Dark Tort Part 3

"Her father was blinded in prison. Her older son died while he was in custody for a DWI. You think she's going to trust the cops to find out what happened to her daughter?"

The patrol car swung into the sheriff's department's mammoth parking lot.

"I can't deal with this right now," I whispered.

"Okay. I'll see you later. Just think, I could have let Arch drive me down to the department. For practice."

I took a deep breath. Arch was officially fifteen and a half, with a fresh learner's permit. So far, he had not proved himself adept at driving. But this was cop humor. It was how Tom and his cronies dealt with the dark side, the misery and death, the evil. And they won't let up. They will spin something for laughs until your hair turns gray and you've forgotten what you were thinking about in the first place.

"Whatever." The patrol car stopped. Britt, his eyes facing forward, turned off the engine and waited for me.

I closed my cell phone. Dizziness gripped my brain. Without warning, jokes, humor, laughter, hysteria-all these bubbled simultaneously inside my brain. Stop it, I ordered myself as I got out of the car. But my inner ear registered the Hanrahan & Jule attorneys cackling over the gin-laced espresso. I blinked and heard Tom and his department buddies howling when the coroner poked fun at the uninitiated who thought autopsy was a kind of car, artery the study of pictures.

I walked slowly across the paved lot, trying to keep my balance as Britt led the way to the ma.s.sive steel double door. A blast of warm, metallic air rushed out of the department entrance. I felt like h.e.l.l.

After I was seated in one of the department's interrogation rooms, my head began to throb, and I belatedly realized that even though it was the middle of the night, I was probably going through caffeine withdrawal. Britt reluctantly agreed to get me some java.

I a.s.sessed Britt when he came back through the door holding a thin cardboard tray with two foam cups. He was thirty, I guessed, since most cops didn't make detective until then. Still, with his baby face, dark hair, and perpetually puzzled expression, he looked younger.

"Okay, Mrs. Schulz. How did you come to work in that law office? Don't leave out any details, okay?"

I sipped some life-giving caffeine. Then I began to talk.

From the beginning of July until tonight, I told Britt, I'd been making and serving breakfasts to the early arrivals at Hanrahan & Jule, one of the three law offices in Aspen Meadow. As catering jobs went, I continued, this was a relatively high-stress a.s.signment, not least because I'd never catered to so many talkative, joking, obsessed-with-work folks before. Ordinarily, I'd get there at five every morning, and within an hour, the place would be buzzing. But not on Thursdays. Thursdays I came in at night, since Richard scheduled breakfast meetings with clients on Friday mornings.

There was a knock on the door. A uniformed officer poked his head through and told Britt he was needed elsewhere, but not for long.

"Keep that thought," Britt ordered, before whisking away.

But I was temporarily incapable of holding any thought. I sipped more coffee and allowed the memories to surface.

By the beginning of October, I'd become worn out from the H&J job, although I'd been trying to convince myself that I wasn't. Every morning, after moving through my yoga routine and getting dressed, I'd give myself a pep talk in our bathroom mirror. A slightly plump, slightly weathered early-thirties face, with brown eyes and unfashionable Shirley Templeblond curls, would stare back. Admit it, I'd say to myself, you're not quite ready for the lawyers today. But I'd b.u.t.ton up my white caterer's shirt anyway. I'd bustle containers of eggs whisked with cream and fresh herbs, applewood-smoked bacon, breakfast sausage, fresh-squeezed orange juice, fragrant homemade bread, and sliced fruit out to my van. And I'd tell myself to buck up, drink a latte, and pull myself together.

Besides that, I'd rea.s.sure myself, I wasn't alone. The lawyers of H&J also catered. Unlike yours truly, though, these guys were paid extremely well to work at coddling extremely wealthy clients. Here we shared another trait, as I'd often experienced the crankiness of well-moneyed people. Rich folks' quirks and caprices often cost caterers time, money, and endless aggravation. But unlike the attorneys, I wasn't paid by the hour. And every whim an enraged H&J client wanted dealt with in the next twenty-four hours meant Billables, baby! Billables, aka hours billable to the client, were what the guys lived for, what they a.s.sured one another they were generating tons of as they scarfed down Cuban sandwiches I sometimes brought in at suppertime, long after a CEO with a trophy wife or a silk-suited octogenarian had huffed out of the office.

"I want to cut my children out of my will" was a frequent threat.

"I'm bequeathing everything to the new Anglican mission" was another one. "I don't ever want to be hugged in church again."

"My niece hasn't written to me in two years, Goldy. Who do you think I should give my pearls to?"

Aw, give 'em to your niece anyway, I wanted to say as I pressed focaccia loaded with garlic-infused pork between the metal plates of my indoor grill. But as the attorneys were so very fond of saying, "What you pay for the advice is what it's worth." Unfortunately, any counsel doled out by yours truly wasn't worth a grain of my favorite hand-harvested sea salt.

I'd been referred to H&J in June by a criminal attorney named Brewster Motley. Unlike his not-a-hair-out-of-place colleagues, Brewster was well tanned and laid back. He'd warned me, though. "Listen up, Goldy," he'd said as he ran his hands through his mop of blond hair. "H&J lawyers do mostly estate law, but they're still uptight as h.e.l.l. Watch your kitchen equipment, okay? Ditto the food. I don't need to act nuts to relieve stress, but they do. You don't want to be serving cheesecake flavored with soy sauce. Okay? Be cool." He'd pointed his thumbs heavenward, which in Brewsterese meant anything from "Stay calm" to "Surf's up." Anyway, Brewster had helped me out of a jam recently, when I'd desperately needed help. When he'd referred me to H&J, I'd felt obligated-but also grateful-to take on the firm as a client. How hard could it be to make early breakfasts, cater occasional meetings, and be on call to deliver a tray of sandwiches at six in the evening, every now and then? Wouldn't the hungry attorneys and a.s.sorted staff be supergrateful for my proffered goodies?

Sometimes I'm amazed I have any naivete left.

In any event, I'd become their caterer. At the beginning of September, Dusty Routt, our pretty, enthusiastic neighbor, had asked me to teach her to cook. Because of her cla.s.s and work schedule, we met every Thursday night at ten in H&J's beautifully outfitted kitchen, to plan and prep Richard's Friday-morning meetings. We would chat, roast rashers of bacon so that they would just need a quick heating in the microwave, mix up bread to rise overnight, cut creamy chevre into dot-sized bites, check for jams and preserves, count croissants and slices of prosciutto...I'd enjoyed Dusty's company, and I'd taught her to flip omelettes with the best of them.

So.

I put my head down on the steel table in the interrogation room. Earlier, earlier, I should have been there earlier, I repeated silently to myself. Birthday or no, Dusty had wanted to discuss "something important" with me. Something to do with the stunning bracelet I'd seen her wearing last week? She'd giggled and promised to tell me about the opal-and-diamond bracelet "soon." I remembered telling her to practice taking deep breaths, because twenty-one candles on a carrot cake was a conflagration! She had smiled quickly, before her face had turned uncharacteristically grim.

But then there was that issue of my son driving, which Tom had found so humorous. For the past few weeks, I'd been trying to teach Arch to drive in various parking lots...with zero success. Our last session had been the previous afternoon, at our local Safeway. Okay, I admit it, I'd given Arch conflicting directions on reversing, and he'd ended up crushing a line of grocery carts. When we'd finally arrived home, I'd apologized and offered my son another driving lesson on Sat.u.r.day. But since I'd already lost my temper in the grocery-store lot, then lost it again when I wrote the grocery-store manager a check for the destroyed carts, Arch had refused either to forgive me or to get out of the van.

I'd stomped away, and Arch had left the van lights and radio on-inadvertently, I was sure. So before driving to the firm tonight, I'd had to take Tom away from polishing his beloved antique highboy, which was what he did for relaxation. Once he had located the jumper cables, he'd eased his sedan out into the street and started working on my vehicle. The van engine had ground and groaned, wheezed and coughed, and finally turned over. I'd shown up at the law office with my caterer's load...half an hour late.

So I'd failed Dusty. I'd failed her monumentally.

Britt reappeared with his clipboard and apologized for the delay.

"We were talking about your meeting with Dusty on Thursday nights, Mrs. Schulz. Was this every Thursday night?"

"Yes, for just over a month."

"Who else knew that was when you met?"

"I have no idea. Everyone could have known, because we didn't make a secret of it. She helped me prepare and set out the food for the Friday-morning meeting, and folks sometimes complimented her on it."

"Who complimented her on the food, specifically?"

I closed my eyes. Well, King Richard always thanked Dusty, proudly and loudly. I told Britt about Richard Chenault, how he was Dusty's uncle and enjoyed taking pride in her accomplishments.

"Which were by extension compliments for him?" I nodded. Britt went on: "Anyone who wouldn't compliment her on the food?" Britt asked slyly.

"Well, there's Louise Upton. She's the office manager, and she never compliments anyone, except for guys who are higher up the totem pole than she is."

Britt's baby face broke into a smile. "Not your favorite person, then."

I shrugged. "She's okay, I suppose. She runs a tight ship, and she loves Hanrahan and Jule."

"A tight ship with a totem pole."

"Detective, it's the wee hours of the morning, and I don't know if you're making a joke or what. I also don't know how much longer I can last."

"Would you say Dusty Routt and Louise Upton were enemies?"

"Not enemies, really. Louise just uses no social skills with people she believes are beneath her."

"Okay. So you were set to meet Dusty tonight?"

"Yes, at ten, our usual time. But then my car wouldn't start because my son drained the battery." I explained about my not looking properly into the rearview mirror and directing my son into a line of grocery carts, and how that had precipitated a furious argument between the two of us, which in turn had led to Arch staying in the car with the lights on and the radio running...

"You were parked in a garage," Britt asked, "or on the street?"

"On the street," I said, "because I knew I was going out later, and I didn't want Tom to block me in when he got home."

"After this argument with your son, do you know whether he locked the van when he got out of it?"

"No," I admitted. "I don't. Gee, do you think...maybe one of my neighbors saw someone messing around with my car."

Britt took a deep breath. "We'll canva.s.s your neighborhood. Now, Investigator Schulz gives you a jump, you take off for H&J, and you get there at what time?"

"The exact time?" I sipped more coffee, which tasted as metallic as the building smelled. "I'm pretty sure it was right around ten-thirty. Yeah, pretty sure. I didn't check my watch, though." Britt gave me a narrow-eyed look, and my mind conjured up the image of him informing his pals that Tom Schulz's wife...you know, the caterer?...was as flaky as one of her renowned piecrusts. "I came into the office, and tripped. I didn't know what was going on. I certainly didn't think I'd stumbled over a body." I sighed. "At first I thought it was a joke. The lawyers in the firm like to pull pranks. But then I saw something wrong with one of the paintings in the lobby..."

"Something wrong?"

"You know, it's one of Charlie Baker's paintings of food. The firm has several."

"I'm familiar with his work. Like it, too. But it's out of a detective salary's reach. So what was wrong with it?"

"The bread dough I was carrying slopped onto the painting when I fell, which is why I noticed anything. The frame on the painting looked broken and there was a darker stain. I think it may have been blood." My weak voice indicated a brain thicker than cold oatmeal. "Then when I tried to get up, I saw Dusty lying there. I went to her and realized she wasn't moving or breathing."

"So you thought...what?"

I looked him square in his puzzled dark eyes. "I didn't think. I used to be married to a doctor, and I learned a lot. Not anything good about him, mind you. But I do know about medical procedure, so I did CPR." I shook my head. "But nothing happened. She had a gash on her forehead, so that might explain the blood on the painting."

"Was she warm when you started CPR?"

"Yes."

"How long did you try to revive her?"

"I'm not sure. It seemed like a long time, maybe half an hour, but it might have been less. I couldn't think about anything except trying to get a pulse...but the CPR wasn't working. My cell phone was back in the van, and the office phone lines weren't operating, so then I just left the lobby to try to find help."

"So you did CPR and then you left. Please, please tell me what time you think it was."

"I don't know," I said through clenched teeth. "I didn't think to check my watch or a clock. I peeked both ways down the hall, then ran out back to my car, but-"

"Wait. Think back to that parking lot in front of the H&J office building. Before you went around back. Did you see anything there? I need to know precisely, especially if it was something suspicious."

I frowned. "Well, no. That I can recall, anyway. You see, I went out the service entrance. It leads out back."

"Did you see Ms. Routt's car?"

"Not until I went around to the front. I saw her Honda Civic, parked alone in the lot."

"Did you see anything else around the building? Other cars, trucks, anybody coming in or going out?"

"Not that I noticed."

"What about when you were on your way up the stairs to the law firm, when you were coming in, or in the office itself? Anything unusual?"

"Not that I haven't told you. Look, I'm really beginning to feel tired and stressed out. My husband said he'd be waiting for me-"

"Yeah, yeah, we know." The dark eyebrows knit into a sympathetic expression. "Just a couple more things. Why did you agree to give Ms. Routt cooking lessons at the firm?"

I explained to him about how Dusty and I were friends and neighbors. "We talked a lot. It was fun for both of us. And in the firm's kitchen, we could cook and visit without the interruption of phones and whatnot."

"But you're a thirtyish married woman and she was a twentyish single female. What was so much fun to talk about?"

"Her studies, her work, my work, my clients, the law firm, the people there. Dusty wanted to...get ahead. She was ambitious, and I was flattered that she wanted my advice about this or that."

"This or that?"

"What she should wear to a lunch meeting with big clients. Whether she should take golf lessons. That kind of thing."

"Did Ms. Routt have any problems with anyone in the law firm? Was she scared of someone on staff there?"

Of course, this was what I'd been wondering ever since I'd raced across the street. Who, who, who? And yet I was still unprepared for this question.

"Mrs. Schulz? I'm asking you again. You said Louise Upton was hard on her?"

"No, no, not really. Louise Upton just enjoyed savoring her power, that's all." I thought for a minute. "Dusty did have to be careful about protocol at the firm. One time, at a staff meeting I was catering? Dusty's uncle, Richard Chenault, asked a question about how a particular kind of will could avoid probate. n.o.body seemed to know. Finally Richard said, 'Come on, Claggs, for G.o.d's sake! This is your area!'"

"Claggs?"

"Alonzo Claggett, one of the a.s.sociates. He's really a great guy, and he cared about Dusty. He came tonight, after I found her-"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves. Back to this meeting."

I blew out air. "Well, as all the lawyers were filing out, Dusty motioned her uncle aside. She whispered to him that you could avoid probate with the kind of estate they were discussing by setting up a particular kind of irrevocable trust. I didn't really understand the details, but I gather she had them correct."

"Then what happened?"

"What happened? Richard wouldn't let Alonzo Claggett forget it. In other meetings, he'd joke that maybe instead of asking Alonzo a question, he'd just consult with Dusty. It was funny to everybody but Alonzo, and Dusty hated it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she told me. At a lunch I catered for the lawyers and their wives, Nora Ellis, Donald Ellis's wife, scolded Dusty. Nora said that Dusty shouldn't give legal opinions, since she wasn't a lawyer. In fact, she wasn't even a paralegal yet. And Ookie Claggett, Alonzo's wife? She went out of her way to ignore Dusty through that whole lunch. All over one intelligent remark from Dusty, who was just trying to please her uncle."

"You're sure it was only one?"

"Well, it was the only one I witnessed. Maybe there were others."

"Maybe Mr. Chenault began asking for help from Dusty when he should have been consulting his a.s.sociates."

I shook my head. "I think Dusty would have told me, if that had been true."

"Who did Dusty hang out with at the law firm?"

"Only one other person besides me. She was good buddies with Wink Calhoun, the firm's receptionist."

"Wink? Ookie? Claggs? Where do these people get their names?"

I was so tired, I laughed. "I don't know."

"Spell Wink's full name for me, would you?" This I did. Then Britt said, "Did they go for lunch together? Hang out on the weekends?"