Dark Tort gbcm-13

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Arch, where do you put your stuff?” Gus demanded as he unzipped his down jacket and dropped it to the floor. “Oops.” Gus, his appealing face shiny with melted snow, gave me a wide smile and scooped up the coat.

  “I’ll show you,” Arch said, frowning. He hung his and Gus’s jackets on the hooks in the kitchen, then turned to give me a serious look. “We invited somebody to dinner.”

  “What?”

  Immediately defensive, Arch retorted, “It’s what you would have done! We found her crying in her house. It’s Wink Calhoun, Dusty’s friend. You know, the one who adopted Latte? Anyway, she’s coming, and she’s bringing Latte. Hope that’s okay. They’ll both be here in about five minutes—”

  “I’ve already invited Wink, but not Latte—” I began.

  “C’mon, Mrs. Schulz,” Gus pleaded, his cheerful, red-cheeked face upturned to mine. “That’s a really cool dog, and we don’t have one at my grandparents’ place. Anyway, he took right to me! We both said it would be okay if she brought him.”

  “Call me Aunt G.,” I told him, and he broke into a huge smile.

  “Okay, Aunt G.,” which came out sounding like Angie, “we had to do it. Wink was Dusty’s best friend. Plus, she lives in a garage or something.”

  “I know, I know, I’ve already asked—”

  “Actually, Wink lives in a guesthouse,” Arch corrected, in a tone that made me cringe, since it echoed my own. “It’s a garage that somebody turned into a guesthouse on Pine Way. Nobody was at the big house, so we backtracked to the driveway and followed the sound of the crying. And get this, she’s only a receptionist, and she bought three subscriptions.”

  Tom asked, “Is that how she described herself, ‘only a receptionist’?”

  “Yeah,” the boys chorused.

  “She’s the receptionist at Hanrahan & Jule,” I informed the boys as the doorbell rang. Then I said, “You boys need to go find Scout the cat and put him in the cage we use to take him to the vet. If he attacks Latte again—”

  But the boys were already scrambling away, calling exuberantly for the cat.

  When I opened the door, Wink Calhoun, tall, pretty, and pink-eyed, hesitated before stepping across the threshold. Her flat, oblong face always seemed just a bit too large for her body, and a pronounced underbite prevented her from being beautiful. But she had a ready smile and a retro look, complete with finger-waved light brown hair that gave her an undeniable charm. She wore a navy blazer over a white oxford-cloth shirt and a long blackwatch-plaid kilt that complemented her slender, shapely figure. She also wore tassel loafers, which I noted were soaking wet.

  Her lack of movement at the door frustrated Latte the basset hound, however. He let out several loud barks and bolted into the house, tearing the leash out of Wink’s hands.

  “I’m so sorry!” Wink began as the boys tumbled out of the kitchen to welcome the dog. Wink called to Latte to calm down. Not only did the basset hound ignore her, he started barking wildly as he raced around in a circle from the front hall, through the living room, then the dining room, then into the kitchen, back through the hall and the living room…until he hit the dining room again. Scout the cat, who had been hiding in the basement, took that opportunity to streak up the stairs, where the boys squealed and pounced on him. Jake the bloodhound, who had been sitting in his usual spot out on the deck, was clawing madly on the back door to be let in, all while howling at the top of his lungs to be allowed to be part of the fun. Latte, who seemed to be encouraged by the chaos, continued to make a mad circular dash through the rooms on the main floor, until Tom scooped him up in his arms.

  “I’m telling you, Miss G.,” Tom called over Latte’s hollering, “apprehending criminals is nothing to this!”

  “This is so cool!” Arch said, smiling gleefully, when he and Gus returned to the kitchen.

  “Here, let me have him,” Gus was insisting to Tom. Tom allowed a squirming Latte to be taken by Gus. Latte, sensing the weakness of the transfer, wiggled madly and leaped out of Gus’s arms, only to begin his crazed circuit once more. Tom caught him again in the kitchen, and quickly transferred the dog outside.

  “I made it!” Wink said. “You wanted me to come over, and the boys said—”

  “Tom’s fixing a roast. Come on in.”

  I shut the door behind her and opened my arms. She walked into my hug and began to shake with sobs.

  “I’m so sorry, oh, dear Wink, I’m so sorry,” I repeated over and over.

  Tom peeked out the kitchen door. The boys’ voices behind him were querulous. Where’s Mom? Why won’t you let the dogs in? Why doesn’t Wink come into the kitchen? But when Tom caught my eye and saw the embrace, he backed silently into the kitchen and quieted the boys.

  At length, Wink stopped crying. She took a tissue out of her blazer pocket, cleaned up her face, and regarded me.

  “Let’s talk in the living room,” I said gently. “How about a glass of sherry?”

  Wink swallowed and didn’t move. “Sorry about falling apart. Dusty was my best friend in the firm. This happens to other people. It doesn’t happen to people you know.”

  “The cops are working on it,” I reassured her. “It’s a good sheriff’s department. And later on, you and I can talk about what they were all up to.”

  Wink pressed her lips together firmly. “I don’t think the cops are going to find out what happened to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know these people the way I do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  So tell me about them,” I said.

  “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I really do want to find out what happened to Dusty,” she said. Her mouth turned down. “I just don’t want to hear any of the gory details, you know?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “And I can’t divulge any, you know, of the confidential business stuff, although I really don’t care at this point.”

  “The cops talked to you, right?”

  She looked over at the fire. “Yeah.”

  “You told them everything pertinent, I hope?” When she nodded, I said, “Let’s go sit down.”

  I led her into the living room, where I poured two glasses of sherry. I knew I probably shouldn’t have more booze, especially after I’d had only a few hours’ worth of sleep the previous night, and part of that slumber had taken place in a moving car. But I’d hardly touched the glass Tom had given me, and I wanted Wink to feel better. Plus, I wanted to loosen up her tongue, even to facts she might not think were pertinent.

  “What do the cops know so far, about Dusty’s death?” she asked, once she’d thanked me for her glass of amber liquid.

  Immediately wary, I said, “Not much.” The coroner and the rest of law enforcement usually kept secret the cause and manner of death, in the hope that a killer might unwittingly give away some detail that had not been released to the public. I wished Tom would join us, but I could hear him out in the kitchen. He’d closed both doors, had let both hounds back in, and was now listening to Arch and Gus alternate in telling stories about the people who’d bought magazine subscriptions. Without thinking, I checked Wink’s wrist. I was ashamed to be looking, even unconsciously, for Dusty’s bracelet. But crooks, Tom was always telling me, were notoriously stupid. Wink’s shirt had long sleeves, and I couldn’t see anything. Still, I told myself I was being ridiculous. Wink had been Dusty’s best friend.

  I said, “What did you mean when you said I didn’t know these people the way you do? Do you think someone will hurt you if you tell the cops something? Or even if you tell me?”

  “I’m just spooked.” She took a sip of sherry and looked around the living room, apparently as confused as most visitors by the combination of cheap orange upholstered furniture and clearly valuable antique wood pieces. “Somebody has good taste,” she said, but without sounding bitchy.

  “Tom’s a collector.”

  “How’s Sally doing, do you know?”

  “She’s doing ter
ribly, Wink. And if it will make you feel better about telling me about the folks in the firm, she’s asked me to investigate Dusty’s death. On my own, that is, without law enforcement.” I sipped my sherry and decided just to wait. It didn’t take long.

  “I do have something to tell you,” she said, glancing up at me. “Something I didn’t tell the authorities, because they didn’t ask me a direct question about it, you know?” She shook her head. “Listen to me, I sound just like them.” She thrust out her small chin, as if steeling herself. “I wanted to tell you over the phone, but I wanted to think about it first. Then King Richard came over, wanting me to do some typing, if you can imagine.” She took a long slug of sherry. “Louise Upton needs money. She was married once, if you can believe it.” Wink shook her head, as if forestalling my question. “She just tells people to call her ‘Miss Upton.’ There’s no law against that, I think. Anyway, her ex-husband doesn’t work, and he sued her for alimony. He came into the office one time, screaming and yelling that Louise was late with that month’s check. He was such a brute, I almost felt sorry for Louise. After he left, Claggs told me about the alimony situation.”

  “And so you think this has something to do with Dusty?”

  Tears erupted from Wink’s eyes. “Oh God. I told Dusty. I mean, we were close, you know? And last week she was complaining about what a bitch Louise was, always wanting to have everything just so. She’d started calling her Miss Uptight, which I thought was hilarious. She said between Miss Uptight and King Richard, it was a wonder we got any work done at all. So I just told her about Louise having an ex, and how she had to pay him alimony. I shouldn’t have, but since I didn’t technically break my vow of confidentiality to Louise—I mean, I didn’t tell any of the guys at H&J—I thought it was okay. Listen to me. I’m starting to sound like one of them again.”

  “Do you think Dusty threw it back in her face? Maybe one time when she was angry for being corrected?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Wink rubbed her forehead. “It was a disaster waiting to happen, since Dusty and Louise didn’t get along.”

  “What did you get out of promising not to tell the guys about the alimony? Did Louise offer you anything?”

  She looked down at her hands. “No,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I guess she sort of wanted to be friends. Maybe not, though.”

  “Do you know if Dusty didn’t get along with anyone else? Or if she had any romantic liaisons?”

  Wink, still staring at her hands, shook her head forcefully. “Didn’t get along? I don’t know. Romantic liaison? I don’t think so.” She paused to think. “Okay, Claggs had just won a lot of money in a poker game in Central City. I heard them laughing about it. Dusty and Alonzo, I mean. But Claggs is married to Ookie. Happily married, I think.”

  “So Claggs is a gambler?”

  Wink shrugged. “I think he does it for fun. You know, to relieve stress. Until ski season starts, anyway.”

  “Any idea how much money he’d won? Or how he’d spent it?”

  “Not a clue. But there is something I’ve always wondered about. I mean, Ookie teaches squash at the Aspen Meadow Country Club, and most of the other lawyers work out there, too. So why does Claggs work out at the Butterfield Rec? Why did he work out with Dusty, I mean?”

  “Because Dusty couldn’t afford to join the country club?” I offered.

  Wink’s tone turned stubborn. “I just think she would have told me if she was romantically involved with him.”

  I thought, Would she have told you, if it was meant to be a secret? “So except for working out together, you had no inkling as to whether she was seeing Claggs outside of work?”

  “I’m telling you, she really didn’t talk to me about Claggs!”

  “Do you know if she was seeing anybody?” I pressed.

  Wink wrinkled her face. “If you’re looking for romantic-type information, Dusty had been going out with Vic Zaruski. They’d just had a bad breakup. The end.”

  I pressed my lips together. “I didn’t get much of a feeling for the atmosphere at Hanrahan & Jule,” I said, my tone innocent.

  “You didn’t, really?” She took a deep breath. “The whole place feels as if it’s in a constant state of power struggle.”

  “Between whom?”

  “Between the partners over whose cases are more important. Between the associates over who has the most work. Between the lawyers and the paralegals, when we had two of them, over whom the paralegals should be working for. And that leads to stress. You couldn’t complain, because…well, just because.”

  When she didn’t offer any more, I asked, “Was Dusty in this power struggle? And did it turn deadly?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s what I told the cops, honest.”

  There was another long silence, finally broken by Tom calling us to dinner. As she was about to follow me through the kitchen door, Wink stopped. I turned back to make sure she was okay. That little chin of hers was wobbling again, and her hands were clenched. All her pale brown hair’s tiny waves seemed to tremble at once. She dashed wetness out of her eyes, then cleared her throat and moved into the warm, inviting space, where the rich scent of roasting beef filled the air like a cushion.

  “Hi again, Wink,” Arch said, his voice grave. “I’m glad you came. My mom’s a really good cook.”

  “Hey!” Tom interjected, his voice playful. “Who’s cooking this dinner, anyway? By the way, Wink, I’m Tom.”

  Wink nodded to Tom, then smiled at the boys and me. “Thanks, Arch, I already know how good a cook your mom is. She brings…brought us breakfast at the firm, and everybody was always fighting over the food.” Her cheeks colored.

  “Sorry about what happened,” Gus chimed in. “Arch said the dead girl was your friend.”

  “She was.” Wink swallowed and struggled for control.

  “That sucks,” Gus said.

  “Welcome anyway, Wink.” Tom moved forward and yanked out a chair. “Come sit down.”

  This Wink did. Tom pulled the tenderloin out of the oven to let it rest, then began to assemble the baked potatoes, steamed broccoli, and cheese sauce that he knew Arch enjoyed having with friends. I nipped back out to the living room and picked up Wink’s sherry glass—I’d managed to get through our conversation with only a couple of small sips—and brought it back out to the kitchen. I checked the thermometer that Tom had left inserted in the meat. I was happy to see that the beef juices had settled, and the temp indicated a perfect medium rare. In addition to the cheddar-cheese sauce, Tom had managed to reheat the béarnaise I’d made, without curdling it.

  “You didn’t think I could do two sauces at once, did you?” he asked mildly, when I raised my eyebrows at the pair of gravy boats with their perfectly smooth, golden loads. “Why don’t you sit down, Miss G.?”

  So I did. To my great astonishment, I was famished. And then I remembered that I hadn’t actually had breakfast. Come to think of it, I hadn’t had much of a lunch, either. (A salad didn’t count as a meal, I always told myself.)

  Tom had shaken up a mild balsamic vinaigrette and now he sprinkled judicious amounts over his salade composée. Arch, Gus, and even Wink poured rivers of creamy cheddar sauce over their potatoes and broccoli, while Tom and I opted for salad. The tenderloin was done to perfection: pink and tender on the inside, with a crunchy, delicious roasted exterior bearing crisp herbs. With some reheated soft rolls that we all slathered with butter, it was a feast. Hunger makes the best sauce, I’d learned when I was nine. No kidding.

  And perhaps wine makes the best smoother-over of distraught emotions, I thought after a while. Wink had twisted her rail-thin body into what looked like an impossible yoga position to watch Tom open a bottle of Burgundy, a Côte de Nuits. Our dinner wasn’t exactly a cause for any kind of celebration, but the meal and the wine made us feel better. Cared for, even. Which was what Tom was good at, I reminded myself.

  “They keep hundred-dollar-a-bottle Côte de Nu
its Burgundy in a locked cabinet at the firm,” Wink observed. “But it’s just for meetings between the partners and the clients. Not for the receptionist and paralegals, I mean.” She looked at Tom with sudden interest. “Would the cops have gone through all the locked cabinets?”

  Tom’s eyes were hooded. “I’m sure they’re over there going through everything, trust me.”

  I took a big forkful of salad, curious myself to know what they might have found inside there, since I, too, knew of the locked cabinet. But like the receptionist and paralegals, the caterer wasn’t allowed to fiddle with the heart-of-maple cabinets, either. Still, Tom was right: searching for Dusty’s killer, the cops would have demanded entry to every locked drawer and cabinet in the place. There was no question that our sheriff’s department was good at crime-scene mechanics, largely, I think, because they feared having Tom bawl them out if they screwed up.

  The Burgundy was delicious. I’m not one of those folks who can say a wine has complex chocolate and citrus notes along with undertones of blackberry, but I can say, “Omigod, this stuff is fantastic!” Tom beamed.

  The wine also seemed to have a calming effect on Wink. Arch and Gus, oblivious to our pleasured imbibing, were going over to Gus’s grandparents’ condo to spend the night, and they continued to chat and burble and interrupt each other about the video games they were going to play and the movies they were going to watch. Every now and then they asked Wink, but not us, if she had seen this or that movie. Most of the time she had, and the boys invariably found this cool. Meanwhile, the redness began to dissipate from Wink’s eyes, and I thought I detected the tension melting from her face.