Red Silk Scarf (10 page)

Looking pale and
in disarray, Sullivan exited through the main door of a high-rise apartment
building, his disposition definitely on the testy side, Michael reported before
clearing Cassidy to enter.
 
The report so
pleasing Cassidy practically jumped for joy.
 

Served Sullivan
right, a pretentious, overbearing, narcissistic maniac, who believed in
plucking and pollinating every female flower, he deserved to be as miserable as
he made everyone else.
  
Irking Cassidy,
the most was admitting he’d taught her a lesson.
 
For the tenth time she sought the pager, a
lifeline she’d never be without again.

           
Twisting her ankle upon stepping up
onto the curb added another profanity to the colorful bushel she had already
uttered since sunrise.
 
Whether due to
exhaustion or that she'd become a complete klutz was undeterminable.
  
The beauty of the day made no
difference.
 
From the moment her eyes
snapped open she was aware of a temperament concocted of anxiety and anger
shaken into downright ornery.
 
Sullivan
had, stripped her confidence, renovated her values, made her feel and think
irrationally, worse yet wounded her pride.
 
A Brady never succumbed to such nonsense.
 
Dammit, he'd never get away with it again,
she seethed.

Cursing the
invention of high heels Cassidy entered the elevator vowing that when the
assignment was over never to wear them again.
 
Though the wedges, laced around her ankles and up her calves, were a tad
more comfortable, swollen feet and ankles continued to throb painfully.
 
Thank goodness, she found an alternative
despite a cluttered closet and that they matched the beige dress clinging
enticingly to firm, ripe curves.
  
A
dress she desperately tugged and pulled in an attempt to stretch the material
hoping to lengthen the flowing skirt that seemed shorter than when
purchased.
 
Obviously not an option, she
prayed for a windless day and that she wouldn’t have to bend over more than an
inch. Just in case, matching nylon and lace undergarments were added insurance.

Molesting her was
an infectious case of self-consciousness mixed with self-pity.
  
Pouring her body into the spaghetti strap,
mini shift, made her painfully aware of her long limbs.
 
Taught not to allow vanity to swell her head,
Cassidy always considered them quite unattractive.
 
Then again, if such was the case, what was
there about her making the men she passed do a turn-a-bout face?
 
She’d never adjust to her new image,
half-naked at night, now in broad daylight, in public, least of all men's
desire-smitten faces, wolf whistles and disgusting innuendos.
 
Now feeling the way she looked, a loose
woman, she desperately wanted to return to, New York, her job, home, and
family.
 
The easy way out of the mess,
she’d gotten into, a coward's way, and Cassidy wouldn't accept either.

           
Thank goodness, the elevators' empty
confines offered much needed respite, only then did she blush briefly until the
perfume she’d literally splashed on began watering her eyes and inducing an
allergic cough.
 
For Heaven’s sake, even
before her monumental task began she was falling to pieces.
 
Barely stifling the urge to scream, she
wondered what else was going to happen to destroy her nerves.
 

           
Her plan was, to search Sullivan’s
apartment and interrogate his family hoping to understand the man driving her
to the edge, most importantly uncover evidence.
 
God, if Sullivan ever found out!
 
Yes, she beamed, mischievousness gleaming her eyes.
 
Pay back was a bitch.

Entering the
apartment was unbelievably easy.
  
Pamela
readily accepted the giant size white lie.
  
She was a friend of Patrick’s from Chicago who hadn’t seen him in years,
and wanted to stop by to surprise him.
 

Unlike her
brother, heredity wasn't as kind to Pamela who lacked Sullivan’s striking good
looks and extroverted personality.
  
Upon
her introduction to Vera Sullivan Cassidy knew whom Pamela favored.
 
Wearing a nightgown, bathrobe and slippers,
in the late afternoon sitting in a camel back chair beside a bed, Vera
resembled someone on the verge of death.
 
Extending her hand in greeting, Vera’s forced smile never met her eyes,
her timid hello barely audible.

Contrary to the
living room, Vera’s bedroom was depressing, blinds and heavy drapes blocking
out the bright sunshine added to the dreary ambience.
 
One would never believe it was a woman's
suite, the furniture old and dark, manufactured in the early forties.
  
Lacking lace, frills, or flowers, what
little cheerfulness there was came from family photos littering the top of a
dresser.

Heaven forbid, if
this was what Patrick faced at the end of each day, no wonder he was a grouch,
a slip of empathy that made Cassidy bristle.
  
Thinking of a suspect by his first name was too personal, too endearing
a mistake she couldn’t make again.

To counteract
unnerving emotion's Cassidy began wondering what would happen to the helpless
women upon learning the truth about Sullivan, particularly when stripped of his
financial support.
  
Why she cared was
only a part of the complex Cassidy.
 
Brady's were warm, friendly, loving people who believed in living life
to the fullest, helping others, making each day count, conjuring up happiness
out of nothing at all.
 
Life was too
short, her father perpetually preached.
 
These pitiful women had given up.
 

Head on, reality
hit.
 
Monumental, no, this task was impossible.
 
Surprisingly, the hopelessness of the
challenge offered insight.
 
By the time,
Cassidy took a few steps toward the window the very elements of her inner being
were in motion.
 
Reaching for the drapery
cord, she asked politely, “Do you mind, Mrs. Sullivan,” not that the woman's
opinion mattered.
 
“It's such a lovely
day,” she chirped with a wide smile.
 

With both hands
covering her face, Vera uttered, “Oh, my, oh my, light hurts my eyes.
 
Please, dear, I'd rather . . .” Before Vera
could protest further, sunlight blossomed in the room as if the beginning of
life was dangling on the chord all along.
 

“There, that's
better.
 
The sky seems larger and bluer
today, don’t you agree?
 
Look at those
white fluffy clouds.
 
Gosh, it’s a
glorious day.”
  
Indeed it was, much to
Cassidy's surprise.

Moving to the
dresser, Cassidy boldly selected a picture of Shawn Sullivan Senior in
uniform.
 
“I can't believe how much your
husband and son look alike.
 
Both are
very handsome men.” The first truthful statement she’d made all day.

           
Chin touching her chest, eyes
examining shaking hands, Vera agreed, “Yes, they are,” her voice a weary
whisper.

“Patrick spoke of
his father often.
 
He was truly a brave
man.”
 
How Cassidy kept from choking on the
utterance she'd never know.
  
It is a
shame his son didn't follow his example, she wanted to add, but didn’t.
 
Actually, Cassidy knew nothing about Sullivan
Senior, other than his glowing record as a police officer he’d successfully
shelved his personal life.
 
Well, today
Cassidy intended to tear the binding from the book.
  
Examining the picture, she struggled to
imagine the pain of losing a loved one.
 
An infant when her mother died in an auto accident, Cassidy never
experienced loss, poor Vera, she thought as sympathy expanded her chest.
 

           
Genuine concern brought her to her
knees beside the woman where she began patting her hand.
 
“I'm so very sorry.
 
You must have loved him very much.”
Supporting the middle-aged woman’s quivering chin with a pointer finger, forced
Vera’s attention.
 
“He was so fortunate
to have such a loving, beautiful wife.”
 
No one else might agree, if they saw Vera right now, however Cassidy had
learned to look beyond obvious appearances where real beauty begins.
 
Plucking a tissue, she tenderly dabbed at
Vera's tears.

“Oh, my dear,
you're just saying that,” Vera hiccupped embarrassment giving color to a pale
complexion so unaccustomed to compliments was she.
 
Picking at nails already bitten and sore, she
spoke softly, “I died with him.
 
I've
tried but I can't get beyond my loss.” A statement ending with a heart
wrenching muffled sob.

“I think you're
doing just fine.
 
People grieve
differently, one day the clouds will separate and the light will come shining
through, a time when you’ll be able to look at your husbands' picture and
smile.
 
“But if he saw you now, don't you
think he'd be very sad?
  
He wouldn't
want his loved one's to continue mourning.
 
He gave you two beautiful children, served others, and brought happiness
into many lives, especially yours.
 
You
should make him proud of you by continuing to live for him.”
 

Examining the
pretty face before her, Vera considered the strangers words.
 
For the first time in three years, someone
understood and offered much needed attention and sympathy.
 
No one ever explained death the way this
young, inexperienced woman did.
 

Cassidy robbed
Vera of the time to contemplate her lecture when she plucked a brush off the
dresser, and began grooming Vera’s hair turned gray prematurely by the blow of
grief, thin strands totally unmanageable and lacking luster.
 
Cassidy couldn’t help but think that if this
woman was her “Mother,” somehow she managed to swallow an unexpected swell of
emotions.

The beautiful
gesture summoned pleasant feelings that swamped Vera, not the act in itself,
rather the fact that someone cared.
 
No
one brushed her hair, or spoke so confidently, so softly, accepted her so
readily, no one except her husband.
 

Wearing a
positive expression that incorporated her posture, Cassidy told what she
believed was her tenth lie of the day; at this point, she'd lost count.
 
“There, much better.
 
You have such beautiful hair.”
 
It would be Cassidy reflected, if someone
cared enough to help the poor soul heal her wounds.
 
Pamela was wrong for allowing her mother to
suffer so considering Patrick was carrying his share of the load.
 
Again, she felt compassion for Sullivan,
again she thought of him as Patrick, endearments that had to stop.
  

           
“Now, let's get dressed and go into
the living room so we can visit.
 
Your
son has always bragged about his family and I've wanted so much to get to know
you.”

           
“I couldn't, never, I mean, I'm more
comfortable in my night clothes, in my room.”
 

When Cassidy
scanned the confines, it was painfully obvious that there were no magazines, no
television, or radio.
 
Dear Lord, how did
Vera survive, she moaned, no wonder she was depressed.
 

Ignoring Vera’s
statement, moving toward the closet, Cassidy flung open the door.
 
Despite an outdated dreary wardrobe, “Let's
see, I like this one.
 
Don't you,” she
chirped plucking the brightest floral dress from a hanger.
  
Tugging at Vera's clothing, she gave no
thought to the possibility the garment might not fit all that mattered was that
it was cheerful.
 
Fifteen minutes later,
following a splash of perfume along with a dash of color on Vera's awe struck
lips, arm in arm they entered the living room.

“Mother,” Pamela
shrieked, looking as though she'd keel over any second.

“Doesn't she look
beautiful,” Cassidy prompted.

 
Wide eyed, Pam agreed, “Yes . . . Oh, yes
indeed.”
 

           
Towing Vera behind, boldly finding
the kitchen, as though she had the right, Cassidy began searching for a coffee
pot.
 
Speechless Pamela and Vera looked
on.
 
“I'm dying for a cup of coffee.
 
How about you,” she said brazenly while
opening the blinds, switching off the light, and shuffling through cabinets,
and drawers for the necessary ingredients.
 
With mummified expressions relaying their disbelief, the women sat at
the table.