Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Steele let out a groan that nearly shook the glass walls. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  I swiveled in my chair to face my boss. “May I remind you, Mr. Steele, that I saved your arrogant behind a while back by getting involved with a murder.”

  It took Steele, a quick study, a full nanosecond to consider and digest that little tidbit. He turned to Dev. “I can’t argue with the truth, Dev. She’s got a gift, or maybe a helpful curse.”

  Dev inhaled, then blew it out. “Helping people by solving murders is my job, Odelia. Yours is to answer my questions so I can do my job.”

  “I was just telling you what Zee said.”

  “And I’m telling you that one day your luck is going to run out. One day it won’t be a bullet in your ass but a bullet in your chest or one to your brain.”

  My nose twitched at hearing the ugly possibilities. It was true. I had been shot in the ass. And I’ve had more guns pointed at me than a bakery has cupcakes.

  I’ve heard that many women going through childbirth swear they will never have another baby as long as they live. Then time passes, and they forget about the pain. They look at the cute little buggers they already have and decide pushing out another might not be so bad.

  That’s called denial.

  I guess it’s the same with me and sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. After I’ve been shot, threatened, kidnapped, or nearly burned to death, I swear I’ll never get involved with another murder again. Then someone dies and someone else says they need my help. I look back on my past death flirtations and think, this time it won’t be so bad. This time it will be different.

  That’s called denial on performance-enhancing drugs.

  “Okay,” Steele said to me, “now that we’ve dealt with your little problem, can we talk about mine, which isn’t so little?”

  We were in Steele’s office, having just finished up with Dev and sent him on his way.

  “Someone’s death is a little problem to you?” I plopped down in a chair across from Steele’s modern chrome and black lacquer desk.

  Steele is usually obsessive about keeping his office clean. Most of the clutter for his cases is kept in my office or in his secretary’s area. But this current case was different. Steele’s desktop was nearly obliterated by files and binders and documents pertaining to the acquisition, which at various points in its history threatened to collapse in a heap of dead trees due to bickering by the parties involved.

  “At the risk of sounding more callous than usual, yes. At least if it doesn’t pertain to this matter.” Steele tapped one of the folders on his desktop. “As much as I find your Miss Marple act amusing, I need you, all of you, focused on this right now.”

  “I thought the deal was finally on track. How did your conference call go?”

  “The seller’s counsel is an idiot, that’s how it went.” He picked up a pen from his desk, fiddled with it, then tossed it back down in disgust.

  I smoothed a hand over the wrinkles in my plum-colored skirt and frowned at a couple of spots near the hem caused by a coffee dribble this morning. “I’ve always thought Lori Ogle to be both knowledgeable and professional.”

  From the way Steele glared at me, you’d have thought I’d suggested he start buying his suits from Target. Without responding, he strode to the window and put his hands on his hips. For a long time, Steele stared down at the traffic below. If the window had been capable of being opened, I would have worried about him jumping.

  I tried again, this time with more tact. “Seriously, Steele, Lori Ogle and her clients have delivered every document we’ve requested. You’ve finally come to terms for the sale agreement. What’s the problem now?”

  Without turning around, Steele raise his right hand in the air and shook it, signaling for me to shut up. At least he wasn’t flipping me the bird.

  “Who got his panties in a bunch?” a voice asked. I turned around to see Steele’s assistant, Jill Bernelli, coming in with a stack of late mail, which she placed in Steele’s inbox.

  Jill is the first assistant Steele has been able to hang on to for more than a few months—and the first one for which there wasn’t an office pool started on how long she would last. I’d won fifty dollars several secretaries back. Jill seems to be here for the long haul, and the entire firm couldn’t be happier. She’s smart, extremely competent, and totally calls Steele on his shit. She’s also the partner of Sally Kipman, a high-school classmate of mine. And if that wasn’t enough, Jill can bake like it’s nobody’s business. This morning, she’d brought in lemon–poppy seed muffins.

  “Lori Ogle,” I told her.

  “Lori?” Jill was surprised. She ran a hand through her dark brown pixie cut, pushing her bangs out of the way. “She’s a doll. Both she and her secretary.”

  I glanced at Steele. He was still facing the window, but I could see his shoulders bunch under his shirt as if he were lifting weights.

  “I think,” Jill continued, “she’s one of the nicest attorneys we’ve ever worked opposite of on a deal.”

  Steele spun around. “Keep it up, Bernelli, and you’ll be asking Ogle for a job.”

  “Oh, please.” Jill shot Steele a coy smirk. “You know you’d miss my orange-cranberry scones too much to fire me.”

  I piped up. “I know I would.”

  Steele glared at me. I glared back. I knew he always ate at least three when Jill brought them in.

  “Both of you,” Steele snapped as he headed back to his desk, “out of here.”

  I didn’t budge. “But I thought you wanted to talk to me about your conference call. We had a meeting scheduled.”

  “Out,” he ordered again, with more force. “And shut the door.”

  “Wow,” Jill said as she shut Steele’s door. “He’s crankier than usual. How is that possible?” She went to her desk, and I followed.

  “I wonder what happened during the conference call?” I looked at Jill. “You have any idea?”

  “I’m as puzzled as you are. I thought the deal was finally on smooth sailing and going to close. At least it sounded like it.”

  “Did you hear the call?”

  Jill scrunched her brows in thought. “He buzzed me into his office near the end of it to make some copies, and the call sounded pretty jovial to me—almost celebratory. It sounded the same way when I returned a minute later with the copies.”

  “He wasn’t arguing with Lori over something?”

  “Quite the contrary. He was pouring on the Michael Steele charm for all it was worth.” Jill turned serious. “Could it have been your meeting with Dev Frye that turned him around? I saw you in the conference room.”

  “I don’t think so. If anything, that meeting seemed to act as a temporary diversion for whatever was on his mind.”

  As I walked back into my office, I tried to think of what could have made Steele behave snarkier than usual, especially when he hadn’t been that way with Dev and me in our meeting. Excuse me—my meeting, which he’d crashed. And according to Jill, he hadn’t been that way during his conference call.

  I threw up my hands in disgust. Just what I needed right now, a schizo boss. It would go nicely with dead women giving out my phone number.

  Unable to get Steele’s behavior out of my head, I rewound the last twenty minutes in my memory. Let’s see, we went back to Steele’s office and started talking about the acquisition. That’s when the change occurred. But Jill thought his call had gone very well. I was about to sit down when an idea struck me. Turning, I set my high heels back the way they’d come, toward Jill’s desk.

  “Have you ever met Lori Ogle?” I asked her.

  “Nope. I’ve only spoken to her on the phone. You?”

  “Same here.”

  Before I could say anything more, Jill’s fingers were busy with her mouse and keyboard. She’d read my mind.

  “Here she is,” announced Jill.

  She’d brought up the website for Lori Ogle’s firm, Templin and Tobin, a very large
law firm headquartered in Los Angeles. With a few clicks, Jill had located the firm’s attorney bios and found Lori.

  “You don’t think he’s slept with her, do you?” Jill asked, her voice poised to sound disgusted should the need arise. “Or maybe she’s an old girlfriend?”

  “No, I don’t. Steele just met her for the first time on this deal, and he would never poach on client time.” I looked at Jill. “He may not have many ethics when it comes to women, but when it comes to the law and his clients, he gives 150 percent.”

  Staring back at us from the computer screen was a lovely and engaging woman probably in her mid to late thirties. Lori Ogle had long, shiny dark hair, a perfect nose, and flawless olive skin. In the photo, she was wearing a creamy white shell under a dark collarless jacket. The pieces of jewelry at her ears and neck were understated and elegant. But it was her luminous dark eyes and strong chin that captured my attention. They spoke volumes of confidence and accomplishment. Lori Ogle was very beautiful, but she was no idle plaything.

  “Look here.” Jill pointed at a spot on Lori’s bio. “She runs triathlons for charity.”

  Quickly, I scanned the bio. The education and list of achievements were over-the-top impressive, rounded out by a great deal of charity involvement, both local and international. Reading it, I was ready to campaign for her in the next presidential election.

  “No,” I said, my green eyes latching on to Jill’s brown ones in impish delight. “Steele hasn’t slept with her, but dollars to donuts it’s on his mind—and more dollars to donuts he’s scared silly of her.”

  “Scared? Mike Steele?”

  I chuckled. “Yes, scared. This woman is his perfect match, at least on paper, and he knows it. And he knows if he starts anything with her, he’d better be prepared to take it all the way.”

  We both turned back toward the computer screen and studied Lori’s photo.

  “I do believe, Jill, our Mr. Steele may be falling in love—or at least age-appropriate lust.”

  Jill chuckled. “I want a ringside seat for this.”

  “No, Sally, I don’t need your help. This doesn’t involve me.”

  I had just arrived home and was kicking off my heels when my cell phone rang. It was Sally Kipman. Jill had told her that Dev Frye had been in to see me, and Sally had made the same assumption Steele had—that a dead body was involved. Ever since she and I had teamed up a few years before to solve the murder of a high- school classmate, Sally, an engineer, had been itching to get back into the sleuth game. In high school, Sally Kipman had been my nemesis. After our partnership in crime solving, we’d become good friends. Maybe she should be the one with the special gift and not me. I’d gladly sign whatever documents were needed to make the transfer.

  “Ah, but Odelia,” Sally said over the phone. “Somehow, someway, it will end up involving you. I just know it.”

  I was thankful I hadn’t given Jill any details. She only knew that Dev had come calling. I’d just given Sally a thumbnail sketch.

  “I didn’t know Shirley Pearson,” I assured Sally as I dodged the two cats trying to trip me in welcome. “Her being killed at Hannah’s wedding was a fluke, a nasty coincidence.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sally didn’t sound convinced.

  Our doorbell rang, followed by a soft knock on the screen door. Greg worked out a couple evenings a week at a gym with special facilities for men and women in wheelchairs, but on Wednesdays he met with his personal trainer and got home later. Wainwright, as usual, was with Greg.

  “Believe what you want,” I told her as I headed for the door. “Someone’s at the door, Sal, gotta run.”

  “Keep me posted,” Sally called out as I shut the phone.

  Looking out the front window, I saw a woman standing on my doorstep. She wore a floppy straw hat. I opened the door halfway.

  “Yes?” I asked, keeping the screen door latched.

  “Odelia Grey?”

  “Do I know you?”

  “I’m a ghost from the past, Odelia.” The woman took off her sunglasses and pushed the hat back a few inches. “It’s me, Clarice Hollowell.”

  For the umpteenth time in one day, I was slack-jawed.

  “May I come in, Odelia,” the woman at my door asked with clipped superiority, “or have you gone stupid with shock?”

  If I had any foggy remembrances of Clarice Hollowell, they now became crystal clear. While she looked different, her signature sarcasm had been burned into my brain like a brand. With reluctance, I unlocked the screen door and let her in, wondering what fresh pile of poop this was about.

  I showed her into the living room, where she took a seat on the sofa and removed her hat, placing it on the cushion beside her. Without speaking, she put her sunglasses carefully away in a case inside her designer straw bag and set the bag next to her hat. Then she looked around my home, studying and observing everything within her gaze. The stalling movements told me I was in for another humdinger of a time with Clarice Hollowell. We’d recently bought a large sectional sofa. I took a seat on the smaller L-section. For a few minutes, we simply stared at each other, absorbing and measuring the vibes each sent out.

  When I’d first met Clarice, she was a skeletal-thin, chain-smoking boozehound, disappointed by life and pissed off. She also had bobbed jet-black hair. Today her hair reminded me of a ribbon of sage honey, the way it looks when you try to pour the thick, gooey stuff from the jar instead of spooning it out. She wore it down to her shoulders, held back from her face by a thin headband. Doing the math in my head, I realized Clarice had to be approaching the sixty hurdle, if not having recently scaled it. She looked fabulous. During the years since our last meeting, her body had filled out. She was still slim, but not concentration-camp thin. The few extra pounds had also softened her face. Even her eyes were less flinty. She still dressed expensively, but she didn’t smell of cigarettes. Maybe she’d stopped smoking. Or maybe not being married to John Hollowell had brought about these positive changes.

  “You’re married now,” Clarice observed, her eyes resting on a large wedding photo on a nearby table.

  “Yes. In fact, my husband and I met when Sophie London died. He was a friend of hers.”

  “Interesting.” Clarice raised one crescent-shaped eyebrow. “Was he the same type of friend to the fat slut as my husband?”

  I felt my eyes cross in growing anger. John Hollowell had had a penchant for bedding and taking advantage of plump women. He’d even tried to woo me. The years and a few pounds might have softened Clarice’s appearance but not her acidic tongue.

  “Greg was a true friend to Sophie,” I informed her, my voice laced with warning. “He’s nothing like John Hollowell.”

  A sardonic smile passed her lips. “Well, goodie for you, my dear.” At this point, the old Clarice would have taken a drag from her cigarette and blown smoke my way.

  “How did you find my home address, if I may ask?”

  “You’re not the only one who can dig for information.” She tossed me a shrewd wink. “I found the guest list for the Washington wedding at the Rambling Rose office. I’m a silent partner in the business. You and your husband were on it, with your address.”

  Muffin jumped up on the sofa and tried to get chummy with Clarice. After a slight hesitation, Clarice reached out a hand and stroked the animal behind her ears. Muffin purred. The gesture surprised me. I would have bet Clarice would have shoved the cat away or demanded that I remove it. Seamus, always leery of strangers, was watching everything from under the buffet. A part of me wanted to join him.

  “That’s how I discovered you in the first place, you know, through Shirley Pearson,” Clarice continued. “I dropped her off several months ago at a bridal boutique and saw you there with a short, round black woman and her daughter. I asked Shirley later who you were, and she confirmed your name.” Another tight smile crossed her face. “She didn’t remember your last name, but there are not many women named Odelia running around Orange County.”

  I
n spite of her innate rudeness, my manners yanked at my conscience. “Can I get you something, Clarice? Some iced tea, maybe? I’m afraid I’m fresh out of martinis.”

  She emitted a short, static laugh. “I gave up drinking right after I last saw you. But some cold water would be nice. No ice.”

  Going to the kitchen, I pulled a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge and poured it into a tall glass. When I handed it to her, she thanked me and drank like a thirsty camel, downing nearly half the glass before coming up for air.

  “I’ve been out front waiting for you for a long time,” she explained, sounding like she expected an apology.

  Since she was dilly-dallying, I got down to the business that now inhabited my mind. “The police found my number on a slip of paper in Shirley’s pocket when she died. Besides Shirley’s fingerprints, it had prints belonging to a Roslyn Beckworth. Are you the one who gave Roslyn Beckworth my phone number?”

  If Clarice was surprised by my question, she didn’t show it. “Yes. I gave it to her to pass along to Shirley. Roslyn helped out sometimes at Rambling Rose, especially when Shirley took Amber, our assistant, into the field. I called the office a few weeks ago and Roslyn took the message. You might recall you gave the number to me when we last spoke several years ago. I’d kept it tucked away in my address book. Not sure why, but now I’m glad I did.”

  Clarice studied the flat-screen TV on the wall across from the sofa as if she were watching a movie. “So the police don’t know anything about me?” She asked the question without looking my way.

  “Not that I know of. Should they?” I leaned forward in my chair, remembering that Dev’s theory included how Shirley knew her attacker. “Clarice, did you kill Shirley?”

  She looked horrified and flashed her eyes at me. “Of course not. Shirley was my friend.”

  “Friends have killed friends before.” I thought about Zee trying to club me with the coat hanger. “It could have been an accident or done in a moment of rage.”