Innocent Mistress

“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.