by Kelly Rey
"I'm guessing that's not an existential question." Curt tore the last slice of garlic bread in two and put half on my plate. "What's on your mind?"
I shook my head. "The more people I talk to, the less I know. They're all lying to us. They all had a reason to want Nicky D dead. The question is who wanted it the most."
"Look at it another way," he said. "Who do you least suspect?"
I thought about it. "I suspect everyone."
He grinned. "And you suspect no one?"
"I wouldn't say that. Someone did it." I forked into my pasta. "You know more about the guys in the band than I do. What do you think?"
He ran a napkin across his lips. "I don't know how Virtual Waste stays together. Bones barely talks at all, to anyone. Plop wanders off on his own half the time talking to invisible friends. By the way, that bandana? He's a Tony Stewart fan."
That told me exactly nothing.
Curt noticed my expression. "NASCAR driver? Number 20?"
"Oh, yeah." I nodded. "Him."
He grinned at me. "TJ is always off in a corner, writing songs. And Mike." He quartered a meatball and sprinkled grated cheese on it. "I can't get a handle on him, other than he doesn't seem to like the guys in the band. And then there's that Archibald Dougal Ritz guy."
I looked up. "You've met him?"
He nodded. "He came to a rehearsal. At first he seemed perfectly normal. But he cries." His expression darkened.
"There's nothing wrong with a man who cries," I said. "It means he's sensitive." I hesitated. "What did he cry about?"
"What didn't he cry about," Curt muttered.
We ate in silence for a few minutes.
"Tell you the truth," Curt said finally, "I felt kind of bad for him. He's a widower, and I got the impression he doesn't have much in his life besides his work. Anyway, he's certainly been devoted to the band since he came on board. Maybe that's why Mike seems to really like him."
"Unlike Gilbert Gleason." I shook my head. "What an oddball bunch."
"And we haven't even mentioned Hank," Curt said.
That reminded me. "You know he was at the Golden Grotto. Inside, I mean. He was watching Susan One." I swallowed. "Susan One was watching you."
"You don't have to be jealous." He winked. "I don't date octopi."
"That's Susan Two," I said.
"Okay. Then I don't date Susans."
"I know that," I said irritably. "But does Hank?"
"I'm not worried about Hank," he said placidly. "I'm more worried about how you look in black silk."
My fettuccini almost got stuck halfway down my throat. Which didn't really matter because I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Pretty sure that was my opening to come back with something flip and sophisticated, but all that came to me was "Urrggh?"
"One of these days," Curt went on, "you're going to shock me and show up wearing that little number, without the robe."
"One of these days" could have come and gone, and he wouldn't have known it. Too busy having a life when he could have been home, having—well…just home.
"You probably won't be here when I do," I said. "You'll be catering to your fan club."
He chuckled. "What fan club?"
"The octopi," I said hotly. "I can't compete with women like that."
His smile fell away. "You don't have to compete with anyone. You just have to call me."
My face grew hot. "And tell you what? Come home, big boy. I'm waiting at your back door in a little black nothing?"
"Yes, Jamie," he said. "That's all you have to do."
Oh.
I looked away, afraid my head might burst into flames from embarrassment. That must be the feminine power I'd heard so much about. Guess I had a little after all, and I hadn't even realized it. Even if I had, I never would have had the self-assurance to make that call, or the confidence to wait for him.
"Jamie," he said softly.
"It's just as well," I said.
"No, it isn't." He cupped the back of my head very lightly, and electricity sizzled southward. "Look at me."
"I'm out of moisturizer," I said. I'd have to remember to buy some…what was it again? Oh, right. Moisturizer.
"Look at me," he repeated, his voice a delicious vibration through my body.
I looked at him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He stroked my hair. I pushed my head against his hand, the way Ashley did when she was being petted.
Thunder growled outside, followed by a vicious whip snap of lightning.
Curt slipped one finger under my chin to lift my face. "When you're ready," he said, "make the call."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Eunice waited for me outside the office on Monday morning. It was cooler but raining a little, the drops silvering the top of her head. She wore a shapeless beige raincoat that rustled when she rushed to open my car door. "Jamie, I need your help."
It took some work to get out of the car. I'd gone a little too far with the yoga, or whatever that was I'd been trying to do before I went to bed. I must have tweaked a kidney.
Eunice followed me inside. "You're a woman of the world, right?"
"Oh sure," I said.
"I'm having Hank over to dinner this weekend." She pulled out a lace hankie, patted the top of her head dry, and then pressed the wet hankie to her cheeks and forehead.
"That's good, right?" I said. "That's what you wanted."
"I thought so." She put away the hankie and began gnawing on her thumbnail. "But to be honest, I don't know if I can handle that much man. I'm not as sophisticated as I may seem."
"I don't think Hank's looking for sophistication," I said. "He seems more like a mud wrestling kind of guy." I thought about Hank watching Susan One watching Curt onstage at the Golden Grotto. Something told me Hank wasn't in the market for another girlfriend. But you never knew. Under all that grease, grime, and grimness, Hank might be a giant lovebug. Or he might be looking for a little tit for tat against Susan One. I didn't want Eunice to be his tit-for-tat tool. But I also didn't want to burst her bubble. After all, life played out in strange ways.
She switched to the other thumb. "I know Hank's not in the same league as Curt. But he might be the best I can do."
"I don't know about that," I said. "Don't sell yourself short. You're almost a lawyer, after all."
Her smile was as weak and fleeting as a peek of sun in the eye of a hurricane.
Something tugged in the vicinity of my heart. "What's going on, Eunice? Aren't you used to dating?"
"You could say that." She dropped both hands into her lap, where her fingers coiled and twisted around each other like small flesh-colored snakes. "I've never had a date."
My jaw went slack. "When you say never—"
"The opportunity never came up," she said. "I used to tell myself it was because some men are put off by career women, but let's face it, I'm not cover girl material." She sighed. "I guess I'm just looking for some advice. I've never seduced a man before."
She'd come to exactly the wrong place.
"Maybe you want to take it slow with Hank," I said. "Cook him dinner but then send him home. Make him want to come back again. Free milk and the cow, remember?"
She thought about it. "Am I the milk or the cow?"
"Don't overthink this," I said. "You'll be fine. You've got gravy, right?"
She brightened. "That's true. I do make fabulous gravy."
"Problem solved." I powered up my computer and turned to the files Wally had left for me. The usual assortment of Requests for Production and Complaints, a couple of Notices of Deposition. Forget courtroom drama. This was the real excitement of the legal world.
Wally came clicking in from the kitchen on knees wobbled by a semester of college football bench warming, dressed for Casual Friday and missing the point entirely in a double-breasted black suit, starchy white shirt, cobalt blue tie, and shiny black wingtips. The blond in his hair inspired by my sister Sherri had mostly grown out, and the orange-bronze
makeup and guyliner inspired by the Mary Kay rep whom he'd dated after Sherri was gone. Which wasn't to say Wally was now handsome, but he was highly suggestible.
He lowered his Ray-Bans to mid nose and peered at us over the top of them. "Morning," he said in a way that was more statement than greeting. He turned to Eunice. "You're just the alleged investigator I wanted to see. Is our grievously wounded defendant hitting the dance clubs?"
Actually, yes, but for stalking, not dancing.
Eunice went pale and wobbled a little on the chair.
"She's working on it," I said. "We had a little trouble finding his house."
"Well, he has to live somewhere." No wonder Wally had made it all the way to Boy Lawyer. "What's your plan?"
"My plan?" Eunice repeated. She shot me a look of pure desperation.
I knew she didn't want to hand Hank over to a pack of legal jackals. Or to Howard and Wally.
"We're going to keep looking," I said. "Maybe we were on the wrong street. It's hard to read the signs."
"That's what we're doing," Eunice agreed.
Wally's frown encompassed both of us. "Well, do it fast. Howard wants to get this case moving."
Little beads of sweat dotted Eunice's forehead.
"We'll have a photo album for you by next week," I said.
"See that you do." Wally pointed his sunglasses at each of us in turn then pivoted sharply and headed upstairs.
Eunice's whole upper body sagged. "I'll get fired for sure if I don't get some pictures of Hank."
I thought about it. I was pretty sure Maizy would have a spymaster's tool kit in her arsenal, complete with telephoto lens. "Maizy and I will help you get your pictures. We have a meeting scheduled for Thursday night near there. You can come if you want."
"And Curt?" she asked hopefully.
"Curt can't make it this time," I said. Maizy claimed she wanted to talk to Miranda Law, the client who had precipitated Gilbert Gleason's career cliff dive, but things were rarely what they seemed with Maizy. I was convinced she had something else in mind, and if I was right, maybe I could distract her from it by arranging Hank's photo spread.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The phone rang just before lunchtime, while I was in the middle of one of Wally's classic Wally Complaints. The plaintiff, proud owner of a brand new $40,000 Lexus, had applied very dark limousine tint to the windows, which was all well and good, until the moonless night when he'd parked in a dimly lit parking garage for a visit to his girlfriend's apartment. That visit had culminated in a heated argument and the plaintiff's hasty exit at midnight, at which time he'd backed both out of his spot and the garage itself since he'd had the visibility of a pilot in a haboob. Unfortunately, he'd parked on the fourth floor of the garage. Now Wally was suing the city for its shortsighted placement of a fire hydrant on the sidewalk below, along with the manufacturer of the tint as well as the installer, the girlfriend for dating an idiot, and the owner of the parking garage for failing to anticipate that one night some dimwit might use his facility as a runway.
Missy tapped the Hold button and cradled the phone. "Maizy's on the line."
I finished typing out the last few lines of Count III before taking the call.
"Finally," Maizy said. "I've been on hold for-ever. You've got to change that music, dude. What is that, Mantovani or something? I think it gave me blue hair just listening to it. God."
"You already had blue hair," I said. "What's up?"
"Have you taken your lunch break?"
On cue, my belly growled. "Not yet." But I had it all worked out. Takeout chicken parm from Giorgio's. If I played my cards right, I'd have enough left over for a night of weight gaining and channel surfing with Ashley.
I heard the kitchen door open and close.
"I've been thinking about Archie Ritz," Maizy said. "Everyone's pointing fingers at everyone else except Archie. Why do you think that is?"
"Because he's innocent?"
"There are no innocents," Maizy said. "Only suspects we haven't found yet. Maybe he's threatened everyone against dropping a dime on him."
"You're watching too much TV again," I told her.
"Possibly. But I still think we should talk to him. Thing is, he won't take my call. As soon as I said Nicky D's name, he hung up on me."
Wish I'd done the same.
"It's time for Plan B," Maizy said. "Hey, are there any saltine crackers in this place? I've got wicked heartburn."
"Wait," I said. "What do you mean 'in this place'? Where are you?"
"I'm in the kitchen," she said. "If you want to call it that. Kitchen usually implies food. There's no food here. Wait, here's a brown bag in the fridge."
"Don't touch that," I said. "That's Donna's lunch."
I heard rustling. "Smells like seafood," Maizy said. "I can't eat seafood anyway." More rustling, presumably as she rolled up the bag and put it back in the fridge. "Hey, are these Oreos?"
"Don't eat the Oreos!" I practically yelled. "They belong to Janice."
"You know that's called 'hoarding,'" Maizy said. "It's a whole psychological thing. They make shows about it and all."
"What do you want, Maizy?"
"I've got an idea," she said.
I knew I wasn't going to like it the minute she waddled into the room, her belly arriving three seconds before the rest of her thanks to the ginormous pregnancy pad under her maternity shirt. Clutching her low back, leaning at a forty-five-degree angle to compensate for the frontal overhang, she made her way to the empty desk across the room. After some groaning and sighing, she wedged herself into the chair. "I feel like an elephant. I must be retaining water. God."
Missy's mouth fell open.
I eyed the hugely rounded mound. "Guess it's too late for The Talk."
"It's part of my plan." Grimacing, she put a hand behind her. "My back is killing me. This kid had better show up soon."
"You're not pregnant, Maizy." I hesitated. "Are you?"
"Not by the standard definition," she said.
"Is there another?" Missy asked.
My eye was twitching.
"Depends on your perspective." Maizy swung her legs up onto the desk. "Do my ankles look swollen to you?"
Hard to tell since they were encased in Doc Martens, giving her a weird Knocked Up G.I. Barbie vibe.
"That'll happen when you're fourteen months pregnant," Missy said.
Maizy looked down at her massive belly. "I'm just small boned. Here's the story. Nicky D took advantage of a young innocent girl and ran off after impregnating her. We have no choice but to go to Archie Ritz about this."
"Seriously?" I asked. "You couldn't have just made an appointment to talk with him?"
"I want to throw him off balance," she said. "You know how slippery lawyers can be when you give them time to prep."
"This ought to do it," I told her.
Missy chuckled.
The clock hit noon. I got up. "Good luck with that."
"What do you mean?" Maizy flattened her palms on the desk and leveraged herself out of the chair. "You have to come with me. You're my outraged mother threatening to sue the entire band."
I rolled my eyes. "Again, I'm the mother."
"Outraged mother," she repeated, louder. "Threatening to sue the entire band."
"Yeah, I got it the first time." I got my handbag from the bottom drawer. Missy kept staring at Maizy with an expression of one part sympathy, three parts incredulous.
"Go with her," Missy told me. "I'll cover for you. I've got to hear how this turns out."
I already knew. Not well.
"I've got a Caddy," Maizy said. "But only for a couple of hours. I promised Honest Aaron I'd ditch it at the airport before five. Oh, and it's probably best if you don't look in the back seat."
Been there, done that. Never again. I still had nightmares about it. "We'll use my car," I said.
"Yeah, right." She snorted. "That'll be believable."
I pointed at her hyperinflated belly.
"You think that's believable?"
"It's the miracle of life," Maizy said breezily. She grabbed my sleeve. "Wait a minute. I need to pee. I swear this kid is sitting right on my bladder."
I opened my mouth and closed it again. That pretty much said it all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There were lawyers, and there were lawyers. Wally and Howard fell into the first category. Starched white shirts, polished wingtips, plenty of ego.
Archibald Dougal Ritz fell into the second. He was the human equivalent of a funhouse. For one thing, in eleven vertical inches of head, he had about three inches of actual face. His features were all packed together in a caricaturist's dream. Small eyes, pug nose, small round mouth, crammed beneath bushy eyebrows and layered stacks of white blond hair adding another three inches of height. I guessed him to be somewhere in his seventies, although he was in good shape for that age. Archie had been around the courthouse a few times, and it was clear that somewhere along the way, he'd planted his own flag. Instead of the traditional uniform of navy pinstripes, his wardrobe was by Crayola: hot pink sport coat with pink and green plaid pants. It wouldn't have surprised me a bit if he'd been wearing fuzzy bunny slippers. It was disappointing to see his tennis shoes, with neon green laces.
His office was less flamboyant. White walls, sand-colored Berber carpet, nondescript furniture, a couple of beige filing cabinets. An oak credenza behind his desk held a gold trophy, probably an ode to his golf game or some obscure bowling championship, a small crystal globe with a silver plaque affixed to its base, little bronze tennis rackets standing crisscrossed on a black base, and my personal favorite, a brightly colored toy-sized race car in a glass case. Alongside this homage to his athletic youth sat an array of family photos: A man in a Navy uniform. A woman in the Marine dress blues. Archie locked in a tearful embrace with an older bottled blonde woman, presumably his wife, with his arm slung around a man who bore a strong resemblance to the blonde, both gazing wetly into the camera, with his hands resting on the shoulders of two young girls holding frothy pink cotton candy while he wept gently upon their heads.