Dark Tort gbcm-13

by Diane Mott Davidson

  At length, Wink drained her wineglass. Smiling, she said, “Hey, Gus! I read in the St. Luke’s bulletin that you were going to be baptized.”

  “Yup,” said Gus, his standard affirmative.

  “By Sutherland?” she asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, you know,” Wink continued with a sly smile, “he always quizzes the confirmands ahead of time. Takes them into a Sunday-school room and asks them about the sacraments and how God structured things so we could be saved. You know your stuff?”

  Gus was looking at her with alarm. “How’m I supposed to know how God structured things?” he cried, his eyes wide. “I don’t even know how the government structures things! This really sucks.”

  “Aw, don’t worry, Gus,” Arch said authoritatively. “It’s not that bad. It’s sort of like Dungeons and Dragons. You have to learn how any particular world works before you can move around in it. You ever play D&D?”

  Gus’s forehead wrinkled. “I learned some witchcraft in the commune.”

  “Let’s not go there,” I said quickly.

  “But…you’re still coming to my christening, aren’t you, Arch?” Gus asked, suddenly worried. “Maybe you could give me some answers, you know, like on what he’s going to ask before I have to take this quiz.”

  “I’ve sort of fallen away from the church,” Arch admitted.

  “Man,” Gus retorted. “I thought this was important to you; that’s why I’m doing it!”

  “Right, right, I know,” Arch said. “It is important to me, I promise. I’m coming to your thing, even if I haven’t been going to church for a while.” He gave Gus a reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay.”

  The way you’ve been driving lately, I thought, you might want to start praying. But I kept mum. Meanwhile, Tom picked up the Burgundy and poured Wink and yours truly a second glass. No question about it: I was going to sleep tonight.

  “You didn’t drive over here, did you?” Tom asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” Wink insisted.

  The boys sang out, “Uh-oh,” then scampered off to watch television until Gus’s grandparents arrived.

  “We could drive you home,” I offered. “Or you could stay here,” I added as an afterthought. If we didn’t know the people at H&J the way Wink did, maybe she would feel better not being alone tonight. “We could make up the couch in the living room, or you could stay in Arch’s room, since he’s going over to—”

  “We’ll think of something,” Tom interrupted, shooting me a warning glance: Best not to distract someone whom you want to get going telling you her story. If your informant—or helpful person, as Tom sometimes called them—starts worrying about who’s outside, or where they’re going to have lunch, or if their car is parked legally, then the flow of data is going to come to a sudden halt.

  Of course, I didn’t know whether we should be interrogating Wink or not. But I let go of it. If she needed to spill her guts about her relationship with Dusty, or goings-on among what Sally Routt called the “vermin” at H&J, then fine. Still…

  My train of thought was derailed by the phone ringing. Eight o’clock on a Friday night? Must be a client.

  “I checked with my husband,” Nora Ellis said without identifying herself, “and he wants to proceed with the party.”

  “Fine, fine,” I replied, trying to make a smooth transition. “You’re talking about Mr. Ellis wanting to go ahead with his birthday celebration. I understand.”

  “He said it would be what Dusty wanted us to do.”

  “He thinks it’s what Dusty would want you to do?”

  “Goldy,” she said, her voice suddenly kind. “Forgive me. I’m just nervous about this going well. I want Donald to love it. Okay? I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten. And I’ve gotten you some help, as I promised. I hired Louise Upton to oversee things in the kitchen.”

  “That is so unnecessary,” I said. I made my tone gentle, too, to keep from screaming. But she had already hung up. To Tom and Wink, I said, “Nora Ellis is going to proceed, as she called it, with her party for her husband. Apparently, Donald Ellis thinks it’s what Dusty would have wanted them to do. And Nora hired Louise Upton to oversee things in the kitchen.”

  Wink snorted. “Poor you. And Dusty wasn’t even invited to their party. None of the staff is ever included in their reindeer games. Plus, Miss Uptight will just make your life miserable.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I said in a low voice. I couldn’t imagine Louise Upton shedding her armor to be helpful in the kitchen. Would she carry her own sword? For heaven’s sake, I told myself, shut up and stop being such a bitch. Somebody had loved Louise once, a husband, now an ex-husband, who was milking her for alimony. If that was what made her difficult, then I could suddenly understand her a lot better.

  “I know you had to talk to the cops, too,” Wink said, her eyes on me, her tone half questioning.

  “Yeah, I did. How’d it go for you?”

  Wink rubbed her forehead with both hands. “Not too bad. Some of the same stuff you were asking me in the living room. Who didn’t get along with Dusty? What was she working on? Man, it got boring. Then they’d ask me the same question in a sort of different way, like I’d trip myself up in a lie, or something.”

  Tom’s grin was good-natured. “Well, how do you think we’ll catch folks who aren’t telling the truth?”

  Wink straightened in her chair. “Dusty was working on a few things. She’d been working since January for Charlie Baker, trying to help him get his affairs in order. She was spending her office time on a big oil-and-gas-lease mess, part of a ridiculously complicated estate that won’t be settled before I’m forty.”

  “Don’t knock turning forty,” I said lightheartedly. “It may seem far off now, but someday…”

  Wink managed to smile. “Anyway, the lease thing was with Donald Ellis, who isn’t a partner. Can you imagine trying to find anything, much less oil-and-gas leases, in Donald Ellis’s office? But he’s a hard worker, I’ll give him that. Anyway, then in March, Charlie Baker died, and Richard, who is a partner, was handling the estate. So all of a sudden Dusty wasn’t helping Donald anymore at all, she was working full-time for King Richard, trying to get everything in Charlie’s big estate in order.”

  “So did the cops make anything out of all that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Georgina, the one paralegal we have left.”

  “You had more paralegals before?”

  “Yeah,” Wink said. “Two others. But they were hired away by another firm last year. They haven’t been replaced yet. Marilou, the legal secretary, has been interviewing replacements for the secretary Richard fired. The guys have been bringing in extra paralegals, too, when they’re really snowed under. They get a lot done.”

  “Do you mean the paralegals?” I asked, confused.

  “Of course I do! You should see how hard those extras worked, when they were with H&J. Plus, Dusty was like a slave to the guys. Marilou and Georgina are, too, when they’re not in Hawaii taking notes at meetings that the attorneys are supposed to go to. Let me tell you what I’ve learned from working in the law firm. Here’s what paralegals can’t do: They can’t give legal-costs estimates to the client. They can’t share in the firm’s profits. And they can’t talk in court. But they do all the other work, trust me. Show me a group of male lawyers who don’t have most of their work done by female paralegals, and I’ll show you a graveyard.”

  “Now there’s a happy thought,” Tom said cheerfully. “So if Dusty was getting so much work done for the firm, why would someone kill her? Did she have enemies in the firm? Or not?”

  Wink shook her head sadly. “She and Alonzo were close. They worked out together. Really, the problem was, except for the occasional flare-up with Louise Upton, Dusty got along with everyone.”

  “Why was that a problem?” I asked.

  Wink leaned forward. “Because you don’t mix with the other levels of the fief in a fiefdom. You
don’t try to get along with everyone, because it’s only going to make you miserable. And most of all, you don’t get ambitious.”

  “How was she ambitious, specifically?” I asked.

  “She answered questions the lawyers should have,” she said. “She was possessive about her relationship with Charlie Baker. If you’re not even a paralegal yet, you don’t make yourself the guardian of one of the firm’s biggest clients.” I raised an eyebrow at Tom. Now he, too, wanted to know if Dusty’s legendary determination and get-up-and-go-ness were what had gotten her killed.

  The phone rang. Not another client. Not at this hour. Besides the Ellis party, the only upcoming events I had were the reception after Gus’s christening on Sunday and the post-ribbon-cutting celebration for the Mountain Pastoral Center on Monday night. The menus were set; the checks had been written; the food had been ordered. The caller ID gave no hint. I made a quick apology to Tom and Wink and pressed the talk button.

  “Goldilocks’ Cate—”

  “Goldy? This is Miss Upton.”

  Oh, boy. Past eight o’clock on a Friday night? No, it was more likely that the formidable office manager wanted to give me some new instructions. We’ll need you to bring breakfast in on Monday to a new location…Oh, and by the way, no mention of the unfortunate event of Thursday night…

  “Miss Uh—” I began again.

  “Mr. Claggett and Mr. Ellis and I will be over in a little bit.”

  “Be over in a little bit?” I squawked, glancing around the kitchen with its mass of dirty dishes and sauce-coated pans. “Can’t we just talk on the pho—”

  Louise Upton cleared her throat. “We will be over in a little bit.”

  “What little bit? I’ve got—”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  She hung up before asking me if I was mourning the death of my young neighbor, if I would be home, if I had people here, if I had work to do, if her visit was in any way inconvenient…all of which were true. But did she care? She did not. At least she was acting in character. I told Tom and Wink that Miss Uptight, plus Alonzo Claggett and Donald Ellis, would be arriving momentarily, and could they help me wash, or at least hide, all these dishes?

  The last, the very last person I wanted to see that evening was Louise Upton. She would want to know every single detail of my discovery of Dusty, so that her mind could begin working on a spin that exonerated the firm. For Miss Upton loved the firm, she glorified it, she obsessed about it. She had told me once, “I am married to this firm.”

  I’d avoided saying, “Poor you.” And now there was this ex-husband saga to deal with…should I tell Tom about that before Miss Uptight arrived?

  Still, my promise to Sally Routt loomed in my mind. I will try, I’d promised, to find out what happened to Dusty. If anyone knew what negative tales could be told about H&J, it was Louise Upton. But that old legalism about a wife not testifying against her husband pertained to the nth degree here. Louise Upton would rather be stripped naked on Main Street than spill her guts about the firm.

  And what about Alonzo Claggett, the gambler, and Donald Ellis, the oil-and-gas guy? Alonzo had been embarrassed by not knowing something that Dusty had known, and I was willing to bet the same thing had happened to Donald. Maybe one of them had had it in for her.

  “Man, what are you thinking about, Goldy?” Wink demanded. “You look as if you just bit into an onion.”

  “A minute ago, I was thinking about Miss Uptight standing naked in the middle of Main Street.”

  “I’d rather bite into an onion,” Wink acknowledged. She finished drying the gravy boat and put it on a shelf. “I need to rock on home. Thanks for dinner. And I’m fine, I’ve only had two glasses of wine, total.”

  “Nope,” Tom said. “I’ll drive you and then walk back here. You only live two blocks away.” Tom eyed the kitchen, which was clean. “You okay with this, Miss G.? If I go right now, I’ll probably be back by the time they arrive.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  Wink handed Tom her keys and told him her car was the black Jetta. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned back to me.

  “Please don’t tell anybody what I told you. About Miss Upton. It could get me into trouble.”

  “I’m not going to get you into trouble,” I said gently. “But you should tell Tom what you told me. About Louise’s ex-husband, the alimony, and her needing money. It might help the police, in some way that you can’t imagine at the moment.” I added, “And you can call me about anything else you might think of.”

  Wink slipped into her blazer and worked on gathering up Latte, who, after all the commotion, had fallen asleep on our couch. She heaved the slumbering hound up into her arms, where he sagged like a sack of blocks. Panting, Wink started down the hall. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “It’s unlikely I’ll think of anything else.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Tom was back within half an hour, with no Louise Upton, Alonzo Claggett, or Donald Ellis in sight. Tom reported that Wink had told him about Louise’s ex-husband and her need for money. He was going to hurry and call the department about it, just in case Louise hadn’t been forthcoming about her background. But he needn’t have hurried, as it was another hour before the doorbell rang.

  I desensitized our security system and opened the door for Donald Ellis, Alonzo Claggett, and Louise Upton. Twenty minutes had become ninety. Let’s see, if I’d been billing them in six-minute increments, then I’d have made, oh…well, I needed a calculator.

  “Goldy,” said Donald Ellis, his thin voice low. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “No problem,” I replied.

  “Yeah, thanks!” said Alonzo Claggett, who sounded a bit too cheery, it seemed to me, for someone who had just lost a friend at his workplace.

  “Your house is very hard to find,” Louise snarled, as if their tardiness were my fault.

  I assumed my most hospitable voice. “Please come in. Here’s a mat for your boots.” I pointed behind them. “And there’s the coatrack.”

  Donald murmured their appreciation while Louise tsked, stamped, and complained about the parking on our street. Claggs, perhaps to counteract Louise’s brusqueness, commented on what a nice house we had. He noticed the cherry sideboard and buffet in our living room, both of which had been brought by Tom from his cabin. He and Tom fell into an easy conversation about Chippendale while Donald helped Louise remove her outer garments.

  “How come you know so much about antiques?” Tom asked Alonzo.

  “Oh, my family had lots of them in their Roland Park house. They gave Ookie and me a whole lot of them, but we sold them when the going got rough in Vail.” He rolled forward on his toes and winked at me. “Didn’t endear me to my folks, needless to say.”

  “I’ll bet. Want to come in?”

  But they did not, apparently, want to come into the living room and be treated as real guests. This put me on my guard. Why were the three of them here? Whose idea had it been to come to Tom’s and my house so late at night the day after one of their staff had been killed?

  “We’re not going to stay long,” Claggs gushed. “We promise. We just wanted to see if you were okay. Ookie sends her regards, by the way.” He dug into his dark brown slacks and brought out an envelope. “She says my clients—the Fieldings?—loved the breakfast you fixed for us so much, they went on and on to her about it.”

  “Well, you did their will, Mr. Claggett,” I murmured, embarrassed to have Tom, Louise, and Donald Ellis witnessing this effusive praise. “I just did the quiche and fruit—”

  “No, no,” he interrupted me. “It was the whole package. Quiche, fruit, and will. That’s what they told Ookie! Anyway, in appreciation, Ookie wanted you to have a guest pass and a coupon for six free squash lessons.”

  To me, “free squash lessons” implied someone teaching me to make zucchini bread, but never mind. I took the envelope and thanked him.

  Louise whispered to Donald, “That is really so very unnecessary,” her v
oice loud enough so that I would hear it. Donald reddened to the roots of his red hair, and recoiled as if stung. I thought for at least the hundredth time how much Donald Ellis reminded me of my son. Arch was fifteen and a half now, but Donald’s invariably vulnerable expression recalled Arch’s at an earlier age—say, eleven. Back then, Arch had been particularly susceptible to the taunts of bullies and braggarts. Even the untoward remark of a teacher could cause him to blush scarlet, as Donald was doing now.

  Still, there was one thing I had learned about Donald Ellis: for all of his weak, defenseless appearance, clients loved him. He always ushered them into the conference room, as his office was too much of a wreck for even one person. These meetings were special for the client, as Donald would invariably book me to do a special lunch for them, usually a cold roast-beef salad with shaved Parmesan or chilled grilled salmon topped with caviar. After I’d cleared the dishes away, Donald would pull out a single yellow legal pad. This he would cover with his tiny scrawl as the client outlined what he or she wanted.

  And then a week later there would be a will to be signed. The client would reappear, beaming and grateful, satisfied that his wishes after death had been set down. In the three-plus months I’d been at H&J, I’d seen it too many times to doubt it. Clients wanted Donald because he seemed so, well, sensitive. “Especially for a lawyer!” I would hear them whisper sometimes. And in the end, they felt they had helped him as much as he had helped them. And apparently, they liked that feeling.

  While Donald was only a bit taller than I was, which would put him at about five feet three, Claggs was taller, better looking, more authoritative, and goodness knew, much more aggressive. Must have been all that advanced-run skiing, I’d figured once. Still, where Donald was quiet, Claggs was effusive, good-humored, always joking. When he was expecting an especially bellicose client, he’d regale the guys at the attorneys’ breakfast about the client being furious because he’d been beaten in the “race to the house.” The race to the house, I’d learned, was the way estate lawyers referred to heirs or wannabe heirs dashing to the residence of the recently deceased, to plunder whatever wasn’t locked away or nailed down. There was also “the icy hand from the grave,” another reference to clients, usually the ultrawealthy ones, who wanted to structure their wills in such a detailed manner that not a single heir would be getting a penny without jumping through a dizzying number of hoops.