41. Distressful Hours
The next hours passed in a nightmare blur for Laila – the death pronouncement, the removal of the corpse, the summoning of the family, her own examination and treatment by the doctor. She stumbled through these ordeals in numbed shock, barely able to react. Thank God Sharese came by to support her, and later, Debbie arrived.
Henry and Patricia took charge of the funeral arrangements, muttering darkly between themselves about the need for an autopsy to determine the “true cause of death.” They were suspicious of Laila’s injuries, too. How did she really get them – had a physical confrontation preceded their father’s abrupt demise?
In another side conference, Sharese and Debbie concurred that Laila should not be left alone in the house. Debbie agreed to take the first shift, and Sharese promised that between her and the other Musketelles, Laila would not have to confront the coming days alone. A guest room on the first floor would provide accommodation for Laila’s caretakers.
The awful hours came to an end by late afternoon. Away from the intrusive presence of others, the emotional storm finally broke and Laila wept with wild abandon in Debbie’s arms.
“You’re the only one who cares about me in the whole family,” Laila said after her sobbing abated.
Debbie wanted to disagree, utter soothing words, but she knew in her heart that the statement was true. Laila dabbed her last tears away and sighed heavily.
“I’d like to be alone for a while, now,” she said.
Debbie accompanied her up the stairs, now haunted by the nightmare vision of Frank’s corpse lying at the base, and walked with her to Laila’s private room.
“Just call out if you need anything,” Debbie said. “I’ll be nearby.”
“Thank you.”
Laila closed the door behind her and moved to the window, staring out on the damaged flower garden and the dead tree that could have been the site of foul crime – except for the intervention of fate.
What had become of Bert Nagy, she wondered? He must have taken off in the midst of all the chaos.
She flung open the window and settled into the love seat she has occupied with Frank that morning. Total exhaustion pressed into her body and soul.
The ugly face of guilt tried to encroach on her consciousness, but Laila pushed it away as best she could. After all, she didn’t go through with the murder, did she? She’d tried to phone Bert to call it off, right?
Already she was forgetting that she’d half decided to let the plot go through when Frank stomped out of the room. The thought of Dr. Keating’s imminent arrival had been the main deterrent, not any moralistic qualms about the killing.
Frank’s blow-up about Las Vegas had been the true, final straw. She realized that, even though he’d stuck up for her this time, the years ahead might have told a different story. She would still be under his thumb, one way or another. Her deep yearning for freedom overrode all other considerations. She was sick to the depths of her soul of being a helpless pawn.
But what could any of that matter now? Frank was no longer here, and she remained.
Fresh, invigorating air entered the window, along with the songs of birds. A promise of new life blew into the room. Blue sky showed through the clouds. Laila sat with her head resting on the sofa back, motionless, except for the occasional aftershock sob that came to choke her.
Her gaze fixed upon a patch of blue sky. Something was coming to her from it through the sounds and scents that filled the air. She began breathing more heavily. She began to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her; a triumphant smile covered her face.
“I’m free!”
She was liberated from Frank’s domination, from her terrible sense of social inferiority. She’d been saved from the necessity of committing a terrible crime. She was free of Bert Nagy and his hungry chainsaw!
She knew that she would weep again when she saw her husband lying in his casket, hands folded and his face set in its final, determined expression. But she looked beyond that gloomy moment and saw the remainder of her life spread before her like a magic carpet. She spread her arms wide in welcome.
She would be fully in charge of her life for the first time ever! There would be no strong, dominating male bending her to his will. She could go where she wanted, do what she wanted, spend money how she wished. And, after a period of exploring her new liberty on her own, there would be time for love again.
She was still fairly young, and her dream of having children could yet materialize – but it would be with a man who treated her as an equal. It would be true love, based on mutual respect.
Yes, she had loved Frank, however destructive that may have turned out. Yet she had often hated him, too. But did any of this matter now? It was all in the past, and a dazzling future was beckoning.
“Free at last,” she kept whispering.
Outside, Debbie was knocking on the door with quiet urgency.
“Laila, are you okay?” she inquired. “What are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” Laila said. “Please don’t worry.”
When she left the room several minutes later, Laila carried herself erect and there was a look of serene triumph in her eyes. Debbie noticed the look and understood. Laila clasped her waist, and together they descended the stairs.
“Maybe this isn’t the best time to bring this up,” Debbie said, “but do you have a good lawyer?”
Laila shifted mental gears. She was able to do so now that her mind was more lucid.
“Uh, let me see ...”
A name popped into her consciousness: John “Blackjack” Hogan, Frank’s personal attorney for many years. Hogan was a real “ass-kicking, sonuvabitch lawyer” according to Frank. He was a man of great capability who could be trusted. She recalled meeting him once at a social event, and he certainly looked the part.
“Frank always said that John Hogan was reliable,” Laila said.
The name rang a bell in Debbie’s mind. She recalled Henry making disparaging remarks about Hogan. Well, if Henry disliked the man, that must be a pretty good recommendation.
“I think we should call him right now,” Debbie said.
$$$
The phone call from Frank Armstrong’s daughter-in-law struck John Hogan an almost physical blow. My God, he’d been speaking with the man less than half an hour before the heart attack, and he’d sounded fine! More than fine, he’d been positively ecstatic. A shudder ran through Hogan’s big frame. There truly was nothing certain in this brief and sad life.
At least he’d been able to present Frank with some good news toward the end.
With his usual battering ram style, Hogan had debunked the photographic ‘evidence’ and exposed the scam. The Frost punk had been glad to cooperate – it was all just a joke, he’d claimed. Hogan had wanted to slug him, but instead had merely handed over the promised cash. A judicious bribe and a threat to report their activities to the licensing authority had been enough to shake loose the truth at Ace in the Hole detective agency.