Well, that was it for me. After reading that description, I knew in my gut poor Charles Charpentier had been one of those “suckers.” I knew, in my gut, he hadn’t set the fire that claimed his family. Giuseppe Benvenuto had. But, obviously, a gut feeling wasn’t going to be enough. I knew I needed to find unquestionablefacts.
When I tried to track down the professional co-writer of the Henry Flannery biography, I learned he’d died a decade ago. But, lucky for me, his adult daughter—a professor at Cornell—was more than happy to chat with me on the phone and relay to me all the detailed stories her beloved, and very talkative, father had told her about the legendary mobster, Henry Flannery.
According to the co-writer’s daughter, ninety-five percent of Shamrock’s clients were dummy profiles with bank accounts controlled by Henry or one of his family members. Only five percent of Shamrock’s client roster was comprised of real people—poor saps Henry counted on, without their knowledge, to prove his company’s legitimacy, if needed. Over the years, on the rare occasion when one of Shamrock’s few real clients filed an actual property claim, the company always denied it on whatever grounds. And then, as necessary, bribed someone at the Insurance Commission to rule in Shamrock’s favor on the claim, if the client persisted.
As Giuseppe correctly surmised, however, this strategy didn’t work wheneverylegitimate client filed a claim, all at once. As the co-writer’s daughter explained to me, “There’s only so much greasing the skids a mobster can do before peoplenoton the take, whether at the Insurance Commission or NYPD, started noticing suspicious irregularities. That’s what wound up happening, and ultimately took Henry down. Someonenoton the take at the Insurance Commission noticed a whole bunch of denied claims, all at once, and picked up the phone to call a detectivefriend at NYPD. And the rest is history. Law enforcement saw a way to finally get their man.”
By the time I hung up the phone with the co-writer’s daughter, I knew I wasthisclose to hitting the motherlode. But, still, I needed additional facts. I neededproof.So,I asked my investigator, Carla, to research any house fires that might have occurred during the same week as the Charpentier fire, in any “rich suburbs” near New York City. And when Carla got back to me on that task, I knew I’d finally hit the motherlode. I’d proved Charles Charpentier was innocent.
As it turned out, there were no less thaneightother house fires within forty-eight hours of the Charpentier fire, in eight different nearby suburbs outside of New York City. Some in New York state. Others in New Jersey and Connecticut. But all within an hour of New York City.
“And do you know what company insured allninehomes that burned down, including your family’s?” I ask, looking into Eleanor’s dark brown eyes. “Shamrock Insurance.”
I wait, expecting a “wow!” reaction from Eleanor. But she’s still too shell-shocked to speak.
Reed says, “Do you understand, Mom? Your family’s home was burned down as part of Giuseppe Benvenuto’s revenge against Henry Flannery. Your family, and eight others, were unwittingly caught in the middle of a war between rival mobsters.”
“Yes, I understand,” Eleanor says softly. “Thank you for figuring this out, Georgina.”
I nod. “I’m so glad I was able to get a definitive answer.”
“Was anybody else hurt in the other fires?”
“Yes. One family lost two members. Another lost one.”
Eleanor’s face contorts. She looks down. And we’re all silent for a long moment, paying our respect to the poor souls lost.
Finally, Eleanor lifts her head. “I need to change this week’s painting. I need to move my father in the scene. He should be standing next to my mother—in this painting, and every future one.” She looks at Reed. “Can you and Georgina come back to see the revised painting in a few days?”
“No, Mom,” Reed says gently. “From here, Georgina and I are flying to Italy, remember? If you don’t want us to see this week’s painting,as is, that’s fine. We’ll see whatever masterpiece you’ve painted the next time we visit.”
“No, no, you have to seethispainting. I made it especially because I knew Georgina was coming.” She stands and offers her hand to me, which I take, and then begins leading me out of the game room. “Promise me, when you look at this painting, you’ll imagine my father standing next to my mother, with a big smile on his handsome face.”
101
REED
At the shocking sight of my mother’s latest painting, I inhale a sharp breath.She’s painted something different this time.I mean, not entirely. In some essential ways, this scene is the same as all those that came before: an idyllic setting—this one, a seashore—featuring Mom and me, and Mom’s many loved ones lost, who are all busy frolicking and making merry.
Other than those general similarities, however, this particular painting is strikingly different than its countless predecessors. For one thing, my mother has painted herself at her present age. With gray hair. For the first time, ever, not as a young mother enjoying a picnic with her two young sons.
Also, Oliver isn’t tethered to Mom’s hip, as usual. This time, for the first time, Mom has allowed the poor kid to run off and play. Specifically, Oliver is throwing a beachball with Mom’s youngest sister, down by the water’s edge.
Shockingly, I’m not sitting on Mom’s blanket, either. And I’m not a little kid. For the first time, she’s painted me as a grown man. I’m standing on the sand, wearing a tuxedo, and doing something that makes my head explode: exchanging wedding vows with a beautiful brunette who’s clad in a simple white gown and bridal veil.
It’s a good news, bad news situation, obviously. On one hand, I’melated and relieved tofinallysee something newin an Eleanor Rivers Original. It’s huge progress. A welcome respite from the usual madness. On the other hand, though, I feel like I’m going to stroke out with my rising panic. Of all the days for my mother to have a massive breakthrough, she had to do it by painting me in a wedding scene with Georgina on the very day I’m whisking Georgina off to Sardinia to propose marriage to her?Way to steal my thunder, Mom! Now, when I propose to Georgina on that beach at sunset, she’s going to think this painting forced my hand! Or, at least, that it gave me the idea. Hell, Georgina might even think I only asked her to marry me to win my mother’s long-withheld approval and love.
Mom is presently babbling about where she wants to relocate her father in the scene, but I’m not listening. My mind is racing far too much to focus on her words.This is a catastrophe.I look at Georgina and it’s clear the elephant in the room is sitting on Georgina’s chest, every bit as much as it’s sitting on mine.
“And what do you think about yourselves in the painting?” Mom says, looking mischievous.
Georgina looks at me, wide-eyed and rendered mute, so I say, “We look great, Mom. And so do you. I love your gray hair. Have you shown this one to Dr. Pham?”
“Yes. She liked it. She said I should keep painting myself, and you, too, as we are in the present. And she also liked that I included Georgina.”
“So do I,” I say.
“Thank you for including me,” Georgina manages to say brightly. But her gaiety sounds forced to me. “I’m honored.”
