by Judi McCoy
“Yeah, sure,” Ellie answered, though she wished it were true for all working girls, especially because it had been a while since she’d had a night of cutting loose herself. She mentioned her rates, including the discount for two walks per day, and the woman wrote a check for the rest of July and August. “How about if I hold Bitsy while you find her leash? That way, we can get acquainted before we go out.”
Standing, Bobbi gently set the dog in Ellie’s lap. “I’ll be right back.”
She gave Bitsy a once-over, noting her nails were painted the same shade of plum as her mistress’s. “So, are you ready to meet a few canine friends?”
The diminutive dog gazed at her, its brown eyes wide. “Wow. How do you do that?”
Ellie grinned, happy to connect with her new pal. “It’s a gift. I’m glad you understand me.”
“I understand Bobbi, too, but when I speak I never get this direct an answer. I wish I did.”
“You’re still a puppy. As you get older, she might get wiser. This is Rudy, by the way.” Ellie held Bitsy close for his approval. “Say hello, big man, and be nice.”
The two dogs connected with the usual round of sniffs and snorts. “You must lead one heck of an interesting life,” Rudy commented.
“You don’t know the half of it,” the pup said, her voice almost a giggle.
Pleased the dogs were getting along, Ellie stood when Bobbi walked in with a purple leash attached to a rhinestone-studded collar, and said, “We’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. That okay with you?”
“Whatever, and here’s a key. Randall said it’s par for the course, so I already signed the permission slip allowing you full privileges.” She raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “I assume my secrets are safe with you?”
Secrets? “Um, sure. I’m one hundred percent trustworthy. See you later.”
She tucked the key in her bag and led the dogs to the elevator, pleased to see Rudy and Bitsy whispering like old friends. After seven more stops, and a lot of canine interaction with the newcomer, she guided her charges to the lobby. Randall was speaking with a deliveryman, so she gave him a wave as they stepped onto Fifth Avenue and crossed to the park.
The herd behaved admirably for its size, no growling, smart-assed comments, or nasty nips. Ellie almost preened at the positive influence she had on the pack. After they took care of business, she returned each dog to its home with a biscuit, and left a daily message, noting that her newest client was nowhere in sight when she let Bitsy into the apartment.
“I see you and the new tenant came to an agreement,” said Randall, still with that odd half-smile on his face.
“She’s a nice woman. Thanks again for the recommendation.”
“No thanks needed, my dear. Just remember this moment later, if things don’t go well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. But you never can tell about people.” Randall tipped his hat to a passing resident. “Did I mention that Eugene asked about you earlier?”
“Really? What did the dipstick want?”
“Don’t you mean dipshit?” chimed Rudy.
“Nothing in particular. Merely asked if you were still walking dogs, as if there was a reason you wouldn’t be.”
Ellie gazed at her feet. Had the gay dog walker found out about her involvement with Gary and the fact that she was the executor of his estate? It was time she told Randall the rest of the story. Maybe he’d heard gossip about her, too.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Not exactly. But remember that murdered homeless man Rudy and I found? The one who named us in his will? I went to the bank yesterday and got a look at what he left Rudy . . . and me.”
“You mean it was something of value?”
“Over eight hundred thousand dollars of value,” she said in a hushed tone.
Randall’s mouth flapped like a broken shutter in a hurricane. “My, my. That’s quite a bequest.”
“I know. He also left me a note with instructions on what I was supposed to do if he turned up dead.”
“Now you’re worrying me. Explain, please.”
She gave a brief sketch of Gary’s request, finishing with, “Far as I know, the police don’t have another lead. There’s a good chance I’ll be pinned to the wall once they find out about the money in the bank box, even though Gary says his brother will probably kill him.”
“I see your problem with the police, but more inconceivable is the fact that a man of Mr. Veridot’s station would not have made use of the money for himself.”
“He did give a ton of it away, but not all of it.”
“I hope you’re going to hire an attorney,” the doorman advised. “There are several in the building I can recommend. They’ll see to it the police don’t harass you.”
“I have the name of a good friend’s uncle, and we’re meeting after lunch, but if things don’t go well, I’ll take you up on it. Right now, I just want to stay in last place in the ‘Who shot Gary?’ derby.”
“I’ll keep my ears open, but you know I don’t hear much about what goes on in the outside world. The tenants here seem to take up all my time. Please be careful.”
She grinned at Randall’s modesty. He usually knew more about what took place on the surrounding streets than the pigeons. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Ellie stood outside the Jacob Javits Convention Center, waiting for Salvatore Cantiglia. They’d picked an area midway between their businesses as a meeting place because it was a straight shot down the West Side to Chambers Street, headquarters of the Surrogate’s Court, where they would file the will with a probate clerk.
He’d instructed her to bring the document, along with two forms of identification, which they would need to register her claim. According to Uncle Sal, as he wanted to be called, the task would be “a piece a cake.” And because she was Joey’s good friend, his fee would be nominal.
Unsure of what the “nominal” amount was these days, she stopped at an ATM, withdrew ten twenty-dollar bills, and stuffed them in her wallet. If Sal wanted more, he’d have to accept a check or bill her.
Ten minutes past their appointed rendezvous time, her cell rang, and she figured it was the attorney calling to tell her he’d be late.
“Hello.”
“Is this Ellie?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Kevin McGowan. We met Sunday, at your mother’s brunch. I was the tall guy who wasn’t wearing a suit.”
“Kevin, hi. I didn’t recognize your voice. Sorry.”
“That’s something I’m hoping to rectify. Are you free for dinner?”
Kevin McGowan was asking her out? On a date? “Tonight?”
“I’m sorry it’s short notice, but I had a client cancel and I thought about you. Unfortunately, it’ll have to be early. I’m taking a deposition in the morning at eight, and I have to be in court by ten.”
“Um, sure. I don’t mind an early dinner. Shall I meet you somewhere?”
“How about if we find common ground? If I remember correctly, your last trip of the day is at a building near mine, on Fifth and Eighty-sixth—the Cranston Arms? We could get together in front of the Guggenheim, if that’s good with you.”
Impressed that he remembered one of the buildings housing the dogs she walked, she said, “Sounds good. I’m usually through around six.”
“Great. See you then.”
Ellie flipped the phone closed and stared at it for a full ten seconds. With everything that had taken place over the past couple of days, she’d practically forgotten about meeting Kevin, but he’d kept her business card and called. Viv had been right. It really was time she made an effort to go out.
A horn blared, and she glanced at the taxi stopped at the curb. The back door opened, and a rotund man wearing a three-piece suit stepped out, waving in her direction.
“Hey! You Ellie Engleman?”
Figuring the man was Uncle Sal, she hurried to th
e cab and slid inside.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a Dirty Harry tone of voice. “Joey didn’t say you was a looker.”
“Um, thanks.”
He slapped a palm on the seat back, and the driver headed into traffic. Ellie smiled politely and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Cantiglia. Thanks for agreeing to do this so quickly.”
The attorney took her hand in both of his, and she noted the gumball-sized diamond in his pinkie ring. “Please, it’s Uncle Sal to my friends—and all the pretty girls. How about, after this, we get a glass of vino? I know a great place in Little Italy; there’s lotsa quiet corners, and it’s real private. We could get to know each other better.”
Uh-oh. “I’m sorry, but I already have a date for dinner.” Bless Kevin McGowan for giving her a truthful excuse. “Maybe some other time.”
Sal shrugged and his suit, a size too small and the color of snakeskin left too long in the sun, bunched around his shoulders. “Maybe. So, let’s see what you got.”
Ellie passed him the will, which he read while raising and lowering a pair of caterpillar-like eyebrows. “Left the money to a dog, huh?”
“Why do you assume it’s money?” she asked. How come everyone assumed a homeless person had cash in the bank?
“Just a guess. Either way, you’re in charge of whatever it is. Lucky for you he says all you need to do is share it with your dog.”
“It’s been signed and notarized,” she pointed out, “so I’ve been told we won’t have any problems.”
“Probably not. You got ID?”
“A driver’s license, social security card, and a passport.”
“Okay, we’re all set.” He loosened his tie, and she couldn’t help but notice the ring-around-the-collar stain on his shirt. “It’s a friggin’ oven in here,” Sal stated, sweat streaming from his temples to his cheeks. “Hey, buddy, crank up the air-conditioning on this heap.”
The driver, Shadeesh Hepbaz according to the taxi license, didn’t nod or acknowledge his passengers in any way. Instead, he hoisted a fist out the window, stepped on the gas, and shot across three lanes of traffic.
Sal rolled his eyes, mumbled something about camel jockeys, and gave her a damp smile. “So, Joey says this guy who named you in the will, you didn’t know him.”
Seeking relief from the overpowering scent of stale garlic lacing Sal’s breath, Ellie inched back in the corner of her seat. “I knew him, but only in a roundabout way. Why?”
“Because you’re gonna become a person of record for the deceased once the will is processed. Could be, creditors and nut jobs will swarm out of the woodwork after it’s registered. You ready for that?”
Sam had mentioned the same thing might happen. “Could you explain what that means in plain English?”
Sal tugged on his pants, which had ridden up both calves to reveal a six-inch section of hairy white leg gaping over the tops of his ankle-high black socks. “Transactions like this are a matter of public record. Once it’s posted, everyone who takes a look will see that you’re the executor for this Garick Veridot. Could be second, third, even fourth cousins will try to get their sticky fingers on the estate. Sometimes, even people who don’t have a legitimate claim try to stake one.”
“I don’t think Gary had any relatives, other than a brother, and he’s been in prison.”
“Sing Sing?” Sal asked, using the outdated term for the infamous New York State correctional institution.
“I’m not sure.” Ellie swallowed. “Does it make a difference?”
“Prob’ly not. The slammer’s the slammer, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t get me wrong, I got a small contingent of miscreants for clients, but they’re penny-ante, a couple of ladies of the evening, some purse snatchers, guys who’d do whatever they had to for a shot of juice. You know the type.”
Ellie opened her mouth to tell him she most certainly did not know the type, but squeaked out instead, “Juice?”
He grinned. “Me, I’d rather handle the easy stuff, like what we’re doin’ today.”
Thank God for the easy stuff. “Do you think this will take long? I have clients to walk in about ninety minutes.”
“Clients to walk? Oh, right. Joey said you were a dog walker. And you call those fuzzballs clients. Cute.” The driver swerved. Horns blared. “Jesus H. Christ! Take it easy! There’s a lady back here!”
Clutching her tote bag to her chest with one hand, Ellie latched onto the door handle with the other. The taxi slammed to a stop at a red light.
“Only a couple more blocks,” Uncle Sal grumbled. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get there in one piece.”
She nodded, afraid to speak for fear the driver would see to it they ended up in the Hudson River. Sal patted her knee. “You okay? You look a little sick.”
She gave him a brave smile. “I’m fine.” If she lived through this afternoon, she was going to kill Joe.
Mercifully, the driver brought the cab to a halt in a more subdued manner when they arrived at their destination. Uncle Sal tossed a bill in the front seat and hustled her out. Grasping her elbow, he gazed at the imposing building. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” he asked, though it didn’t sound as if he expected an answer. “They film scenes from Law and Order here every once in a while. How’s that for trivia?”
“Really? I don’t usually watch television police dramas, so I wouldn’t—”
“Come on, let’s go.” He tugged her inside, and they navigated the usual stopping points that secured a public building. “Okay, we go up to the fifth floor.”
Ellie admired the building’s majestic interior, encased in orangish salmon pink and white marble. If Sal hadn’t led her to the elevators, she would have stopped to read a plaque explaining the structure’s history, but he moved fast for an overweight sixty-year-old, and he obviously knew his way around.
Now on the correct floor, he escorted her to a door marked PROBATE CLERK. Inside, a stern-faced woman nodded to him. “Mr. Cantiglia. Nice to see you again.”
“Hey, Gloria, you’re lookin’ good. Got a little business that needs takin’ care of. Seems a no-brainer to me, but it’s your call.”
The woman read the will and turned to Ellie. “ID?”
She passed over her license and passport. Thirty minutes later, and fifty dollars poorer, Ellie was officially named as the executor of Garick Veridot’s estate and the person of record for his debts and benefits.
Chapter 8
“You didn’t call, so I assume everything went okay this morning,” Ellie said to Hilary Blankenship when they met in the woman’s apartment complex lobby at five. Frazzled over last evening’s debacle with her houseguest and her trip to the Surrogate’s Court, she’d called Hilary that morning and asked her to do the first walk of the day alone. She hoped this afternoon’s round would make up for her neglect.
Wearing designer jogging gear, a pair of what appeared to be brand-new athletic shoes, and a paper mask resembling those a nail salon worker might wear, Hilary had three dogs in tow and carried her own in her arms. “I guess things went fine. All the dogs did their business. I just don’t understand how such small animals can generate so much . . . waste. Even Cuddles makes a mess, and he’s a baby.” She glanced lovingly at her toy poodle. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Ellie bit back a flip comment about the mask and other paraphernalia the woman wore. “That’s exactly why I only walk dogs of fifteen pounds or less. Anything bigger and it gets . . . daunting. Think about it. How much poop can one woman scoop and still keep her sanity?”
Hilary sniffed. “It’s so demeaning, but this,” she pointed to the mask, “helps with the odor.”
Hilary’s narrow-minded opinion was much the same as Georgette’s, not a good sign for the future of her employment. They stood at the corner, waiting for the light to change when Ellie said, “If you decide this job isn’t your cup of tea—”
“I’m sure I’ll get used to it, and I really need the work. Richar
d’s attorney is badgering my lawyer for that list of expenses, and my man is trying to hold him off as long as possible. It’s so irritating, having to resort to menial labor while my husband refuses to let go of our assets.”
Menial labor? I thought I was an entrepreneur, a successful businesswoman, independent of a man and proud of it. “I’m sure it’s difficult, but you are making your own money again.”
“Forgive me if I sound like a snob,” Hilary clarified as they crossed Fifth Avenue. “It’s just that everything I’ve known for the past fifteen years has suddenly been swept away, and I’m still not coping well. I’ve always been able to buy whatever I wanted, now I’m forced to live on an allowance so small no normal person could manage.”
“Um, I don’t mean to pry, but how much is your husband giving you?”
“Richard continues to pay the mortgage and the utilities, but he’s cancelled the charge cards, except the one in my name for Bloomies. And he’s agreed to deposit five thousand a month into my checking account, but that’s it.”
Ellie suppressed an eye roll. Entire families in this city lived on sixty thousand a year, and they paid rent and their own utilities. If she had that much to fritter away, she wouldn’t be complaining.
“You’ll have a salary come the first of August. I’ll prorate it for the number of walks you’re scheduled to do times your walk rate. How does that sound?”
“Acceptable. Still, it will be less than a thousand a month. That’s barely enough to keep me in appointments at the Red Door. Richard might not care about my appearance now that we’re divorcing, but I have to maintain myself in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. Otherwise I’ll lose all credibility with my friends.” She stopped to let the dogs sniff a trash can. “Especially if I hope to find another husband.”
Poor baby, Ellie almost said. She used to have spa appointments, too, and dates with a personal trainer, a fashion consultant, and a yoga instructor. But that was when the D wore her on his arm like a Rolex. Damn if she’d do it again. Why would any sane woman want to live under some controlling man’s thumb when she could be her own person?