REMORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOR

by Charles Schaeffer

A driving August rain lashed Sam Hardcastle's office window as he settled behind his desk at 9 a.m. on the dot. He slipped off wet shoes and looked at the usual Friday morning crop of file folders spilling over the edge of his inbox -- records of suspected low-life insurance scams. Cars incinerated a fter owners reported them stolen. Diamond rings lost down sinks. After five years of nipping would-be fraud in the bud, Hardcastle figured, he could dream up a dozen better scams than the run of the mill stuff that came his way.

No doubt Margo was right the same morning when she left for work, glowering back with a parting shot: "They've got you figured as Mr. Scut Work. Base pay, three percent inflation raises. And that's my prediction for your future at Global Insurance."

If the job as a junior insurance investigator had any satisfaction, Hardcastle brooded, it was watching squirming schemers caught in the act of cheating The Company. As he reached with grim resignation for the top folder on the inbox pile, the phone rang. On the other end, Margo's voice came through with shrill insistence.

"You didn't see that article in today's paper, did you?" It was an accusation. Sam muttered no. "Well, it's about those long-lost relatives of yours."

Sam thought for an instant. "You mean rich uncle Mason Hardcastle and his wife."

"The article, which mentions he's the bankroll behind that National Racial Purity Foundation, says he's hospitalized with complications of the flu. Stable condition, dehydration. But that's not all. The article says his wife, your aunt, died just the other day. I didn't see an obituary, did you see one?"

It was all news to him, Sam sighed. "Well, they must have a will. You must be in it. They had no kids."

"Don't bet on an inheritance," he shot back. "Uncle Cedrick Hardcastle disowned my father, even before I was born. Mixing the races is what I heard over the years, because my mother came from India , the Bengali section. But never let it be said Uncle was undemocratic. All groups except WASPs were up to no good."

Margo held out. "You could visit the geezer in the hospital. Maybe he'd let you know whether you've got something coming. You know, take him chocolates, show concern. What have you got to lose?"

Sam was imagining the distasteful scene when Margo chimed in. "Hey, wait a minute. I've got the article right here. It says inquiries about Mason Hardcastle should be directed at the law firm of Gordon Lowry & Partners during his hospitalization. You once told me that's where one of your high school buddies ended up as a sort of paralegal."

"High school acquaintance, not buddy. You're talking about Ernie Gibbon. Yeah, Yale Law School . Skimmed big bucks from a widow's trust. Disbarred. Only a few other courthouse regulars and me know that. Ernie had friends in high places. So the whole thing was handled hush-hush, after he promised to make restitution. Ernie quietly let it be known he'd tired of his practice and wanted less stress. The Lowry firm took him on, pro bono, you might say, not quite a paralegal, but sort of a paid go-fer, cleared for background research."

Margo was humming out loud. "Don't you see it? He can snoop around, find out where you stand with the old man. Or do you want to lose a million to some nutball organization?"

Sam wondered what Margo was putting in her coffee. "Naw, I don't think so. He'd be too scared after all his trouble."

"Trouble," she sneered. "He's hasn't seen trouble. Think what the local rag could do with news about the coverup! I say, have a drink with Bernie Gibbon. Maybe he'll spill his guts about behind the scenes stuff at Lowry and Partners. And put that hospital visit on your schedule. Can't hurt to show a little compassion."

Sam Hardcastle glanced down at his hand, the one not holding the phone. A gold wedding band contrasted starkly with the flesh, dark, sort of a deep tan. That's what Sam had come to think of his skin as--tan-- the genetic gift from his mother. After hanging up, he rose and walked to a wall mirror. The reflection of his own face showed his father's angular nose and gray eyes, but then the giveaway, thick, raven hair like that of his mother's people. Now wouldn't a nephew of obvious mixed lineage be a soothing bedside influence on bedridden Uncle Cedrick? What the hell, Sam thought at length, if he didn't humor Margo she'd never let him forget it.

Noon Friday, Sam, slumped in an out-of-the-way booth at the Twin Peaks Bar and Grill, watched Ernie Gibbon nervously make his way through the barroom gloom. "Long time no see," Sam said, half rising to shake hands. Gibbon smiled thinly and slid onto the leather-covered bench. Sam ordered scotch and water, Bernie a coke, confirmation that he was steering clear of the stuff that sent him to the minors.

After the drinks came and they exchanged tentative pleasantries about the old days, Bernie approached the bench of his past, waving legalities. He didn't like this out-of-school talk about business in the practice,particularly the will of a living person. "I understand that," Sam reassured him, "but as I said when I called you at home, Margo thinks we may be aced out of what's rightfully ours by that Purity foundation if the old man doesn't survive. All we need to know is whether I'm the heir. I can keep her from blabbing about your past problems. And, if it turns out right, don't forget a big chunk of change could be coming your way."

Bernie Gibbon shook his head in dismay at his quandary. " It's not that simple," he whispered, glancing furtively around the room. You're in the will, I know for a fact. But whether you stay I don't know. That's the way it adds up from office gossip, anyway."

Sam frowned.

Bernie continued, explaining that his boss, Gordon Lowry, was the attorney of record in drawing up Mason Hardcastle's will. It all went back forty years, about the time Sam was born. Mason Hardcastle's wife, Violet, never crossed him, but she'd stood firm on this point, insisting that the young Sam be named as an heir, even though Hardcastle had disowned not only your father, but another brother, now deceased, who married a Sioux who is still living somewhere in the Southwest with a son from that marriage.

Bernie wound up, declaring that none of this would have mattered, except the old man right after his wife's death snuck around Lowry, headed for the bank, which is the executor, and informed an official he wanted to change his will. . "That's where it stands," Gibbon said with finality.

At dinner Margo toyed with her meal and swept back her brown hair as she cross-examined Sam. "You are in the will, but you're almost sure he'll take you out," she repeated, perplexed. "He can't do that."

"He can do anything he damn well pleases," Sam said with irritation.

She picked at a piece of parsley. "What about my idea? Visit him in the hospital. He's never laid eyes on you by his own choosing. It'll be like--like a reconciliation...."

"Yeah, then he sees me, the living reminder of a mixed marriage, the bane of his existence."

Margo placed two eggs sunny-side up in front of Sam at breakfast. Clasping a coffee cup between her hands, she sat down opposite her husband. "I didn't sleep all that much," she complained. "But I got an idea. Your uncle favors white Europeans. So be a white European."

Sam put down his fork and stared at her quizzically.

"It's all in the trick of makeup, Margo explained. We'll buy a decent brown wig, covering your sideburns, then I do a skin-lightening job on your face and hands. Nothing kooky, just enough to cover up the Calcutta look." She reminded him that the old man was hospitalized at death's door and couldn't see well at his age, anyway. What the makeover would create is a nephew, who looked more like his father than his Indian mother. The illusion, Margo reasoned, might be enough to make Sam an okay heir, after all.

Sam grumbled about the way he looked in the wig Margo bought. A skin-lightener, purchased, at her beauty parlor, toned down Sam's dark skin, leaving him short of white, but with a tanned, outdoorsy look. A snappy pair of aviator spectacles capped the makeover.

Taking Margo's cue to visit the old man before Uncle Cedrick had a chance to act on the will, Sam made a Saturday visit, knocking on the frame of the half-open door, then poking cautiously in.

A rubber IV tube ran from a bottle into the old man's arm. He was awake, but wore the weary expression of the ill. Sam glanced at the report fastened to foot of the bed. "Electrolyte imbalance. Slow drip saline solution."

"My nephew, eh?" Mason Hardcastle rasped after Sam's introduced himself. Sam made appropriate sympathetic noises about his Uncle's plight and the recent death of his wife.

"I know it's been a long time," Sam went on, following Margo's script, hoping the respsone lines would stay on track.

"Maybe forty years," his uncle retorted. "You look American. Didn't expect that."

"American?"

"Well, more like my brother, your father, his color not your Indian mother." There was nothing sinister in the pronunciation of "Indian" as Sam might have expected. Mason Hardcastle went on: "They tell me you're married, but no children. I remember hearing your mother and father are gone."

Sam nodded. He didn't expect the subject of his uncle's will to come up. And he knew better than to mention it. Still, his mind kept critiquing his act. Was his switchover to a European worthy enough to reserve his place in the will?

Sam made an offer to help his uncle in any way, then, excusing himself to avoid tiring the old man, backed from the room, promising another visit, if it was wanted. From his Uncle's body language, Sam couldn't tell whether the answer was yes or no, but the old man raised his arm in the feeble motion of a hand shake. Surprised, Sam shook the partly-extended hand.

Later, at home, Sam faced an inquisitorial Margo: "Well, did it work?"

"Yeah, he figured I was more my father than my mother. But that don't tell us about Uncle Cedrick's intent."

"Your pal, Bernie Gibbon, at the law firm--he'll know what's going on between your uncle and his lawyer."

"Not my buddy," Sam said with exasperation. "He's only good for so much of this grilling."

Margo smirked. "As much as we want him to be good for, if he wants so stay off the front page. Now I'll help you take off that skin lightener." She tired after returning his face to its natural darkness. "Here, you take the cleanser," she added. "You can do your own hands."

Bernie's voice on the other the end of the line hissed into Sam's ear. "I can't talk to you from the office, even if it's on my cell phone on Saturday. Look, I'm headed out to lunch. I'll meet you in City Park, by that Grover Cleveland statue."

Bernie was sitting on a bench when Sam arrived. Sam said nothing about the European-persona hospital visit, but asked whether there had been any movement on the will.

Bernie squirmed. "I don't think you realize the risk I'm taking by snooping around and eavesdropping. Anyway, it's not what you want to hear. A brief phone call between my boss and Mason Hardcastle at the hospital made it sound official. The old man has asked the executor at the bank to bring papers to the hospital Monday so he can change the will."

"Monday, that's today after tomorrow," Sam Hardcastle murmured.

Margo was livid when Sam told her the news. "You must have put on one lousy performance for your Uncle," she said. "Now we can count on working until we drop." She looked Sam squarely in the eye. "How sick was the old man?" she demanded.

"Looked pretty sick."

"Maybe sick enough to pass away in the hospital as tons of patients do. Ever read the newspaper stories about hospital mistakes?" She scowled in thought. "You said he was rigged up to a saline drip bottle, looked white as his bed sheets."

Sam Hardcastle slumped into a worn wing chair, a look of weary resignation on his face from Margo's nonstop goading. "You're thinking about the drip bottle" Sam said. "It's for electrolyte imbalance, whatever that is."

Margo brightened. "I know something about that. My sister, Wilma, was on one. The drip almost stopped, dangerous for the body's electrolytes. Fatal if it goes on too long, The alarm didn't work right. But I was there when she started going out of her head. Got the nurse just in time."

She leaned closer to Sam's face. "What if the old man's machine acts up and nobody gets there in time?

"So I'm going back in my wig and do the deed?" Sam said defensively.

"Don't be stupid. You're going back as a doc in green scrubs and mask. And I know just the costume store to pick up the outfit."

Sam Hardcastle found himself rationalizing the plan. Hadn't his father had been unjustly disowned?. The only other possible heir was some distant cousin nobody in the family ever heard of. His uncle was old, had a rich full life, and that wacko racial purity organization would only squander the money.

Sunday was a popular hospital visiting day, but only one figure turned the corridor to visit the sick and eccentric Mason Hardcastle, drowsing in his private room. When Sam, uniformed in green scrubs and surgical mask stepped in, the old man became aware of movement, and half turned and grunted," Uhh, ah, doctor, I've been ringing for a nurse and nobody answers."

"I'll see to that in a few minutes," Sam said through the mask. "Right now, I need to adjust this drip solution." With his surgical-gloved hand, Sam switched off the alarm and turned a valve, cutting the volume of the fluid though the tube. After five minutes, Mason Hardcastle began to thrash about and moan. Within another ten minutes, the thrashing stopped. Sam took his uncle's pulse. Nothing. Simpler than even Margo had predicted.

Sam turned the valve back to its original setting, reset the alarm, and quickly exited the room, hurrying down the corridor. He heard a female voice behind him call out to him: "Oh doctor, are you here about patient Murphy in 202?"

Without turning and still speaking through the surgical mask, Sam answered, "No, no, you want the doctor on call. I'm on the way to surgery--already late...."

"We're rich," Margo crowed upon hearing the news from Sam.

For the first time since the plot was hatched, Sam half-smiled and accepted the notion of a largesse to come. Margo and Sam went to work, as usual, Monday morning, sticking to the norm to avoid arousing suspicion.

Around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Sam's phone rang. "Hardcastle," he said.

Bernie Gibbon was on the line, anxiety in his voice. "I'm on my cell phone in the park where I can't be overheard. I'm speaking to you for the last time on this matter. Then I want off the hook. Your uncle Mason Hardcastle died yesterday in the hospital."

Sam, no actor, as his hospital-visit performance proved, tried to feign surprise: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear it. He must have been sicker than the doctors thought."

"Maybe not that simple," Bernie said.

"Not that simple?" Sam repeated in disbelief.

"The medical staff couldn't believe its IV machine could go that wrong. Asked for an investigation. It's already pretty far along, since a nurse came forth and reported seeing a man in scrubs hurrying from your uncle's room."

"Sure, a doctor on call, maybe an intern or resident. What's surprising about that?"

"Somebody must have thought it was. Hospital staff, in cooperation with a city detective, has turned up a set of scrubs and mask in a basement laundry room.."

"Not unusual," Sam insisted, a lump forming in his throat.

"Except they aren't hospital-issue garments. Came from some costume shop. But that's not the real point."

"I hope so. Not much of a point."

"Maybe not. But this is. A preliminary police-lab analysis shows traces of a chemical on the sleeves. The substance is the same stuff found on your uncle's hand. Police told my boss it's some kind of make-up, or skin lightener, worn by someone who touched your uncle's hand."

"Could have been a visitor."

"True enough," Bernie agreed. "The odd part is, he only had one visitor, according to a staffer at the nurse station. Said he was Hardcastle's nephew, but that's weird, because the person had brown hair and light skin. Must have been an impostor. But why?"

Sam glanced down at his sweating palm. "Sounds like a real puzzler."

"But not for long, the detective told Mr. Lowry. "Investigators are running a check of stores and beauty parlors. They figure it won't take them long to locate the origin and track the buyer."

"Not long," Sam repeated.

"It'll clear up things, you'll be glad to hear," Bernie continued. "But the bad part of all this for you is the will. Right after the fake nephew visitor left, Mason Hardcastle called in the bank Executor Saturday night, instead of waiting till Monday, and changed his will on the spot."

Sam felt encased in searing hot blankets. "But I thought...."

"Surprise, the money doesn't go to the Racial Purity Foundation, either. The Executor made a statement to the police. Money and worldly goods are going to another relative, a nephew born to an American Indian woman, the wife of your other uncle. He's deceased. She's living in the Southwest. The requirement in the will is that the nephew be dark-skinned and he is. Someone had a snapshot faxed in."

"There's got to be a mistake." Sam protested.

"Not about that," Bernie corrected. "Mason Hardcastle, in fast-failing health, recanted his past biases--they used to call them deathbed conversions. To make up for a lifetime of prejudice and guilt, he chose that half-Indian relative as sole heir. Too bad he didn't know you were dark-skinned. You would have shared the fortune."