by MJ Rodgers
She nodded and turned to lead the way down an incredibly long, ostentatious hallway lined with marble busts on shoulder-high pedestals. At its end the maid opened a door. Whitney found herself outside again on a concrete pathway that led to a small, separate house at the rear of the large one.
“You go back there,” the maid said. The look on her face clearly conveyed the message that she belonged to the big house, not the insignificant one at which she was pointing.
Adam and Whitney followed the path to the small cottage. Unlike the elaborate dwelling that dwarfed it, the cottage was very modest, with just a few wild rhododendron bushes marking its entry. Adam knocked on the door. Danny opened it immediately.
“Please come in, Mr. Justice, Ms. West.”
“Call me Whitney,” she said, sending Danny a warm smile.
The inside of the cottage was neat but small and sparsely furnished. Danny gestured toward an old checkered sofa shoved against a far wall. She and Adam obligingly took a seat on it. Danny remained standing.
“My mother will be out in a minute. It’s the nurse’s morning off, so it takes Mom a little longer to get it together.”
“We don’t mind waiting,” Whitney said, shifting on the lumpy sofa while she wondered why Danny’s mother needed a nurse.
“Your uncle owns the house at the front?” Adam asked.
“My grandfather,” Danny answered. “My uncle lives in one of the wings with my aunt and cousins.”
“And you and your mother live back here?” Whitney asked.
Danny shifted on his feet. “My grandfather lets us live in this cottage, buys our food, our clothes and sees to my mom’s medical needs. Now that I work for my uncle, I get a few dollars in spending money.”
Whitney didn’t detect any pride in Danny’s words, just a kind of resignation. She was decidedly annoyed at the difference in living quarters between his grandfather’s opulent home and this cottage Danny and his mother had been relegated to. Couldn’t his grandfather have found some space in his home for his daughter and grandson? He’d found space for his son and his family.
“Hello, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” a woman’s voice called cheerily as a wheelchair rolled into the room from the hallway adjacent to the small living room.
The woman sitting in the wheelchair was fortyish and wore a tentative smile on her badly scarred face. She was attired in a cheery, bright red blouse, and from her waist to her feet she was covered in a faded plaid throw. The way her eyes were unfocused and staring off at odd angles told Whitney immediately that her inability to walk was not her only physical disability.
A spear of sadness struck Whitney’s heart.
Adam was on his feet in an instant and had stepped over to the wheelchair to lean down to take the woman’s hand. Whitney was touched by his action. Very few people would have the presence of mind and sensitivity to offer such a courteous gesture.
“Mrs. D’Amico, I’m Adam Justice. Whitney West is also here.”
“You have a capable-sounding voice, Mr. Justice,” Mrs. D’Amico said. “It matches your handshake. May I shake Ms. West’s hand also?”
Adam stepped aside, and Whitney moved to his vacated place next to the wheelchair. She took Mrs. D’Amico’s hand within both of hers. “Call me Whitney. Unlike Mr. Justice, I’m very informal.”
Mrs. D’Amico’s smile broadened. “Me, too, Whitney. My first name is Beatrice. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Has Danny gotten you refreshments?”
“I, uh, there might be some coffee—” Danny began.
“Please don’t bother,” Whitney said quickly, wishing to take the pressure off both Danny and his mother to offer them what little they had. “We don’t need any coffee.”
Whitney didn’t miss the slight lifting of Adam’s lips as he listened to that disclaimer.
He turned to the woman in the wheelchair. “Mrs. D’Amico, has your son had an opportunity to explain the reason for our getting in touch with you?”
“Yes, Mr. Justice. But I know no one by the name of Feldon or Waring.”
“Did you check with other members of your family?”
“The only relatives left are those on my side of the family, Mr. Justice. No one friendly with them would be leaving anything to me or Danny,” Mrs. D’Amico said. “My Danny should have carried his father’s name, Thomas. But I named him Danford after my father in an effort to mend family fences. It was futile. None of my family ever approved of my marrying Thomas.”
“Why was that, Beatrice?” Whitney asked.
“Just because he was poor and had no family. That’s all they had against him, Whitney. You’d think he was a criminal the way they treated him. They even tried to make the accident into his fault.”
“The accident?” Whitney asked.
“The one that took my Thomas, my sight and my ability to walk.”
“When did it happen?” Whitney asked.
“Twenty years ago. Danny was only two months old when Thomas’s only relative, a distant aunt, died and we flew to Phoenix to attend the funeral. We were on the airport bus coming home when our driver hit the back of a truck. Next thing I knew, my Thomas was dead and I could no longer see or walk.”
“I’m so sorry, Beatrice,” Whitney said, feeling the words acutely as she rested her hand on Beatrice’s arm.
“Knowing my little baby had survived and needed me was all that kept me going.”
“Did the authorities ever determine the cause of the accident?” Adam asked.
“The bus driver had been drinking. My father sued, but the airport bus service declared bankruptcy, so we never got anything. My father blamed Thomas for not having the money for a car to drive us home. Can you imagine? Such nonsense. Like money was the measure of a man. My Thomas was warm and kind—everything a real man should be. Go get the picture and show them, Danny.”
“Aw, Mom, they don’t want to see—”
“Danny, please. Go get the picture.”
Danny shook his head in resignation as he left the room. As soon as the sound of his footsteps drifted away, Beatrice spoke again in a lowered voice. “I’ve hated bringing up my Danny here,” she said. “I don’t mind the indignities they put me through, shutting me up in these old servants’ quarters. But the way Danny’s own grandfather and uncle treat him, like some servant—” She stopped herself and sighed. “When he came home yesterday and told me about how you said this woman had left us some money, I hoped this was his chance to get out before they break his spirit. Has it all been a mistake?”
Before either Whitney or Adam could answer, Danny came back into the room, holding an eight-by-ten photo in a silverfiligree frame. He shook his head at Whitney unhappily.
“You have it there, Danny?” Beatrice said. “Let me feel the edges to make sure it’s the right one.”
Danny obediently handed his mother the framed photo. She felt the edges. “Yes, this is the one. Take a look, Whitney. It’s our wedding picture taken twenty-two years ago.”
Whitney gently took the photo out of Beatrice’s hand. The woman in the wedding dress she would have recognized anywhere. It was the young, unscarred face Danny had given his mother in his family drawing. But the photo image of the man in the tuxedo by her side had been viciously slashed until it was unrecognizable.
A cold stone dropped into Whitney’s stomach. She looked up to see the pain on Danny’s face.
“Well, Whitney, what do you think?” Beatrice asked. “Isn’t Danny the spitting image of his dad?”
“Actually, Beatrice,” Whitney said carefully, “I think Danny has your big brown eyes and widow’s peak.”
“Really?”
“Yes, definitely, Mrs. D’Amico,” Adam said in his formal, emphatic voice after a brief glimpse at the slashed photo. Whitney resisted a very strong impulse to give Adam a hug.
“I hope we haven’t disappointed you,” Whitney said.
“Oh my, no. I’m just surprised. My father and brother have both
insisted over the years that Danny grew up to look exactly like his dad in that wedding picture.”
Whitney wondered whether it had been his grandfather or his uncle who had ruined the picture of Danny’s father. She was beginning to understand only too well the kind of indignities Danny had been subjected to while under their thumbs. And the more she understood, the angrier she got on both Beatrice’s and Danny’s behalf.
“Mr. D’Amico,” Adam said, “in reference to Patrice Feldon-”
“Since we don’t know her, I guess we don’t get what she left, right?” Danny interrupted.
“On the contrary, Mr. D’Amico,” Adam said. “Despite the fact that you did not know Patrice Feldon, her bequest to you is still valid. I am satisfied that you and your mother are the Beatrice and Danford D’Amico that my client has selected to be beneficiaries of her estate.”
Surprise stole over Danny’s face. “Really. We get it? How much, Mr. Justice?”
“Before probate costs and taxes and any debts are addressed, the amount comes to approximately ten million dollars.”
“Ten mil—” Danny’s voice stopped dead as his eyes glassed over and his thin, gangly body collapsed into an old easy chair as though it had suddenly become jelly.
“Dear God, you are in heaven,” Beatrice said on a heartfelt sigh as big, beautiful tears ran down her scarred face.
Chapter Nine
Adam led Whitney to their seats in first class on the plane headed for Las Vegas. She’d never flown first-class. Before she could even buckle up, the flight attendant was asking her if she’d like a cocktail. It was eleven-thirty in the morning.
“Irish coffee,” she said without hesitation.
Adam ordered plain coffee. When their drinks came, Whitney raised hers to offer a toast. “To caffeine,” she said. “Please don’t let them ever discover that it causes cancer.”
Adam sipped his coffee in salute.
“And to Beatrice and Danny D’Amico,” Whitney added in a more serious tone. “May they take their ten million dollars and rub it in the noses of that nasty uncle and grandfather.”
“They don’t have the money yet,” Adam said, his tone at its most formal. “The possibility always exists that they might not get it. A lawyer cannot afford to let her passions get the better of her.”
Whitney took a big gulp of her drink. “Nonsense. A lawyer’s passions are the best of her—or him. Without passion the law is just like decaf—lacking all its zip.”
A small smile lifted his lips. “You have a lot more of your father in you than you’ve admitted, Whitney.”
God, she was happy to see him smiling at her again. Too damn happy. Whitney felt a warming in her blood that she knew had nothing to do with either the caffeine or alcohol in her drink.
“Who did you hire to investigate Chad Bister’s claim?” Adam asked after a moment.
“An investigative firm down the hall from Jack and me. They call themselves Checkmate. They’re a bunch of gutsy divorced gals who learned how to be detectives the hard way.”
“And what’s the hard way?”
“Tracking down their own philandering husbands.”
“This isn’t that kind of case, Whitney.”
“Still, I want them on it. Checkmate is just getting started and needs every break it can get. Many of the gals are single moms who count on the work to make ends meet.”
“And what if they discover that Chad’s claim is genuine?”
“Then I’ll tell him he needs to engage an attorney to represent his interests.”
“You won’t represent him?”
“Of course I won’t represent him. You had to ask?”
“No. I was just trying to display that admirable sensitivity you seem to appreciate so much.”
The lift to his lips and the warmth in his eyes were devastating and set her blood to tingling all over again. Whitney downed the rest of her Irish coffee.
Adam Justice could sweep away all her nonchalance with a single smile. Thank God he wasn’t the kind of man to take advantage of it.
“What do you know about this Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael we’re going to see?” she asked.
“A.J. wasn’t able to learn anything about them, which is unusual,” he said.
“Their first names sound familiar, although I don’t know why.”
“Perhaps because the names are those of two famous newsmen, whose spot was called ‘The Huntley-Brinkley Report.’“
“Yes, that rings a vague bell. What was their report about?”
“It focused on important world events and was widely respected and well-known. Unlike their namesakes, however, A.J. advises me that neither Huntley nor Brinkley Carmichael are showing up in the credit computers. And there is no telephone listing for them in Overton, Nevada.”
“Then how will we know where to find them?”
“It’s a small town. We’re going to ask the only other Carmichaels living there—Kevin and Linda. Even if they aren’t family, in that small a town it stands to reason that they would be familiar with someone else sharing their familial name.”
“So you’re thinking that if Huntley and Brinkley lived there at one time and have moved, Kevin and Linda probably know where. You’ve called, of course, to set up an appointment with them?”
“My secretary attempted to get the information over the phone, but Linda Carmichael informed him that she had never heard of me and she didn’t discuss any business over the phone.”
“That doesn’t sound very promising.”
“Still, when we arrive on their doorstep, it will be difficult to turn us away.”
He said that with such confidence. And Whitney was sure he was right. She doubted anyone ever turned Adam Justice away. Especially not a woman.
Except, in the end, Patrice had, she reminded herself.
The more she learned about Adam, the more that fact surprised Whitney. How could Patrice have ever turned away from this man in favor of another, unless—”
Adam, may I ask you something?”
His lips lifted slightly. “Whitney West requesting permission to ask a question? Now, this is the kind of news that would have made ‘The Huntley-Brinkley Report.’“
She indulged only a small smile in return, determined to keep her serious focus. “Were you true to Patrice when you were married?”
The upturned edges of Adam’s lips slowly straightened. He was quiet for such a long moment that Whitney didn’t think he was going to answer.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“Did you ever suspect Patrice felt anything romantic toward Peter Danner before she left with him?”
“No.”
“But she was in his company a lot?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“So her leaving was a total surprise?”
“Why are you asking these questions, Whitney?”
Whitney let out a little puff of impatience. “I guess I got carried away with a sudden urge to know what you’re really feeling inside. I can’t imagine what possessed me. Just forget it. I’m sure the urge will pass.”
“Will it?”
It was his same cool, unemotional voice that had asked the question. But when she glanced in his direction, the look of clear blue sincerity in his eyes sent a small shock through her system.
“No, I rather doubt it will pass,” she heard herself say. “Adam, why did you marry Patrice?”
“You met her, Whitney. Do you really have to ask?”
“I know her incredible beauty and angelic smile undoubtedly claimed all the male hearts within beating distance. But I want to know what she did that not only claimed your heart, but your hand, as well.”
“Why is this important to you?”
“Because…I want to understand. No, I need to understand.”
A long quiet moment passed. When Adam finally spoke, he stared straight ahead, and his deep voice was smooth and even.
“I fell in love with Patrice, because when we were
together everything seemed possible. The world shimmered and soared out of control, unfettered by any confines of reason. I gave her my heart, my hand and everything else I possessed, because that’s what a man does when he falls in love.”
He said it so quietly, so calmly, so matter-of-factly. Whitney had not understood the depth of Adam Justice’s feelings for Patrice until now. The truth of his every word hit her like a blow.
A woman who was loved like that by a man like this would have to be a fool to let him go. She would have never guessed Patrice was a fool.
“Adam, when I first met you, I believed that Patrice turned to another man because she discovered you didn’t have a loyal and loving heart. But now I realize that isn’t true. You loved her, right up to the end. I can’t understand why she left you.”
He said nothing in response, just stoically sipped his coffee.
Whitney read his silence with growing unease. Was her suspicion correct? Was it possible Adam didn’t know why his wife had left, either?
OVERTON WAS a small desert town in a crescent-shaped valley near Lake Mead in southern Nevada. As Whitney and Adam rounded the road at the top of the surrounding mountain range, she caught her breath at the beautiful muted pastels of the desert palate spread out before her. The sky was a milky summer blue, the sands an eggshell white draped with golden yokes of mesquite. On the far-off horizon, a long lavender mesa gradually gave way to pink-tipped ridges.
It was cool inside the rental car, but when Whitney got out of it at the end of tiny Spur Lane, the September desert heat hit her square in the face. By the time they had walked up to the door of the modest mobile home where Kevin and Linda Carmichael lived, perspiration was streaming down Whitney’s back.
A tall, skinny, fiftyish man with thinning hair opened the door in response to Adam’s knock. He wore white cotton gloves, a baggy T-shirt and even baggier shorts. “Yes?”
“Kevin Carmichael?” Adam asked.
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“My name is Adam Justice, Mr. Carmichael. I’m an attorney.”
“Adam Justice? You have anything to do with that call my wife got yesterday?”
