Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  “They might not. But, let’s be honest. For now it’s our only lead.”

  A text came in from Bevan Tweed. Hearing Tuesday the sixteenth.

  Today was Wednesday the tenth. They didn’t have time to mess around.

  __________

  Brooke looked around at this cavernous waste of time, inhaling the stale air of old shoes and marble-buffing cleaner for the bowling balls.

  Naughton Lanes smelled exactly like every other bowling place Brooke had ever entered.

  “They’re closing up at eight, so we’d better see what we can find now,” Dane said.

  “I think we should have spent more time with Mrs. Tyler.” This place was a dead end. Searching a bowling alley for a handwriting sample? Seriously? “She has to have something with his writing on it.” She’d said she’d call, but Brooke was more of a mind to help the woman turn her house inside out looking for it.

  “Trust me,” Dane said as they strode toward the shoe rental, but then his shoulders fell.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He pointed to the lanes. “Auto scoring.” Above each lane was a TV screen with the names and digital output of scores.

  Bummer.

  Dane looked so dejected, her heart softened. Honestly, he was right. This was currently their only lead.

  “But if he was in the league, maybe there’s something else.” She tried to inject hope into her voice, but she knew everything here was a long shot, even whether or not this place was where Jarman’s league bowled.

  “Look. League trophy case.” Dane took her by the hand, his touch an electrical circuit that shorted out the second she remembered they shouldn’t have such intimate contact as even hand-holding.

  Maybe she’d made a mistake. Because pushing him away physically could mean she would lose him.

  Again.

  He led her to a big glass case of shelves filled with photographs and bronzed bowling balls and marble statues of little guys in bowling stance.

  “Look for Harvey. Or his team, even.”

  “What’s his team? I don’t even know what he looks like.” Strange for Jarman to bequeath her the most valuable thing she’d ever been given— besides her very life— and she wouldn’t recognize the guy in a police lineup.

  “Who you looking for?” Up walked a guy in a shirt with his name on an embroidered patch: Cloyd. “You reporters?” Cloyd’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t talk to none of them.”

  “No, honest.” Brooke tried to look sincere. She was still in her scrubs from after work and then baseball practice and meeting Mrs. Tyler. “I’m a nurse. And this is my…husband.” It just slid out. When she realized she couldn’t say Dane was her lawyer— this fib replaced it. It wasn’t just for the sake of Dane’s sticky situation’s sake and wanting to keep him out of the public eye. Cloyd looked like he might like lawyers even less than reporters. But he might not mind husbands.

  Brooke’s face burned red under Dane’s disbelieving gaze. So much for nonchalance. “I wondered if you knew Harvey Jarman.”

  Cloyd paused a minute, eyes still directed on them with skepticism. “What about Harvey?”

  “We have the right place?” Brooke asked. “Oh, I’m so relieved. We just want to find out some clue about Harvey.”

  “You knew him?”

  “No, but he was very kind to me.”

  Cloyd frowned a second and then seemed to relent. “That’s his team right there.” He pointed to a picture in the trophy case.

  Jackpot!

  “Thanks,” Brooke beamed him her best pageant smile. “Nice.” In the black and white, eight-by-ten picture a dozen men in collared shirts smiled. If she squinted, she could just make out the shirt with the name Harvey. Wow. Harvey Jarman was not what she’d pictured. He had wonky teeth, a buzz-cut that came up into a flat top, and eyes a little too far apart.

  Every detail of this picture endeared him to her. Harvey Jarman looked like the sweetest man who’d ever lived.

  She pointed him out to Dane who looked and nodded.

  “Champions,” Dane said.

  “Oh, yeah. Harvey was their star.” Cloyd puffed out his chest, as if he’d been the star himself. “Bowled a three-hundred once. Got the scorecard right over there.”

  Brooke’s eyes zoomed to where Cloyd’s thumb pointed, and it was as if light opened from heaven to beam down onto it. This could be it!

  Dane got there first. “Look, honey.” Honey. He called her honey. Brooke’s pulse up-ticked. “It’s Harvey’s handwriting.” And without asking permission, he took a photo with his phone.

  “Hey,” Cloyd said, frowning. “You guys are reporters.”

  “No. I promise.” Brooke held up her right hand. “We’re not reporters.”

  “Then what are you? You look like a nurse, but your husband smells like a lawyer.” Cloyd’s face morphed from frown to violent scowl when Brooke’s surprise-face gave them away. “You’d better get scarce right now.”

  Brooke and Dane booked it to the old Dodge.

  “Husband, huh?” he breathed over his jogging. “What was that all about?”

  “He didn’t like lawyers.”

  “Whatever,” Dane snorted, grabbing her door for her.

  Brooke climbed inside, but she asked before he shut her in, “How are you going to enter a grainy picture like that into evidence in court? Will they even allow it? Pictures can be so easily doctored these days.”

  He came around and started the truck. They peeled out on the gravel as they left the bowling alley parking lot.

  “Let’s get a closer look at it, decide if it’s useful,” Brooke said.

  “What we really need next,” he said, giving her a worried look, “is something I can’t help you with. Not directly.”

  A pang of worry shot through her. “Why not? What is it?”

  “Because I’m not your lawyer.”

  Oh, right. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. And he couldn’t be her boyfriend, either. She had to keep him squarely in friend status for now.

  But how was she ever going to see him that way, now that she’d been seared by those hot, passionate kisses that didn’t ever seem to cool from her lips?

  The sixteenth seemed like a lifetime away— but it also zoomed up terrifyingly fast when she realized how much they had to do to prepare, and that she’d also be attempting to serve as her own lawyer in court.

  Holy cats. This could be so bad.

  “Okay, so what exactly do we need now?”

  “A handwriting expert.”

  “That should be easy enough, right?”

  “They’re not as common as you’d think.”

  “So, there’s not, like, one in Naughton?” she said, knowing her ignorance was splashing out all over the place.

  “No. Richmond, Baltimore, or D.C., maybe.”

  “Okay, so I hire someone. I’ll research one out, or something.”

  “Right. But there’s another catch.” Dane sounded grave. “We have no way of knowing if the person we hire is tainted by Sergeant Faro LaBarge.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eviction Notice

  Dane was sleeping on Uncle George’s boat. Uncle George wouldn’t be needing it anytime soon, as he wasn’t due for parole for another three to five years. Besides, the thought of driving back to Naughton, leaving Brooke alone in Maddox with only Quirt to protect her, left him unsettled.

  Dropping Brooke off at home, he’d gone in for a good-night kiss and then lurched backward when he remembered: no good-night kiss for him.

  Oh, that blasted ethics hearing couldn’t come soon enough.

  Well, unless it happened on the sixteenth. Then he’d be sunk.

  Either way he wouldn’t be Brooke’s lawyer after the sixteenth. He might not be her anything.

  The ring in his pocket pressed against his skin as he finished shaving and pulled on a shirt.

  He spent the morning researching, while she worked a half shift at Maddox Regional. He shoved thoughts of Ballard v. Insu
ra-Care from his mind every time they invaded. It could be months, years maybe, before he had the luxury of working at Tweed Law— or any other law firm, for that matter— again.

  Weird how much a person could miss a job they no longer had. He even missed the flickering fluorescent blue lights he’d said just last week were sucking the life out of him.

  The boat had no internet and no printer, so he’d agreed to meet Brooke at the Maddox County Library as soon as she got off work.

  When she walked in, she’d changed from her scrubs and had her hair down in dark brown waves at her shoulders. Her eyes sparked when she saw him, like he could flip her switch.

  She definitely flipped his switch.

  “Hey, there.”

  “Hey, there yourself.” She came and sat by him, close but not nearly as close as he would have liked. He would have taken her right on his lap.

  Oh, right. None of that. Not today.

  The tension was killing him.

  “I’m looking for anything on Jarman, right?” Brooke said as her hand ruffled her long brown hair, making it waterfall over her shoulder, silk across her skin. “Because, like I said before, there’s not much.”

  Dane shook himself. He’d have to seriously concentrate if he was going to get anything done. No fooling around. Besides, the countdown to Tuesday ticked louder and louder.

  Those kisses yesterday in his Dodge had made him hungrier for her than the passionate kissing of the night before in her car— something he wouldn’t have expected.

  Passion. It wasn’t going to be satiated when it came to Brooke Chadwick. Feeding it would only fuel it, like a fire, not quell its need.

  “Try searching for LaBarge, then.” Dane forced himself back to the pressing problem instead of his own personal pressing problem of getting hot and bothered with the girl of his dreams sitting beside him in the library. “That’s an avenue we haven’t explored. What’s old Sarge’s angle? What’s he got to gain by dogging the ball? Other than the monetary value, I mean.”

  “He might just be an insatiable wealth addict.”

  There was that word again. Speaking of insatiable, Brooke’s creamy white skin looked prettier than ever in the glow of the library’s low lighting. He reached for her, and then he pulled back. He’d have to wait, push back his desire for her at least for a few more days. Get through this case. Prove that he was her hero.

  Then he’d take what he’d earned.

  Or he’d take his shame to his ethics trial and slink away from her life forever, the Rockwell he’d always known himself to be.

  “Uh, keep looking. LaBarge,” he said, and turned back to his own research on the precedents of cases involving holographic wills in Virginia courts, as well as admissibility of photographs of handwriting. Yeah, he’d have to subpoena the bowling alley. He put that on his task list.

  Handwriting experts and deviations from the standard swirled in his mind.

  Gravity tugged at the ring in his pocket. He’d never stopped carrying it there. Force of habit. Force of hope.

  __________

  Brooke scrolled through the search results of a combination of the terms “LaBarge” and “Jarman.” There weren’t many. She glanced over at Dane, so engrossed in his research. He looked even better when he was hard at work.

  Whether he’d chosen it because of her dad’s influence or because he’d always wanted to work in law, it truly suited him. Especially when he wore a suit, she thought and then shook herself back to her task. No letting her thoughts stray to how utterly smoking hot Dane Rockwell was, suit or no suit.

  Wait. That didn’t sound right.

  She’d better focus and search again.

  But her fingers typed in Dane’s name instead, just like when she’d written it five million times next to her own in her junior high notebooks.

  Results popped up for the “LaBarge Dane Rockwell” search— and Brooke’s eyes about popped out of her head.

  Lawyer Assaults LaBarge’s Son-in-Law. Weird. LaBarge’s son-in-law would be Ames.

  She clicked on the link. Holy Hannah. Dane’s mug shot peered out at her from the page.

  “Dane?” she whisper-gasped as she scanned the crime-brief article in disbelief.

  “Yeah?” he said, absently from beside her. She hadn’t meant for him to hear her.

  Naughton attorney Dane Rockwell, associate at Tweed Law and graduate of the University of Virginia, arrested for assaulting Dr. Ames Crosby, son-in-law of Sarge LaBarge at a highbrow event Friday evening. The occasion was the newlyweds’ debut in society after their wedding in St. Thomas. Security claims Rockwell evaded their guards by misrepresenting himself, and attacked Crosby, allegedly in a disagreement over another woman, though not Sarge LaBarge’s daughter, Mrs. Charli Crosby.

  Brooke read with a burning thirst as it went on.

  No statement was obtained from the alleged perpetrator, but the victim asserts that he will not press charges, on grounds of, “I deserved it.”

  Brooke’s breathing had sped up with every line. How had she not heard about this? She might hyperventilate right here in the Maddox County Library.

  “Are you kidding me?” Shaking, she tugged at Dane’s arm. “You? You did this? It says you punched LaBarge’s son-in-law. At a party. And that he didn’t press charges.”

  “That son-in-law deserved it.”

  Yeah, that’s what the article said. And that the altercation revolved around a woman, not Charli LaBarge.

  Brooke.

  In two seconds flat, Brooke’s arms were around his neck, her fingers entwined in the back of his hair, and she was on his lap, about to give him the kiss of her life, when the librarian came over and cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me. This is a public library.”

  Brooke jumped off his lap to her feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But if you knew what he’d done for me, you would understand.”

  The librarian just nodded and asked them to leave. They gathered their things and went out to the car.

  “I’ll go around decking doctors all day long, if that’s the reaction I’m going to get every time.”

  That was a close call. Did the no-kissing rule include no public lap-sitting as well? Probably. She was skirting the line of her own boundaries here.

  But…Dane! “I can’t believe you, Dane.” She pressed her side up against his as they walked to the truck.

  “What, are you disappointed in me? You got mad last time Quirt and I got into ‘fisticuffs,’ as your Pastor Walden called them.” Snark laced his tone.

  “Disappointed?” She half-laughed. “Did I act disappointed just now?”

  “Like I say, I have a mean left-hook that itches for doctors’ chins, and if it buys steamy moments with you, it’s at your service all the danged day.”

  Danged. She liked that he said danged. And they probably weren’t welcome at the library again anytime soon.

  They got in the Dodge. “Just before you nearly attacked me, I got this email.” He held out a printout for her to read.

  “A handwriting expert? As close as Chincoteague?” That wasn’t far at all. In fact, it was just across the Chesapeake Bay. “But do you think he’s someone LaBarge will have on his radar?”

  “That’s still an unknown,” Dane said, his voice grave. “You’ll have to feel him out. Use your charm.”

  “Me!” Alone?

  “Unless I’m officially your lawyer, I’m going to have to keep my distance from it.”

  Nerves alight, Brooke nodded. “Where and when do I meet him?”

  “Sometime after you get a copy of the will’s addendum.”

  Oh, and Dane couldn’t go with her to procure that, either.

  This was all going to be worth it. She had to keep reminding herself.

  __________

  Dane gripped the steering wheel as he watched Brooke go up the steps into Fawn & Zimmerman to get a copy of the will. And it wasn’t just because of the very fetching sway of her hips in that skirt and heels.

>   Mostly, he writhed with self-loathing that he couldn’t go with her, due to his suspension. And with loathing of that selfish harpy Mrs. Jackson.

  They’d better not give Brooke any hassle just because she showed up without legal counsel. Fawn & Zimmerman could be cutthroat.

  “Without the will, we don’t have a comparison point for the handwriting.” He’d tried to state it calmly, matter-of-factly. But inside him a tornado spun. If Sarge LaBarge had already wormed his way into Fawn & Zimmerman to block them from forking over the will to Brooke, her task today could be tough. Or impossible.

  He flipped on the radio to the classical station to try to calm his nerves as she disappeared inside, but it was the opera hour, and they were featuring heavy Gustav Mahler.

  Dane shut it off.

  Sergeant Faro LaBarge was a weasel. Why did he even want the Called Shot Ball? Dane had seen the guy’s mansion. Expansive— sitting right on the Naughton River, complete with a yacht and a tennis court and a hedge labyrinth. He clearly had money to burn. So what if he had another six-figure possession? Drop in the bucket.

  Without an actual verification of the handwriting in the addendum, all they had left going for them was the fact that Brooke had possession of the ball. And, as the saying went, possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  Not comforting.

  Dane looked at his white knuckles gripping the wheel and told himself to breathe. Just breathe. Brooke would either get a copy of the will or she wouldn’t. Meanwhile, he felt like a stupid millstone. He couldn’t help her. And he might even drag her down, what with those ridiculous charges tainting his reputation.

  Eternity couldn’t have passed more slowly. He chewed on a thumbnail.

  Huh. Time crawled, not just because she was in there and he sat out here, but because she wasn’t with him. He’d been spending every day with her, and he’d grown accustomed to having her near his side.

  I’m getting addicted to her.