Dark Tort Part 12

Tom was back within half an hour, with no Louise Upton, Alonzo Claggett, or Donald Ellis in sight. Tom reported that Wink had told him about Louise's ex-husband and her need for money. He was going to hurry and call the department about it, just in case Louise hadn't been forthcoming about her background. But he needn't have hurried, as it was another hour before the doorbell rang.

I desensitized our security system and opened the door for Donald Ellis, Alonzo Claggett, and Louise Upton. Twenty minutes had become ninety. Let's see, if I'd been billing them in six-minute increments, then I'd have made, oh...well, I needed a calculator.

"Goldy," said Donald Ellis, his thin voice low. "Thank you for seeing us."

"No problem," I replied.

"Yeah, thanks!" said Alonzo Claggett, who sounded a bit too cheery, it seemed to me, for someone who had just lost a friend at his workplace.

"Your house is very hard to find," Louise snarled, as if their tardiness were my fault.

I a.s.sumed my most hospitable voice. "Please come in. Here's a mat for your boots." I pointed behind them. "And there's the coatrack."

Donald murmured their appreciation while Louise tsked, stamped, and complained about the parking on our street. Claggs, perhaps to counteract Louise's brusqueness, commented on what a nice house we had. He noticed the cherry sideboard and buffet in our living room, both of which had been brought by Tom from his cabin. He and Tom fell into an easy conversation about Chippendale while Donald helped Louise remove her outer garments.

"How come you know so much about antiques?" Tom asked Alonzo.

"Oh, my family had lots of them in their Roland Park house. They gave Ookie and me a whole lot of them, but we sold them when the going got rough in Vail." He rolled forward on his toes and winked at me. "Didn't endear me to my folks, needless to say."

"I'll bet. Want to come in?"

But they did not, apparently, want to come into the living room and be treated as real guests. This put me on my guard. Why were the three of them here? Whose idea had it been to come to Tom's and my house so late at night the day after one of their staff had been killed?

"We're not going to stay long," Claggs gushed. "We promise. We just wanted to see if you were okay. Ookie sends her regards, by the way." He dug into his dark brown slacks and brought out an envelope. "She says my clients-the Fieldings?-loved the breakfast you fixed for us so much, they went on and on to her about it."

"Well, you did their will, Mr. Claggett," I murmured, embarra.s.sed to have Tom, Louise, and Donald Ellis witnessing this effusive praise. "I just did the quiche and fruit-"

"No, no," he interrupted me. "It was the whole package. Quiche, fruit, and will. That's what they told Ookie! Anyway, in appreciation, Ookie wanted you to have a guest pa.s.s and a coupon for six free squash lessons."

To me, "free squash lessons" implied someone teaching me to make zucchini bread, but never mind. I took the envelope and thanked him.

Louise whispered to Donald, "That is really so very unnecessary," her voice loud enough so that I would hear it. Donald reddened to the roots of his red hair, and recoiled as if stung. I thought for at least the hundredth time how much Donald Ellis reminded me of my son. Arch was fifteen and a half now, but Donald's invariably vulnerable expression recalled Arch's at an earlier age-say, eleven. Back then, Arch had been particularly susceptible to the taunts of bullies and braggarts. Even the untoward remark of a teacher could cause him to blush scarlet, as Donald was doing now.

Still, there was one thing I had learned about Donald Ellis: for all of his weak, defenseless appearance, clients loved him. He always ushered them into the conference room, as his office was too much of a wreck for even one person. These meetings were special for the client, as Donald would invariably book me to do a special lunch for them, usually a cold roast-beef salad with shaved Parmesan or chilled grilled salmon topped with caviar. After I'd cleared the dishes away, Donald would pull out a single yellow legal pad. This he would cover with his tiny scrawl as the client outlined what he or she wanted.

And then a week later there would be a will to be signed. The client would reappear, beaming and grateful, satisfied that his wishes after death had been set down. In the three-plus months I'd been at H&J, I'd seen it too many times to doubt it. Clients wanted Donald because he seemed so, well, sensitive. "Especially for a lawyer!" I would hear them whisper sometimes. And in the end, they felt they had helped him as much as he had helped them. And apparently, they liked that feeling.

While Donald was only a bit taller than I was, which would put him at about five feet three, Claggs was taller, better looking, more authoritative, and goodness knew, much more aggressive. Must have been all that advanced-run skiing, I'd figured once. Still, where Donald was quiet, Claggs was effusive, good-humored, always joking. When he was expecting an especially bellicose client, he'd regale the guys at the attorneys' breakfast about the client being furious because he'd been beaten in the "race to the house." The race to the house, I'd learned, was the way estate lawyers referred to heirs or wannabe heirs dashing to the residence of the recently deceased, to plunder whatever wasn't locked away or nailed down. There was also "the icy hand from the grave," another reference to clients, usually the ultrawealthy ones, who wanted to structure their wills in such a detailed manner that not a single heir would be getting a penny without jumping through a dizzying number of hoops.

"Well, everybody," Tom said, to break the standing-in-the-hall stalemate, "if you don't want to come into the living room, let's all go out to the kitchen and have some cake and coffee; how about it?"

Claggs followed Tom with alacrity. Louise lifted her chin and plowed in my direction. I found myself scrambling out of her way, a soldier jumping out of the path of a Sherman tank. At the door to our cooking area, she whirled, almost knocking over Donald Ellis. Now I had the full benefit of her glare. "Although we have to say, we would like to know what you were up to, coming into the law firm at ten o'clock at night to make bread!"

"I was doing my usual prep for the Friday-morning meeting," I replied evenly. "If you don't believe me, ask Richard."

But she was long gone, the kitchen door swinging behind her. Donald Ellis lagged behind. Finally he said, "I...we just wanted to make sure you were all right." His nearly colorless blue eyes implored me.

I almost burst out laughing. Was this the real reason the three of them were gracing me with a late-night visit? Tell us you're all right. Tell us you're not going to sue us for the trauma you experienced tripping over a corpse in our office.

"I'm fine, thanks. Or as well as can be expected."

Tom, sensitive to my absence, pulled open the kitchen door. His handsome, imperturbable face took us in. Donald nodded at Tom, his face again scarlet from...what? Embarra.s.sment? Who knew?

Tom said, "Something going on out here?"

"We're fine," I said.

In the kitchen, Claggs was remarking on the "fantastic" job that Tom had done putting in the oak floor and installing the marble countertops. He moved his hands lovingly down the front of one of the cabinets. Had Tom done all this custom work with cherrywood, too? he wanted to know. Tom replied that he had. Louise had enthroned herself on one of our kitchen chairs and was listening with interest to all that Claggs was pointing out. Was I being paranoid, or did I imagine that Louise felt the kitchen was a bit too grand for the caterer who prepared the attorneys' breakfasts? I put the idea out of my mind.

Tom fixed the drinks: bourbon on the rocks for Claggs, scotch and water for Donald. Louise, who was rummaging around in her capacious purse, said she would like nothing, thank you. It was not a sincere expression of grat.i.tude, but again, I told myself to let it go. Once Louise had retrieved her PDA, she began tapping the stylus on the screen. After a moment, she looked up at me in triumph. "I have no Friday-morning meeting for Mr. Chenault recorded here!"

"It was his regular meeting with clients! Are you saying I was breaking into the firm to leave some yeast and flour late Thursday night?" I said, with more heat than I intended. "Should we call Richard Chenault at home and check with him?"

"Miss Upton," Tom said gently, "why don't you give Goldy a break." It was not a question.

I punched b.u.t.tons on my business computer, which occupied the far end of our kitchen countertop. My calendar for the third week in October flashed into view, and I pointed to Friday, October 20. "Miss Upton, would you like to have a look at this?" I tapped my own screen for emphasis. "'Thursday night, ten o'clock, arrive law firm, make dough. Friday five A.M. Bake bread for Chenault breakfast meeting.'"

Louise Upton stood, stepped to the counter, and peered at my computer screen. I could see her eyes focus downward not on Thursday or Friday, but on tomorrow morning, Sat.u.r.day. Ten A.M., arrive Ellis house for birthday party prep. One P.M., birthday party.

"Well!" she said, staring at the computer.

She continued to read my screen, glancing from side to side at every single event I had listed as she pursed her lips and shook her head. I swallowed: was she looking to prove somehow that I truly was not supposed to be at H&J the previous night? Or was she just being nosy? Suddenly, I was immobilized. Miss Upton had the ability to get me fired, of that I was quite positive. And yet surely this was not appropriate...

With a conspicuous cough, Tom slid his big, athletic frame between my screen and Miss Upton. Caught off balance, the office manager teetered on her thick heels and groaned out a loud "Oof!" as she backed into Donald Ellis. Donald, short and slender and not known for his athleticism, listed backward until he collided with our kitchen table, which sent his scotch and water spewing through the air.

A set of chair and human dominoes tumbled loudly onto our oak floor. The chairs clattered away. Miss Upton, her legs flailing, struggled to right herself: a giant sea turtle squashing a worm, which was Donald Ellis. His thin, pale face had turned more purple than cooked beets.

Claggs knocked over his own drink as he fell to his knees and began pulling on Donald.

I bent down, grasped Miss Upton's carrotlike fingers and fleshy forearm, and tried to pull her up. Unfortunately, she was much stronger than I was, and her p.r.o.ne position plus the laws of physics gave her an advantage. I felt myself being pulled downward and squawked, "Tom! Help!"

With his usual efficiency of movement, Tom took two long steps around to Donald Ellis, reached in under his shoulders, and yanked him out from under Miss Upton. Unfortunately, when Donald's torso was about halfway free, Miss Upton lifted her monumental head and bonked it back down, directly onto Donald Ellis's s.c.r.o.t.u.m.

Donald let out a high screech. With a ma.s.sive effort, Claggs and Tom managed to heave Donald out from under Louise.

"Okay, big fella." Tom spoke rea.s.suringly to Donald Ellis, Esquire, Champion of Hardworking Husbands Seeking to Cut Inheritances from Willfully Spending Wives and Profligate Progeny, as he dragged the unfortunate lawyer toward our back door. "You're going to be just fine in a minute." Before I could think of what to do, Tom shifted Donald's weight onto his strong right shoulder. Meanwhile, Claggs had opened our back door. In one smooth movement, Tom yanked Donald through the door. Claggs followed them onto the deck.

From the floor, Louise Upton wailed, "Could somebody please help me?"

Between Miss Upton's ham-hock forearm and what I could remember of Archimedes' lever principle, it only took a few moments of thrashing about to get the two of us vertical again. She was pale and disconcerted; I was more exhausted than if I'd landed a marlin. And not nearly as happy.

Still, I thought the best tack was to be conciliatory. I said, "I'm terribly, terribly sorry, Miss Upton. How about if we go out to the living room and sit down?"

"Two of my lawyers are outside. I think I should wait for them."

Excuse me? Two of your lawyers? But I let this pa.s.s, walked to the back door, and peeked out to the deck. Tom was standing protectively over Donald Ellis, who was sitting, his back hunched, his body shuddering, on a deck chair. Claggs was standing with his hands in his pockets, surveying the backyard. I could hear his voice through the gla.s.s. He was telling Tom how wonderful he could tell the landscaping was, even with the snow. Had Tom put all the plants in himself? Claggs wanted to know. I motioned to Tom for them to come inside, which they did, Donald leading with a slow, tentative gait, Claggs and Tom following.

This visit, whatever it was about, wasn't going very well.

After a few minutes, the five of us were sitting, albeit awkwardly, at our kitchen table. Donald, recovering some of his manliness, had sat up straight and asked for a second scotch. Claggs said he would pa.s.s on another bourbon, thanks. I mopped up the two spilled drinks while Tom poured Donald a second hefty dose of Johnnie Walker Black. He splashed a few drops of water on top, plinked in a couple of ice cubes, and placed it in front of Donald Ellis, who took a large gulp. Donald's face had taken on an even more pallid cast than usual, and he couldn't seem to stop blinking.

Arch poked his head into the kitchen. "Everything okay down here? We heard a lot of crashing and banging and were worried."

Miss Upton whirled in her chair and gave Arch a daggerlike look. She cried, "Young man! We're having a meeting in here, as you can see. Now, if your presence is required, we will summon-"

Arch disappeared.

To Louise Upton, I said evenly, "If you ever, and I do mean ever, want me to cater at Hanrahan & Jule again, you will not, I repeat, not, ever speak to my son again in that manner."

Louise Upton, immediately defensive, said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh-kay," Tom said, getting up. "Know what? This so-called meeting is over. Next time any one of the three of you wishes to speak to my wife, we'll set up a meeting at the sheriff's department. In an interrogation room."

"I'm sure that isn't necessary," Donald Ellis whispered. He took another long slug of his drink. "Louise, do you mind?" He gave her a meaningful look, and she sat back in her chair, silenced. Man, I wish I could do that. "Louise and Claggs and I," Donald continued, his voice now firm and authoritative, "just wanted to see how Goldy was doing. We were worried. About her. Please, we're sorry to have intruded here...and to have caused a, uh, disturbance." He turned his liquid eyes on me. "I would like you to accept our most sincere condolences. We know Dusty was your friend and neighbor. That's the only reason we're here. On behalf of the firm," he added.

"We'd also like to know what Dusty was doing there at that hour-" Miss Upton began again, her tone unrepentant.

"Dusty was at the firm to help me with the cooking for the Friday meeting," I said, my voice steely, "as I have already told both you and the cops."

Louise opened her mouth to speak again, but she was silenced by another stern look from Donald Ellis.

"If you have any idea of what might have happened, or why," Donald said, his tone again soft, "we would sincerely like to know. We do feel terrible about Dusty. Poor dear girl."

"We do," Claggs echoed.

Tom sat back down. "Don't worry, Mr. Ellis. Mr. Claggett. Miss Upton. The sheriff's department is working on the case. We don't need any lawyers just yet."

"Well!" interjected Louise Upton. "Did she commit...I mean, did she fall down and...or what exactly did happen?"

Tom smiled and said, "Miss Upton, what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Miss Routt?"

"Well, I, uh...we should probably be going," Louise stammered. "But wait, Mr. Ellis hasn't finished his drink."

Donald Ellis lifted his drink to his lips and drained it. "I'm done," he said to no one in particular.

Claggs said, "Thanks so much for having us, Goldy. This is a great house, really. Glad you're doing okay-"

Louise stood abruptly and started down the hall.

We were interrupted from finishing our farewells by a loud honking, a fearsome crash, and yells erupting from the street. Louise Upton, who was not quite at the front door, started screaming. Tom bolted for the front door and strode down our sidewalk. I followed, pushing past Louise Upton and Donald Ellis, both of whom were gaping at what appeared to be a hit-and-run pedestrian accident. Walking fast, Tom had already arrived beside the pedestrian, who was sitting on the snowy street beside the curb. He appeared somewhat dazed, and it was my guess he'd narrowly avoided being run over.

Tom helped the pedestrian to his feet. The man was tall, and wore a dark ski hat and coat. He leaned over the grille of a nearby pickup, coughing. I wished I knew what had happened or how badly hurt the guy might be. I looked up and down the street. A couple of inches of snow covered everything: the cars, the lawns, the houses, the pavement. Otherwise, there was no movement at all.

Blinking against the cold, I moved awkwardly toward Tom, who was now talking to the moaning man. Maybe Tom would want me to summon an ambulance or get the department car up here. But when Tom gave me a sideways glance, he held up his hand, indicating I should not come closer. I hugged my sides and waited.

The color of the pickup the pedestrian had landed on, or jumped for, was obscured by snow. On the pavement just beside the pickup sat a large, oddly shaped metal box. It looked as if the man had been holding the box when he'd been avoiding whatever vehicle had been coming down the street. So had the box skittered out of the man's hands when he'd slammed into the truck's hood? Maybe his load had been so heavy that he'd slipped on the ice, lunged forward, and lost his balance. But there had been that honking, the yelling.

Wait. The box on the ground was a computer. Or had been. I sure hoped whoever owned it had backed up his data.

Murmuring among themselves, Louise, Donald, and Claggs clomped quickly through the snow and down the street toward the spot where Donald had parked his black BMW. They seemed to be concerned about whether Donald's car had been hit. Convinced the Beemer was okay, Claggs helped Louise into the backseat, then got in beside her.

Donald Ellis paused and looked back at us. Since he was standing right under a streetlight, I could see his sheaf of red hair hanging like a broom over his forehead. There was pain in his face, and perhaps some question as to what had happened. Something in the tilt of his head made me think he wanted to come back and help. But then he averted his eyes, climbed into his car, and drove away.

CHAPTER 11.

It's Vic," Tom said as he crunched through the snow to my side. "He's insisting on bringing that thing in himself." Behind him, Vic had ducked down to pick up the computer. "He was bringing it over when the driver of one of those supersized SUVs almost hit him. Vic's sure the driver saw him, too. But that's all he can remember."

"What?"

"Look, you're freezing out here. Let me get Vic inside, then we'll talk. Okay?"

I nodded and started back up the sidewalk. Then I turned. "Tom? I already have a computer. Why was he bringing me one?"

"It's Dusty's!" Vic's voice as he lugged the computer to the curb was somewhere between a cough and a gasp. "Her mom didn't want the cops to have it. She wanted you to have it."

"Is that so?" Tom asked mildly as he helped Vic up onto the curb.

"Yeah." Vic's long legs were having trouble getting a purchase on the sidewalk. "She's not thinking too great. I'm sure she didn't mean you, Mr.-Officer Schulz. Oh G.o.d, I probably just screwed everything up." When Tom stood him upright on the sidewalk, Vic put the computer down, leaned his head back, and took a deep breath. His exhalation came out as a cloud.

"Look, I'm okay," he said, his voice still wobbly. "Let me bring in this computer the way I promised Mrs. Routt."

After much shuffling and grunting, and a slip in the snow that almost spilled computer guts all over our yard, Vic manhandled the computer onto our dining-room table. He stretched his back, then wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans before running them through his curly hair. "I'm just trying to help Mrs. Routt, you know?"

A honk from outside interrupted us. It was the Vikarioses, pulling up in their Cadillac to pick up Gus and Arch. I called upstairs for the boys, who came tumbling down carrying backpacks and duffel bags.

"Thanks for dinner, Aunt G.!" Gus sang out. "Did you bring that D&D stuff, Arch?"

"Yeah, I've got it," my son replied. To me he said, "Man, who was that mean lady?"

"Somebody I work for."

Arch rolled his eyes in disgust. "And I thought school was bad." We agreed I would call him the next afternoon. He wanted another driving lesson, he announced gaily. I held my tongue instead of saying how great that sounded (not). He told me he'd wait for my call. Before I could say I didn't know when I would be done with Donald Ellis's birthday party, he and Gus were gone.

Tom and Vic had pa.s.sed me on their way into the kitchen. I followed them. Hot chocolate was in order, no doubt about it. Vic had brought over Dusty's computer? I might have been tired before, but now I was wide-awake.

"Here's the deal," Vic said, once he had shed his cap, jacket, and boots, sipped some cocoa, and stopped shivering. "You know Mrs. Routt is not a big fan of the Furman County Sheriff's Department."

Tom nodded. "Are you trying to tell me this is evidence she withheld from the detectives?"

"She wants Goldy to have it." Vic's tone had turned stubborn.

"Goldy can see it," Tom replied evenly. "But tomorrow morning, I'm taking it down to the department. And I'll try to convince our guys not to arrest Mrs. Routt for withholding evidence in a homicide investigation."