by Cindy Davis
"Thanks. For the ride and the information."
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Twenty-eight
A gentleman sporting a Lincolnesque beard stood behind the hotel counter. He nodded as Paige approached. She noted that he wore no wedding ring and gave him her most winning smile.
"Good day. I'd like a room please.” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and giggled. “Of course I want a room. Why else would I be standing here?"
The concierge, whose nametag proclaimed him as Quentin, merely smiled.
"Quentin, what an unusual name. I love the sound of it. Do you have a quiet room? I'll be staying at least a week and I don't want to disturb anyone while I'm practicing my lines."
He put a thumb and forefinger to his chin and ran them down to the point of his beard. “You're an actress?"
"Yes,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Confidentially, we're here shooting a movie. We're not supposed to talk about it. All a big secret, for one reason or another."
"What kind of movie?"
"You mean you don't recognize me?” She assumed a pouting expression then giggled again.
He placed a clammy hand atop hers. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that I don't watch many movies. Seems like I'm always here. You know what I mean?” He smiled a smile that was reflected in his eyes. “So, are you allowed to talk about what kind of movies you make, or is that a secret too?"
"Of course not, silly. I've done six movies. Two romances and four horror."
"Horror movies? You?"
"You don't think I'm suited to horror movies?"
"Not at all."
"Well, that's why they pick me. They want someone the audience will believe as the downtrodden, the victim. You know what I mean, don't you?"
Paige turned as a man reached past her for his key. He didn't look familiar, thank goodness.
"I assume you want a single suite?” Quentin asked.
"Well, the studio is paying for it, naturally, but I wouldn't think to take advantage of their generosity, so one of your medium-ish suites would be fine. Like I said though, something where I won't be disturbing anyone if I practice a little scream once in a while."
"Oh, I don't know if we have anything that private."
Paige giggled again. “Silly, I was just kidding. I won't practice screaming, just lines. You know like this.” She flung the back of a hand to her forehead and sighed, “Fiddle dee dee, Rhett, you can't be serious ‘bout leavin’ me. The debutante ball is next week, and I can't possibly attend it by myself."
Quentin, rapt, started to lean his elbows on the counter, then thought better of it. He typed something into his computer. “I think I have just the room for you. How long did you say you'd be with me—us?"
"Oh, at least a week, probably closer to two or three.” Paige signed in as Angela Lawson, occupation actress, residence, New York City. “What's your last name, Quentin?"
"Roberts."
"Could you direct me toward the elevator?"
He pointed left.
"Well, Quentin Roberts, I certainly hope I see more of you during my stay in your lovely hotel."
"Ditto,” he said to her retreating back.
As the elevator sped to the fourth floor, Paige hoped she'd garnered a groupie in the clammy handed concierge. She needed someone she could depend on to relay important information. Information about people asking too many questions, people who might have recognized her face from television.
She tossed her fake glasses on the dresser and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands through the now ash-blonde hair wondering how the hell Stefano's men kept finding her. Changing herself as often as she did, sometimes she herself didn't recognize the stranger peering back from the glass.
Paige dropped onto the bed, head in her hands. What if she sent back his precious coin? Maybe he'd give up and go away.
No, it was too late for that now. For Stefano it would be a matter of pride. She heaved a sigh to rival the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Maybe she should have entered one of those witness relocation programs.
Paige laid back on the bed, arm across her eyes, shielding them from the harsh overhead light, too worn out to bother getting up to shut it off.
It was in this position she fell asleep.
She woke to the bright yellow light of the moon fixed right outside her window. It seemed almost close enough to reach out and touch. Traffic on LaSalle, below, was thready. The view of the city was fabulous. Glass skyscrapers in every size reflected the moon in a kaleidoscope similar to that of the mirrored room at the circus. Flashing neon signs and lighted billboards proclaimed the names of restaurants, stores, and theaters, all at her disposal.
"I think I'm going to like it here."
While she went to the bathroom and unpacked her few belongings, she turned on the television, hoping that news of the search for car thief, Elizabeth Yates, hadn't leaked all the way to Minneapolis. By now they should have found Burt's car at K.C. International and, with any luck, called off the search for the domestic abuser.
Paige wondered if Quentin was still on duty, and whether she should don a new disguise in order to venture out on the town. She sighed. The subterfuges she'd used in the beginning had been a necessity, something to aid in her escape. Now, the masquerades weighed heavily inside her.
She smiled, thinking she just might use her real name, Paige Carmichael, the next time she registered somewhere. That would be the last thing they'd expect.
She arranged her books, all two of them, on a small shelf over the sofa, and organized her quilting supplies on the small oblong table, then stood back and looked over her meager belongings, so different from Santa Barbara where every convenience was at hand, or asked for. A sudden thought made Paige shudder. She gathered up the quilt and the books and repacked them in their bags.
The thought of another possible escape sent her into a fit of tears and self-pity. She pounded her fists into her pillows with as much force as she'd pummeled Burt when he attempted to kidnap her.
Later, her anger and sadness spent into the feather pillows, Paige stepped outside wearing her same paisley jacket and beret. Quentin hadn't been at his post as she passed so the question of disguises became moot.
The taste of winter was in the air in early November. Wood smoke, pine boughs, and a hint of cinnamon blew across her path on alternating breezes, the sound of an occasional siren and the ever present smell of automobile exhaust the only things to disturb the aura. She walked, head down, hand flashing to her head when the worst gusts of wind threatened to steal her hat.
New clothes and a large suitcase—just in case—were on her shopping agenda. She wrapped her jacket tighter around her as she hurried to the end of South 8th Street and turned right onto the bustling Hennepin Avenue searching for a public telephone.
One hand holding the blustering yellow pages, she ran the other index finger up, then down the listings—five pages of them—and tore them all out of the book, all the while cursing the elimination of closed-in phone booths. She folded the pages and slipped them inside her purse.
* * * *
She sat on her bed, legs folded underneath her with a pencil in her right hand and a handful of Fritos in the left. Paige had never had to hire a lawyer for anything. Her parents always had a family lawyer on retainer, and Stefano's organization had several attorneys in their employ. She wondered the best way to go about finding the right one. Her problem wasn't unique in its basis, but she would have considerable explaining to do at some point.
She pointed a finger at a large box yellow page ad, read it, then wrinkled her nose. Occasionally, she'd make a note on the paper in her lap, then go back to the ads. Finally, Paige lifted the phone and dialed for an outside line.
"Hello, I'd like to make an appointment to see Attorney Leahy, please,” she said.
A raspy male voice replied in a combination of Midwestern and the slightest twinge of Harv
ard accents, “May I have your name please?"
"Lawson, that's L-A-W-S-O-N, first name Angela."
A moment's hesitation from the person on the other end. A vision of the voice's owner flashed before her, tall, anorexically thin with a long narrow face and severely protruding cheek bones, no chin, a black pencil-thin mustache, and receding hair line, all atop an ill-fitting off-the-rack polyester suit. Oh yes, and wing-tip shoes.
"Ms. Lawson. I don't find your name on our client list."
"I've just arrived in your beautiful city and find myself in need of some legal advice. Actually, if truth be known, I am interviewing attorneys. You see I need just the right sort of representation for my, er, problem."
"Well, the initial consultation is free. I have an opening tomorrow at 3:30. Would that be suitable?"
"Yes."
While the man gave directions to the office, Paige held a wad of half-chewed Fritos in her cheek.
* * * *
The building was decorated in Industrial Chic, all grays, plate glass and sharp corners. The billboard/menu in the lobby listed the conglomeration of attorneys and firms as if it were a menu. Beside each entree was a description of the meals they served—criminal, divorce, tax, and a multitude of personal injury advocates.
The waiting room was not as she'd pictured. Even though diplomas littered the walls and chairs were placed conveniently beside tables laden with out-of-date magazines, the overall effect was effeminate and chintzy. Probably decorated by the guy she talked to on the telephone.
The side door opened. A lawyerly looking man entered carrying an armload of manila folders. His compact body exactly fitted his pinstriped suit and polished wing tips. He dropped the folders on the already overloaded desk, then turned his attention to her.
"Good afternoon. Ms. Lawson, I presume?"
She recognized the raspy accented voice from yesterday's telephone conversation. This leather-faced individual was not the lawyer after all.
"In the flesh.” She returned his toothy smile. The telephone jarred the uneasy silence. “I am Thad. If you'd care to wait a moment, Attorney Leahy will be with you directly,” he rasped as he lifted the receiver. The call was short, merely requiring an equally short note to be made on a pad that Thad dug from underneath the pile to his left, then returned the pad to the top of the stack.
Paige settled herself in a corner chair with a recent issue of Ladies’ Home Journal. She'd thumbed through twenty or thirty pages of advertising when the phone on the desk buzzed. The buzz must have been a signal because Thad never acknowledged it other than to say, “You may go in now,” and began poring through the mimeographed pages of the topmost folder.
Paige entered the inner office belonging to E. Leahy, first name unknown, and came face to face with E. Ellen, Elizabeth, Evelyn, Edwina—or whatever. But, E. Leahy, to Paige's extreme surprise and consternation, was a female.
Her uneasiness, which had begun in the outer office with a man who looked but didn't sound like a lawyer, intensified as she gazed at a woman who looked more like someone's grandmother than a lawyer. She always felt that lawyers should be men. A male attorney lent credence and a surety that neither sentiment nor emotion would be allowed to play any part in upcoming proceedings.
"Good morning, I am Esther Leahy. Call me Esther. Please sit down."
Paige selected one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the heavy mahogany desk. She gazed at the Minneapolis skyline through a gauze curtain.
"Thad tells me you're interviewing lawyers. I think that's admirable in a time when so many people are in a hurry. They are prepared to settle for the first thing that comes along, much like eating at McDonalds instead of Burger King because it was the first one in the strip mall parking lot."
"Oh my word.” Paige rose and, forgetting her manners, strode across the room. She feathered a palm across the burnished red furniture. “Where did you get this Chippendale settee?” She ran her hands over the sleek dark finish, then onto the fine brocade upholstery. “Look at the detailing on this ribbon-back!"
"I picked up the set in Virginia at—"
"The set? You have the entire set?"
"Yes.” Esther said proudly, pointing across the room at the matching arm and side chairs. “Beautiful aren't they? So, you know a little something about antiques, do you?"
Paige straightened up and went back to her seat in front of Esther's desk, which was also an antique, although not so rare as the Chippendales. “Could you tell me where your legal expertise lies?"
"Of course. Most of my clients are family people. People who need advice on matters dealing with real estate, bad debts, neighborhood disputes—and in a city this size you can be sure neighborhood disputes are a common occurrence,” she said with a smile, lacing gnarled fingers on the desk atop a green blotter.
"Also, I handle divorces. That's very difficult for me because often I've had both the litigants as clients for many years, some of them since I opened my practice. Then one of them comes to me in tears saying the other was a louse or—excuse the expression—a bitch, that he or she has been unfaithful. It shows me a side of them that I'd never seen before. So depressing.” Her tightly permed gray curls nearly rattled as she shook her head.
"So, tell me about yourself. Are you married? Is this visit divorce related?"
Paige smiled and ran a hand through her hair. “Heavens no."
"I didn't think so. You're not distraught. No red eyes or tissue clutched in white knuckles. Would you care for a cup of coffee? I feel the palpitations coming on and if I don't have my caffeine fix, I turn into a trembling bundle of nerves.” She rose and poured coffee from a half full pot on a sideboard.
Paige shook her head. “No coffee, thank you. And, you're right, I'm not here because of any emotional entanglements. As a matter of fact, I am not an overly emotional person. I am usually logical and organized. I'm new in town and find that I'm in need of some assistance in a problem which I've brought upon myself."
"Ah, I see.” Esther took a long sip of coffee and leaned back in her leather swivel chair. She laced her hands across her bosom and waited. “Tell me about yourself, dear. Where are you from?"
"I...” she began. “Originally I'm from the Boston area."
"Really? I don't notice any trace of accent."
"Well, I was only born there. My family moved to the Midwest when I was eight."
"Tell me about your parents?"
"They died in a car crash when I was fifteen."
"I'm so sorry."
"Same old story, a drunk driver. It was a long time ago, I'm over it,” Paige said, allowing a dispirited look to cross her face.
"No, dear. I don't think you have."
A wave of acid welled up in Paige's stomach and she rose. “Could I use your bathroom?"
A frown creased Esther's waxy skin. “Of course."
Paige gave the Chippendale set a wistful glance as Esther led her through the outer office, past Thad who was typing rapidly on the computer keyboard. Across the hall, Esther patted Paige on the shoulder. “See dear, you really aren't over it.” She pointed to an unmarked door identical to that of her office. “I'll be in my office."
Paige nodded and smiled weakly. She waited inside the shiny bathroom with its pink sink, pink toilet, and pink tiled floor, until she heard Esther Leahy's office door click shut.
Paige used the facilities, then peeked into the hallway, waited for a dark suited figure to enter an office at the end of the hall, then sneaked to the elevator hoping Ms. Leahy didn't poke her head out in search of her wayward new client.
It wasn't until she was on the street that Paige took a cleansing breath. Li'l old Aunt Bea wasn't the lawyer for her.
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Twenty-nine
Paige left the hotel after breakfast the following morning prepared to explore her new town prior to her interview with the second lawyer. Wearing a smart blue dress and matching shoes, she walked north along Hennepin Avenue, th
inking about the conversation she'd had with the attorney over the telephone.
For nearly a half-hour they'd talked about nothing more than weather in Minneapolis, what there was to do, what sort of people resided here. She'd hung up the phone feeling confident that this might be the one she could trust to handle her affairs and at the same time keep her name and identity a secret.
Lost in thought, she nearly missed a sign advertising a bookshop in the nearby alley. Tucked at the end across from a bakery, the thick plate glass window distorted the images of the pedestrians and buildings across the way. The door creaked as she entered, spilling out an overwhelming cloud of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She wavered and nearly backed outside feeling a pang of sadness at the memory of her bookman friend Shamus Baxter. Not that the somber unkempt individual behind the counter reminded her of the wizened gray-haired Shamus in the least. Years of hard drinking had reduced this man to a slovenly, overweight blob who looked as though he'd become rooted to the stool on which he sat.
She returned his grin and ran her eyes around the dimly lit shop. No shelves. Just stacks upon stacks of milk crates, orange crates, cardboard and wooden boxes on their sides, filled with books, each individual stack looking like it would topple if a person sneezed. And sneezing was a definite hazard here.
She visualized Shamus hobbling into this shop. First he'd scowl and complain so everyone could hear about the deplorable conditions the books were forced to reside under. Then he'd smile and dive in holding a handkerchief over his nose. “Places like this,” he'd told her often, “are where a book dealer finds some of the best deals, besides a Salvation Army Thrift Shop, that is. You'll find some of the danged best deals in the thrift shops, if, and that's a capital IF,” he'd punctuate the comment with a gnarled index finger in the air. “If you can find a place where some moron hasn't done the pricing with a damned magic marker! Why I once found a mint copy of A Farewell to Arms for a quarter. Turned around and sold the thing for $150 the next day."
Paige rummaged through the crates finding very little that interested her, being mostly anthologies of essays or town histories, but she recalled another tidbit Shamus had imparted. “Never give up. You never know what the next title will be."