Dumpster Dying

by Lesley A. Diehl

  He swept pudgy fingers through his coiffed white mane, then took her hand in his and shook it. To her surprise it was not at all like grabbing a dead fish as she expected, but more like holding warm, overcooked lasagna. And his palm felt a little sticky. Perhaps from the hairspray?

  She took the chair in front of his desk and tried to look optimistic, but Palatier made her feel uncomfortable. His stare came to rest on her blouse. Emily wondered if he was looking at the condiment stain or her breasts. Either way, he couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. She leaned forward so her chin was barely above the top of his desk. He had nothing to focus on except her face now.

  “I’m afraid the news is not good,” he said. “I spoke with Mrs. Costa’s lawyer.”

  Emily corrected him. “The former Mrs. Costa.”

  “Right. The former Mrs. Costa’s lawyer and I agree. The will is valid. You told me that to your knowledge Fred never made another will, although the two of you discussed it at times. Her lawyer says she is prepared to fight you for the house here and anything else in his estate.” He began doodling on a legal pad.

  Anger suffused her, making her cheeks burn and her heart pound. “Good God. Why would she do that? She’s married an orthodontist who makes more money each year than Fred did in his lifetime. She certainly doesn’t need the pittance his will would offer her.”

  “She maintains that it is for Fred’s children—the two boys.”

  “She’s lying. Fred gave his sons a substantial present of cash over the past ten years, ten thousand dollars a year to each one of them. And more. Loans, gifts. He was generous.”

  “Can you substantiate that?” he asked.

  “I’ll pull out Fred’s bank accounts and his tax records.” She slid back into her chair. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. This was going to be more difficult than she thought. “Do you think that’ll make a difference?”

  “It might,” said Palatier. He stifled a yawn with his hand, a diamond pinky ring twinkling in the sunlight.

  “Mr. Palatier, tell me something. Are you interested in this case?”

  He dropped his pen and tilted his chair back.

  “This is a small estate,” he said, “and my percentage of recovery, should I make a case for your inheriting it we’ve agreed, is thirty percent. Of course, I’m interested in your getting your share of the estate, but it’s difficult to argue your rights when the two of you never married.”

  Emily watched as he righted his chair and slid a document in front of him. He looked at it with intense concentration. Reading it with her usual upside-down skills, she determined it was merely an ad from the local western wear store.

  “I thought perhaps the court might see me as a common-law-wife.”

  “That’s difficult to establish, especially here.”

  “Here?” Emily was confused. “Here, you mean as in this community?” Palatier slid a notepad from under the document and began writing.

  “Ah, yes, what was I saying? This community. We are dealing with a very conservative town where living together no matter for how long is not viewed as any kind of real commitment.”

  “And how do you think of it?” Emily asked. She was beginning to feel a fire working its way up her chest and into her head. And she was sure it was not a hot flash.

  “My feelings are irrelevant,” he said.

  “No. They are not. I think they, along with your cut of the estate, pretty much dictate how hard you’ll work on this case.” She sat up straighter, hands gripping the arm rests of her chair.

  He sprang out of his seat, his liver-like lips quivering, flapping. “See here, Ms. Rhodes, you’ve got no right. . .”

  “Yeah, it seems in your book I’ve got no rights at all.”

  Palatier regathered his composure. He sat again and leaned into the leather back of the chair, his hands tented in front of his mouth. “I’m wondering whether we’re a good match. I don’t handle criminal matters, you see.”

  “But this is an estate, a will, not a criminal matter.” Emily paused, then it hit her. “Oh, you mean because I’m a suspect in Davey’s murder, is that it?”

  “You’re innocent until proven guilty in the eyes of the law, but people around here talk, and now they’re talking about the relationship between you and Davey.”

  “What relationship?”

  “His wife says you were coming on to him. That surely will make it difficult, if not impossible to prove your relationship with Fred was a committed one, won’t it?”

  Emily rose from her chair, and leaned across his desk. “I know I failed to pay the full retainer, but perhaps you can make up the difference by making change from the offering plate again this Sunday. What I’ve paid you should cover the time you spent on the phone with the former Mrs. Costa and her lawyer and for the long distance call. I think we’re even. I’m firing you. I don’t need your services any longer.” She turned her back on him and walked toward the door.

  “You’re making a mistake. This is a tightly knit legal community. I don’t think you’ll find anyone else to take your case. You’re done for, and you’ll be out of your little house in less than a month, I’d wager.” He chuckled. “And don’t think you can spread that lie about me and the offering plate around town. Client-lawyer privilege, you know.”

  “I didn’t find that out from you, Mr. Palatier. That’s common gossip now. I’ll encourage my friends to do more of it. Watch your fingers in church. Everyone else will be.”

  Emily slammed the door behind her. It gave a resounding bang, and the vibrations shook one of Mr. Palatier’s diplomas off the wall in the outer office. Only the plush carpeting kept the impact from breaking the glass. Still, it gave Emily some satisfaction to see it plunge to the floor.

  The hot air of the Florida afternoon hit her like a bread oven. She got into Stan the Sedan, turned up the A/C, and drove off toward Wal-Mart. Once there, she parked in the back, and, with her head on the wheel, wept. What did her newly found gumption get her? A job, accused of murder, arrested for assault, and out of a lawyer. One of four positives was hardly enough to keep the starch in her petticoat.

  When someone banged on the car window, Emily was almost grateful for the interruption. With the engine off and no air conditioning, she felt as if she could grow water plants in the backseat. She rolled down the window to see Clara standing there with a bag of groceries and a worried look on her face.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you, but not here. I don’t want to confess my troubles in a Wally World parking lot.”

  “Coffee?” asked Clara.

  Emily hesitated. “Do you own a gun?” she asked.

  Clara’s face remained expressionless. “Or I’ve got ice cream in here, melting unless we hurry to my place and eat it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Emily stirred her ice cream around in the bowl until it softened to the consistency of a milk shake. Clara watched, her own treat untouched. Not a word had passed between them since the two women entered the kitchen.

  “Want a straw for that?” asked Clara.

  Emily shook her head and shoved the bowl away. Her eyes surveyed the kitchen and traveled to the living room beyond. Pictures of cattle drives, brandings, and a large one of the sun setting over the big lake hung on the walls. The hues of pink and fuchsia in the sky with the sun nestled behind a bank of clouds were like none Emily had ever experienced, yet she could tell it wasn’t an artist’s interpretation in oils. It was a photograph.

  “Those colors happen rarely. I was lucky that evening. Had my camera with me. I usually don’t.”

  “You took that?” Emily asked, impressed with her skill. “The others yours too?”

  Clara nodded and finished washing up their bowls.

  Emily said, “Until I came to central Florida, I thought that large herds of cattle were found only in the west, Texas or Oklahoma, maybe. It’s funny to see men on horseback driving cattle past palm trees.”

  “I grew up on a ranch
west of town. Learned to ride and rope and . . .”

  “Shoot?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t shoot Davey if that’s where you’re heading.”

  “You said he needed killing.”

  “I meant it. Lot’s of people around here felt the same way. Not a whole lot of grieving going on. But still it was murder. I’d preferred he died by having a gator grab him. Something that took more time than a shot to the chest.”

  The thought of one of those prehistoric-looking reptiles dragging a man into the water and rolling him under made Emily’s nerve endings tremble.

  “Speaking of large predators, Detective Lewis visited me early this morning and confiscated all my guns. He’s looking for the weapon that killed Davey. As if I’d be dumb enough to keep it here.” Clara pointed to an empty gun case in the hallway. “He forgot to look under my mattress though.” The shock on Emily’s face said Clara had gone too far.

  Emily watched her pinch back her smile and change the subject. “So, wanna talk about what got you so down? I mean aside from the fact that I don’t pay you a living wage as my bartender, and the tips are lousy.” Clara winked and dried her hands, then sat again at the table across from Emily.

  “Palatier and I met and had a disagreement. I fired him.”

  “Oops. That’s trouble. How are you going to go to court without representation?”

  Emily raised her eyes to Clara’s, giving her boss a look of helplessness from beneath her lashes.

  “Absolutely not,” said Clara.

  “What?” asked Emily.

  “I’m out of the law business.”

  “You still have your license, right?”

  “I said I’m out of the business. Look, I’ll refer you to someone else.”

  “Who? You think I don’t know that all of the attorneys around here are part of the same club? Who wants to take a case where their client is suspected of murdering a prominent local citizen, having an affair with the deceased, and living in sin with her boyfriend? Who’d be crazy enough to do that?”

  “Maybe my dad?”

  “Who?”

  “Most folks around here think he’s nuts. He might do it, if he’s bored enough.”

  “Where’s his office? Let’s go.”

  Clara pulled up in front of the Blue Heron Retirement Center with Emily in the passenger seat.

  “Here we are. I can’t promise you what kind of shape he’s in today, but sometimes he can be pretty lucid. Other days I’ve found him running down the halls half-naked chasing one of the nurses. Depends.”

  Emily sat in total stillness. Not even her eyes blinked. She hadn’t met Clara’s father yet, and she was rethinking her decision to fire Palatier. At least he had an office and didn’t work out of a home for the elderly. He might have been sleazy and unethical and a cad, but he was probably sane and usually clothed.

  “Alzheimer’s or Dementia?” Emily finally managed to ask as they walked into the place.

  “Neither.” Clara seemed to search for the right word. “He’s odd. Always has been. I don’t think age has changed that. C’mon. I think he’ll like you.”

  Emily stopped walking.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve never known him to get naked and chase any of my friends. Only the nurses. Well, once he chased my boyfriend when I was in high school. Dad had all his clothes on and a forty-five in his hand. My boyfriend was the one who was naked. Dad found us together in the barn getting friendly.”

  “He’s on the sun porch,” said the woman behind the desk when Clara and Emily entered the facility.

  “Thanks, Maria. And how is he today?” asked Clara.

  “Not bad. He challenged Monty Wallace to a duel this morning, but I think they decided to settle the argument over a chess board.”

  Emily grabbed Clara’s arm as she started down the hall. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Your dad may not want to be bothered with my situation. I could represent myself in court, you know.”

  Clara stopped walking and turned to Emily with a look of incredulity on her face. “You confront one of our hanging judges alone? No way. They’ll eat you alive. They’d like nothing better than to make the case all about cohabiting out of wedlock. You didn’t read the interview with Judge Daniels last year?”

  Emily shook her head no.

  Clara continued her tale. “‘If I had my way,’ he said, ‘I’d have the sheriff round up all those folks living together without benefit of clergy and throw them in jail.’ I think his remarks were aimed mostly at winter visitors.”

  Before Emily could reply, a man with Albert Einstein hair poked his head around the corner ahead of them.

  “That you, honey? I thought I heard your voice.” He emerged from the room to their left and made his way down the hall toward them, the walker he used making his progress slow.

  Emily had expected Clara’s father to be as tall as she, but this man was short, perhaps only two or three inches taller than Emily.

  “Dad,” Clara said. She rushed up to him, throwing her arms around his small frame and hugging him.

  “Careful or you’ll break a bone or two. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. Who’s this?” He peered around Clara and gave Emily a look up and down.

  “An employee of mine from the club. Emily Rhodes. My dad.”

  “You’re real cute,” he said.

  “She needs help, Dad.”

  “She looks fine to me.”

  “Legal help.”

  “So help her,” he said. “Don’t be looking at your old dad.”

  “Not me. Not anymore. She needs rescuing,” said Clara.

  Emily came forward and thrust out her hand. “I need a lawyer.”

  The old man tipped his head to one side. She expected to see the eyes of an elderly man, vague, glassy, unfocused, but instead he surprised her with a look not unlike that of an eagle about to descend on his prey. She thought it would be a mistake to underestimate this man, and that made her glad.

  “Let’s talk in my room,” he said. He grabbed the walker, but instead of using it to propel himself down the hall, he dragged it along behind him.

  Clara grinned at Emily and followed him down the hall. As if in answer to the question that was forming in Emily’s mind, he stopped and faced them.

  “Won it off Monty in a poker game.”

  “Maria said you were dueling over a chess board,” Clara said.

  “Hate chess. Too long and boring. Texas Hold ‘Um’s more my style.”

  “What’ll you do with a walker you don’t need?” asked Clara.

  “I’m gonna give it to the Annual Hospice Yard Sale. They can sell it. It’d be dumb to keep it.”

  “That’s what you said when you won the wheelchair in the monthly raffle here, and you kept that.”

  “When I walk, I walk. Otherwise I ride. The wheelchair might be fun, but I can’t see the point of shuffling along on a walker.”

  Each room in the facility had a bulletin board to the left of the door. As the three of them walked down the hallway, Emily looked at the decorations placed in each resident’s space—message pads for visitors to leave a note, seasonal decorations, displays of crafts made by the resident.

  Clara’s father stopped in front of the last door in the hall. His bulletin board contained only one item—a pair of steer’s horns with a span of almost five feet.

  Emily couldn’t help staring at the display. They were beautiful, unusual, impressively huge.

  “Those belonged to Jethro,” said Clara’s father.

  “A friend?” asked Emily.

  “No. A steer.” He opened the door and ushered them into a room that would have been spacious were it not for furniture crammed into every corner and shoved up against all the walls. Paintings covered every inch of wall space, and three birdcages containing parakeets, cockatiels, and canaries hung from a floor-to-ceiling metal pole. Navaho rugs were thrown across the floor and a totem pole sat in one corner. In the another stood the wheelchair. Th
e piece that dominated the room was an oak roll-top desk, the top open and papers and books piled several feet high on its surface.

  “Have a seat, ladies. You can call me Hap if I can call you Emily.” He pulled the wheelchair away from the wall and sat in it.

  Clara took a seat on the bed, which also was covered with books and papers. The only other place to sit was the wooden swivel chair in front of the desk. It held several western style shirts, a pair of chaps, a holster, and . . .a pistol.

  “Toss those things on the floor,” Hap said to Emily. When she hesitated, Hap popped up from his seat and swept everything off the chair with one hand. “Don’t worry. Gun’s not loaded. They have rules in here, you know.”

  He threw himself back into the wheel chair, then rolled it across the room and positioned himself in front of Emily, their knees almost touching.

  “I don’t hear so well.” He leaned forward so that his face was inches from hers.

  “That’s a lie, Dad. He’s trying to see down the front of your blouse,” Clara said.

  “Can’t blame me for trying.” He winked and drew back a foot. “Now, what seems to be your problem?” he asked.

  Emily explained about her and Fred, the lack of a will, and Fred’s ex-wife’s claim on his estate. Hap listened with his eyes closed and didn’t speak when she had finished her tale. For a moment, Emily thought he had gone to sleep. She shot a glance of concern and irritation at Clara, but Clara was leafing through one of her father’s ranching magazines and didn’t notice Hap’s napping or Emily’s reaction to it.

  “Let’s go,” said Emily. “He’s not interested.”

  “I’m interested. Give a guy a chance to think about it, will ya? She’s awful impatient, isn’t she?”

  “Sorry. I thought you might take the same stance as Mr. Palatier.”

  “Palatier? You’ve retained him?”

  “I did for a moment, then I fired him today.”

  “Fired him, did you? I don’t think anybody’s had the nerve to fire Ignatious Palatier, although he could use some firing every now and then. The man’s a weasel, a snake. No. He’s not as good as that. He’s dog doodoo on the bottom of a shoe. He’s a fart from a wart hog, he’s. . .”