by Susan Rohrer
Joe pulled a business card from his pocket and pushed it across the counter. “A grand for the exclusive.”
“Not interested.” Laurel picked up a rag to wipe the counter. Her private life was not for sale.
“Or twenty-five hundred for a series.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the card there.
Laurel continued to work, unflinching. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
Ralph called out from the kitchen. “Gettin’ cold here, Laurel.” Laurel turned to pick up the order, grateful for the excuse it provided to cut the conversation with the reporter short.
Joe rose from his stool. He slid a twenty-dollar tip onto the counter, underneath his card.
Laurel’s stomach knotted as she rounded the counter. This guy wasn’t going to give up easily. The media circus was starting.
As Joe passed her, he lowered his voice. “Just think about it before you chat with anybody else.” And with that, he left her.
Why he thought she’d want to talk to anyone about Frank’s murder was beyond comprehension. Laurel put a pleasant smile on her face as she served the daily special to an elderly gent and his wife. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Joe amble through the door, just as another man entered. An unsettling shudder rippled through her. This man, too, she recognized from the crime scene, just hours earlier:
Detective McTier.
Why the lead investigator on Frank’s murder would be looking for her was no mystery. But she couldn’t help wonder exactly what Shana had said to the man.
Laurel returned to Joe’s spot at the counter. She glanced at Joe’s card as she wiped off his place. In a way, she hated to even touch that card, but then again, the last thing she wanted was for McTier to see that Kickerton Press had come calling on her. He’d think she was courting tabloid reporters.
Really, she had no other choice, what with Detective McTier already making a beeline toward her. Quickly, she pocketed Joe’s tip and card. She could always toss the card later.
There was a seat across the table from Laurel in the precinct’s interview room, but Detective McTier didn’t take it. Instead, he stood across from her. It was a thinly veiled tactic. He was deliberately invading her personal space. He’d offered her coffee. The door was open to the adjoining squad room, but there was still that purposeful air of intimidation.
Everything about that room was cold. The temperature was bad enough, but the metal chair made it worse. She could feel the chill of it through the skirt of her uniform. Nothing about this situation was comfortable. Nothing was the least bit sympathetic to the freshness of her grief. Instead, it seemed geared at disrupting what little calm she had managed to find in the midst of the gathering storm. Most disquieting of all was the fact that Detective McTier just stood there wordlessly. He was waiting for her to initiate. Again.
“Detective, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” Laurel glanced at her watch. Already, it had been close to an hour.
“You set the schedule.” McTier shrugged. “Tell me what I want to know and you’re out of here.”
“I hardly know Frank’s assistant. Why don’t you ask her these questions?”
“Funny, Rene thought I should question you.”
Laurel regarded him squarely. “I told you, Detective. I was asleep.”
“Alone?” A little smirk loosened his face.
Laurel held his gaze. “Since my divorce, yes.”
“From the victim?”
Laurel nodded. It didn’t take a prophetic gift to see where he was going. She let out a breath. “Am I under arrest?”
“We’re just having a conversation.” McTier paced across from her casually, though the situation was anything but.
“No, you’re grilling me,” Laurel said. “Like you see me as a suspect.”
McTier pulled out the chair. “You do stand to gain from his demise.”
Laurel felt her blood pressure rise. It couldn’t be her sugar level, not this soon. Stay calm, she reminded herself. He’s only doing his job.
Laurel folded her hands on the table. “I understand your process, Detective. I know what you have to do. But hear me when I tell you that you’re wasting your time.”
Finally, McTier sat. “Oh, I don’t know about that. See, the other Mrs. Fischer—or should I say the current Mrs. Fischer—she told me that you called just before they discovered the body. She said you were asking about the councilman, that you had a bad feeling. Care to elaborate?”
Laurel gathered her thoughts. So, Shana did tell him about her call. No doubt, Shana had cast Laurel’s comments in a disparaging light.
It wasn’t the first time Laurel’s gift had been used against her. People found it so much easier to believe in what they could see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears. There would be no point in attempting to persuade the detective otherwise.
“I can’t afford a lawyer,” she said. “The fact that I’m not under arrest means you’re not going to assign one to me. And I’m pretty sure it also means I can go. True?”
The detective sat back, unable to deny her logic. Still, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t leave town.”
Decidedly, Laurel rose to her feet. She gazed at him as calmly as her racing heart would allow. “My daughter is here. Why would I?”
five
“Laurel Fischer?”
She turned at the sound of her name. Yet another man was there at the Grille, looking for her. Laurel glanced over at Ralph. Gratefully, he was flipping hotcakes, his back to them. “Yes. I’m Laurel Fischer.”
Apparently satisfied, the guy pulled out an envelope. “Then, this is for you.”
“You’re a process server?”
“Yup.” The guy grinned. “Have a nice day.” He spun around and loped toward the door.
Belle sidled up to Laurel, watching the process server’s departure. She wiped her hands. “Everything okay?”
Mary Jo eyed the man’s exit. “Maggot,” she said. “One thing to make a living that way, but there’s no call to be so blasted smug about it.”
Laurel pulled out the enclosed paperwork. Something seized in her chest. It was a summons. “How could she...” Her voice knotted in her throat. “Frank hasn’t been dead a full business day and she—”
An impatient customer rapped on the counter beside Laurel. “Is it too much to ask for some help?”
Laurel brushed a hand over her face. “I’ll be right with you.”
Belle pressed Laurel’s shoulder in passing. “I’ve got this.”
Tears blurred Laurel’s vision. She could hardly focus anyway. How in heaven could all of this be happening?
The alley behind the Blackberry Grille wasn’t the nicest place around to take a break, but it was certainly more private than any of Laurel’s other options. As a garbage truck rumbled away, she read, all the way to the end of the summons. She looked up, tears coursing.
Laurel quickly wiped her cheeks, hearing the creak of the Grille’s back door. It was okay. Just Belle.
Belle stepped to Laurel’s side and opened her arms. “Come on.”
Laurel melted into Belle’s consoling embrace. Sobs rolled through her body. “It’s bad enough with Frank dying. I don’t know how to—I’m going to need time off, time to deal with this and... What am I going to do?”
Belle stroked the back of Laurel’s head, then pulled out to arm’s length. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to put down that stubborn pride of yours. And you’re going to let me help you, Baby. It’s what friends do.”
Laurel waited quietly as Bennet Flynn sat, perusing her summons. Strange. She’d always thought of law offices as being more upscale than this one. This was truly a utilitarian space. Files were organized in neat stacks, not just on the desk itself, but also on virtually every available surface, even lining the baseboard along the window wall.
Was this man as good a lawyer as Belle said he was? She could only hope so. It wasn’t like she had other options. If he wouldn’t
take her case, she had nowhere else to turn.
Shana, on the other hand, she had very deep pockets. Shana had the best lawyer money could buy in Howard Berg. Doubtless, Shana was in the position to give Grace the very finest material things the world could offer. There was no way to compete on Shana’s level.
The attorney looked up wearily.
Laurel straightened in her seat. “My friend, Belle, said you were good, that you might be able to help.”
Flynn removed his reading glasses. “I’d like to. I really would, but—”
“I could pay in installments. Maybe a couple hundred by the end of the month.”
Flynn set the summons down. “That’s not the way we’re able to handle things here.”
A sinking sensation settled in Laurel’s stomach. She could not let that deter her. “This is my daughter. She’s my life. And her stepmother is going in with this big gun attorney, Howard Berg. He’s the same one that took her from me last time.”
The attorney nodded. “Ah, yes. I know Howard Berg. He’s tough. But when a birth mother loses custody, it’s usually not without good reason.” Flynn ran his fingers along his chin.
This was not going well. Laurel swallowed hard. Time to attack this head on. “They said I was mentally unfit, which I assure you I’m not.”
The expression on Flynn’s face was dubious at best. It was that same unconvinced look so many others had given her the last time she was in court.
“I just had no one to defend me,” she continued. “And the only thing that was insane was that politics took my baby.”
Flynn raised his palms. “I’m not unsympathetic, really, but—”
“Please, Mr. Flynn. I can’t let that happen again.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fischer.” He picked up the summons and handed it back to her.
Taking those papers back was the most desolate feeling Laurel had felt in a very long time. Rejection pressed hard against her chest. It echoed across memories too agonizing to recall. Once again, Laurel would be completely alone to battle for custody of her own child, even as the only surviving natural parent.
Just the thought of leaving Flynn’s office, that was like closing the door to every natural possibility of getting Grace back. Laurel had prayed for the miracle she’d needed last time. She’d begged, really, but that had been to no avail. In her greatest hour of need, even He had refused her.
Laurel pressed her hands against her thighs. It took everything in her to rise to her feet.
Flynn stood, too. “You seem like a very nice person, Ms. Fischer. Honestly, I’d like to help.” Sincerity softened his face. “But as you can see from the state of my office, I’m understaffed. Times...well, I don’t have to tell you how tough they are. I have bills, too. And I hope you’ll understand that I simply can’t take this on, not without some kind of a retainer.”
Shana peered through her front window warily. Her lawyer, Howard, gestured discreetly that it was best to step aside. The press was already out there. They were gathering in force. They’d photograph any sighting of Shana at the window. And it was no time for a little girl to venture into the yard.
Shana leaned down to Grace’s level. “Honey, I know you want to go out, but it’s better if you stay inside for now.”
Grace looked up, her eyes imploring. “But can Mommy come over here?”
There was that name again. Would Grace never stop calling Laurel her mother? It was a stinging dagger, every time she heard it. Grace didn’t mean anything by it. She was just a grieving child. She knew nothing of the heartbreak of infertility, let alone the unsettling thoughts that shot like poison darts through Shana’s mind.
Why had Frank come back to town without telling her? Had he really gone to that conference at all? Frank cheated on Laurel with her during a ruse of a business trip. What was to say that he hadn’t fabricated this latest trip to betray her, now?
Shana couldn’t bear to think of it. There was no time to sift through those sickening possibilities or the field day the press would have with them. Not with Grace standing there, so desperately needing comfort. Like always, Shana dismissed her anxieties. She thrust the pain inside.
Calmly, Shana took Grace’s hand. “Darling, I need to give a statement to the press about Daddy.”
Grace’s face fell. “Why can’t you talk to me instead?”
Shana exchanged a glance with Howard. He was getting as impatient as the media. “Grace, I can talk to you. I will. I’ll come up and talk to you long as you want, just as soon as this is over, okay?”
With a resigned breath, Grace slumped. “Okay.”
Shana gave Grace’s shoulder a consoling stroke. “You’re so much more important to me than the press will ever be. That’s why I need to talk to them first, so they’ll go away. I’ll be right up in just a few minutes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Shana walked Grace toward the staircase. “Run upstairs, now. But stay away from the windows, all right? We don’t want them taking your picture.”
Grace bit at her lower lip. Finally, she turned for the stairs.
Shana glanced into the large entry mirror. Her eyes were swollen and scarlet from crying. All the makeup in the world wouldn’t cover that. The press would exploit her trauma all too eagerly.
Howard approached behind her. “All right, nothing about his change of plans.”
Shana darkened. “How can I say anything about Frank’s change of plans when I didn’t even know about it? Rene claims that even she didn’t know.”
“Dodge,” Howard said. “Nothing about any calls that didn’t take place. Way too easy to check. Nothing that hints of a rift.”
Shana lowered her voice. “He was cheating on me, Howard. Why else would he come back early and not call? Give me one good reason he wouldn’t have asked his assistant to change his flight.”
“Don’t go there.” Howard punctuated himself by pointing at her. She loathed it when he did that. It reminded her far too much of her uncle, the one who’d tried so hard to get her trust fund for himself.
Shana shook her head. Her emotions threatened to get the better of her all over again. How she wished she had a close friend, someone she could tell how she was really feeling. Someone who would share the burden of her secrets, never to speak of them again.
Of course, Shana had plenty of casual acquaintances. She had a social inner circle. But they were all the kind of let’s-do-lunchers that she’d never really known. Polite society was a real misnomer. In truth, it was anything but genteel. Conversations thrived on just this kind of gossip.
Shana absorbed a harsh reality. There wasn’t another soul she could trust enough to tell what raced through her mind. The only reason she could tell Howard was because their conversations fell under legal privilege. Still, Howard was all she had there, and he would have to do. If she didn’t vent to him a little first, who knows what she’d say to the press.
Shana touched up her lipstick. “Do you have any idea how this makes me feel? Now, I get to compound my grief and humiliation by being completely clueless with the police and the press and the entire free world.”
Howard plucked a stray hair off her back. “Shana, listen. I need you to—”
Shana strode toward the entry. “You need me to what? Pull it together? Rise above this horror? Sure, Howard. It’s what I do.”
She stopped at the door, collecting herself. She grasped the brass knob, closed her eyes, and drew in a breath. She knew the media all too well. When all was said and done, no one would remember the extenuating circumstances. They’d just print how the widow Fischer had lost it with the press. They’d speculate about anything she didn’t make abundantly clear.
Shana turned the knob.
Howard stepped to her side. “You can do this.”
They opened the door to an avalanche of cameras. A cacophony of disparate voices barked out questions, almost indistinguishable from one another. The only thing she could make out for sure was the name t
hey all kept calling.
“Mrs. Fischer! Mrs. Fischer!”
It was the strangest thing. Not so very long ago, she’d been so proud to take on Frank’s name. Now, it all seemed so sordid. Suddenly, she was reluctant to answer to the Fischer name at all.
Joe glanced around the downtown street in dismay. Not half an hour had elapsed since he’d parked his SUV, right there in the Kickerton Press lot. Now, his car was nowhere to be seen. A compact slid into the unoccupied parking spot. A folded up piece of paper with Joe’s name scribbled on it was shoved under the edge of the cement parking curb. Inside, the note read:
Hey Bro,
Had to snag your wheels. Big meeting with that chi-chi manager. Wish me luck.
—Clay
His teeth clenched. Not possible. If anyone on earth had more unmitigated gall than Clay, Joe didn’t know about it. This was the last time he’d leave his spare set of keys out anywhere that his brother could find them. How did Clay expect Joe to get where he needed to go?
Something in Joe’s head threatened to explode. He balled up the note and checked his watch. He’d have to hoof it a few blocks to a hotel where he could grab a cab. Even then he’d be late. He’d already been behind schedule, and now this.
By the time Joe’s taxi rolled up to the Fischer Estate, the media was already out there in force. Everybody who was anybody in the press was there, vying for this story. So much for him getting any kind of an exclusive.
Joe made his way through the media throng. At least Lou was there. He was all set up, close to the front of the cordoned off pack of photographers.
Relief crossed Lou’s face. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.”
“I miss anything?”
“They pushed it to one-thirty. Debra called.”
Joe grimaced. “Cover me?”
Lou adjusted the camera strap around his neck. “Told her you were in the can, but I’m not sure she bought it.”