Dance of the Bones

Of course, neither Jack nor Susan ever offered to drop by and stay with “poor Harold.” And the man wasn’t exactly on his own, either, since his live--in attendant—-what was her name again?—-was just a few steps away, at the call of a pager.

Ava could see that Harold was growing frailer by the day, and that was a problem. If Harold died—-make that when Harold died—-Ava needed to have her exit strategy completely in place. That was one thing she’d always prided herself on having—-an exit strategy. No matter what the circumstances, she was always prepared for the moment when she’d be forced to abandon ship.

Ten years earlier, when she’d nailed Harold, Ava had thought she’d finally found a ship she wouldn’t have to abandon. True, Alvira hadn’t been entirely cold in her grave before Ava made her move. But Harold was considered a great catch. If she hadn’t gone after him when she did, someone else certainly would have.

Harold was at the top of the heap in Tucson at the time, and not just in terms of housing. He was tall, handsome, and rich, and he hadn’t yet had either of his two debilitating strokes. Through a series of strategic marriages and at least one tactically brilliant divorce, Ava had been lucky enough to position herself on the fringes of Harold’s circle of friends. Younger than most of the other women in the group, she’d had beauty on her side, to say nothing of a sexual appetite Harold was determined to satisfy. He hadn’t been quite up to that task, but Ava was discreet about it. What the poor man didn’t know about his inadequacies couldn’t hurt him.

Ava had taken up with a somewhat older man, thirty years and counting, fully expecting that after putting in some time reveling in his lavish lifestyle, she’d be left to live out her days as a well--heeled widow. Harold had redone his will shortly after he and Ava married. His kids weren’t left out in the cold by any means, but neither was Ava. A short time later, however, his busybody son, Jack—-a lawyer himself—-had seen to it that the will was rewritten. This time the house and most of Harold’s assets were locked up in a complicated marital trust that didn’t exactly turn Ava into a pauper, but it meant putting a trustee—-who just happened to be one of Jack’s best buds—-in charge of her purse strings. The trust meant Ava wouldn’t be able to make a move on any of those assets—-including unloading that huge house in which she had a life tenancy, or even their getaway condo in San Carlos, Mexico—-without the trustee’s explicit, written permission. As far as Ava was concerned, that was the last straw. She had stopped playing Mother--May--I a long damned time ago!

That was when she began working on this most recent exit strategy. As she had fought her way up from the bottom of the heap, she had been careful not to burn any bridges. She didn’t send out Christmas cards to folks from her old life, but she still knew where useful -people were and how to get in touch with them. She remained friends with the -people she had enlisted to help dispose of the treasure trove she had lifted from Amos Warren’s storage locker. Even then, she had been smart enough to realize that she was dealing with top--drawer goods. With access to Amos Warren’s little black book, she’d been able to make sure she sold to only the best possible folks.

Ava had started out in the drug trade, back when trafficking had been a wildly profitable freelance operation—-back before the cartels got involved and smuggling became a far more dangerous and murderous occupation. She and a girlfriend, or a boyfriend as the case may be, would drive down to Nogales or Naco or Agua Prieta, smile and wave at the customs guy, and be back home with the goods, free and clear, in a jiffy. And she’d always been smart enough at it that she’d never been caught.