Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  Tuesday, October 19, 9 a.m.

  Charlotte Wellington’s heels clicked against the sidewalk as she turned on her BlackBerry and checked her messages. Two clients. Her realtor. Clerk of the court. The apartment manager of the Seminary Towers. And a number she did not recognize.

  As she walked the block toward her office, she called the clerk first. His message had been in response to a call from her. No verdict in the Samantha White case yet.

  “Good,” she muttered. “They have questions and are thinking.”

  She dialed her realtor and two rings later heard a perky, “Hello, Charlotte! How are you?”

  “Great, Robert, as long as you have not had other problems with my condo sale.”

  “It’s nothing huge this time. The man buying your condo called to say the home inspector has two issues. He says there is a leaky faucet in the second bathroom and the lock on the exterior storage closet rattles. He wants you to fix them both. He also wants to move the closing date up to the thirtieth.”

  “Robert, I’ve made enough price concessions to this guy. I agreed to be out the middle of next month and now he wants two weeks and two minor issues fixed? He is officially a pain in the ass. The place is stunning, one of a kind. He should be grateful the place came on the market.”

  “Five years ago, I’d have agreed. These days, just be grateful you got asking price. Besides, Charlotte, these are minor changes. You could hire a handyman to take care of both issues in an hour. And the new move-out day is only fifteen days earlier.”

  “Fifteen days is a lifetime for me this year.” Given a different set of financial circumstances, this last request would have been the final straw. She’d have pulled the condo from the market and told the buyer to buzz off.

  But she needed the money from the condo sale more than extra time to arrange the move. The law practice had hit a dry spell that she fully expected to ride out in the long run. But short term, cash flow was strangling her. “I don’t have the time to track down a handyman. And I haven’t even called a mover.”

  “I’ll call the handyman and a mover that I trust. My guy can have the minor repairs made today, and my other guy can have you safely moved out in fifteen days.”

  She tightened her grip on her briefcase handle. “I don’t like being pushed like this.”

  “This is a huge sale, Charlotte. It would be a shame for you to lose out. And I know you really want this.”

  People chose Robert because he was aggressive and had a reputation for quick, high-dollar sales. His customers either needed cash or a quick move. Seeing as she wasn’t leaving Alexandria, it didn’t take a huge leap for him to figure that money drove this sale.

  Life had backed her into a corner before, and she’d learned that survival depended on adaptability. “Fine. Get your man in to fix the problems and find me a mover. One way or the other, I’ll be ready to move out by the new date.”

  “Great. Great. This will be worth the effort.”

  “It needs to be.” She said her good-byes and hung up. As she walked, she called one client and left a voice mail. She was dialing the second when her phone rang. Her realtor. “Robert.”

  “You’re good to go. I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “Great.”

  “Plan to close in fifteen days.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s going to be fine.” The soft edge in his voice suggested unwelcome pity.

  “It’s going to be better than fine, Robert.” She hung up, moving down the tree-lined brick sidewalk past the historic town houses.

  When Charlotte arrived at the office, she unlocked the front door, which always remained secured. She’d never fretted over security and enjoyed an open-door policy until a man had waltzed into her law offices three years ago and shot her.

  She’d returned to her office one week after the surgery to inspect the installation of her office’s new security system. She’d insisted that she was recovering nicely and had no lingering issues after the shooting, but the truth was worry stalked her constantly. Her world became smaller and smaller, and she’d begun to feel quite alone in it.

  Perhaps it was that self-imposed isolation that had driven her to Rokov and why being with him was exhilarating and addictive. If she still saw her analyst, he’d have had quite a field day with her choice to finally break a four-year dry spell with a cop—a protector.

  She found her receptionist grinning like a little girl. Iris was a fifty-plus, silver-haired woman who dressed in pinks and madras. Generally stoic, she was efficient and had the office organized down to the last paper clip.

  “Hey, boss.” Iris was grinning when she offered Charlotte her standard morning greeting.

  Charlotte paused, taken back by the unexpected grin. “Whose birthday did I forget?” She didn’t celebrate holidays and often forgot her own birthday. Consequently, she wasn’t good about remembering most milestone events that were so important to others.

  Iris grinned. “No birthday.”

  “There is something. What did I miss?”

  “You didn’t miss anything. Angie decided to surprise us.” Iris handed her a half-dozen pink message slips.

  She wasn’t fond of surprises. “Why?”

  “Relax, surprises can be good, Charlotte.”

  She flipped through the messages. “So you keep telling me. So what is the good surprise?”

  “Angie has brought in a cake and we’re having a minicelebration.”

  “The celebration is for?”

  “Her fund-raiser for the American Cancer Society. She just received several pledges late yesterday that are going to put her near the million-dollar mark.”

  Angie, a cancer survivor, had suggested a fall Halloween fund-raiser for the children’s cancer ward at Alexandria Hospital. To make the event happen, she’d twisted arms, including Charlotte’s, and called in favors. She’d transformed a once sleepy event into a big costumed Halloween party that was going to be not only a moneymaker but The Event of the year.

  “So we eat cake.”

  “We do. Now put down your bag and get into the conference room. And don’t tell me you have work. You always have work.”

  Charlotte rarely took time to celebrate milestones like this. So consumed with success that the instant she reached one hurdle, she set her sights on the next. Angie was teaching her to slow down if only a little, every so often.

  She slipped into her office, set down her briefcase, and touched up her lipstick. She found her staff in the conference room. Angie Carlson Kier stood at the head of the table wielding a knife over a large pumpkin-shaped cake. Beside her was Zoe Morgan, their new paralegal. Tall, lean, with black hair that grazed her shoulders, she had been a dancer in her teens but had suffered an injury that had ended her career. She’d worked for several nonprofits but had accepted a job here five months ago. So far, she was turning into a real asset.

  Charlotte smiled and tried not to calculate the billable hours idling in this room.

  Angie’s smooth blond hair hovered around her jaw line. She wore a simple cream-colored suit and a white blouse. Since Angie had adopted her son, David, she’d cut back her hours to forty a week, part-time for a lawyer. Angie had declined partnership on the heels of Charlotte losing her original partner, Sienna James, to a lover in Texas. Sienna’s buyout, Angie’s inability to buy into the firm, and the lost billable hours to the White case had created the crippling cash flow crunch.

  “I can hear the wheels turning in your brain, Charlotte,” Angie said. “We will take just a few moments to have this minicelebration and then it’s back to work.”

  Charlotte relaxed her shoulders and eased the tension from her face. “No rush.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I don’t see the humor,” Charlotte said.

  Angie grinned. “You not rushing is funny. And by the way, you did a stunning job with summations yesterday. You’ve the makings of a great criminal attorney.”

  She’d been pleased wit
h her closing comments yesterday. And judging by the jury’s body language, she’d planted real seeds of doubt. “So I hear you’ve reached a new high in fund-raising?”

  “We’ve passed the million-dollar mark with our fund-raiser. We’ve shattered all expectations, and we’ve not even held the party and auction.”

  Charlotte clapped, her smile genuine now. “You’ve a lot to be proud of, Angie.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pragmatic, even calculating to a fault, Charlotte recognized that this event benefited not only the community but also Wellington and James. She’d learned at an early age that those who weren’t always scraping for the next morsel went hungry.

  Angie cut the cake and doled out pieces to everyone. Charlotte bit into the chocolate cake and savored the hidden flavors of espresso. Angie had been raised in an affluent home and knew all the best caterers and bakers in town. She also knew the best schools, the best dance studios, and the most prestigious social events. Not that Angie focused on such things. She didn’t. But it struck Charlotte that what came so naturally to Angie had required painstaking research for her. She built her list of The Best one name at a time. It was very important to her to cultivate the impression that she, too, had grown up in a world similar to Angie’s.

  “So, how is the baby?” Zoe asked.

  “David is great,” Angie said. “He’s walking and tearing up everything in his path. Malcolm has the day off so the two went to the park. Malcolm said it’s a male bonding kind of thing.”

  “What does that mean?” Iris said.

  “Who knows? Likely they take off their shirts, paint their faces, and run through the woods at the park hunting squirrels.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

  Angie laughed. “Yes, I’m kidding. Most likely it’s an ice cream at the carnival and a few games of chance there. Then the afternoon in front of the television watching the Dallas game that I taped for him while he was working.”

  Zoe shook her head. “I’d read that the carnival opened last Friday, but I hadn’t thought to go.”

  “For David and Malcolm, it will be great fun. For me, not so much. I was never a fan of carnivals. Too dirty.”

  Charlotte glanced at her cake and poked it with her fork. Too dirty.

  The front door buzzer sounded and Iris moved to answer it.

  Charlotte raised her hand. “Sit. I’ll get it.” She set down her cake, almost untouched, and moved down the hallway. As much as she enjoyed her staff, she understood that there would always be distance between them because she was the boss.

  She checked the security camera behind Iris’s desk and spotted a man, his face turned partway from the camera. The ends of his flannel shirt hung over the painfully narrow waist of faded jeans. He had gray hair and what looked like a scruffy beard. He finished the dregs of a cigarette and then crushed it out in a stone planter filled with white mums.

  “Nice,” Charlotte muttered. She considered calling the cops just as the man turned and faced the camera. He grinned as if he sensed she was staring at him.

  She jerked back and for a moment could barely breathe. Time had weathered the face and grayed the hair, but there was no mistaking the sharp gray eyes that had been a fixture in a childhood she’d worked hard to erase from her memory. She stepped back from the screen, her heart knocking against her chest.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Grady Tate?” The carnival was in town, but she’d stayed away because she did not want to see him. He must have seen the news coverage of the trial yesterday.

  As if she’d spoken directly to him, Grady rang the bell again and then again. His arrival was clearly no accident, and he was not going anywhere.

  Iris appeared at reception. “Who is ringing the bell?”

  Pure, sharp panic cut into Charlotte’s belly. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Iris glanced at the monitor. “He looks like something the cat dragged in.”

  “He has that effect on people.”

  “Who is he?”

  Charlotte smoothed hands over her black pencil skirt. “Nobody.”

  Iris folded her arms. “Really? Well, Nobody has rattled your cage.”

  “He has not.”

  “Your lips are blue.”

  She moistened her lips and offered a smile too brittle to be amiable. “Just go back to the party and enjoy your cake.”

  Iris tapped a manicured finger on her forearm. “I think I’ll stay right here and make sure Nobody isn’t a problem.”

  Charlotte did not want Iris to meet Grady. Past colliding with present promised disaster. But making an issue could require more explaining down the road. “Eat your cake, Iris. I’ll shout if I need you.”

  Plucked brows knotted. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know. Thanks. But go. Please.”

  “Fine.”

  Swallowing the tension in her throat, Charlotte crossed and opened the front door. Grady’s fist was poised in the air ready to knock again. For a moment, he stared at her, stunned into silence. She’d changed—a lot—since the long-ago night he’d put her on the Metro bus to Alexandria. His gaze moved over her, assessing and calculating, before a slow, dangerous smile curved thin lips. “Hello, Grace.”

  Blood rushed to Charlotte’s head, making her temples pound. She’d not heard that name in eighteen years. “My name is Charlotte Wellington.”

  “Yeah, I saw you on the television last night. Sounds like you tore it up at that trial yesterday. Got to say I was surprised to see you. I always figured you’d have left the area after all these years.”

  Tension seared her nerves. “What do you want, Grady?”

  If he noticed her unease, he didn’t seem to care as he glanced beyond her into the reception area. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Looks mighty fancy inside.”

  She shifted and blocked his view. “What do you want, Grady?”

  His gaze thinned, the pretense of civility melting like ice on a scorching day. What emerged was the hard cold man who had been her stepfather. “You always could piss me off in no seconds flat.”

  “Get to the point or leave.”

  “I raised you to respect your elders better than that, didn’t I, Grace?”

  “You tracked me down after all this time to issue a lesson in good manners? I find that a hard one to swallow.”

  He slid gnarled hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaned forward. “Invite me in and make nice, or I swear everyone in this town will know you are not some fancy attorney but a lowlife carnie who did what she had to do to put pennies in her pocket.”

  The scents of the carnival—tobacco, cotton candy, popcorn, and grease—wafted off him, and instantly she was transported back to a time when she’d lived her days in fear and want. Despite half a lifetime of creating Charlotte Wellington, Grady could smash her image with a few words.

  “Come inside. But do not call me Grace.”

  His smile flashed again, quick and razor-sharp. “Now that is more like it ... Ms. Wellington.”

  Charlotte stood back and waited for him to enter her reception area. Past and present had merged, and eighteen years’ worth of fear, regrets, and dread came to fruition. “What do you want, Grady?”

  He took his time surveying the room, taking in the oil landscape paintings, the Oriental rugs, the sleek mahogany receptionist desk and the gold-embossed sign that read Wellington and James.

  “Mighty fancy, baby girl.” He sniffed and shook his head. “Mighty fancy.”

  “Don’t call me baby girl.”

  “You liked it when I called you that back in the day.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I never liked it, and if you haven’t noticed, back in the day is long gone.”

  He shook his head and winked at her. “You can rewrite your past for all your fancy friends, but you and I both know the real story.”

  Tension coiled in her belly. “What do you want, Grady?”

  “Can’t I just come and see y
ou, baby girl?”

  Grady had entered her life when she was eight and her sister Mariah ten. Her mother, reeling from her latest breakup, had met Grady when the carnival had come to Knoxville, Tennessee. Before it broke camp three weeks later, her mother had moved them into his RV. By the age of eight, Charlotte had been in five different schools and lived in nine different motels in nine different towns. This move in her young mind was as temporary as the others. But for reasons she’d never understood, Charlotte’s mother and Grady had forged some kind of bond, and before Christmas of that same year, they married. Her mother, Doris, had started working in the carnival’s Madame Divine tent as the resident psychic, while Grace and Mariah did odd jobs around the carnival.

  It had gone fairly well for a time. Her mother was happy. Mariah had begun sleeping again. And she’d been able to finally keep the books she’d accumulated at yard sales. But within seven or eight months, Grady rediscovered the bottle and proved to be a nasty drunk. Her mother and Grady shared five years of explosive bliss, and when Doris died, her daughters remained with Grady. The time would have been miserable if not for Mariah.

  Laughter from Charlotte’s coworkers drifted from the back conference room, prompting her to lower her voice a notch. “You never do anything without a reason. What do you want? Money?”

  He glanced toward the laughter and then grinned, still taking pleasure in her unease. “I don’t need your money. Though it sure does look like you’re doing real fine for yourself.”

  Nothing she could say would drive him faster to the point he’d come to make. Grady would take his sweet time.

  “You were always a prickly one. The worrier of my two girls.”

  “You were good at giving me enough to worry about.” Bitterness dripped from the words.

  “Maybe. Maybe.” He walked to the receptionist desk and picked up a crystal paperweight. For several seconds he studied it. “I’ve been sober for eighteen years.”

  “Good for you.”

  He tossed the paper weight like a worn baseball. “I need your legal help.”

  The paper weight had been a gift to Iris last year. It had been hand made by a glassmaker at Alexandria’s Torpedo Factory, an artist enclave on Union Street. It had cost six hundred dollars.