by Debbie Burke
Judah stuck his chin out. “Nah, there’s no school tomorrow. It’s a holiday.”
Tawny ran the calendar through her mind. Dead presidents had been in February. It was too early for spring break. She suspected he was running a scam. “Which holiday? I don’t remember schools in Kalispell having a day off.”
His eyes glinted with mischief. “It’s a special holiday in Billings, honoring some dead guy. I think he was the founder or something. You probably don’t have it over on the west side.”
“Oh, yeah? Is it Malcolm Muggeridge?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yeah, that’s who. I just forgot his name.”
She made a pistol with her hand and mock-shot the boy. “You are full of crap, Mr. Rosenbaum.”
Bluff called, he broke into giggles. Arielle grinned, braces shining, pleased her brother had been caught.
Tawny play-punched his shoulder. “OK, what’s your homework?”
He grunted. “Three chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird.”
A small quiver ran through Tawny. With her dyslexia, she hadn’t been able to help her own children with reading. How could she help Tillman’s? She wracked her brain to remember what Emma had told her about the book—a white lawyer, his young daughter, and an unjustly accused black man. “Do you like the story?”
“It’s OK.”
“Does it kind of remind you of your dad?”
Judah’s face screwed up in a grimace. “No-oh-oh.” He stretched the word over several syllables. “Gregory Peck is a lot better looking than Dad.”
“I meant because he fights for people who’ve been unjustly accused of crimes.”
Judah pulled his chin in. “Are you kidding me? He gets off dirtbag drug dealers and gangsters.”
Tawny couldn’t argue with that. Many of Tillman’s clients were pretty scummy. But he had defended her and saved her from prison. It was important for his children to know that. “He helps innocent people, too, like Atticus Finch.”
“Whatever.” Unconvinced, Judah jumped down from the bar stool and headed for the hall. “I’m gonna go read the damn chapters.”
When he was gone, Arielle focused on Tawny. “Did you tell Dad?”
“About you getting drunk? No.”
Relief washed over the girl’s face. “Thanks.”
Tawny studied her. “Arielle, I didn’t keep it from him so you wouldn’t get in trouble. He has a lot to worry about right now. He didn’t need to hear about a problem that cures itself with sleep and aspirin.” She paused. “Unless you decide to make a habit of it.”
Arielle’s blank expression didn’t confirm or deny, meaning it likely was already a habit. Damn.
Under Tawny’s gaze, the girl shifted, eyes downcast. “Dad caught me in his bar a few months ago. Gave me this big lecture and made me see a counselor. I don’t want him to drag me back there again.” She chewed her lip. “It’s just this thing with Mimi kinda upset me. But I got it under control.”
Tawny had heard those same words too often. “Can I tell you something I haven’t even told your dad?”
Interest sparked in her dark eyes. “I guess.”
“My dad started drinking at thirteen. He was a real tough guy. He always said he had it under control. Until one rainy night. Driving home from the bar with my mom. Took a corner too fast, rolled the truck, and smashed into a tree on the passenger side. So drunk he didn’t even realize he’d killed my mom until the highway patrol told him. Not a scratch on him.” She swallowed hard, tamping down the shame, heartbreak, and devastation that still surfaced twenty-five years after the loss.
Arielle’s eyes widened. “God. That sucks.”
“Even though my kids were pretty young when it happened, I had to be honest with them. The grandma they adored was dead and Grandpa’s drinking had killed her.”
“Did he go to jail?”
Tawny shook her head. “The judge took his license but that was it.”
“Did you hate him?”
Tillman’s children specialized in impossible questions. “Sort of. I don’t know. Sometimes I loved him, sometimes I hated him. Eventually he blew out his liver and died. He wasn’t mean, just…pitiful.”
Arielle rotated the bar stool back and forth, expression somber.
Stop now, Tawny thought. No lectures. She’d made her point. Let the girl figure out the rest for herself. She took a deep breath. “What’s your homework?”
One side of Arielle’s mouth turned down. “Trig. It’s stupid. Why do I need to know sine, cosine, and tangent when I’m going to cosmetology school?”
“How are you doing in the class?”
She shrugged. “A minus.”
“Wow, that’s great. I didn’t get a single A all through school.”
Arielle peered up at Tawny. “Really? Dad says you’re super bright. How come you sucked in school?”
Tillman had said that? Tawny blinked hard then answered, “Dyslexia. I can’t read very well. Your dad’s always ragging on me about my lousy spelling.” And dredging up the self-doubt Tawny constantly battled. Yet he’d told his daughter she was smart.
She pushed her insecurity aside and concentrated on the girl. “You might decide later that you want to go to college. It won’t hurt to have trig in your back pocket. Keep your options open. You can still go to cosmetology school, too.”
Arielle twisted a lock of hair. “Mom and Dad would never let me. They’re going to ram college and grad school down my throat until I gag.” She grabbed a fork and pretended to poke her eye out.
Tawny squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “I think it’s great you’re getting good grades. I wish I’d been able to.”
A gleam came into Arielle’s eyes. “Maybe if you talk to Dad about cosmetology school, you can convince him.”
Tawny swished her hands back and forth. “Not getting in the middle of that argument, young lady. I may be dyslexic but I’m not an idiot.”
The girl gave up and slid from her seat. “Aw-aw-all right.” She padded toward the stairs but paused for a moment and looked back at Tawny. Then she headed to her bedroom.
Tawny leaned arms on the counter and heaved a sigh. One short discussion couldn’t sway the children to respect their father. But at least the homework would get done. Celebrate small victories.
****
The next morning, Tawny herded the kids to the SUV, gathering backpacks, tablets, shoes, and coats along the way. The kids groused because she insisted they arrive fifteen minutes early.
When Judah slouched out of the car and sauntered toward the middle school entrance, emotion washed over Tawny. Memories of dropping Neal and Emma off on their first days of school welled in her, the bittersweet realization that her children were growing up and she could no longer protect them.
And now Tillman’s children were hers to protect. She feared she might falter and fail, damaging them more than they already were.
“What’s your problem?” Arielle demanded.
The question startled Tawny. “What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re gonna cry.”
She blinked hard. “Just remembering my kids’ first day of school.”
“Duh, it’s April. Hardly our first day.”
Tawny touched the girl’s fluffy curls. “It’s my first day dropping you off. Maybe you’ll have kids someday and you’ll understand.”
Arielle rolled her eyes. “I’m never having kids. I’m never getting married. I’m going to screw hot guys and drop them the first time they piss me off.”
Tawny pulled into traffic, heading for the high school. “Get back to me in about ten years and let me know how that’s working out for you.”
****
Tillman still hadn’t called with the satellite phone number, dammit. In his living room, Tawny tapped in the password and scrolled through his computer. The suicide camp’s website didn’t give an address, claiming privacy for their patients, and only described the awe-inspiring mountain wilderness of central Montana. She c
alled the toll-free number but got a recording. She left a message for Tillman, wondering when, or if, he’d receive it.
Restless, Tawny decided to explore the public nature trails that wound behind the homes on Tillman’s cul-de-sac.
When she’d packed for Yellowstone, she’d included bear spray, her .38 special snub-nose revolver, and ammo. Thankfully back home in the Flathead Valley, there were no poisonous snakes. But, east of the mountains and on the prairies, rattlers ruled.
For the morning’s hike, she loaded the first two cylinders with sand shot, cartridges filled with tiny pellets like miniature shotgun rounds, to defend against rattlers emerging from hibernation. The gun weighed heavy in the pocket of her denim jacket.
In the brisk air, she followed a trail that meandered along the edge of the Rimrocks. She spotted switchbacks that zig-zagged down into the canyon from the opposite side of the ravine. The path appeared to lead up to the dead-end street where the Spanish house sat.
Jackrabbits skipped through sagebrush ahead of her as she picked her way to the bottom then climbed the wandering trail up the steep hill. Thankfully, she didn’t encounter any snakes. Ten huffing minutes later, she rounded a boulder the size of a minivan. In front of her lay the back yard of the Spanish house where she’d seen the man with the rifle.
The house towered three stories above her. It was about half the size of Tillman’s mansion, making it only four or five thousand square feet. The roar of a small engine came from the front. She walked around to the street.
A Hispanic gardener steered a riding mower in ribbon-straight rows on the putting-green lawn. When he saw Tawny, he shut down the motor and touched one hand to the brim of his John Deere cap.
She nodded and approached him. “Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, señora.” His face crinkled in a smile, showing a gold front tooth.
“Have you worked at this house for a while?” she asked.
“Sí, señora. I work for the property manager who takes care of selling. Since last summer.” He gestured toward his truck and utility trailer in the driveway. A hand-lettered sign on the door read: 4 Season Home Care. Mow, snow plow, leafs rake, tree trim. She smiled inwardly at the word leafs, knowing she herself spelled that way too often for Tillman’s liking.
“What day did you work here last time?”
The man shrugged. “This street, always Monday. I take care of four yards.” He gestured toward other properties down the block. “Tuesday, I work over there.” He pointed across the canyon at Tillman’s estate.
“Oh, do you work for the Rosenbaums?” she asked.
“Sí, Señor Tillman, very good amigo. Work his yard long time. My cousin and his espousa work there too.”
“Consuelo and Fausto?” Tawny was used to small-town connections like that in Kalispell but didn’t expect them in the big city of Billings.
He beamed. “You know them?”
“I met Consuelo. I’m sorry about Fausto’s accident.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Fausto, he never like to drive Zimmerman. He says every time he go on that road, he prays to the Blessed Mother for angels to catch rocks.” He ducked his head and shrugged. “This time, maybe he forget to pray.”
“How is he doing?”
“Very bad. We wait now.”
“I hope he’ll be OK.” She glanced at the house. “By any chance, have you seen a man hanging around here?”
“The manager, sometimes. Sometimes, real estate people. But no one lives here.”
“Friday night, I saw a man on the third-floor balcony.”
“What’s he look like?”
She shook her head. “It was too far away. But he was pointing a rifle.”
The gardener drew back. “A rifle? No hunting allowed here. Too close to houses.”
“I know. It worried me.” She held out her hand. “Me llamo Tawny. I’m staying at the Rosenbaums. I’ll see you there tomorrow.”
He wiped his calloused palm on his shirt before taking her hand. “Mucho gusto, señora. I am Florentino.”
“If you see anyone strange hanging around this house, would you let me know?”
“Sí, señora. I tell you right away.”
****
Tawny was eating a salad at the kitchen bar when her cell rang.
Tillman. Finally. “Sorry I didn’t call last night,” he started.
Immediately she noticed the strain in his deep voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Mimi had a meltdown. Total hysteria. Ran outside into the forest and disappeared.”
“Is she all right?” Tawny bit her lip, afraid to hear the answer.
He continued, “The whole staff, and Chell and I searched all night until seven this morning. Didn’t exactly inspire confidence about security at this suicide camp.”
“You found her?”
“Yeah. All of us had covered the same ground six or seven times. Finally, one of the counselors tripped on a tree root, crashed flat on her face down in a gully. When she raised her head, there’s Mimi staring at her from inside this goddamn hollow log like a bunny rabbit. My poor baby was covered with ticks. Maybe she figured, since the overdose hadn’t killed her, the ticks would eventually suck all her blood out.”
Tawny knew his sarcasm masked stark fear. “Is she OK?”
“Sedated to the gills. So’s Chell. Aw, Tawny, this whole expedition is such a mistake.” Tillman never sounded defeated but this came close.
“But what else can you do?”
His exhalation hissed in her ear. “I don’t know. Lock her up in an institution like my sister? Have her live like an animal in captivity? I can’t do that to my daughter. She’s barely sixteen, for chrissake.”
Tawny’s throat tightened, helpless to ease Tillman’s anguished desperation. “What do the doctors say?”
“They need to find equilibrium with her medication. What horseshit.” He was quiet for a moment and Tawny imagined him running his hand down his long face, pulling the skin taut. At last, he spoke again, “The kids giving you any trouble?”
“They’re fine. I’ll pick them up from school this afternoon. What’s the number there?”
He recited it.
She wrote it on a slip of paper then asked, “Where’s the camp?”
“The Big and Little Snowies, more than an hour south of Lewistown. Four-wheel-drive mule trails to get here. Chell got stuck twice. She’s pissed because you have my SUV. Didn’t help when I reminded her she insisted on driving her Beemer.”
Tawny imagined being cooped up for hours in a car with Tillman and Rochelle yelling at each other. No wonder Mimi ran screaming into the night. “I wish I could help.”
“You are. I know Arielle and Judah are safe. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to them.”
Her stomach contracted. “Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah.” He disconnected.
Tawny set the cell on the counter and stared at the remains of her salad, unable to finish it. She dumped it in the trash and put the bowl in the dishwasher, trying to shake the unsettled feeling that had overcome her since Tillman had first sprung his surprise detour to Billings. Rattling around the huge, empty house only made her discomfort worse.
Three more hours until she had to pick up the kids from school. She decided to drive to the law office and look for a project. Anything to take her mind off the troubles of the Rosenbaum family.
Most of her work for Tillman took place in the field or by phone, interviewing clients at their homes or businesses, following up leads. She’d only been in his office a handful of times.
When she drove into the lot behind the classic brick building, she spotted Steve Zepruder with a briefcase walking from the direction of the courthouse a few blocks away. She got out of the Mercedes and called, “Hi Steve.”
He’d been hurrying, head down, but jerked in surprise at her hail. Quickly he broke into a broad smile and approached. “Hi, Tawny. What are you doing here?”
“Look
ing for work. Consuelo keeps Tillman’s house so clean, I couldn’t find anything to do. I don’t idle very well.”
She started for the rear entrance, expecting him to follow, but he held back. “Wait a second. I’d like to talk to you.” He glanced toward the building. “Some things I’d rather not go all over the office grapevine.”
Odd. What did he have to say to her? They didn’t work the same cases. “OK.”
At the alley, he gripped a vertical bar of the rolling iron security gate that surrounded the parking lot. “It’s bad news, I’m afraid.” His mouth twitched sideways.
“What?” As if anything could top the past three days.
“Kemp Withers went into hospice today. He probably won’t last the week.”
Tawny sagged against the iron bars. “I’m sorry.” She hardly knew Tillman’s older partner but cancer and hospice were all too familiar. “Does he have family?”
“He’s at home with his wife. Their kids are flying from out of state.”
“That’s sad. Tillman really respects him.”
Steve ran a hand across his forehead. “Everyone does. He’s the grand old man of Billings law.”
“We better call Tillman.”
Steve shook his head. “Not a damn thing he can do about it. He’s got his hands full with Mimi. Best to just let it be for now. I’m going to see Kemp’s wife, Gloria, this afternoon.” He placed one loafer on the crossbar of the fence. “This may sound kind of ghoulish, but Kemp’s interest in the firm, well, everything will change now with only Tillman and me.”
“Don’t you have provisions for a partner’s death?”
“Sure, we’re attorneys. We have provisions for every possible contingency and most impossible ones.” He slid his foot back and forth between the bars. “I’m talking more about the direction the practice will go without Kemp.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve had a few differences of opinion. I lean one way, Tillman leans another way. Kemp’s always been the deciding vote. With him gone, we may find ourselves in a standoff.”