“She’s too young for her parents to have passed on.”
“Right,” Anne said, though she wasn’t thinking that clearly. Maybe she was exhausted. Or maybe she just had no idea how families kept in touch with each other. She’d never gotten a birthday card from her mother. She wouldn’t know her father if she ran him over with a car. She followed Bennie through the living room to the back of the house.
The layout was similar to Anne’s, a combination dining room and kitchen fashioned from one room, and she could tell at a glance that it would reveal little, if anything, about Willa’s family. Sketches blanketed the white walls here, too, and the oak table was bare except for a bouquet of dried flowers. The kitchen was perfectly clean, with Kenmore appliances that landlords always installed. The remarkable centerpiece of the room was a beautiful, cinnabar-red spice rack that had been mounted above the stove.
She stepped over to it, reading the hand-lettered names on the spice jars, which were so exotic she’d never heard of them, much less cooked with them: cumin, cardamom, turmeric. Willa must have been a wonderful, creative cook. Anne felt a terrible twinge, stepping into a life that was lost because of her.
“Maybe she has an office upstairs,” Bennie said, turning away. “There has to be a place she paid her bills. We’ll have better luck there.” She left the room, and Anne followed her numbly. Bennie turned on a light over the stairwell and led the way upstairs. Sketches served as wallpaper all the way to the second floor, and Anne marveled at the hours it must have taken to draw all of the scenes.
At the top of the stair was a tiny bathroom that they skipped in favor of the bedroom, another completely unconventional room. A wall that would have typically existed between two bedrooms had evidently been taken out, leaving an L-shaped bedroom-studio. Sketches covered the wall, their subjects similar to the ones downstairs, but much larger here, as if this were the second floor of an exclusive gallery, reserved for private customers.
A pine double bed, whose canopy top had been draped with long, white sashes of silk, sat at an unusual angle against the front windows. Beside it was a plain white IKEA-type dresser and desk, covered with papers in neat stacks. Bennie made a beeline for the desk and when she reached it, turned on a black halogen lamp. Anne went over after her.
“No computer, that’s unusual,” Bennie said, but somehow it seemed to Anne like speaking ill, so she didn’t say anything. “Here’s her bills.” Bennie thumbed through a pile of envelopes as Anne watched. Visa, Philadelphia Electric, and Verizon; Bennie pulled out the Verizon bill, which was already open, and reached inside. “The phone bill. It’ll have a record of her calls. Maybe we can find her family that way. She has to call them, even if they’re not on speed dial.” Bennie slid out the bill, flashing the familiar sky-blue, and they both skimmed the listings.
“Almost nothing beyond the basic charges,” Anne said, recognizing it. The bill could have been a duplicate of Anne’s own; they were even on the same billing plan. “She’s on the plan where you pay by the call. It makes sense if you don’t make a lot of calls.”
But Bennie was already casting around for a telephone. “No phone up here. Jesus!” She slid her cell phone from her pocket, and flipped it open, and called the first number on the bill, which was local. She listened on the line, then hung up. “Taws, the art store, and they’re closed. Read me the next number.” Anne read it off, and Bennie called it on the cell, then listened. “The Philadelphia Horticultural Center, also closed. Wonder why she called them?”
“To sketch it?” Anne guessed, but Bennie was on a tear.
“Try the next.” Bennie called the number as soon as Anne read it off, listened, then flipped the phone closed. “Fresh Fields. Gourmet foods. Shit!” She skimmed the rest of the bill and tossed it aside. “None of the calls are long-distance, to family.”
Anne’s gaze fell on a stack of correspondence on the desktop. Maybe there’d be a letter from Willa’s parents. Obviously, Willa wasn’t a computer jock. Maybe she grew up in a family of artists. Anne picked up the topmost letter, but it had a letterhead from Mether Galleries in Center City. It was dated last week, and she skimmed it:
Dear Ms. Hansen;
We are writing in the hopes that you will reconsider your decision not to let us represent your portfolio. We understand that you were one of the most talented students in Bill Hunter’s class at Moore College of Art, and believe that we can help your art find wonderful homes, in addition to providing a substantial income for you. Please contact us as soon as possible at the above address.
Anne mulled it over. Mether Galleries was one of the fanciest in the city. Why didn’t Willa want to show her wonderful drawings there? If she had a trust fund, she didn’t need the money. But still. Why hide all this talent under a basket?
“No luck on the other bills,” Bennie said, opening the top file-drawer of the desk. “You finding anything?”
“Not yet.” Anne reached for the next letter in the stack. It was an earlier letter from Mether, and there were two others underneath it from galleries in SoHo. She glanced through the letters, but they were like the ones from Mether Gallery. Why hadn’t Willa at least responded? “All these galleries want her art, but she won’t sell it. From the looks of it, she doesn’t even call them back.”
“Nothing here.” Bennie had opened the upper file-drawer of the desk and was rooting through a stack of correspondence and papers, narrating as she went along. “No family pictures or anything. No birthday cards. Just receipts from Taws and some from Anthropologie. She doesn’t buy much at all. Here’s a transcript from Moore College of Art.” Bennie frowned as she read. “She was doing well, then there’s no courses listed after the first semester. Too bad. She must have dropped out.” Bennie set it down and opened the lower drawer, filled with manila folders. “Now this looks promising.”
“What?” Anne replaced the gallery correspondence.
“Taxes, old check registers, and stuff.” Bennie dug to the bottom of the drawer. “Here’s a copy of her lease, and there’s other legal papers.”
“She mentioned a trust fund.” Anne watched Bennie pull out a sheaf of papers and read through them, her mouth tightening like a rubber band. Anne got a bad feeling. “What’s the matter?”
“She had an inheritance. Willa’s family was evidently from Holland, Michigan, and her parents died there, two years ago. This is their will. It was probated there.”
“No. Really?” Anne felt so sad, for Willa. About Willa. She held out her hand for the papers, and Bennie passed them over without a word. They were so cold and white, the paper stiff and unusually thick, folded in thirds. She skipped the boilerplate to the bequest, to see if Willa had any siblings. But the bequest referred only to “our daughter, Willa.” Willa was an only child, and, with the death of her parents, alone in the world. Anne felt her eyes welling up, and bit her lip, but Bennie was already leafing through another set of stapled papers.
“It looks like the parents had an auto accident, from the executor’s report. Extensive hospital bills were paid by the estate, for both of them. They died within a week of the accident.” Bennie folded up the papers, then dug for more in the folders. “That’s tough, on a girl so young. She must have come here to go to Moore, then her parents were killed and she dropped out. What a shame.”
Anne wiped her eyes when Bennie bent over, rummaging in the drawer. She didn’t want to explain her feelings to Bennie. She couldn’t explain them to herself.
“It was a large estate, almost a million dollars. It’s held in trust, wisely invested. I should give the trustee a call, at some point.” Bennie was reading from something that looked like financial schedules. “If Willa lived carefully, as she obviously did, she’d be set for the rest of her life. That’s why she didn’t sell the drawings. She didn’t have to.”
No, it isn’t, Anne thought, but didn’t say. “So there’s no family to notify,” she said instead, and even those words caught in her throat. It was hard to hold b
ack an overwhelming sadness. Willa lived alone, in a black-and-white world of her own, cutting herself off from everyone around her. The only color in her life was her hair, and that Anne couldn’t quite explain. Willa had only her work for company and she didn’t share even that with anyone. She lead a completely insular life, and Anne sensed it had begun when her parents had been killed. It was a normal response to trauma, and an uncomfortably familiar one.
“Oh, well.” Bennie returned the documents to the drawer and closed it. “I guess, at this point, I’m fairly convinced that nobody wanted to kill Willa Hansen. Given what we learned today and tonight, I think Kevin is the murderer and you the intended victim. I was wrong. Sorry about that, Murphy. You were right.”
She was killed because of me. “No I told-you-so here,” Anne said, forcing a pat smile.
It was late by the time they got to Bennie’s house, and Anne settled onto the warm dining room table, trying to shake her gloom and her fatigue. Bennie had gone to fix some dinner for her and to get Mel a saucer of milk. The cat crouched at Anne’s feet while Bennie’s golden retriever, Bear, snuffled up his fur with a wet nose, leaving slobbery patches in the cat’s usually immaculate coat and misaligning his dark stripes. Anne’s hand hovered protectively nearby. For the dog’s protection.
“How they doin’?” Bennie called from the kitchen, just out of eyeshot.
“Oh, they’re becoming fast friends!” Anne called back. Mel took a declawed swipe at Bear, which would remain their little secret. It did nothing to deter the dog, a hundred pounds of red fur with a pink tongue. Bear had been in constant motion, dancing around Mel when Anne first set him on the floor, then bowing in front of him to play, and finally pawing the air between them. She marveled that Bear craved such instant intimacy and attributed it to a disturbing lack of discretion on the animal’s part. In other words, a dog thing.
“Is the cat okay?” Bennie called out again. From the kitchen came the clink of glasses, and in the living room Mel took another swipe with his paw, which Bear misinterpreted as an invitation to frolic. Anne was getting the distinct impression that goldens believed everyone really loved them, despite any and all evidence to the contrary. They could be the erotomanics of the dog world.
“Not to worry!” Anne called back.
“Two percent or light cream?”
“Two percent is fine!”
“I have a can of tuna, too.”
“Great! Thanks!” Anne lifted the cat onto her lap before he blinded his new best friend. Mel settled into Sphinx Cat, and by the time Bennie entered the room with a tray, he looked completely innocent. He was scary-good at it.
“Here we go,” Bennie said, setting the tray down on the oak table. The tray had a frosted-glass bottom, funky blue handles, and a price tag stuck to the side. $12.98, Michael Graves, on sale at Target. Anne was no sleuth but she figured Bennie didn’t entertain much, and she’d heard something about Bennie breaking up with her live-in boyfriend. Mental note: You can never tell who’s lonely just by looking.
“Thanks.”
“Can this tiny thing feed this creature?” Bennie asked, holding up a white ramekin of milk.
“Sure. Just set it on the floor.”
“No way. Not with a golden in the tri-state area. Food on the floor is fair game.” Bennie set the ramekin on the dining room table, as Mel watched. “Murphy, you want to show it to him or something?”
“He sees it. He’ll have some when he’s ready.”
“Amazing.” Bennie rolled up the sleeves of her workshirt. Between it, her worn shorts, and her slightly grubby bare feet, she looked remarkably comfortable, not only in her own house, but in her own skin. “A dog never delays eating. See?” Bear’s tail wagged like crazy and he was already sniffing the ramekin. He would have snorted it empty if Bennie hadn’t leaned over and moved it out of reach. “I hope the cat doesn’t wait too long to have some.”
“Guaranteed that he will, for purposes of doggie torture.” Anne stroked Mel’s head and he purred. She reached for her soda and took a long, cold slug. “Thank you for the drink and the hospitality.”
“I’m happy to do it.” Bennie cocked her head so that a tangle of ponytail tumbled over her shoulder to her breast pocket. “I checked on what I have for dinner. Oranges and three eggs. Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to go food-shopping, with depositions and the near-death experience of one of my best associates.”
“I’m not really hungry. I usually have cereal for dinner.”
“That I can cook.” Bennie turned, headed for the kitchen, and returned with two tablespoons, two bowls, a half-quart of Wawa milk, and a box of Shredded Wheat, which she put on the table and sat down in the chair opposite Anne. Track lighting that ringed the room set a soft glow to her face and highlighted her blond hair. “Dinner is served.”
“Great!” Anne said, though she usually avoided Shredded Wheat. The box remained on the table: squat, red, and remarkably smug for a breakfast food. Its long list of “Nutrition Facts” faced her, reporting alarming amounts of phosphorus, magnesium, zinc, and copper. Metal belonged in plumbing, not breakfast, but Anne reached for the cereal, fixed herself a bowl, and pretended it was Captain Crunch.
“So, let’s review,” Bennie said, swallowing. “You’ve survived a stalker who wanted to kill you, a client who wanted to fire you, and haircut by office scissors.”
Anne managed a smile. “One of these things is not like the other.” She took another bite of Shredded Wheat, which didn’t taste bad because it lacked taste altogether. She glanced around the polished pine table for a sugar bowl, but it was completely bare except for the woven place mats of yellow straw. Maybe that’s what was in this cereal. “May I have some sugar, please?”
“No,” Bennie answered.
“Kidding?”
“There’s no sugar in the house. No sugar and no TV. They’re both bad for your health.”
Anne thought this must be some form of insanity. No Lucy? “No sugar?”
“Ever hear of sugar blues?”
“Is it how you feel when there’s no sugar in the house?”
Bennie smiled. “Forget it.” She finished another mouthful of Shredded Wheat. “You don’t like sports, do you, Murphy?”
“I shop. It takes stamina. I train by eating Cocoa Krispies. Now that’s dinner.” Anne became vaguely aware that she was trying to make Bennie laugh, and wondered why that was so.
“I admire you, Murphy. I do.”
“Me?” Anne almost choked, but it could have been the place mat.
“I think you’re handling your situation like a champ. I’ve taken some heat in my time, but not like this. I’m proud of you. This is just awful, and I know how horrible you feel about Willa.”
“Thanks,” Anne said quickly, feeling her face warm. “I do appreciate everything that you, and the others, have done for me.”
“No problem, but it’s not over yet. Tomorrow is the big day. The memorial service.” Bennie ate more cereal and washed it down with Diet Coke. “We will get this asshole. DiNunzio’s tougher than she looks, and Carrier comes through in any clutch. They both do.”
“I bet.”
“But I have an apology to make, on their behalf and my own.” Bennie paused, eyeing Anne directly. “None of us was welcoming when you first came to the firm, and it’s my fault. I didn’t take the time to get you assimilated. I didn’t realize how important it was. None of us acted very well, and I’m very sorry for that.”
“That’s okay.” Anne swallowed the thickness in her throat. She set down her tablespoon and vowed never to eat home furnishings again.
“No, it’s not okay. I’m a good lawyer, but I see now I’m not a good manager. I’m not so good, I think, at making sure everybody is getting along, being happy. Working together. I usually make sure we win.”
“Winning is good.”
“Not good enough. Things fall through the cracks, and people. Like you.”
“I wasn’t so friendly—”
“The burden was on us. On me. You came to my city, to my firm. However you acted was understandable, considering what you’d been through.”
No time like the present. “I have a question, Bennie. You knew everything about Kevin. About my past.” She thought of her mother’s bouquet of daisies. “How was that?”
“One of your work references told me about Kevin. That he’d tried to kill you, that you’d held up under extreme pressure and put him in jail.”
“They’re only supposed to verify term of employment,” Anne said, surprised.
“They wanted you to get the job. They were trying to help you change your life. And when I heard the full story, it sold me. I knew you could take anything I could dish out.”
Anne smiled. She really wanted to ask about her mother, but it seemed so awkward.
“The rest I researched. I have lots of friends in the criminal defense bar out there, and I asked around.” Bennie sipped her soda, and the ice made a sound too festive for the conversation. “I remembered from the interview that you said you had no family. But you didn’t say anybody had died. And there was no mention of a family or even birthplace on your résumé. So I had our firm investigator look into it. You know Lou, don’t you?”
“You investigated me?” Anne tried not to sound too pissed.
“Sure, and I don’t apologize for it. I can’t have just anybody at my firm, and people don’t spring from somebody’s head. Everybody has a family, whether they deny it or not. Not just a family, a context. Like a word, with meaning in a paragraph.” Bennie smiled over the rim of her glass. “And with some work, I found your context.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“Not my father.”
“No.”
Anne felt her heart quicken. “Where was she, anyway?”
“Southern California.” Bennie set her glass down. “That’s all I should say. She asked me not to tell you, and I promised I wouldn’t.”
Anne held her features rigid. A knife of familiar anger sliced near her heart. “How nice of her.”
Courting Trouble Page 14