Hell to Pay (What Doesn’t Kill You, #7): An Emily Romantic Mystery

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Move back to Dallas? There might have been a time I would have jumped at that offer, but not now. I closed it and decided to run to the bathroom. As I opened the door to the hall, I turned my head back toward the interior of the office space. Melinda Stafford was walking toward me down the hallway from Jack’s office, almost like an apparition.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, loudly.

  “Looking for Jack.” She came to a stop beside the tweed couch.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “It was open.”

  “Most visitors don’t wander down our hallway and hang out in Jack’s office.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t been here before, and I know he wouldn’t mind.” She shrugged. “So I sat down to wait for him. I was typing an email.” She held up her phone. As she did, she swayed. She looked even more frail than the last time I’d seen her.

  What did she mean about knowing Jack wouldn’t mind? Had there been something more between them than a one-sided pursuit by Melinda? I smoothed loose side hairs back toward my ponytail holder. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I decided to put my fist in a velvet glove. “You know, the other day at Abuelo’s, I was in the bathroom when you were. I heard you. I want you to know that, no matter our past or the cases we are working on, if you need help, you can ask me.”

  “What?” She gave me a withering look. “I said I’m fine.” She looked down her nose at me, which she was only able to do because of her shiny nude platform pumps and my flat sandals.

  Well, if she was really fine, then it wouldn’t hurt to see if she had alcohol on her breath.

  She said, “Since I’m here, you called earlier—about the Escalante case?”

  “Yes, I did.” I inched closer to her. I could see the blue of veins under the skin of her face, but so far I couldn’t smell booze.

  She tossed her hair, and it bounced back into place. “I didn’t understand what you were asking.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, that’s what I really didn’t understand.”

  I heaved a long exhale. “I wanted to know where you got the emails that you sent over to us.”

  “Why?”

  Her strident voice hurt my ears, and her pupils were wide. I was totally reporting her when the DA’s office opened in the morning. If it wasn’t alcohol or bulimia, it was something. She was trippin’ with a capital T. But she’d also asked the question I didn’t want to answer. Not truthfully anyway, because I had a strong suspicion she’d tampered with evidence, or withheld it, or at least produced it sloppily and incompletely. My money was on the crazy-eyed woman in front of me doing something stupid to gain an advantage in this case, so I sure as shootin’ wasn’t explaining to her that I couldn’t find a forwarded email from Dennis to Phil.

  I put one hand on my hip. “Melinda, we are going to obtain our own evidence, but I was trying to be efficient, to see if you’d already exhausted all possible sources. We are super busy, and I don’t have time to run all over creation doing things that you’ve already done.”

  She stared past me, and again she swayed. “Fine. Well, it’s from the hard drives of Mr. Welch’s and Mr. Escalante’s laptops.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I walked over to my desk. “Have a nice evening.”

  She weaved to the door, then turned for her parting shot. “Your trashy client’s going to end up in the garbage this time, where he belongs.”

  She went for a dramatic wrenching and slamming of the door, but its air brakes foiled her, like it had me a few times in the past, and I giggled. As I thought about her nonsensical last comment, I giggled louder. And as I anticipated the call I was going to make in the morning, I started laughing out loud. From the hallway, Melinda shot me the bird.

  Chapter Twenty

  A handwritten note in the half-cursive, half-print scrawl of my fiancé was on his pillow when I awoke the next morning. Early thing, I’ll be in late. Forgot to tell you. Didn’t want to wake you. Jack.

  I highly doubted he forgot. More like didn’t want me on his back, especially after a really nice night together where neither of us mentioned his “old case.” He’d snuck in and surprised me by kissing the back of my neck. Then he’d laughed about my Melinda encounter and promised to match the surprising Dallas job offer I’d received. We’d cooked a mushroom risotto for me and a mahimahi fillet for Jack, and he pulled out a DVD of Blazing Saddles. It was hilarious even on the tenth time watching it, but I fell asleep with my head on Jack’s chest and his arms around me before it was over, which I always did when we watched from bed. It was a lovely night, and it made me feel hopeful.

  Now I was already late—normally Jack’s phone alarm woke me. Late and out of sorts about it and Jack’s note. I put Snowflake and her food in the backyard. I sprinted into the house before she could wolf it down. I didn’t want her sad, accusatory eyes on me when I left without her this morning. Truth be told, I usually preferred bigger dogs, but I loved this funny little canine. She was Jack’s dog, though, and lately, in his continual absences, all her care had fallen on me. So she’d survive in beautiful weather and green grass, living like 99 percent of the other dogs in the world, for a day.

  I hopped into clean jeans and a soft cotton T-shirt and sandals and squirted toothpaste on my dry toothbrush. I stuffed my purse with deodorant, face tonic, and perfume, and loped out the door. I had the red Mustang on I-40 headed east three minutes later. As I drove, I brushed my teeth and took a swig from a day-before bottle of water in the console, trying not to think about the toothpaste in my empty stomach. I attacked my hair. Getting through my snarls took me until I exited into downtown. I was able to scoop my hair into yet another ponytail at a red light, with time leftover to swipe on deodorant and spray perfume before the light turned green. By the time I parked in our garage, all I had left to do was wipe the sleep from my eyes and spray my face with the rose-geranium facial tonic and pat my cheeks. I made it from the garage to our offices in two more minutes, trotting briskly, and only remembered I’d planned to tattle on Melinda after I flopped down in my desk chair. Well, something to look forward to later.

  “Jack?” I shouted his name without bothering to get up. The front door had been locked. I knew he wasn’t here, and there was no answer. I shook my head, closed my eyes. I wouldn’t dwell on him today. I had to keep moving forward.

  So that is what I would do. I called Wallace, because it was past time to tell him about the wackos out in Sanford at Mighty is His Word. I should have done it yesterday. Or Sunday. I held off only because I was so depressed about the situation with Betsy and the Hodges and, honestly, a little miffed that Wallace seemed to be handing her over to them. But those nutjobs had no business fostering kids, much less adopting them, and he needed to know, whether I got Betsy or not.

  His voice mail picked up. I spoke in fast-forward mode. “Wallace, I have something I have to tell you about. Call me.”

  Now, pending his return call, I was going to do the research I’d postponed because of Melinda’s odd visit the night before. After I finished, I’d email my old boss in Dallas to turn down his offer. I stretched my fingers and did a few neck circles, wincing at the cracks. I typed in my new password, wronggirl, and wished I had left it RodeoQueen.

  Working would take my mind off my own troubles, so I opened the Secretary of State website and entered the new information: Canadian River Ventures. I pressed enter. I yawned and covered my mouth with my hand. It made my eyes close for a moment, and when I opened them, I had my results.

  Nada, as in not a damn thing.

  I went to property records for Potter County. Same result, or lack thereof. Randall County yielded nothing. On a lark, I tried Oldham County, the location of Boys Ranch, and still got zip. Phil’s mother had said that Phil moved to Borger after school at Boys Ranch, and that he split his time between there and somewhere near Denver. Why would he want prope
rty near Borger? I tried Denver first. The results were getting predictable: squat. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try Borger’s county, even if it seemed ludicrous to me. So I typed in Hutchinson and felt another yawn coming on. I hit enter.

  And I got a hit in Borger. Well, it showed what I knew about real estate. I scrolled through the record. Canadian River Ventures owned five hundred acres outside the thriving metropolis of Sanford, Texas, where I had just wiled away my Sunday morning. Five hundred acres, which they’d acquired for the price of $500,000 and encumbered by a big fat mortgage with First National Bank of Borger. I wouldn’t have paid $1,000 an acre out there, but then again, it was already clear I was no real estate mogul. I paged down farther in the record, and it took a few seconds before my brain caught up with my eyes, mainly because what I read seemed like utter nonsense. The contact person for the Sanford property owned by Canadian River Ventures was Melinda Stafford, Assistant District Attorney in Amarillo, Texas.

  I sprang out of my chair calling for Snowflake. No pounding feet answered me, and it took a second to remember I’d snuck away from home, leaving her in the backyard. Who would I dance with now, to celebrate finding the name of my mortal enemy tied up with our client and the man he was accused of murdering? Well, I couldn’t let the lack of a dance partner stop me. I spun in circles with my head back, laughing like a crazy woman.

  ***

  Truthfully? I had no idea on the good Lord’s green earth what finding Melinda’s name meant, other than she had a professionally embarrassing potential conflict of interest. When I’d cleared my head from spinning, I put my thinking cap back on. I had found a Canadian River Ventures that owned property in Sanford, and I had linked it to Melinda. What I hadn’t found was Phil or Dennis tied to Canadian River Ventures, the property, each other, or Melinda. That was a bummer, but my instincts told me to press on. I had the property address, a mailing address for the tax bills, and the mortgage holder. One of those was bound to lead to more information.

  One minute later I was on the phone with the First National Bank of Borger, my knee bouncing under the desk. I was connected to the mortgage department.

  A very bored male voice answered. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m with Williams and Associates law firm. Our client is one of the owners of a property in Sanford, Texas, that First National Bank of Borger holds a mortgage on. Unfortunately, my client is in a coma, and when he wakes up, he’s facing a murder charge. The Sanford property is at issue in his case, so I’m trying to determine whether there is any dispute between the owners, and what the status of the mortgage is.”

  His voice was completely atonal. “Then ask the other owner or get a subpoena.”

  “I can’t. The other owner is dead.”

  His voice perked up. “Sanford, you said? What’s the property address?”

  I gave it to him.

  “Who did you say you represent?”

  “Phil Escalante.”

  “I don’t show a Phil Escalante associated with this property.” His voice went from perky to patronizing.

  I crossed my fingers under the desk. “He’s the silent partner of Dennis Welch in Canadian River Ventures.”

  “Oh, sure, yes, Mr. Welch, the signatory for Canadian River Ventures.”

  “And Ms. Stafford for herself.”

  “Well, of course. Wait, who’s dead?”

  “Mr. Welch.”

  He grunted. “Then sounds like you need to call Ms. Stafford.”

  “Is there someone who can tell me about the status of the mortgage at your bank?”

  Now his voice grew clipped and officious. He was certainly versatile. “With a subpoena, or with Ms. Stafford on the phone.”

  My own pitch came out more strident than I tried for. “My client is in a coma and is accused of murdering Mr. Welch, and I am looking for Ms. Stafford’s potential motive. She’s not going to cooperate. Come on, help Mr. Escalante out.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know Mr. Escalante from Adam. Or you. Subpoena or Ms. Stafford. Take your pick.”

  A low growl started in my throat.

  “But if Mr. Escalante wakes up, please tell him that if he wants to pick up on the past due payments, we wouldn’t argue with him about it.”

  Click. I didn’t like being hung up on, but it went down better with a spoonful of a big hint that the mortgage was in arrears. I knew three more things than when I’d called. Phil’s name wasn’t on the mortgage, Dennis was involved with Canadian River Ventures, and the First National Bank of Borger wasn’t getting paid.

  A thought hit me. What if Canadian River Ventures was just Dennis and Melinda? If so, more the better. A mortgage in arrears held by the ADA and the deceased smelled like week old catfish on a trash heap.

  I hit Jack’s cell number on my phone. This news was too good not to be shared. But all I got was voice mail. I hung up when his voice instructed me to leave a message.

  “Spit in well bucket.” When all else fails, go with what works, and I didn’t need a creative mock cuss word. I needed my fiancé.

  I jumped to my feet and stomped down the hall, but my sandals barely clacked on the floors. Another disappointment. I rounded the corner into Jack’s empty office and made a beeline for his desk. I dropped any pretense of respect for his privacy and rifled with abandon. Jack kept a tidy work area for the most part. Really, he kept things tidy everywhere, and usually I appreciated this quality in him. Today, it irritated me. I wanted dirt. The only items on his desk were red rope file folders for each of his active cases, fifteen of them. I read every scrap of paper in every single one. Notes from consultations, to-do lists, some draft discovery, and some news clippings. I recognized every case, and there was nothing that would tell me where he was today, nothing incriminating. I opened his center desk drawer. There was an envelope in it, a used envelope from mail that had been addressed to him by the District Attorney’s office. It was empty and torn. I flipped it to the back and saw notes scribbled in his handwriting: Paige, Thur, 8 a.m. Underlined twice.

  I spat out my words, fear and frustration overcoming me. “Paige? Jack Ass, tell me what’s going on.”

  The phone rang, for his line. I snatched it up, dispensing with the normal pleasantries. “Jack Holden’s office.”

  “Um, yes, is Jack there?” a woman asked in a sexy Southern drawl.

  “Who is this?”

  “He was supposed to be meeting me at the stables—”

  “Is this Paige?”

  The woman hung up. With the envelope still in my hand, I closed the desk drawer, bolted from the office, and slammed the door so hard the pictures rattled on the walls. I looked at my feet, my blood boiling and my heart aching like it was going to fall out of my chest. When I reached my desk, I glanced up. A tall, pear-shaped woman with dark roots to her platinum hair stood inside the door, her hand still on the door handle and her mouth open.

  ***

  The woman stared at me. I was sure I had seen her before somewhere, and not too long ago.

  “May I help you?” I rubbed my hands down the sides of my jeans. As I did, I realized I was still holding the envelope from Jack’s drawer. I bent and stuffed it in my purse.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Jack Holden.” She held a clutch in front of her with both hands as if afraid that a mugger would dart out from under my desk and grab it from her.

  “Jack’s not here right now. He’s been called away from the office on an emergency and I am not sure when he’ll make it back. May I help you?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the closed door. “And you are?”

  “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Emily Bernal, Jack’s paralegal.”

  “I’m Millie Todd. I’m here about the night Dennis Welch was murdered.”

  That’s where I knew this woman—I’d seen her at Phil’s and Nadine’s party the week before. Only there she was the brazen swinger who’d propositioned Jack and me. Here, she was carrying herself completely differently, much more t
imid and soft-spoken. She didn’t show so much as a flicker of recognition on her face as she looked at me, though, so I didn’t bring it up. “Excellent. You may not realize it, but I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the last week for exactly that same reason. I’ll be happy to talk to you in his place. I’m working on that case with him.”

  She looked down but didn’t answer.

  “Why don’t we sit in our break area? I can make some coffee and we can talk.”

  She nodded, and I preceded her down the hallway. I motioned her ahead of me at the door to the kitchen, and she took a seat at the wooden table, putting her purse in a chair beside her.

  I filled the water well on the Keurig. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Black.”

  I prepared my cup with Half & Half and sucralose while hers brewed. My phone rang. Wallace’s name and face flashed up on the screen. “One moment please,” I said to Millie.

  I stepped out into the hall. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. You called?”

  “Yes. I wanted you to look into something. About the Hodges.”

  I heard the disapproval in his silence.

  “Please?”

  “What is it.” A statement, not a question, in a weary voice.

  “I went to that church we saw. They cornered me. Asked me a bunch of weird questions. Am I married, do I have kids, what would I be willing to contribute to the church, what are my beliefs on sin, how far would I go to save the world from sin.”

  “So?”

  “They were quite militant. They were hinting at violence.”

  “Emily—”

  “Can you just look into it, Wallace?”

  “Okay. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And, Em?”

  “Yeah?”

  “About Betsy—”

  Terror filled my heart. I didn’t want to hear any bad news. “I can’t talk any more right now.”

  I ended the call, staring at the phone shaking in my hands. I slipped it in the back pocket of my jeans and walked back in. Millie was glaring at me. “Sorry.”