I glanced over at Charlie. He was either lost in thought or hypnotized by the shovels’ rhythmic cadence. The boys had jumped into the hole and were digging themselves down into the abyss. Down, down, down they sank, their sharp spades slicing through the spongey earth like spoons through dense chocolate cake. I could only see the tops of their heads now, bobbing up and down like buoys in a dark sea. Dirt sprayed out behind them like an angry wake, forming a mound that swelled in all directions, like bread dough when it rises. Finally, one of the shovels thumped against something hard. One of the boys kept digging, while the other scrambled out of the hole and grabbed a pair of nylon straps. I peered into the hole to watch as he worked the straps under the human-size wooden box, one strap at one end, one at the other. The boys worked together to cinch and secure the straps, then helped each other out of the hole. I marveled at their speed and coordination. It seemed we were not the first weirdos to exhume a loved one in the middle of the night, and I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or mortified.
The straps were attached to a winch, which one of them operated while the other steadied the load to keep it from swinging. As Winch Boy turned the crank, the coffin floated out of the hole like a moonrise, slow and steady against the black sky. Once aboveground, two sets of hands reached over and swung the box away from its crumbly trough, then eased it onto the earth by our feet. Stout Man offered a crowbar to one of the boys, who jammed it under the lid, then jumped on it to break the seal.
With a hollow pop that sounded like a jar of spaghetti sauce opening, the crowbar pierced the seal. The coffin lid shuddered as the boys stepped back and hung their heads. The stillness was terrifying. I half expected Mom’s bony fingers to slither out from under the lid, then throw it open to reveal her undead head. Would she be scowling? Or happy to see us?
When Mom did not pop out of her coffin on her own, our corpulent host took a step toward it.
“Shall I?” he asked.
He was looking at me, so I looked at Charlie, who bit his lip and nodded.
“Go ahead,” Nathan said, hunching forward for a better view.
The portly man bent over and lifted the lid.
I steeled myself, then took a tentative step closer.
I’d been scared to look at her, scared to be forever haunted by the image of her chalky dead face.
But when I peered inside, I didn’t see the ghastly visage of my dear departed mother. I saw something that scared me a whole lot worse.
PART 5
* * *
BEFORE
LOUISA & ASHLEY
CHAPTER 43
* * *
LOUISA
“Are you sure you want to do this?” my lawyer asked over the phone. I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled to get an urgent text from me at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but my struggling actress friend would be over soon for her “audition,” and I wanted to get this squared away before she arrived.
“Read that last part back to me,” I said. “The section about disinheriting my presumed heirs.”
He cleared his throat and read: “I have intentionally omitted all of my heirs and persons who are not specifically mentioned herein, and specifically disinherit each and every such person whomsoever claiming to be, or who may lawfully be determined to be, my heirs at law; to any person who is determined to be lawfully entitled to any part of my estate, I hereby give and bequeath to such person the sum of ten dollars and no more, in lieu of any other share and interest in my estate.”
“And that protects my chosen heir from anyone coming after her?” I asked.
“Yes. It sets their maximum reward at ten dollars.”
“So not worth the trouble.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“OK, prepare it for signing.”
“Are you absolutely sure about this, Louisa?” he asked again, and I rolled my eyes through the phone.
My greatest asset was that people underestimated me. Just because I called Nathan to come fix my computer didn’t mean I didn’t know how to do it myself. I was old and sick, but I wasn’t helpless. It just served me to sometimes let people think that I was.
Besides knowing how to swing a hammer and snake my kitchen sink, I had a vast repertoire of esoteric knowledge. I was very well read. I’m not talking the classics—Hemingway, Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens—though I’d read those, too. No, I was talking about more relevant, useful fare: namely, movie scripts.
In my job as a casting director, I read upward of twenty scripts per week—horror, drama, thriller, true crime, biopic, heist, rom-coms. Before Hollywood became overrun by superheroes, Hollywood screenwriters wrote about clever mortals who outwitted their adversaries without superpowers and a cape. They robbed banks （The Bank Job, The Town, Ocean’s Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen）， stole identities （Sneakers, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, The Talented Mr. Ripley）， and swindled unsuspecting rich people （Dirty Rotten Scoundrels）， bad people （The Usual Suspects）， and family members （Knives Out）。 Most of the stories were made up, but some of the best ones were true （Catch Me if You Can, Argo, Goodfellas）。 I admired the cunning of my on-screen counterparts. And I was ready to produce my own twisty caper that would rival the best of them.