful birds, gorgeous parrots, and plants. There were tree dwelling orchids, the dendrobium, the state flower of Queensland, spider orchids, angel orchids, terrestrial orchids, the extraordinary bromeliads with their vividly coloured centre leaves. He knew all those hills. He had explored them as a boy.

The golden disc of the sun was hot and brilliant. There was a bluish haze over the water. Blue water all around, glittering as if a billion metallic sequins had been cast on the rolling surface. Blue sky above. This was the tropics. Ineffable gold and blue.

He’d lowered the passenger window so the sea breeze could waft in. It bore the fragrance of sea water and salt mingled with the tropical fruits that grew nearby and the delicious scent of flowers. The lovely frangipani that grew everywhere in profusion, the common cream-yellow-centred flowers and nowadays almost as many pink and red. There were frangipanis twenty feet high in his home garden and the scent when they were in flower was so exquisitely heady as to be near unbearable. The frangipani were as ubiquitous as the indestructible oleanders of many colours that massed in great numbers around the cove where he was heading.

As he drove he could see draped over every fence and outbuilding a spectacular array of flowering vines; golden trumpets blazing away, the flashy Morning Glory, jasmines in flower all year round, allamandas and black-eyed Susans, the flame vines and the giant solandras. One had to be very careful planting vines in the tropics. They had a habit of running rampant, in no time at all turning into impenetrable jungle.

At least the lush beauty all around him was calming his thoughts. They’d been heading off in all directions, mostly centred on the mystery woman, Cate Costello. She’d fooled him with her clear direct gaze.

He couldn’t bear to think of her as Lester Rogan’s mistress. For that matter he couldn’t bear to think of any man’s hands on her which didn’t exactly make sense. He didn’t even know her. Was it possible there was a biological tie to Rogan? There was no evidence of it in her appearance. She bore no physical resemblance whatsoever to him—no single feature, eyes, mouth, nose, chin let alone the hair colour. Could she possibly be Rogan’s long-lost illegitimate daughter? She’d told him she didn’t know the family. She’d lied. She definitely knew Lester Rogan. That was a bad start.

He remembered those beautiful eyes, their cool green colour emphasized by her delicate dark brows and thick eyelashes, startling given the copper hair. Maybe that cascade of glowing silk was dyed? Women changed their hair colour all the time. There were lots of things he had yet to learn about Cate Costello. So far he’d learned she was hiding a great deal.

As had the late Lester Rogan, real estate tycoon. Why? His career wouldn’t have suffered had he acknowledged paternity of a child other than his son, Ralph and his daughter Melinda. His wife, Myra, was so completely dominated she wouldn’t have given him a terrible time had he confided in her or simply produced a surprise offspring as a fait accompli.

Jude groaned aloud. Lester Rogan wasn’t her father. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t his own father have known? His dad was one of the few people Lester Rogan had ever been known to confide in.

So what was the story? He let his mind range over a half a dozen scenarios all of which he hated. Surely he hadn’t let a complete stranger get under his skin? He wasn’t ready for that kind of connection with any woman much less one who gazed into crystal balls. He was depressed, too that she had lied to him. He hated lies.

Minutes later he arrived home. An old fishing mate of his father’s, Jimmy Dawson, though not a caretaker as such—Jimmy had his own little bungalow on the edge of the rain forest—kept the grounds under control. At least the jungle hadn’t set in. He got out to open the white picket gates, looking up with deep nostalgia at the handsome white house that stood tall against the turquoise sky. This was his much loved home right up until the time he had started his legal career in the state capital. Two storied it was surrounded by wide verandahs with a green painted galvanised roof and glossy emerald-green shutters to protect the pairs of French doors along the verandahs in times of tropical storms. A wide flight of six steps led to the porch.

His mother had always kept two huge ceramic pots planted with masses of white flowers flanking the double doorway with its beautiful stained-glass transom. Towering palms stood in the large, very private grounds, the lawns a carpet of lush green. Obviously Jimmy had seen to the mowing. The wonderfully spectacular poincianas were in full bloom as were the flame trees. On either side of the house the magnolias carried great plate-sized blooms, creamy-white and resplendent over the rich dark green leaves burnished underneath.

The flower beds had not survived although agapanthus, strelitzias, cannas, cassias and gardenias had gown back to the wild. The long fences on either side of the house were totally taken over by a dense screen of King Jasmine. Jude supposed the timber had rotted, teetering beneath the rampant vines which were so strong they were virtually self-supporting. It would be getting too much for Jimmy even with help. Jimmy was much older than Jude’s father, around seventy but wonderfully fit and wiry or he had been the last time Jude had seen him about a year ago. A year at Jimmy’s time of life was a long time.

He had rung Jimmy to let him know he was coming. The house had been aired. There was milk, butter, cheddar cheese, bacon and eggs, a whole roasted chicken, a bottle of chardonnay, four jars of cumquat marmalade in the frig—cumquat marmalade, brandied cumquats, pickled cumquats, you name it, cumquats were the base of Jimmy’s home made specialties—Jimmy like his dad didn’t bother growing the miniature fruit in pots like some people. He grew them in long hedges as a windbreak, always teeming with fruit or flower. Jude looked in the bread bin, found a fresh loaf. There was tea and coffee in the pantry, a few more groceries and a bottle of whiskey—he laughed at that.

Jimmy was a great guy, an honourary uncle to him when he was growing up. His throat tightened with affection and gratitude. Jimmy had been organised to go fishing with his dad that terrible day only another friend of Jimmy’s had stumbled over a snake on his way home from the pub and got bitten for his trouble. Jimmy, being a drinker, was on hand to get his friend to the hospital. The rest was history.

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