All Rise

by Rosemarie Aquilina

  “And rather than cave, you quit.” Hunter beamed with pride.

  It was kind of touching. “I always wanted my own luxury salon.”

  “You got the salon,” Hunter said, “and Laurel got a motive to kill.”

  “I ought to stomp on the rest of your toes.” Even if I thought Laurel had killed Donnettelli, I wouldn’t admit it to myself or anyone else, even Hunter.

  She never did tell me what she really knew or didn’t know. In any conversation, Laurel always liked to pretend to know something, but that was just her ploy to get the scoop. But what if she were withholding something? Would she do that?

  I pulled the Manville file and found my last Order. “This is the one Donnettelli changed that started all the trouble. My signature is on the back page, but the critical pages before that have been swapped.”

  “But last winter I heard him on the news talking trash about anyone in the legal community—that’s how he put it—who was heartless to workers suffering from asbestos-related illness,” Hunter said.

  “More liars’ tactics,” I said. “He was slinging mud at me for something he did himself.”

  “He wants to be re-elected—”

  “So, he makes me look bad to make himself look better,” I said.

  “And the nasty corporate bully goes free.” Hunter’s color heightened. “—unscathed except for a few legal bills.” His eyes were grenades of contempt.

  “Worse. The people who are sick can’t afford the medical bills, and the cleanup won’t happen in time to save others. And what will happen to their families?”

  He’d reached for files like a hound on a scent. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Names of anyone who touched these files the day Donnettelli was murdered or near then,” I said. “Anything that reads: a reason to kill.”

  Noel wasn’t looking for the files I had. “We’re okay with the files. Noel and Peter are just loading boxes for transport to the Court of Appeals.”

  “Noel was Donnettelli’s hired help?” Hunter said.

  “His court reporter.” I cocked my head. A chill enveloped me. I surveyed the room. At the long end of the counter, two more law clerks—were nodding over an open file.

  “Pluto to Nic.”

  I turned toward Hunter. “Pluto?”

  “The way you’re dressed, Earth was out of the question. I asked if we’re going to go through all of these.” Hunter said. “There must be a couple hundred.”

  There were a lot of them. I showed him how to flip through and identify the final disposition. Ten-to-one Manville wasn’t the only big-bucks corp that had gotten away with slow, painful murder. “The cases that Defendant-corporations won, pile those to your right. The cases that the Plaintiff won, we’ll stack to my right.”

  We twisted and reached and arm-crossed and stacked—and I suspected a deal of unnecessary touching went on. And when we’d finished, I was shocked. Manville was the only corporate winner. Three cases had been dismissed—by Judge Jurisa Haddes, no less, and all the rest were settled in favor of the mesothelioma victims.

  “Well, good,” I said. Though it was hard to believe. I’d been sure Donnettelli had some huge scam to benefit a lot of corporations on a large scale. That’s the kind of thing people kill about.

  “Looks like we need a new plan, Toots.”

  I nodded. My investigation had gotten shut down before I’d started, so I looked around for the law clerks, who were getting ready to leave. I told Hunter, “I’m going to have to dig deeper. I’ll be up at the counter ordering copies of these files.” And trying to overhear anything the law clerks say.

  Hunter left me to indulge my natural nosiness, and I waddled up to the copy counter and needed a lot of time to make copies. One of the alien law clerks was from the Court of Appeals, and his buddy was clerking for a Supreme Court Justice. Seems they were hatching a fool-proof scam to have some fun this weekend. Total waste of time. At least I got my copies.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Back in my bedroom, I delivered a five-pound goose-feather pillow and tossed off my disguise. I was disappointed the clerks divulged no useful gossip. Whatever was going on with the asbestos cases, they weren’t involved. Otherwise, the Courthouse visit had been productive.

  By one-o’clock, I entered the salon through the rear and headed straight to Trisha behind the reception desk, where she updated me on the day’s doings.

  I pointed to the appointment book. “Is it possible I’ll have uninterrupted time today? I have evidence to study.”

  Trisha’s mouth opened, but words failed to form. I followed her gaze above my head, turned, and caught my breath. I’d rounded right into Hunter. He touched my chin with a manly finger and gently lifted my face to his.

  Our eyes danced.

  “I need a quickie,” he said.

  I suppressed an inner-spark-shiver left over from our past, and we walked in silence to my styling station. I snatched a clean cape from my stack and pointed him into my styling chair. “Are you here to ogle or to help with this morning’s copies and develop a plan?”

  Hunter’s six-and-a-half feet flowed into the chair. “I’m here to protect, guard, and shield your true identity.”

  “Funny.” Yeah, I’d really shown him who was boss. I cinched the cape around his neck too snug for comfort.

  Like the snap of a crocodile, his fingers clamped my wrist. His voice lowered a few octaves for privacy. “As much as I like your naughty-Judge side, don’t jeopardize your life.” After a momentary wrist massage, he released me, and I loosened the cape. The indirect eyes of my staff burned my backside.

  I ran my comb and fingers through his hair and said right out loud, “A cut like the old days? I can shave in the team logo.” I met the light in his eyes in the mirror. “Or, have you moved up—Glock, Taser, or spyglass?” Then I leaned in and whispered. “I didn’t risk my life. I was in disguise. I was in a public Courthouse.”

  “Where there had been a murder. Where the killer could use you for target practice. Where you are not supposed to be.”

  “I was careful.” His cologne weakened the fight in me, and my voice wasn’t as firm as I’d meant it to be.

  Hunter scoffed. “You’ve never visited the neighborhood of careful. Sassy, yes; careful, no.” He looked around the salon, checking the digs out like a hired inspector. “Salon’s classy. Triple-framed mirrors—nice touch. You were Quickie Cuts’ best stylist.”

  “Those Quickie Cuts days were great.” I whisked the chair around. “About this hair.” I wanted to avoid our history rewind, for now.

  “Nothing funky, edgy, or colorized.” Hunter’s voice was deep with a hint of playfulness.

  “My gut says the clue to the shooter is inside Donnettelli’s Chambers and Courthouse-

  Gossip-Central.”

  “You do have a great gut.” Hunter winked.

  I ignored the wink, and in the mirror secured my eyes onto his. It was nice. But I reached for my prized scissors, razor, and trimmers and opened my drawer. Stuff—a lot of stuff—a shiny, rainbow of stuff burst up out of the drawer: springs, confetti, circles, stars, and dots of all sizes.

  I jumped and screeched.

  Flying bits of colored paper, paper clips, tiny rubber balls, and colorful candy sprang up and showered my station and the surrounding area. I felt shrunken and trapped in an arcade game on crack. For a second, I thought about switching to Depends.

  Hunter morphed into Investigator-Tickle-me-Elmo, all giggles and grins. But staff and clients were in a tizzy—or they would be if anyone still said tizzy. A few had their hands up, others protected their heads with their arms. Carlye dropped to the floor.

  She raised her head and looked around and seemed to think she was safe. “Who had a piñata? Why didn’t I get a swing? What we celebrating?”

  “Oh, brother.” Margo
frowned, fists on hips. “Find me a bigger dustpan.” She bent down for a closer look. “What a waste of perfectly good Skittles.”

  On his hands and knees Hunter used a pair of tweezers to lift the cloth-covered springs that had boinged out of my drawer. He flipped them until he found the manufacturer’s label, righted himself, and lifted a sexy-detective eyebrow. “Who’d you piss off in Taiwan?”

  I gave him the long, slow blink. “Droll.” From my workstation cupboard, I grabbed latex gloves, snapped them on, and studied the remaining contents of my drawer.

  Hunter hunched over me. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “I have visited a courtroom once or twice,” I said. “Likely some screwball’s idea of a bad practical joke.” But I couldn’t ignore the timing. I’d learned through repeated testimony: timing meant something.

  I searched my drawer for a clue. Saw it. Stopped.

  Hunter saw it, too. I sent Carlye back to her client, and Hunter whipped out his phone and took photos from all angles.

  I tossed latex gloves to him, and he put them on.

  “Try not to fret, my little nose-flaring Toots.”

  “I’m not anyone’s little anything. Toot that.” I froze my uncontrollable nose and shook my hands to prod him along.

  He reached into the drawer and pulled out a gavel with a note tied on by a blue-silk ribbon. “Recognize the gavel?” Hunter asked. He turned it, and we both saw the imprinted name.

  “Not mine.” I had a sick feeling. “Untie it already.”

  I peered as closely over Hunter as I could without touching him or the evidence. “Open and read,” I commanded.

  Scrawled in blue crayon on my former judicial stationery:

  Follow the money. I cannot help directly. They watching me. It is not safe to tell more now. Read, listen carefully. Everything become clear: follow the money.

  I felt gut-punched.

  “Money?” Hunter tilted his head like a huge-but-confused German Shepherd.

  I shook my head. “It’s like Deep Throat, but with bad English, a blue crayon, and Woodward and Bernstein lurking close behind.” But for the first time since being arrested, I felt hopeful. This could lead to the real killer. The judicial stationery confirmed my hunt was inside the Courthouse, but the dead body had already clued me into that. I had the correct starting place. But Hunter didn’t look hopeful.

  “Sorry, Toots. Donnettelli’s gavel places you at the murder scene.” Hunter’s voice was at the seductive-whisper level. “You and I both know killers like to keep mementos.”

  “And leave myself a blooming-blue note with it? Not likely. Not credible. Not common-sensical. Okay, that wasn’t really a word.” I had to get as creative as this message maker.

  Hunter was documenting everything. (I did love a man who knew his job.) “Besides staff, who has your stationery?” he asked.

  “My personal staff, but they all work here. Any number of people in the Courthouse would have had access to it. For all I know, that stationery could have come out of Courthouse recycling or the print shop who made it.” I rubbed my temples.

  “And the cryptic ‘follow the money’?”

  “Follow the money is a common-place theme in any corruption scheme. When my law students don’t understand why laws are slow to change, or there is a wrong outcome, I say: ‘follow the money’.” With the promise of buying Margo a colossal dustpan, I asked her to help Hunter put all the drawer shrapnel in one bag and seal it, and then wash his hair.

  I needed a shot of espresso, hairspray, and a new plan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My immediate plan was to develop a list of everyone who had access to Donnettelli’s gavel. But the likelihood of developing a narrow list kept swirling around my brain. Gavels are generally left atop the bench, and security cameras would’ve captured the pilfering. It was clear the gavel went missing after his murder because otherwise it would’ve been missed. And, it must’ve been swiftly swiped by someone with knowledge of courtroom security. That narrowed the suspects to those who also had access to the Judge’s suite which included court security, cleaning people, each Judge’s staff, and attorneys who hung around Judge Donnettelli’s suite.

  This task was formidable, but I was up to the challenge. I had no choice. I twirled my stylist chair round and round and let it mesmerize me long enough to confirm that I was capable of solving this murder one logical step at a time.

  Everyone in the salon made a collective gasp. The sound broke me out of contemplation mode and into surprise mode. I looked up and saw a familiar face.

  No wonder there was gasping.

  The newcomer lifted a little three-finger wave like a timid second grader. He was male, yet strikingly female—more female than at our last encounter, when I would not have guessed he was gay. It was clear now, and I was happy he’d found himself. Blue-black hair, with a royal-blue streak in it, pale flesh, naturally dark-red lips, Mediterranean-blue eyes, and lashes longer than Carlye’s on her best day.

  “Davis?” That was the only name I could remember. It had been several years since he’d—or was it now she—completed my Deferred Felony Drug Probation program.

  “Honey. I can call you that now ’cause you’re not my Judge, right?” He paused, tucked down his fingers from princess-wave position and continued.

  I wanted to explain Nicoletta was preferred, but he wasn’t in listening-stance and danced forward.

  “That’s why I’m here, Honey.” One hand dropped to an uber-mobile hip and firmly rested there. “I owe you for believing in me after my little drug oversight.”

  We shared a few reflective seconds about his blip of felony-drug-possession and use, but he’d worked hard, gained amazing insight, and earned a nonpublic record.

  Davis set down a large professional black bag. He appeared prepared to move into a station.

  “You changed my life, Honey. I’m here to assist you as long—as you need me.”

  He touched a joy-spot in my heart. “You’ve blossomed!”

  “Davis isn’t my first name anymore, Honey. It’s officially my last name.” He fluffed up his silk royal-blue-and-white scarf, coordinated perfectly with white tee shirt, black vest, and skinny royal-blue leggings. A diamond stud in each ear sparkled.

  I watched his confidence with the same heartfelt pride I had for my own children. “And your last name—”

  “Dropped it, legally when I came out. When I announced I’m a gay man and proud of it, there was a lot of abandonment, so that’s what I did, too.” He tucked one foot behind the other and performed a primo curtsey.

  My grin couldn’t stay hidden. “Makes sense.” On probation he had been practical, used common sense, and enjoyed humor. He’d outperformed.

  “Dawn Dinkie-Do Davis, at your service. Everyone calls me Dinkie-Do.”

  “I’m delighted,” I said. “Ah, can I ask you—why Dinkie-Do?”

  He blushed and bent his head toward his right shoulder. “I earned that name working on hair in New York. Anyone in New York who wanted hair that stands out adopted me as their stylist because I don’t create any dinkie hair-doos. It just stuck, and it’s me.” He twirled.

  “Makes sense,” I said—again. And for him it did.

  “I owe you. I got a future ’cause of you.” Dinkie-Do batted his lashes and came in closer.

  “You earned that release,” I said.

  “It’s like this,” Dinkie-Do said. “You told me I could overcome, but I had to release my secret. You saw it. I’d been hiding behind my drugs. I came out and became who I’m supposed to be. Then I fled to New York, where I am accepted.” He gave accepted its full three syllables.

  “All good,” I said. I listened more closely.

  “I graduated design school,” Dinkie-Do said. “Got into fashion. Worked at Marie Claire and Cosmopolitan Magazines.” He did a charming modes
t-head-tilt. “Jobs in fashion didn’t work because they figured I should be Queen of the hair and makeup team.”

  “Then should it be ‘she’—I mean, what’s your preference?”

  I saw Hunter enter the workspace and sit at my station. I shot him a sharp look and hoped he understood not to comment.

  Dinkie-Do didn’t miss a beat. “I’m a ‘he’ with a flair, but I take no offense if anyone refers to me as ‘she.’ Like you say, it’s all good.” He did a demure little face side-turn and enlarged his eyes for a second. His face was like an amusement park full of motion and surprises. His fingernails fluttered in glittery royal-blue that matched his hair.

  “You’re here.” I raised both hands as if my team had just scored a touchdown. Maybe we had.

  “I returned to school for hair, makeup, nails. Honey, I do it all,” he said. “Jobs waiting for me on Project Runway and at Marie Claire Magazine.” He paused and swirled an index finger around the room like his private magic wand. “But when I read about you and your oh-so-elegant salon and the oh-so-large murder headlines, I knew you needed me.”

  Just then Carlye huffed in from the back entrance and tossed her satchel bag on her station. She gave Dinkie-Do an exaggerated once-over with her eyes, but somehow her whole body was involved. “Can’t turn my back for one minute. Competition for clients is stiff, just like the streets.”

  Dinkie-Do side-winded a coy look to Carlye and proceeded. “Honey, you need my Dinkie-Do magic til you’re finished with this here murder mess.”

  I couldn’t help but give him my warmest expression. Eye wrinkles be damned. He was here to help. “Magic?”

  “To be legit I need salon hours and a portfolio of pictures, so I get the big New York gig, not just because the editor-in-chief personally adores me.”

  That made sense to me. He was adorable.

  He pointed at the station next to Carlye. “Gotta do things right. You taught me. No short cuts. I’ll help you not worry about this fine salon. Together we’ll make sure you turn a profit.”