The elevator dinged and the doors slid open just as a Muzak version of a Tom Jones tune began. My palms were sweaty. That always happened when I was about to enter my mother’s penthouse. I always morphed into a stupid sixteen-year-old right at the threshold. Must be a mother-daughter thing. Or maybe a spider-fly thing.
Before I had a chance to ring the bell, the door opened and I was greeted with an icy glare. It’s weird, because my mother and I have exactly the same aqua-blue eyes, so it’s kinda like being glared at by yourself in some twisted alternate reality.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, tightening the belt on the blue silk LaPerla robe Lisa had given her for Mother’s Day. Needless to say, the robe had made my gift of an orchid look like an afterthought.
“Ten-o-five?”
I took a deep breath, knowing it would be the last filtered air I’d put in my lungs for a while. My mother was quite fond of Imperial Majesty No.1. At $2,100.50 an ounce, you’d think she’d use it sparingly. Wrong. I practically choked on the heavy scent as I walked through the foyer and into the living room.
The penthouse is very formal. Lots of earthy colors, floral watercolors, and the creepy Grecian statuary—most of them headless—that had scared me senseless as a child.
Glancing into the kitchen, I saw three teacups and demi torte plates next to the sink. Crooking my thumb in that direction, I asked, “Graves and Steadman?”
“Lovely people,” my mother commented as she sat on the sofa across from me, hands decorously in her lap, back straight. “Couldn’t have been more polite.”
“You had a tea party with the police?” I slumped down in the closest chair. “The same officers who arrested me not that long ago?”
Mom shrugged. “They were doing their job, Finley. Knowing you, I’m sure you went out of your way to antagonize them.” She paused and tucked a strand of auburn hair back into place. “It’s like you have some sort of mental illness when it comes to dealing with authority figures.”
This wasn’t going well. “You served tea and canapés to the people who handcuffed me and stuck me in a cell not once but twice, and you think I’m the one with a screw loose?”
My mother’s face scrunched, but only those facial muscles that were low on Botox cooperated. “What do you want, Finley? I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow, and I’d like to get some sleep.”
I ignored my mother’s look of disapproval as I fished inside my bra and pulled out the medallion. Placing it on the coffee table between us, I steered it around a vase of lilies. “The victim was holding this.”
My mother gave the item a cursory glance. “What victim?”
I quelled my strong urge to reach across the table and shake her. “The murdered girl in the closet of the house you just sold me.”
My mother sighed like a pro. Technically, thanks to her years on stage, she is a pro, so the overly dramatic response fell within the bounds of normal. “Where did you get the idea she was murdered?”
“Gee, call me crazy, but burial in a closet was my first clue.”
“The police told me they didn’t find any evidence of foul play. It’s their position that the poor woman was a vagrant and simply took refuge in a vacant home. Melinda moved out six months ago. As I explained to the police, other than the security patrols, there wasn’t anyone checking the house on a regular basis. Whoever the dead person was, she probably had pneumonia or some other homeless person illness and crawled in the closet to die. While that is sad, it is hardly cause for alarm.” Her eyes narrowed. “Nor is it cause to back out of our agreement.”
I rubbed my hands over my face and counted silently backward from one hundred. I made it all the way to seventeen before I was sure my tone and expression would meet with her approval. “None of that explains the medallion.”
“I haven’t seen that silly thing for more than a decade,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If I’m not mistaken, it was one of the items stolen when the Palm Beach house was robbed eleven or twelve years ago—though God only knows why a thief would bother with that piece of costume jewelry.”
“Burgled,” I corrected absently.
“Excuse me?”
“Robbery is stealing by threat or intimidation or violence. Burglary is breaking and entering for the purpose of theft.”
“Did you come here to argue semantics?”
“No. I’m trying to figure out how a medal I gave my father ended up in the hand of a skeleton shoved in a box in a house I just bought from you.”
“How should I know?”
“You owned the house.”
“As I explained to the police, I never had anything to do with the place. Jonathan originally bought it as an investment but then decided it was better to turn it into a charitable endeavor. We had a property management company handle day-to-day things. After Jonathan died, I kept the same management company.”
“Back up,” I interrupted. “What was charitable about a rental property on Palm Beach?”
Another deep sigh. “Because of the tenant. Jonathan rented the place to Melinda for a pittance and wrote the difference off as a loss. His choice didn’t sit too well with the upper crust on Palm Beach, but Melinda and Jonathan had worked together for years, so he supported her devotion to those ill-bred children. They did agree that Melinda would limit herself to four children at any given time. It was Jonathan’s way of trying to avoid trouble with the neighbors.
“Unfortunately for them, the society types couldn’t very well take action against Jonathan. Can you imagine the bad press if they attempted to ban a foster mother from the island? Look at the fallout when Donald Trump raised a large American flag. They sued him, but the public sided with patriotism. The old money residents are not fond of publicity, especially when it shows them in a bad light.”
“Why am I only hearing about this rental thing now?”
“It was none of your business. Other than the occasional Christmas card, I had no interaction with Melinda. Beyond that, you’d have to ask my accountant or the property management company if you want more details. I’ve never paid much attention to business affairs.”
Unless it was how many shares of stock were put into her portfolio by a soon-to-be-ex husband. “So what changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you were getting a huge tax break, why did you stop renting the place?”
“It was turning into a headache. The neighbors were complaining more and more frequently, that sort of thing. Seven months ago I had the property manager give Melinda notice.”
“Out of the blue?” I asked. “No wonder she stripped the place.”
“You got a house out of the deal,” my mother reminded me.
I had a sinking feeling she’d be reminding me of that a lot. “And a skeleton,” I said. “Let’s not forget that hidden perk.”
“If you want to renege, Finley, I suggest you—”
“I don’t want to renege; I just want to know how a gift I gave my stepfather ended up in the hand of a skeleton.”
“Maybe he left it in the house.”
“But you said it was stolen.”
“I assumed it was. My insurance company asked me for a list of missing items after the break-in. It wasn’t with Jonathan’s things, so I assumed the burglars took it. Obviously, he lost it in that house and the vagrant found it. I think your recent crime-fighting spree has warped your mind. There’s nothing untoward about that medallion turning up in a house Jonathan visited occasionally.”
I wanted to press her for more details, but when she stood up, I knew I was being dismissed. The cops got tea and canapés. I got the old heave-ho. Before she showed me to the door, I was able to wrangle out of her the name of the property management company. Marc Feldman would be one of my first calls in the morning.
IT TOOK A WHOLE lot of MAC concealer to cover the dark circles I was sporting after a fitful night of being chased by skeletons that morphed into my mother and back again. Pret
ty scary dreams. On the plus side, since I’d gotten up just after 4:00 a.m., I’d already downed a pot of coffee, so my energy level was pretty high as I pulled into the parking lot of Dane, Lieberman, and Zarnowski.
I noticed two things right off: (a) I was still five minutes late, and (b) one of the hottest guys I’d seen in all twenty-nine years of my life was parked one car away. Maybe there was life after Patrick and Liam after all. If not life, I mused as I watched him lift a box out of the trunk of a sleek black Porsche, definitely sex.
Of course, he turned and caught me staring at him. With that face and that body, I didn’t much care that I’d been caught with my eyeballs in the cookie jar. He was the anti-Patrick—tall, slightly muscular, jet-black hair and eyes to match. He smiled back, making him the anti-Liam.
I reapplied lip gloss just to kill time. I wanted to make sure I headed for the door at the same time as Gorgeous Guy. A completely intentional, accidental meeting might just cure my dating dry spell. He smoothed his tie out of the way, then pulled a third box from his trunk. They were those cardboard put-it-together-yourself things that I have yet to master. His looked pristine.
Was it possible that the work gods had smiled on me and I was a Honda Accord away from a new estate client? I put him somewhere in his thirties, definitely within the parents’ estate zone. He was definitely from out of state. Floridians didn’t wear black Hugo Boss slacks and Ike Behar black shirts. At least not in the daytime when the temperature was already nearing eighty and it was barely past nine.
As soon as I saw him reach to close the trunk, I stepped out of my car and slipped my most recent purchase from the Coach outlet in Destin on my shoulder. It was from the SoHo collection, and the pink was a perfect splash of color to complement the gently pre-owned Ralph Lauren ruffled black and white shirt-dress I’d picked up on eBay. The dress retailed for over one-fifty, but I’d gotten it at less than a quarter of that, even after adding in dry cleaning to get rid of any remnants of pre-ownership. My round toe pumps came in handy, adding a couple of inches to my five-foot-three frame.
“Need some help?” I asked, casually strolling in his direction.
“That would be great.” He handed me a box by the press-thru handles. It barely weighed a pound.
After folding his suit jacket over the top box, he hoisted everything and started toward the door. He had an exceptional butt. And I was happy to trail behind, drinking in the scent of Acqua Di Giò eau de toilette, one of my all-time favorite men’s fragrances. I hurried around him, quickly admiring his broad shoulders as I reached for the door handle.
“Thanks,” he said.
Recognizing the remnants of a New York accent, I instantly started planning our dating future. Of course dating a New Yorker would mean Christmases in the city, Broadway plays—hell, I’d almost reached that romantic moment in a hansom cab, where he was offering me a signature blue box from Tiffany’s, when Maudlin Margaret’s voice turned into a total buzz kill.
“You’re late.”
You’re bitter. “Traffic,” I lied.
Margaret pushed back her chair and came out from behind the horseshoe-shaped reception desk. I half expected her to have a whip or something. I wouldn’t put corporal punishment past Vain Dane.
“You must be Mr. Caprelli.”
“Guilty,” he said, placing the boxes on Margaret’s sacred ground and offering her his hand. “Mrs. Ford, right?”
She batted her lashes. “Call me Margaret, please.”
My stomach turned at the sight of her flirting with my possible future husband. Peeking around the torso of Mr. Caprelli, I asked, “Messages?”
Margaret reluctantly turned her gaze on me. “Mr. Dane wants to see you in his office at nine thirty.”
“I’ll take that,” Caprelli said as he turned and took the box from me. “Thanks for your help.”
“I can carry this for you, just tell me who you’re here to see.”
“Not necessary. But thank you…?” totally hot Caprelli asked.
For a split second, the question hung in the air as I tried valiantly to remember how to speak English. “Uh, Finley.”
“Thanks, Finley.” He punctuated the greeting with a smile that made my knees more than just a little weak as I turned and walked across the lobby to the elevators.
Crap. I went up to my office on the second floor. I had ten minutes before I had to answer the call of the senior partner. My guess was he’d seen the snippet in the morning paper about the skeleton in my house. Dane, Lieberman isn’t a large firm, but it’s a prestigious and discreet one. My hopes that he’d missed the small article were dashed, so I spent what little time I had preparing my own defense.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten into trouble with Vain Dane, but he could hardly hold me responsible for a vagrant climbing into my house to die.
After pouring a generous mug of coffee from the pot under the credenza behind my desk, I opened the bottom drawer and pulled the medallion out of my purse. Flipping it over and over in my palm, I was still perplexed. I placed it next to my mouse pad, then powered on my computer. I scanned my emails, and my heart sank when I saw the high bid on a Rolex box go beyond my means. Since I’d given my mother almost all of my money for the house, I was back to hunting for parts for my build-it-from-scratch Rolex project.
I noticed two emails from Liam and took great delight in deleting them unread. There wasn’t anything he had to say that I wanted to hear. Or read. Or whatever.
Gulping down a huge hit of coffee, I grabbed a legal pad and pen, then dutifully marched toward the elevator. The executive offices were on the top floor.
When the elevator opened, I was greeted by the sight of a beautiful spray of flowers in the center of the waiting area, which was designed like a wagon wheel. Each spoke went to a different attorney’s office or conference room. Thomas Zarnowski, the founding partner, was mostly retired now. I missed him. He’d hired me seven years ago and actually liked me.
Ellen Lieberman, the first and only female partner, had her office and conference area to the left. Calling her a female partner was a bit of a stretch. Her long, curly hair turned gray years ago; she favored shapeless, flowing dresses with four slits—one for her head, one for each arm, and one for her unshaven legs to share. She lived in Birkenstocks, often wearing them with thin socks. I never went to her house, but I had this picture in my mind of a cluttered condo with lots of books, a single chair, a TV tray, and sixty cats.
Vain Dane’s office was directly in front of the elevators. His secretary had a huge desk, and she sat behind it like a sentry. I smelled the flowers as I passed by, then just as I reached the secretary’s desk, I smelled Acqua again. My heart fluttered just remembering my future fiancé.
“You may go in, Miss Tanner.”
“Finley is fine,” I told her for the umpteenth time. I could tell she was mentally tossing the suggestion in the trash as I started down the long hallway leading to Dane’s opulent office.
The strong scent of leather greeted me as I gently knocked on his partially open door.
“Come.”
Sit. Speak. Plastering a smile on my face, I walked in clutching my legal pad to my chest.
Dane looked annoyed. He didn’t get up from his custom upholstered leather chair. He just sat there, fingers steepled, glaring as I slowly walked forward. Behind his massive desk was a wall of windows, and I wondered how much of a running start I’d need to break through the glass and plunge to a painful but relatively quick death. My suicidal thoughts were cut short when Caprelli stood and turned in my direction.
Somehow—and no, I don’t know how—my heel caught one of the loops in the carpet, and for a flash of a second, I lurched forward before tossing my legal pad and grabbing for the first solid thing my hands encountered. That thing was Caprelli. I regained my balance and maybe 20 percent of my dignity as he guided me to one of the chairs across from Dane’s desk. “Thank you,” I mumbled as my cheeks grew hot.
Ca
prelli handed me my legal pad, and I adjusted myself on the edge of the seat. Grabbing the pen I’d tucked behind my ear, I sat poised and ready. For what I had no clue. It wasn’t as if I could take shorthand, and Dane didn’t usually farm out work to me. At least not since the Evans estate debacle.
“Finley Tanner, this is Anthony Caprelli.”
“We met earlier,” I said, offering my hand, “though not formally.”
“Tony,” he said as his large, masculine hand swallowed mine.
My heart rate increased when I lifted my eyes to his. They were dark and rimmed with perfect lashes. His complexion was dark as well, very Mediterranean and marred by just a few lines around his eyes that managed to make him even more attractive.
“Finley.” My own name came out in the froggish croak that even I didn’t recognize. I cleared my throat and said it again. “Finley.” Better. Well, not really. I remembered then that I had told him my name earlier in the lobby. Between my inability to remember my own name and a near-miss pratfall, he was probably already thinking I was a ditz. Great.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
Tony took his seat, crossing one leg over the other and casually grabbing the ankle.
“Given the last few months,” Dane began, leaving out the words “of you screwing up,” “Ellen and I decided to bring in a new partner to expand the firm’s areas of concentration. Tony will be heading up a criminal division, and he’ll need support staff.”
Like an overeager kindergartner, I wanted to yell, “Pick me! Pick me!” but I refrained. “I’m happy to help wherever you think I can do the most good.”
I could sense that Dane wanted to roll his eyes. “Any duties you take on will be in addition to your responsibilities in estates and trusts.”
“Not a problem.” True, I could practically do estates in my sleep after seven years.
3 Fat Chance Page 5