"I will."
"I can't believe you're mixed up in another murder." Before Claire could deny being mixed up in anything, her mother said, "Are you still seeing that homicide detective?"
"I was never really seeing him."
"Wouldn't it be funny if he investigated Mrs. Burke's murder?"
He was, and there was nothing funny about it. Claire changed the subject by asking about the weather—not very imaginative, but it worked. Michiganders love to complain about snow, and in January, snow is a sure thing.
Unfortunately the diversion proved brief, and her mother turned to her new favorite topic, Claire's social life or lack thereof. When she'd gone home for Christmas, her mother had pointed out that more than a year had passed since Tom died. Wasn't that a long enough period of mourning? Claire had countered with Mike Robinson, a mistake if ever there was one.
"I wish you knew some nice men," her mother said.
"I'm surrounded by nice men: carpenters, plumbers, electricians. My business partner is a nice man. My accountant's a nice man. So is my lawyer. Even my cat's a male, but I'm not sure how nice he is." Then there were the not-so-nice men. She'd spent the afternoon with a horse thief. Tomorrow morning, she had a meeting with a potential client who was a total jerk. Tomorrow night she'd be having dinner with a notorious womanizer and possible alcoholic suspected, unjustly she thought, of killing his own mother. Despite his character flaws, she liked Tony. He'd sounded okay on the phone. She hoped he really was.
CHAPTER 12
Paul Gilbert rarely stayed late at the office, and he had no pressing deadlines, but an odd lethargy was keeping him at his desk. He played with his ivory letter opener, tracing the intricate carving with his forefinger, and considered his situation.
He usually enjoyed his work, and he was good at his job. When a client, or the child of a client, did something stupid, he negotiated an arrangement that appeased the victim and, if necessary, satisfied the authorities while avoiding scandal. Sins, lies and misdemeanors were his specialty, not murder. Today had been an ordeal.
He had been led into the swamp one step at a time, beginning with yesterday evening's phone call from his father, a man who rarely asked for a favor...
"I cannot imagine why the police browbeat Roger," his father had said. "All I know is Laura wants you to see it doesn't happen again."
"Why did she contact you and not me?"
"I don't know, but please do what you can to help her. And Roger."
Refusing his father's request was out of the question, and so Paul called Laura. Roger's niece was also his legal guardian. She told him the incident with the police had occurred in the context of a homicide investigation.
He was stunned. "In that case, you should engage a criminal defense attorney."
Before he could explain why, she was explaining why not. "I knew you'd say that, Paul, but it has to be you. Strangers upset Roger. He was so distraught after that policeman questioned him that he had to be sedated. Just because he used to be married to that bitch."
And so he learned that Geneviève was dead.
The news shocked and saddened him. As a boy, he'd been dazzled by Tante Geneviève. As an adult, he'd admitted her flaws, the recklessness that he'd confused with courage, and the narcissism that demanded love from everyone, even the young son of her husband's best friend. He'd seen that she'd been neither a good wife nor a good mother, neither kind nor compassionate, but nothing since had warmed him like the glow of her attention. He swallowed his sorrow, aware that any expression of grief would infuriate Laura. "A decades old divorce is an unlikely motive for murder. There must be something else."
"Aren't there people you can call?"
"I'll do what I can." He had noted Laura's non-answer, and so his first call was to the manager of Sunny Gardens.
Dwight Chastain's reluctant admission explained the police interest in Roger. Chastain apologized profusely for the unnamed staff member who'd allowed a detective to read the murder victim's file, which, unfortunately, contained a report of Roger's attempt to enter her apartment. No, he had not given them a copy.
By the time he finished talking to Chastain, it was getting late, but both his father and Laura had emphasized the urgency of the situation, and so he soldiered on. He contacted a highly placed friend in the police department and learned that Roger was indeed a suspect. There would be more interviews.
He had extracted a promise that none would occur without his presence, which, he had pointed out, was simply the police agreeing to obey the law...
The police had complied. He'd been present, and nothing he'd said or done had made one iota of difference.
This afternoon, he and the head of homicide had witnessed Roger's anguished outcry, apparently the second one, which could easily be interpreted as a confession. They'd both seen Roger attack his caretaker. Worse, Roger's violent behavior appeared to be triggered by mention of Geneviève. If he had encountered her in the flesh, he might well have strangled her.
Paul tapped the letter opener against his open palm. He was in over his head, an uncomfortable position that was fair neither to Roger nor to him. From a legal perspective, Laura was his client, and he had two messages on his desk asking him to call her. From his personal perspective, the real client was his father. He put the letter opener down and dialed his parents' number.
"You're at home? I thought you ate at the club on Mondays," his father said.
"I'm just not hungry tonight. Did Laura explain why the police wanted to talk to Roger?" When his father said no, Paul told him.
"Damn Laura. She knows I would never knowingly involve you in anything to do with Geneviève, dead or alive."
"If Laura had called me directly, I'd have agreed to help," Paul said, and it was probably true. The Gilbert and Devereux families belonged to a small world of old New Orleans families whose friendships endured through generations. Laura had been like a big sister. The decade that separated them was enough to prevent squabbles, but it wasn't an unbridgeable chasm.
"I'm hoping you can give me some information, Dad. The police want to know if the relationship between Roger and Geneviève survived their divorce." Mike Robinson was right. His father would know. He and Roger Devereux had been confidants until dementia stole Roger's mind.
"You've seen what's left of the man. He's not capable of sustaining a relationship of any kind. We were friends for more than sixty years, and he doesn't recognize me."
The evasive response solidified Paul's intention to extricate himself. "The police talked to Roger again this morning. He became distraught when Geneviève's name was mentioned. His statements could be interpreted as a confession."
"Ridiculous," his father snapped. "Who told you that?"
"I was there." He let it sink in. "At Laura's request. Her accusation of police misbehavior during the first interview should be taken with a spoonful of salt."
"Roger had nothing to do with Geneviève's murder. I don't care what he said. He's not living in the same world you and I live in. He was probably referring to something that happened decades ago, if at all."
"The nurse who cares for Roger agrees with you," Paul said. "And the police are looking at Geneviève's past, at all the men in her life, not just Roger. I suspect they were numerous but I don't know any names. I was hoping you could help me."
"You're asking me to open Pandora's box," his father said, "and I will not do it. Nothing I can tell you will help in this situation. Good people could be hurt. You, as a lawyer working for the Devereux family, could be compromised."
"Not helping the police would compromise me. I have a legal and ethical responsibility."
"I doubt you remember—you were a child and smitten with her—but after the divorce, Geneviève became the angriest person I've ever known. She was determined to destroy anything resembling another person's happiness. A happy marriage represented a challenge to her seductive powers, particularly if the husband was one of Roger's good friends. The damage
she caused was incalculable. Try as I might, I cannot mourn her death."
"None of that matters, Dad. If you have any relevant information, it's your responsibility to tell the police."
"A gentleman does not divulge that sort of information."
His father was the same age as Roger, still compos mentis, but clinging to an old-fashioned code of honor and ill equipped for an encounter with homicide investigators. Paul could envision him defying a subpoena, daring the police to put him in jail for refusing to answer their impertinent questions. He would do everything in his power to keep that from happening. "If the police contact you, let me know. Immediately."
"Roger's not capable of murder. He was declared legally incompetent years ago."
Laura had said two years, but the length of time was irrelevant. Paul tried again to make his father see the seriousness of the situation.
"Legally incompetent isn't a free pass, Dad. There are institutions for the criminally insane, and they have little in common with Sunny Gardens."
"Criminally insane? Have you lost your mind?"
"I'm about to call Laura. Roger's situation requires a criminal defense lawyer. Don't let her—" Paul started to say "use you" but stopped. "Don't let her persuade you otherwise."
"I'm sorry I involved you in this mess." His father's normally firm voice quavered and broke. "Dear God, what have we come to? If there is such a thing as mercy, make the police leave Roger alone."
"I'll do my best."
An angry Laura was waiting for his call. "Roger's nurse told me he had to be sedated again today. And you were there. How could you let the police browbeat a helpless old man? Why didn't you protect him? And why has it taken you so long to call me back?"
When he could fit a word in edgewise, Paul described what had happened.
"I don't care what he said. Roger didn't kill her. He's not capable of hurting a fly. This is all Geneviève's doing. She never forgets a slight. She'll do anything to get back at us."
"Laura," Paul started to remind her that Geneviève was dead, murdered, but he realized that Laura was well beyond rational. He relayed the only positive news he had. "I spoke to Dwight Chastain again this afternoon. The staff will swear that Roger is incapable of leaving the floor on his own."
Chastain had told him that every morning the man who once ran a major corporation and sat on the boards of several others dressed in a suit and tie as if he was going to his office, and then he sat on his bed waiting for someone to lead him down the hall to breakfast because he was afraid to leave his room by himself. It was a heartbreaking vision and one he wouldn't share with Laura, although he suspected she already knew.
"Someone needs to tell that homicide person," Laura said.
"He knows. His name is Mike Robinson. We're acquainted, and it's a relationship of mutual respect. Mike is a skilled detective and a decent human being who is simply doing his job." He continued to soothe. "There's no vendetta against Roger and no desire to prosecute an incapable individual."
A stray thought pierced Paul's reasoned arguments. Mike would recognize him as a skilled lawyer, but did he also consider him a decent human being?
He shrugged off the self-doubt and warned Laura to expect a call from Mike or someone working for him. The police wanted to know about Roger's post-divorce relationship with Geneviève.
"Their relationship ended with their divorce."
Paul couldn't tell if she was lying or if she really believed what she said. He was fairly certain that his father knew otherwise. Laura resumed cursing Geneviève, and he felt an uncharacteristic flare of temper.
He abandoned tact. "Laura, listen to me. I cannot, in good conscience, continue to represent Roger in this matter. You need to engage a criminal defense lawyer. I can recommend several for your consideration. And please don't ask my father to intervene on your behalf with me or with the police."
"I thought I could count on you, Paul." She hung up.
CHAPTER 13
Claire limped up the walkway to Tony's house. Her leg and butt muscles howled despite last night's long hot bath and the two aspirin she'd taken with breakfast. An afternoon on horseback when she hadn't ridden in years might not have been smart, but she was glad she'd done it, and she planned to go back.
She checked the backyard before calling Jack. "The bones are gone. Pick up where you left off, but stay away from the outbuilding. The police are treating it as a crime scene."
He exhaled loudly. "I'll have the demo crew there in an hour."
"I don't know where Tony is. I hope he's okay." She'd half expected to find him prowling around his father's studio. He wouldn't have cared what the police said.
"I hope he doesn't change his mind about us fixing up that house. By the end of next week, everything else will be finished or close to it."
She could have chastised Jack for worrying about business when he should be feeling compassion for the murder victim and her son, but she didn't. He'd never met Geneviève, had only seen Tony in passing and viewed him as a person apart, a perspective shaped by awe, envy and disapproval. Jack's world began and ended with his family. His responsibility as their breadwinner weighed heavily, and his brush with financial disaster had left its scars.
"I'm meeting the Curriers and their financial advisor at ten," she said. "I thought we were out of the running, but maybe not. And I'm well into the talking stage with three other good prospects. If they all come through, we'll be swamped. Then you can worry about being too busy."
"I don't mind that kind of worry." He chuckled. "The crew won't mind a bit of overtime, and if you get us all those jobs, I know some good boys who are looking for work."
"Don't hire anyone yet."
"Don't worry. I'm not going to jinx anything. Where are you now?"
"About to leave Tony's. I'll catch up with you after the meeting."
When Claire arrived at the offices of Jackson and Jackson, the receptionist said the Curriers weren't there yet and directed her to a comfortable waiting area. Too sore to sit when she didn't have to, she walked over to the window. Movement in the adjacent building caught her eye.
A young woman was conducting an animated conversation with someone out of sight. No, she was holding a cordless phone to her ear. She paced back and forth, gesturing with her free hand as she spoke. Watching her was like watching TV with the sound muted. The woman stopped pacing. A smile softened her face, and she held the phone against her cheek in a two-handed caress. Without hearing, Claire knew her voice had dropped to an intimate whisper. She looked away, wondering if she'd ever feel that way again.
A few minutes later, Dave and Anne Currier arrived, full of apologies about traffic and parking problems. The receptionist showed them into a small conference room where Ron Jackson was working on a laptop computer. His manner was efficient but pleasant, as he made sure everyone agreed that the purpose of the meeting was to evaluate her proposal. Claire guessed that he'd been brought in to ensure the Curriers did not, once again, pay too much.
They had purchased a house overlooking a small park not far from Tony's property. Theirs was also a villa, but larger and intrinsically nicer, with architectural flourishes that remained intact because the house had never been renovated. They'd jumped at it the moment it came on the market and paid the asking price. Hindsight said they'd paid too much.
The systems were a disaster. Rusted cast iron plumbing leaked through pinprick holes, which the previous owner had covered with Band-Aids, as if they were skinned knees. Climate control comprised an old window air conditioner in the master bedroom and space heaters tucked into non-working fireplaces. The electrical system was a 110-volt fire hazard with old-fashioned fuses that blew whenever more than one heater was running.
Retrofitting new systems in an old house is expensive, and Dave Currier had expressed shock at her estimate. She hadn't heard from him since before the holidays and assumed he'd found someone to do the work for less. Then, last week, he called and asked for another meet
ing, this time with his financial advisor, and she'd seen an opportunity.
The proximity to Tony's house meant Authentic Restorations could coordinate the two projects, which would save money. Whether or not the savings would be enough to swing the deal remained to be seen. She made her pitch.
"We've begun working on a house in your neighborhood. If we start yours right away, our subcontractors can move between the two jobs, and I can negotiate a better price for the plumbing, electrical and HVAC work. It will save you three thousand dollars."
Dave wasn't impressed. "Three thousand, is that all?"
"No, the other client also saves money." Tony's contract was cost-plus, but she wasn't going to cheat him in order to get this job.
"Your estimate was ten percent higher than any other. You need to come down more than a few thousand."
Before Claire had time to frame her response, Ron said, "I checked your references, Claire. People rave about the quality of your work, but Dave's issue is cost."
"I understand that, but we restore historic houses, which is both more difficult and more expensive than simply gutting the inside and rebuilding. On the plus side, preserving the original architecture adds value." And she'd told Dave this several times already.
Ron cleared his throat. "You asked me for due diligence on this proposal, Dave. I thought it looked good. It just got three thousand dollars better."
"Can I count on a profit when I sell?"
Dave's question was directed to Ron, but Claire jumped in. "I guarantee the quality of our work. No one can guarantee your return on investment." She wasn't going to work for nothing because he'd paid too much for that house. And if he was planning to flip it, he'd paid way too much.
Anne, who'd spent the meeting gazing out the window with the resigned air of a princess imprisoned in the tower, spoke for the first time since saying hello. "Which is why we want to hire you." She turned to her husband. "We can start right away, can't we?"
After they signed the contract, Ron asked Claire to stay a minute to finalize the payment schedule. The door closed behind the Curriers, and he gave her a big grin. "For a minute there, I thought Dave was going to get a carefully chosen piece of your mind."
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