Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 4

Several seconds pa.s.sed before anyone spoke.

The open door, the blowing fan and the slight breeze rolling through the office couldn't account for the sensation on the back of my neck. I felt as if I'd been touched by dead air. The haunted house revelation provoked an even more startling result in Fran Green, silence.

Roberta was the first to speak. "I saw a program on PBS, on paranormal phenomenon. As I understand it, spirits trapped for a period of time are difficult to move. Change and upset can turn the most docile inhabitant into a violent, evil presence."

Fran's eyes bulged. "You believe in ghosts, Bert?"

"I've been trained as a lawyer to think a.n.a.lytically, but I can't afford not to believe in them. Too much is on the line for this project to encounter obstacles, surreal or otherwise. Does the prospect frighten you?"

"Me?" Fran's voice cracked. "Bring it on. I ain't afraid of anything in this world or the next. I put in enough time at the altar to a.s.sure that. How about you, Kris?"

In a steady voice, I said simply, "I'd like to take the case."

I pulled out a contract and filled in the blanks while Fran freshened our drinks. We signed it, Roberta wrote a retainer check, and we toasted the agreement with two ice waters and a Diet c.o.ke. Nothing unnatural about that!

After Roberta left, Fran could barely contain her excitement. "Can you believe that beauty's the other side of eighty?"

"You didn't know she was eighty-one?"

"At our age, never discuss age. Would have put her within a year or two of me, maybe younger."

"Does Roberta still practice law?"

"Part-time. Marvel in the courtroom. Riveting. Lowers that melodious voice, struts back and forth in front of the jury and judge, sweet justice in motion."

"You've seen her at trial?"

"Just imagining."

"She has a crush on you."

"Get out!" Fran said, blushing. "Woman's old enough to be my mother."

"Not quite. Not unless she had you when she was fourteen."

"Could happen. Younger girls give birth all the time." Fran shot me a sly glance. "You really think Roberta has the hots for me?"

"Yes," I said patiently. "Was the feeling mutual?"

"Maybe. But I'd hate to date a client. Don't want to ruin pleasure with business."

"Technically, Roberta Franklin is my client."

A smile spread across Fran's face. "True enough."

Fran spent the balance of the afternoon dragging the subject back to Roberta Franklin.

I'd never seen her in such an altered state, and frankly, it wore me out.

I left the office before six, and by eight, Destiny and I were in front of the television, sharing a white pizza with gorgonzola cheese, figs and spinach.

As Destiny flipped through channels at her customary speed, I caught a glimpse of a woman's face and almost choked on crust.

Before I could ask Destiny to return to the public access channel, she hit the b.u.t.ton. "There she is, Kris. That's the woman I told you about!"

My heart stopped for a dozen beats. "Which woman?"

"The superintendent of Metro Denver Public Schools," she said, almost giddy. "She's my advocate, the one who supports the gay and lesbian youth programs."

"What's her name?" I said, my voice hoa.r.s.e with horror.

For there, filling our 58-inch screen, stood Lynn, the woman who had hired me to investigate Destiny, the one who wanted to have an affair with her.

"Dr. Carolyn O'Keefe. Doesn't she look powerful?"

I couldn't speak.

I was up all night.

As soon as Destiny fell asleep, I crept out of bed and returned to the living room. I watched Channel 8, catching repeats of Denver City Council meetings, postings of men who had solicited prost.i.tutes, endless versions of neighborhood forums, but no Dr. Carolyn O'Keefe.

At dawn, I returned to Destiny's side and slept until nine o'clock, a fitful three hours.

When I arrived at the office at ten and found it empty, I hopped back in my Honda Accord and drove to Fran Green's house.

In the morning light, Fran's yard in Congress Park looked immaculate. Her lawn was a deep green, thick and without weeds, edged to perfection. In fact, the entire expanse looked as if it had been trimmed with scissors. The mulch, which she replaced twice a year, glistened, and every flower in the small garden was in full bloom.

Within days of moving into the house, Fran had become friends with most of the residents on the block, including her next-door neighbors. Both were named Sherry, and Fran had resorted to calling one "Uphill Sherry" and the other "Downhill Sherry," a designation neither seemed to mind.

On this day, I spent a few minutes chatting with Downhill Sherry, an emergency room nurse returning home from her shift.

Evidently, Fran overheard our conversation, because she opened the door before I could knock and escorted me into the sunroom, off the back of the house. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, I viewed Fran's latest creation, a water feature. Near completion, this was no d.i.n.ky prefab fountain. Fran had contoured a multilevel waterfall, a ten-foot stream and a pond with a footbridge, all designed to look as if they fit naturally in the Colorado mountains. To enhance the illusion, she'd planted aspens and evergreens around the rock beds.

I took a seat on a white wicker lounger, and Fran pushed aside the newspaper and returned to her seat in a white wicker rocking chair. Inside the house, everything was white. White walls, ceilings, floors, cabinets, furniture and furnishings. When Fran had vacated the apartment she and Ruth shared, she'd given away all her possessions. "Smelled like smoke and reminded me of decay," she said, before we spent weeks shopping for furniture and accessories. The fresh start had chiseled away all of my patience but paid off in a streamlined, clutter-free zone.

Before I could tell Fran about my discovery, she trumped me, speaking with a mouth full of toast. "Carolyn O'Keefe, she's the one chasing Destiny."

"I know."

"Superintendent of a hundred-school system ought to know better," she said, taking a sip of coffee before doing a double take that led to a coughing jag. "How'd you get her name?"

"We saw her on television last night. Destiny said they'd had three meetings."

"About what? Don't tell me. Betcha it's the youth programs."

I nodded.

"Destiny's behavior suspicious when she talked about her?"

"I guess not," I said despondently.

"Didn't spill the beans, did you?"

"No."

"Caught her on Channel Eight, didn't you?"

"Yes, Fran," I said wearily, not nearly as impressed with her detection skills as she was.

"Love that government access channel, better than a soap."

"How did you find out Carolyn's ident.i.ty?"

"Piece of cake. Last night, tracked her from Shirley Ba.s.sett's house to another abode, near Evans and Holly. Searched property records. Name floored me. Read about her in the papers, but never seen a photo or I might have matched it to your description."

"Where does she live?"

"About a mile from Ba.s.sett. Keeping the house as a front. O'Keefe stopped by to look around the yard and run the sprinklers. Must be making mortgage payments for appearances. Shacked up tight with that hound, Ba.s.sett."

"What should I do now?"

"You? Nothing." Fran leaned forward and spoke earnestly. "We know where she lives, a small victory. Better still, know who she is and where she works. Makes it a cinch to tail her. Power's on our side, but stick to the game plan. Have to control yourself. Don't follow her, don't think about her. Whatever you do, don't mention her to Destiny."

I started biting my fingernails. "But-"

"No buts. You let this come between you, shaves away trust. That happens, you may as well call it quits. Thanks to your stubbornness, this O'Keister will have achieved part of her goal. Earned herself a clear path to an unattached Destiny. You want that?"

"O'Keefe," I corrected. "No, but-"

"I mean it, kiddo. You chase the ghosts. Let me nail this evil spirit."

"Really?" I said grudgingly.

"I'd lay my life on the line for you and Destiny. You know that."

The hardness that washed over Fran's face seemed out of place in the serene setting of that morning, but the resolve in her eyes and clenching of her fists made me believe her.

I had to, because I couldn't allow myself to consider the alternative.

Life without Destiny, that could not happen.

Not ever.

Chapter 6.

Funny how the mind works.

Every waking minute of the next four days, I waited for contact from Carolyn O'Keefe. I antic.i.p.ated and dreaded each ring of the phone, even when I was home, where I knew she couldn't reach me.

Yet, on another plane, I managed to put the threat out of my consciousness, in a distant compartment that allowed me to function, to believe life was still good. I enjoyed a relaxing weekend with Destiny, one full of tennis and movies and yardwork.

Whenever doubt seeped in, I remembered that Fran was in charge and changed the subject in my head.

That charade worked until Monday morning, when the knowing and the denying collided in a phone call at eleven o'clock.

Carolyn O'Keefe didn't bother with niceties. "What can you tell me?"

I couldn't think. My brain cells had stopped functioning.

I barely managed, in a slightly shaking voice, "Just a second, Carolyn. I have a UPS delivery. I'll be right back."

I hit mute and tried to get a grip. What advice had Fran given me? After ten deep breaths, Fran's words came back in a rush.

"First time O'Keefe contacts you, give her harmless info, stuff that doesn't violate Destiny's privacy. Keep it brief. Closer the lie is to the truth, easier to remember. On second thought, don't make up anything. Stick with facts."

Recalling Fran's pacifying voice restored my equilibrium. I picked up the receiver. "Sorry about that."

No reply.

"Are you still there?"

"Very clever. You know my name," she said in an icy retort.

Momentarily disconcerted by the slip, I somehow remained coolheaded. "I couldn't work under the circ.u.mstances you proposed. I have procedures to follow, for my own protection."

I waited for an explosion, but Carolyn said dispa.s.sionately, "I suppose you wouldn't have been worth the money if you couldn't figure out that simple fact. If you know my name, you've discovered my job t.i.tle. With that, I a.s.sume you can appreciate the delicacy of my situation. It goes without saying you'll keep this in the strictest confidence."

"I will."

"What have you learned?"

"I've done the background and credit checks," I said. "There's nothing unusual. Destiny Greaves, age thirty-seven. Born in Denver. Liberal arts degree from the University of Denver. Started a Master's program at Regis University in nonprofit management but hasn't finished. In fact, she hasn't taken a cla.s.s in five years. She has no criminal record and nothing civil. She hasn't sued anyone or been sued. Her credit report is spotless. There's no evidence of outstanding debt. She owns a historic home in Capitol Hill, a three-story, four-thousand-square-foot house, built at the turn of the century. She lives on the top floor and rents out the others. The deed is in her name only."

Before we met, Destiny, with help from her parents, had bought and refurbished the house on g.a.y.l.o.r.d Street. Four months earlier, her father had paid off the balance on the mortgage, as "birthday and Christmas presents for life." Destiny and I had talked about transferring the deed into both of our names but hadn't.

"There's no mortgage on the house?"

"None registered in public records," I said mechanically. "No liens against the property."