Royal Flush

by Stephanie Caffrey

  Dorcas glared down at me through contact lenses the startling color of tiger's eyes. Nothing about Dorcas was subtle. She was in your face in every way. Rings on nearly every finger, big, chunky necklace, broad neon peach headband. She had acres of overly tanned skin draped over large bones. And she was holding a crystal ball.

  Some people might have wondered what a crystal ball was doing in a law office. I wasn't one of them. I'd worked at the newly rebirthed Parker, Dennis long enough to expect anything. In fact, I was surprised the crystal ball hadn't shown up sooner. We could have used it. The place had been going downhill since one of its founding partners, Doug Heath, had joined the bar association in the great beyond six months earlier. The problem wasn't necessarily that Doug had died. The problem was that his lowbrow but successful advertising spots had died along with him, and now that his files were lurching to a close without being replaced by new ones, the firm was running out of money. Which meant it took every flea-riddled stray dog of a case that wandered in off the street.

  With a sigh, I turned away from the plaintiff's request for admissions I'd been typing for the firm's associate, Wally Randall. Requests for admissions were part of the legal discovery process that began after the filing of a complaint, where the plaintiff tried to get the defendant to admit to such incriminating statements as The defendant was born on or about October 1, 1960, which invariably would be denied in the defendant's Response. It seemed like a waste of printer toner to me, but then I had to have something to do between breakfast and dinner.

  I smiled at Weaver, frowned at Chandler, and looked at Dorcas.

  She plunked the crystal ball down on my desk. "I want to see Howard."

  "He's unavailable," I said, which is what I always said when Dorcas showed up. No one was available when Dorcas showed up. Including Dorcas. As far as I could tell, she spent her days drifting in the middle distance of consciousness with her crystals, visions, and Chandler to keep her company. "Wally's here if you want to see him," I added. I tried to push the crystal ball aside, off of my papers, but it refused to move.

  She actually drew back in horror, a reaction I completely understood. "Certainly not. I won't have that imbecile pawing through my file."

  Currently, she didn't have a file. From what I could tell, she didn't even have a life. But she had a hobby, and that hobby was filing ridiculous lawsuits. About fifteen months ago, with Dougie's help, she'd raked a company called Miss Clara, Incorporated over the coals to the tune of a hundred thousand bucks. Turned out Miss Clara, Incorporated was a phone bank of slow-talking Bahamian fortune tellers who, for $3.95 a minute, had taken their time predicting a fatal shopping cart accident that turned out to be nothing more than a ding in her car door at the local Aldi's. She'd never seen a dime of that money, since Miss Clara, Incorporated had folded up shop after the verdict. Ever since then, Wally and Howard had treated her as if she were a few tarot cards short of a deck.

  "Dear," Weaver said, "maybe it would be best if we talk to Wally."

  She blew out an impatient sigh. "I don't want to talk to Wally. I want to talk to Howard." She glowered at me. Chandler glowered at me.

  I was unfazed, as long as the dog carrier remained latched. "I understand, but he just isn't here right now." I gave the crystal ball another subtle push. Nothing. "Is there something I can help you with?" I asked.

  "This thing has become completely unmanageable," she said, flicking a purple-painted fingernail at the crystal ball. It trembled slightly. Strange. "Lately it's giving me nothing but dark visions. Not like my honey baby Chandler. Isn't that right, honey baby? He's such a good boy." She pressed her lips to the carrier and made kissy sounds. Chandler touched his nose to her chin. Then I swear he smirked at Weaver. "My clients are very unhappy with their readings," she said after she'd unpeeled her lips from the mesh. "One of them claims she's gone on antidepressants because of me. Some of them are actually refusing to pay me. Can you imagine that?"

  I didn't have to imagine it. It was the story of my life. I got paid in single digits, and I still sped to the bank on Fridays to make sure the check didn't bounce.

  "Dear," Weaver said, "I think you should simply sue them for not paying."

  "But they're my clients," she said. "Where would I be without them?"

  Weaver gave a tiny resigned shrug.

  "The money's not the point," she whined. "This thing" —another flick at the crystal ball, another blink-and-you-missed-it tremble—"is costing me business. I have bills to pay, too. Do you know how expensive it is to run Destinies with Dorcas?"

  I had an idea. I'd passed the Destinies with Dorcas storefront once or twice. It was above a shuttered hardware store in the dilapidated business district of Oak Grove that had surrendered to the march of time and the modern office park near the interstate. It was probably all she could afford. Dorcas used to be a cashier at a local Walmart until an unfortunate incident involving a crate of Grape Nuts falling on her head, at which point she apparently saw a vision of dollar signs and began calling herself a psychic.

  I glanced down at the crystal ball. For a plain hunk of glass, it wasn't bad looking. If you stared at it long enough, you could actually see swirls of color and subtle movement deep inside—no, wait. That was Dorcas behind it, impatiently swishing around her flowing robes. That was a relief.

  "I'm not sure—" I began.

  "I'm getting a vision." Her gaze drifted to the crystal ball and lingered there, unblinking, for a few seconds. "You have an undesirable in your life. Someone you seek to be rid of. A man."

  I ran down the list of men in my life. It was a short list, with only Curt Emerson on it, and I definitely didn't want to be rid of Curt. Curt was a keeper.

  "I can't quite see him clearly…" She frowned at the crystal ball. "He's dark haired. No, no, he's a blonde."

  Good grief.

  "His name begins with a D," she said. "Or perhaps an M?"

  I glanced at Weaver and got another shrug.

  "Well." She looked away, blinking several times. "In time, all will be made clear."

  "Isn't she astounding?" Weaver said.

  "I'm usually very accurate." Dorcas shrugged. "But my crystal ball has a crack in it."

  She could say that again.

  I heard the back door open, and my heart lifted. Salvation. Or the Grim Reaper. Either way.

  "It's obviously defective," she went on. "I intend to sue the manufacturer. It even broke my toe this morning while I was carrying it into my séance room. Isn't that right, honey baby?" She kissed the mesh carrier some more. Chandler was starting to look embarrassed.

  I wondered if séance room was psycho-speak for bathroom. "I'm sorry to hear that," I said, "but if you slipped—"

  "I didn't slip," she snapped. "It dove right onto my foot after I chastised it for showing me a black vision. I won't have black visions." She gave a brisk nod of confirmation. "It's a very winnable lawsuit," she added.

  Chandler let out a sharp yap as if to say She's right. Or maybe I smell toast.

  The door to the kitchen inched open, and Missy's eye pressed to the crack. Missy was another secretary at the firm, but she looked more movie starlet than computer jockey. Missy was almost six feet of legs with a knockout body, a Barbie doll face, and enough smarts to stay in the kitchen when Dorcas was around.

  Dorcas cocked her head to the right and froze. Her eyes rolled up into her head. Her mouth fell open. Weaver took a tiny step backward. Chandler stopped trying to chew his way out of his carrier and watched her.

  "Death!" she shrieked. Weaver jumped a little. Chandler cowered for a tenth of a second then resumed gnawing on the mesh door. "Death is in the air! The place reeks of it!"

  Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Howard had hired the best cleaners after Dougie had filed his final brief in the kitchen.

  She swayed back and forth, muttering. Chandler looked a little green around the whiskers. "Death is in the foyer," she moaned. I leaned to the left to take a look. Table, lamp
, cheap throw rug. Looked okay to me. "It must be stopped. You!" She stabbed her finger at me. "You must stop it!"

  Chandler rolled his eyes. For once I knew how he felt. "I don't know if I can do that," I told her.

  "You can! You must! You will!"

  Oh, for Pete's sake. I sighed. "Fine."

  Dorcas shook her head. "Foolish girl. You mock the things you don't understand."

  She was wrong there. I also mocked the things I did understand. And I understood she was a gold-plated kook. Not for the first time, I found myself wishing Dougie was still around. He'd known how to handle clients like her. He'd spoken their language. I just wanted to drop the crystal ball onto her other foot. If I could move the damn thing. I gave it one more try. Nothing.

  I sat back, defeated. "How exactly do I go about stopping death?" I asked, since that kind of information might come in handy someday.

  "At the source, of course."

  "Yap!" Chandler said, now having a respectable hole in his mesh door and a different perspective.

  "Is there a dog in this office?" the intercom squawked. Unfortunately, the intercom sounded a lot like Howard. I went still. Dorcas stared at it for a good ten seconds, nodding thoughtfully as if receiving instruction from the mother ship, which was almost scarier than her screaming about death. Weaver stayed put watching her. Chandler's expression morphed from triumph to Uh-oh.

  Finally, Dorcas looked back to me.

  "How about I take you to see Howard now?" I said.

  * * *

  There are a lot of lawyers in the world. And because of firms like Parker, Dennis, there are a lot of lawyer jokes. The office itself was nice enough, decorated in navy, burgundy, and soft cream, with lots of expensive wood and thick law books. It was the lawyers in it that provided the punch lines.

  One of them, Wally Randall, showed up about an hour later. I heard him before I saw him, because his knees sounded like maracas thanks to an unsuccessful semester of college football. Unsuccessful because he'd spent that semester on the bench and had still wound up injured. Anyway, now Wally was his own early warning system, which was useful if we were, say, eating Butterscotch Krimpets at our desks when we should have been typing groundless complaints. Wally's latest opus was a laugher involving Darius Snodgrass, a genius who'd been trying to change a flat tire on a steep hill when the tire had predictably rolled away on him, stopping at the bottom of the hill thanks to a brand new Mercedes convertible, whose owner had been immediately motivated to drive right up the hill to beat the stupidity out of Darius. It hadn't worked—I'd met Darius—but it had given Wally fodder for a civil case for damages. His unemployed, trailer-dwelling, 1968 Ford Fairlane-owning client was now suing for a million bucks.

  Wally clicked into the secretarial area where I was now hard at work hiding my Krimpets on my lap while typing away. Missy had come out of hiding in the kitchen the minute the Beeber party had floated off upstairs to see Howard, and she was busy looking gorgeous in front of the copier, reeling off a half dozen notices of deposition for Howard.

  What happened in civil cases was that after the complaint was filed by the plaintiff and an answer filed on behalf of the defendant, a period of discovery began where all parties exchanged information such as written questions called interrogatories and in-person Q&A sessions called depositions that took place in front of a court reporter. It took a lot of work to corral a bunch of lawyers and witnesses into one room at the same time, and it involved a lot of phone calls. Missy had a way of making it work, mostly because she knew everyone in the legal community and had dated most of the males, so she scheduled the majority of the depositions. Which left me more time to bask in the genius of Wally's pleadings.

  He stopped in front of my desk, six feet of gangliness with newly blond hair, courtesy of my sister Sherri. The two of them had met at my near-death experience, when Wally had boldly come charging to the rescue well after the danger had passed, and they'd hit it off like a sort of role reversal Archie and Edith. Sherri called the shots, so much so that when she had demanded he dye his hair blond to meet her personal requirements in a mate, Wally had gone off and done it. Blond wasn't a good look for someone rooted in tall, dark, and dorky. I couldn't see their relationship going the distance, but Sherri was desperate to snag a husband, and Wally was better than her former choice, Frankie Ritter, the human troll. Problem was, Frankie was like herpes. He never really went away, just faded into the background for a while.

  "Your sister," Wally said, "is not returning my calls."

  Uh-oh. I knew Sherri's MO. First she didn't answer the phone. Then she didn't return calls. For some reason, she had one foot out of his BMW. "You should apologize," I told him.

  He drew back. "Apologize? For what?"

  I shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

  "Do you think it'll work?" he asked doubtfully. "I'll do it if you think it'll work."

  "It can't hurt," I said.

  "Isn't that the truth," Missy muttered from across the room.

  "I should buy her flowers." Wally whipped out his cell phone and worked it over for a second before glancing up. "What kind of flowers does she like?"

  "Orchids."

  He bent his head over the screen a few more seconds before I heard him suck in some air. He looked up again. "What about carnations?"

  "Forget the flowers," I told him. "Flowers die. Apologies are forever."

  "Isn't that the truth," Missy muttered from across the room. I frowned at her, but she was busy examining the heel on one of her Louboutins. I don't know how Missy could afford Louboutins when she made the same salary I did, and I was wearing shoes from the BOGO sale.

  Wally shook his head. "I don't understand it. Every time I call her at the store, she's too busy to talk to me."

  The store was Williams Bridal, where my sister worked selling overpriced gowns to girls barely old enough to drive. Or so she claimed. I took her at her word, since I stayed as far away from the place as I could to avoid catching her wedding fever. Sherri had wanted to be tethered to a husband since the day my mother had bought her a Ken doll to ease Barbie's loneliness.

  "What if she's cheating on me?" Wally asked suddenly, looking stricken by the thought. "Is she seeing someone else?"

  I was pretty sure the signs were there, but I shook my head anyway. "I don't think so. I know she's been working a lot of overtime at the bridal shop."

  "Winter brides," Missy said somberly. As if that told me something.

  He scrubbed his hand across his face. "I knew it. She's cheating on me."

  He looked so upset, I almost felt sorry for him. Then I glanced at my monitor, where Darius Snodgrass was hoping to collect his million bucks. "You know what they say about relationships begun under traumatic circumstances," I said.

  His hand dropped to his side. "What traumatic circumstances? I met her here in the office."

  I stared at him. "The night I was almost killed."

  He hadn't even heard me over the crashing tide of his nostalgia. "She looked gorgeous that night. That dress. Those legs." He narrowed his eyes at me. "What did I do wrong? Tell me. She must talk to you."

  "I'll see what I can find out," I said with a sigh. "We're having lunch tomorrow."

  "See if you can get his name," he told me. "I want to know who she's cheating on me with. I have to talk to him, man to man." He whipped a pink hankie out of his breast pocket, wiped his eyes, and sniffled into it.

  Missy glanced at me and shrugged.

  Geez. He must really care for Sherri. Maybe Wally had a softer side that I'd never seen before. Maybe he actually was capable of warmth of emotion and generosity of spirit.

  "And get those Krimpets off your lap," he snapped, picking up his briefcase. "This isn't a diner, Winters."

  Or maybe not.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rest of the day passed quietly, with few phone calls, little mail, and not much in the way of new work. I created a file for Dorcas Beeber and printed out Howard's letter of represe
ntation to be sent to Looking Glass, Inc., the manufacturer of Dorcas's cracked crystal ball. Which, by the way, she'd scooped up with one hand on her way upstairs. Show-off.

  While I was at it, I sneaked a peek at Howard's scribbled notes. Dorcas charged $125 for a half hour reading and claimed she'd already lost two clients outright, with a third blaming her new antidepressant prescription on Dorcas's doom-and-gloom readings. Not to mention the intentional infliction of emotional distress, blah, blah, blah. My eyes were riveted to the $125 for a half hour. Maybe I'd ask Dorcas about an apprenticeship.

  At five o'clock I shut everything down and headed into another exciting night of watching television in my pajamas. The excitement was compounded when I got caught in a traffic jam on the way home. It wasn't unusual to run up against a traffic jam in New Jersey—generally speaking, there were about twenty minutes each day when it wasn't a sure thing.

  After nearly an hour parked on the interstate listening to news updates warning commuters to avoid the interstate, I rolled up to the curb at home. My apartment was on the second floor of Curt Emerson's house in Mapleton, a small town across the Delaware River from Philadelphia, on a street with lots of mature trees, well-tended lawns, and midsized sedans in the driveways. Curt's house, like all the others, was a Cape Cod, on the small side but immaculate with tan vinyl siding, a brown roof, and dark green shutters. He'd done lots of renos, adding the siding and landscaping and a general air of being cared for. He lived on the bottom floor, which came in handy since it made it easier to invite myself to dinner.

  When I got home from work, Curt's Jeep was in the driveway behind the turquoise Honda Civic he was keeping for his niece, Maizy, until she got her license. The lights were on in the house. I knocked on the back door and stepped into Betty Crocker's kitchen. A couple of pots simmered on burners, and the oven exhaled the scent of garlic and roast chicken, making my stomach growl.