by E B Corbin
That proposition left her no choice— she’d rather be broken-hearted than played for a fool. No more trying to fit in where she could never belong. No more brown-nosing in-laws who rejected her every attempt to connect. No more trying to make her mark in the Orleans Parish District Attorney’s office.
She left her husband, but kept his name. Right or wrong, she felt Roxanne Boudreaux looked more impressive on a business card than Roxanne O’Reilly.
She returned to Pittsburgh to start life anew as a tax attorney in a city where her dual degrees counted more than her familial pedigree. She found a good fit at Tucker, Jones and Steinmetz and a good ally in Richard Andrews, a litigator at the same firm.
Or she had considered him a good companion until this moment.
Richard rubbed her arms and tried to pull her close.
She shook him off. “Leave me alone.”
“Roxanne, please try to understand. I never meant for it to be like this. I planned to explain everything to you today. I… I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Before she had a chance to say anything, a well-stacked blonde strolled out of the master bedroom dragging a wheeled carry-on behind her. “I have your clothes packed, but you might want to check I didn’t miss—” Stephanie, Richard’s assistant from the law firm, stopped dead when she noticed Roxanne. “Oh… you’re back early.”
“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus.”
“Well, uh, I’ll just get the rest of the suitcases.” Stephanie turned toward Richard and rolled her eyes with an exaggerated shrug. “Have you told her yet?”
“Some.” Richard kept his voice steady and his back straight. “Why don’t you finish what you were doing, and I’ll finish here?”
Roxanne held up her hands and took a deep breath to check the inclination to use her kickboxing training—an outside foot sweep would knock Stephanie on her tight little ass. Instead, she focused her loathing on Richard. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re past finished. Keep packing, you bastard, I’m outta here.” She stopped midway to the door and swung around. “But if anything of mine is missing when I return, you and the bitch will be sorry!”
In her anger and grief, she stumbled into the same box that had blocked her entrance as she executed a less than dignified exit. No way would she hang around here with uber-bitch Stephanie in her bedroom. Her bedroom! She always saw Stephanie as a conniving little shit, and now she had no doubt.
When a neighbor from the fifth floor joined her in the lethargic elevator, Roxanne kept a tight rein on her facial features. They smiled, nodded at each other, two women going about their Saturday chores, as usual. Both silently stared at the lit numbers while the metal cage poked its way downward. She managed another slight nod as the neighbor exited in the lobby, then she continued down to the parking area alone.
Wind howled through the cement pillars, sending icy fingers through her peacoat as she took refuge in the Lexus. She pounded the steering wheel so hard she feared she might break it. The tears running down her cheeks would freeze if she didn’t turn on the heater soon.
How did she not see the writing on the condo wall?
Dammit, she couldn’t let this impact her work! Somehow she’d get through the week without alerting the other attorneys to the fact that she’d been dumped. They all knew Richard and would note his absence. She’d have to face their feigned sympathy, sooner or later. Just not right now. Taking a day or two to recuperate shouldn’t erase five years of hard work and devotion as far as the partnership was concerned—at lease she hoped not.
Now what to do? Where to go? Richard and the skank still lurked in her condo. She refused to return to her parents’ place with her heart in her hand. Lauren, her closest friend at the law firm, scattered rumors through the company grapevine like a tornado flinging cows across Kansas. Roxanne rejected the chance to feed her friend’s curiosity.
Fuck it. She needed to get out of town. She wiped her runny nose on her coat sleeve, then dug through her purse for her phone and the unexpected letter.
CHAPTER TWO
A machine answered her call to Patterson’s office. “Hello. You’ve reached the law office of Patterson and Associates. Sorry we’re unable to answer your call at this time. Please leave a detailed message, and we will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a good day.” Beeeeeep…
That was it. No number to phone after hours for an emergency. Well, perhaps he checked his messages often enough he didn’t miss important calls. Maybe people in Oilville had no emergencies.
Roxanne told the machine she’d like to meet with him around two o’clock today, Saturday, if possible. She would only be in town for a short time, so please call her to confirm. She left her mobile number on his machine and programmed the attorney’s contact info into her Bluetooth system then crammed the letter into her messenger bag.
Hoping he called back soon, Roxanne punched the button for her private office line. Two rings, then a brisk, “Good morning, Tucker, Jones and Steinmetz. Roxanne Boudreaux’s office, Anne Miller speaking. How may I help you?”
Her assistant sounded pleasant and professional even on what should have been a day off. Roxanne hated to ask Anne to work overtime, knowing Anne had her hands full as a single parent of three kids, but with the partnership vote coming up, Roxanne needed her support.
“Anne, it’s me. Hey, listen, I hate to do this to you. I’m afraid I won’t make it in today. Something’s come up. A family matter.”
“Is everything all right? What can I do?”
“Nothing, thanks, it’s just a little, uh, thing I need to handle. Sorry I asked you to give up your Saturday.”
“Don’t worry about it. With Christmas coming, I can use the extra money.”
Remembering Anne got overtime pay, unlike herself, Roxanne felt better about having Anne come in on a weekend. “Since you’re there anyway, you can pull a few cases for me. The names are on the yellow pad on my desk. I think there are around ten of them, but if you don’t get them all, don’t worry. Put in as much time as you want, and I’ll sign off on your hours. Is Eric in, by any chance?”
Eric Munroe was a new hire, coming off ten years with the Internal Revenue Service. A slim man with a slight paunch and thinning light-brown hair, he never struck Roxanne as particularly aggressive, but his insider’s knowledge of the governmental bureau proved invaluable. She hoped he could assist with the pretrial memorandum for the case she’d inherited from Duane Linden, the current managing partner.
But the amount of disputed tax had to be paid before filing in District Court, so Duane petitioned for a change of venue to have the matter heard in Tax Court. His client could thus avoid parting with the cash any sooner than necessary. Since Lincoln Enterprises did not have a reasonable explanation for the tax exemption they were trying to claim, Roxanne felt Tax Court constituted a Hail-Mary attempt to delay payment.
And a foolhardy one at that. With ambiguous or tricky tax matters, the US District Court judges were not as proficient in tax law as the Tax Court judges. District Court was obviously the best place for this particular dispute. When no one seemed to agree with her, she decided not to stir the pot with a partner as influential as Duane Linden, so she didn’t even try to talk him out of it. Hence, they aimed for Tax Court.
However, attorneys had to apply for admission to practice before the Tax Court, and Duane had never applied. So he palmed it off to her. She’d rather not deal with it either, so she hoped to pass as much off to Eric as possible.
“I saw Eric in the break room earlier,” Anne told her. “I think he’s still here.”
“Please give him the cases you’re pulling and ask him to review them to see if they might apply to the Lincoln matter. He can leave them on my desk when he’s done. In the meantime, send me PDFs of the cases. I might have time today to look over them.” Thankfully, she’d stuck her laptop in her messenger bag before she left the condo this morning.
“OK, will do. Anything else?”
“That’s
it for now. If I think of something, I’ll contact you.”
Anne added, “Oh, by the way, Duane Linden asked for you a little while ago.”
“What does he want?”
“Didn’t say, just poked his nose in and to see if you were around. I told him you’d be in soon. What should I tell him if he comes back?
“Tell him you haven’t seen me,” Roxanne said. “Don’t know where I am.”
Duane knew he’d dumped the project on her with barely enough time to prepare. She didn’t need him breathing down her neck, and she certainly didn’t need his input on tax law when he survived strictly as a corporate legal hound.
“Will do,” Anne agreed without hesitation.
Roxanne asked, “Anything else I should know?”
“I don’t think so. Do you want me to come in tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll be in tomorrow to take care of anything outstanding. Don’t think I’ll need you. Enjoy the day with your family, and I’ll see you on Monday.”
Roxanne hit the end button and started the car. She had to get out of the parking lot before Richard or the skank came down to load his SUV. Hopefully, Patterson would call soon so she could accomplish something positive today. She punched his address into the GPS.
◆◆◆
The directions led her from McArdle Roadway to the Liberty Bridge and then onto a bunch of confusing ramps until she navigated to the Fort Duquesne Bridge and headed north. Around two o’clock, she took an exit off I-79 with still forty miles to go according to the little electronic marvel on her dash. Most of the roads appeared as two-lane state routes so she’d be late if Patterson agreed to meet at two. She crossed a bridge over the Allegheny River, surprised the river she could see from her condo started so far north.
At the end of the bridge, she hit redial on the Bluetooth catching Patterson’s generic greeting again. She hung up without leaving another message. Damn, she hoped she didn’t make this trip in vain.
Forty-five minutes later, while driving down the hill into the town center, she spotted a diner with a parking lot full of cars. Her stomach growled, reminding her the energy from the coffee at her mother’s this morning wore thin a couple of hours ago. Might as well try the diner. With the number of cars outside, it should have decent food.
After two laps through the parking lot, she found a space near the rear of the stainless-steel structure. The shiny glass and art-deco accents made the place look like an original from the 1950s. Only as she dragged herself out of the car, did she notice the diner’s name in faux-neon atop the building: Roxy’s Diner. Below it, smaller: Eat.
The interior revealed a cheerful atmosphere, bigger than it appeared from the road. Men in camouflage jackets and pants, a few with orange vests hanging loose around generous bellies, filled every red-vinyl seat at the counter. Baseball caps symbolizing sports teams in Western PA covered their heads. Steelers, Penguins, and Pirates were represented, as well as Cabela’s and Dick’s Sporting Goods.
Roxanne saw a family with two pre-teen children vacating a booth near the far corner and grabbed it. If she felt a bit guilty for taking a whole booth, all remorse left her mind when her rumbling stomach detected the mouth-watering aroma saturating the air. Before she could slide to the middle of the seat and grab a menu from the stack between the sugar shaker and window, a waitress appeared with pad in hand.
The woman held her pen poised. “What can I get ya, hon?”
“I’ll have coffee to start, please. And I need a minute to look at the menu.”
“Sure, go right ahead, but I should warn ya, we’re outta lots of stuff right now. Our food order was late goin’ in yesterday, and it’s been a crazy day.” The waitress waved her pen to indicate the packed booths and tables.
“Is there something you’d recommend,” Roxanne asked, checking the name tag on the woman’s left breast, “Patti?”
The copper red of Patti’s teased hair never came naturally and clashed with her bright-red uniform. Combined with the hard lines etched in her thin face, the small tattoos on her wrist and neck accentuated sinewy muscles, and made the woman look bad-assed, a female wrestler trapped in a skirt. Not someone Roxanne wanted to meet in a dark alley. In contrast, the short, A-line flair of the uniform resembled a classic standard for small-town waitresses sixty years ago, something not often seen in the twenty-first century.
The diner itself typified a throw-back: black and white floor tiles, gray Formica tabletops, and a miniature jukebox at every booth. A large Wurlitzer dominated the far corner. Roxanne hadn’t seen one of those since she was a kid. Still everything appeared clean and sparkling, giving the impression its nostalgic ambience was intentional and treasured. Individual cereal boxes, arranged in alphabetical order, lined the wall behind the counter. Five different varieties of pie sat in a circular glass case, looking homemade and delicious.
The red-haired waitress cut into Roxanne’s study of her surroundings. “The cheeseburgers are a big seller, and the fries are the best in town.”
“Sounds good.” Roxanne put aside the menu.
The waitress stared at Roxanne instead of writing the order.
“Is something wrong? Are you out of fries?”
“No, um, no, not at all. It’s just that, um, you kinda look like someone. Kinda, ‘cept younger, ya know? The owner of this place had those same kinda turquoise-y eyes and dark hair.” Patti shook her head and scribbled on the order pad. “Sorry, just sorta got carried away for a minute.”
“So, Roxy is the owner’s name?” Roxanne pointed to the name printed at the top of the menu.
“Yeah, that was her.” Patti looked at her shoes.
“It’s my name too. Except I’ve always been called Roxanne. My mother never let me shorten it.”
“Oh my God! You’re Roxanne? You’re Roxy’s niece? Roxy always talked of you. Said you’d graduated from a fancy school somewhere down south. She was sure proud of you.” Patti’s eyes clouded. “Too bad you never came to visit when she was alive.”
“It would have been nice, except I didn’t know she existed until this morning.” Roxanne kept her voice firm and her eyes on Patti. She didn’t know why she felt guilty but she did. Damn, her mother! Why didn’t she ever mention her sister? Why did Roxanne have to find information on her aunt from strangers?
“Well, that’s just plain, ol’ weird. She sure knew about you.” Patti glanced at the other tables, the hardness gone from her face. “Let me put in your order, and since it’s soon time for my break, we can chat.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
Patterson still hadn’t returned her call, but if nothing else, she could learn a few things relating to her aunt so it wouldn’t turn into a completely wasted trip.
Once Patti brought her cup, Roxanne sipped the exceptionally good coffee for a diner in the middle of nowhere. If the food turned out to be even half as good, she could understand the popularity of the place.
Without being obvious, she surveyed the customers. Besides the hunters at the counter, families and couples occupied the booths. A group of men in the larger corner booth shouted among themselves in a friendly conversation, laughing at the foibles of old age. She counted ten booths to the right of the entrance and the same to the left, with fifteen stools at the long counter. Tables for four occupied the space at the far-left of the counter—filled with people eating, talking, laughing.
A print of Hopper’s ‘Nighthawks’ hung by itself on the back wall, one of her favorites. She claimed no aesthetic knowledge of art but the painting intrigued her every time she came across it—the same way this diner did.
The place oozed character and appeared profitable, still Roxanne couldn’t see herself owning it.
“Here’s your burger.” Patti slid the sandwich and fries at her. “You want a Coke to go with it?”
“No, thanks, just water.”
Patti signaled to another waitress as she slid into the booth across from Roxanne. “Snukie, glass of water here.”
“It looks as if business is good,” Roxanne started.
“Yeah, it’s not bad. By four it’ll be dead though. Still it’s better than not being busy at all. So, you wanna hear about Roxy?”
“That would be nice. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“You just stumbled on this place by accident?”
“Sort of. I came here to talk to an attorney, Ralph Patterson. You know him?”
“Sure, everybody ’round here knows ole Patterson. He’s one of the two attorneys in town.” Patti frowned before continuing, her tone sharp. “You think ya have some kinda inheritance or somethin’? You never bothered with Roxy in the past, so what makes ya think she left ya anything?”
“The letter from Ralph Patterson.” Roxanne hid her surprise at the change in Patti’s attitude. “He wants to meet with me. I honestly don’t know what’s in the will.”
“Well, I’ve been pesterin’ old man Patterson to post the will to the public record, excep’ he keeps puttin’ me off—tellin’ me it’s none of my business. I kinda figure it’s my business since I’m the one keepin’ this place open. You here to stake your claim?” Patti’s gray eyes turned icy as she stared into Roxanne.
“I have no idea why I’m here, and I haven’t heard back from him yet.”
The waitress seemed to relax. “Oh, that’s because Ralphie-boy’s bowlin’ league has a match this afternoon. He’ll probably call you soon as it’s over.”
“I hoped to return Pittsburgh today. I’m not sure how long I can wait around for him.”
Patti shrugged. “So ya think Roxy left this place to you?”
Roxanne hesitated. “It’s possible…maybe.”
“Well, it sure would be good to know what’s gonna happen here. I can’t be runnin’ my ass off, excuse the French, not knowin’ who’s gonna pay the bills. I figure Roxy didn’t plan on gettin’ shot n’ all, still she could have left some better instructions for that damn lawyer. He’s just like all the rest of the shysters, coverin’ his ass. And poor Tom Madison waiting to hear what to do with the farm. We need to find out somethin’ soon.”