Perfectly Criminal

by Celeste Marsella

  Beth, still unsure, took a few deep breaths as if she were getting ready to make her first skydive from a speeding plane. “Maybe I should just finish the motion I was working on…”

  I winked at Laurie as I spoke to Beth. “I'll meet you at the Suburban, kiddo. You have ten minutes.” And then I walked out, not quite sure where we were going, but really sure that I couldn't sit around the office and do nothing while the trail to three murders was looming ahead of me and growing cold.

  THE OMEN

  ON MY WAY TO THE AG LOT, I SPIED CHUCKY “THE Chief” Sewell poking around my Suburban.

  “You dusting for prints, sweetkins?” I hollered as I strode to him.

  He backed up away from the passenger side window and waited for my arrival. The closer I got, the farther back he reared his head, as if we were two magnets approaching each other from the same pole.

  “Where're you off to?” he asked.

  Lying was a talent that required careful but impromptu planning. I looked at my watch. It was 10 a.m. “A snack,” I said. “I'm waiting for Beth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You and Beth? Alone?”

  “Hey, why does everyone assume Beth isn't safe around me?”

  “You aren't taking her to that Red Fez dive, are you? Health Department found rats there on more than one occasion.”

  “You're worried about me with a few little rats when the biggest one I've ever faced is standing right in front of me? Anyway, I heard the Fez got a cat, so we're all set.” I inserted my key into the lock.

  “Door's open,” Chuck said. “You must have forgot to lock it.”

  I pulled open the door and stood for a minute, wondering why Chuck was alone. The chief of police always traveled with an entourage. And why was he hanging around the AG parking lot, and more specifically, my carl

  “You looking for evidence of something?” I asked. “In my car? Stalking me? What's up with this?”

  I heard him say something under his breath, talking to the ground, and then like a little kid, he kicked a stone across the lot and looked up at me. “I wanted to apologize.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I shouldn't have left you at the station like that. Alone. You know, the police station… it's like a boys' club and… well, there's jealousies. A lot of competition. And a lot of those guys are jealous of you… my relationship with you… well, you know… that you can burst into my office any damn time you want and get away with it. That kind of thing. They get pissed.”

  I didn't answer him. I was waiting to see if he knew the whole story of what went on that night. Waiting to see if he found out it was Patrolman Kent who kicked me around an interrogation room and then handcuffed me to a bench all night.

  “So, what I'm saying is… I'm sorry, is all. I knew all this shit beforehand and I shouldn't have weaseled out on you. I should have been there for you. Regardless of what anyone else thought or said…I shoulda been there.”

  I gave him a minute to breathe, to decide whether he felt sufficiently cleansed. He was still kicking pebbles around the lot. When I still didn't answer him, he looked up at me for a response.

  “No problem, Chuck,” I finally said. “No worries. I understand. You just didn't want to make it worse by showing me favoritism as a prisoner. I got it right away. I knew why you'd taken off. Why you left as soon as you knew I was being brought in. I was a prisoner, after all. What would it have looked like if you'd run to my rescue? And I wasn't angry. Because I expected it. Actually, I should be thanking you. Yeah, thanking you for showing me your true nature. For showing me that when my fucking life is on the line, you'll protect your own back and let my ass swing out in the cold. It's something I always suspected, but it's nice to have it verified that very special way. You know… with a few kicks, sleeping on a filthy cement floor, and me almost being forced to suck some street cop's dick because you were afraid of creating… what'd you call it? Jealousies among your men.”

  Chuck's jaw was undulating so hard I thought he might crack his teeth if I went on for one more word. I almost heard the growl coming out of his throat before he actually spoke. His teeth were still clenched.

  “God-fucking-dammit, Shannon. I find out who did this to you and he'll be out on his ass.”

  I hopped into my car as Beth approached from the end of the lot. Chuck turned his head in the direction I was staring and saw her too. I honked at her and slammed my door shut, thereby avoiding uncomfortable goodbyes with Chuck. And I didn't bother looking back at him as I started my engine and drove toward Beth. I felt sorry for him and I hated him at the same time. But one thing I didn't feel was love. I may not have been over Scott Boardman yet, but I was definitely over Charles Sewell.

  “What did he want?” Beth asked. She threw her bag in first, then pulled herself up into my Suburban like it was a wall she was trying to scale. “Wow, this is a big car. I don't think I've ever been in it before. We always take my car when we all go together.”

  “Because you're always the designated driver for the rest of us alcoholic losers.”

  She settled her small body into the large front bucket seat and fastened her seat belt. “So what did Chief Sewell want? Does he have any news on Boardman?”

  “I fucking hate pricks, and if I could have my way I'd lop off the balls of every man I've ever dated.”

  Beth kept her stare straight out the front window. She seemed to be holding her breath, so I punched her in the side and she jumped and screeched simultaneously. It was kind of funny, so I laughed. “I'm only kidding, Bethster.”

  “Of course. Obviously I knew that.” She turned to me and gave me a prim wooden smile. “So where are we off to?”

  “Grandma's house.”

  “That's another joke, right? Because you could mean Virginia Booth's house, but technically she's not the grandmother of the deceased. Although she's probably someone's grandmother. But I don't necessarily think that she'll tell us much. It's very possible that Virginia Booth has consulted an attorney already and has been told to hold her tongue—”

  “‘Hold her tongue’? What the fuck kind of legal term is that? You ever hear a defendant plead the Fifth by saying, ‘Your honor, I hold my tongue on the ground that I might incriminate myself’? Jesus Christ, Beth. Grow the fuck up!”

  “I'm sorry, I just don't want to sound like a know-it-all when I'm only a paralegal. I'm a little intimidated by you and—”

  “Hey, Beth, isn't anyone in your family friendly with the Booths? I mean, don't your families travel in the same social circles?”

  “Sure. Mother called yesterday and told me how upset Doogie is over Muffle's death.”

  I pulled the car over to the side of the road because I wasn't sure I could strangle Beth with one hand and still steer the car. “Doogie?”

  “That's Virginia's nickname. Her maiden name is Douglas, so they always called her Doogie for short. Anyway, Mom says Doogie's been calling everyone, trying to ruin Scott Boardman's name around town. Well, he's a member of the New York Yacht Club, just down the road from her, you know, and we're members too, so Doogie's trying to get a petition going to get his membership repealed. Nasty business really. Mom wanted my opinion as to whether or not she should sign the damn thing. I say stay out of it. Especially because I work at the AG's office, the very office that would be prosecuting him, if we ever get enough evidence. I mean, how would it look if my own mother signed a petition that presumed his guilt? A real conflict, right? I'm hoping she took my advice. Should I call her?”

  “Lesson number one. Never take your family to work. Remember what happened to Marianna's little sister last year? We leave your mother out of it. Now, good old Doogie must have a list of potential signees, no? A list of people she's calling to oust the senator?”

  “Well, I assume it's her pals at the club. I can guess who they are. I have them all on my contacts list. I keep all kinds of stuff on my BlackBerry. You should get one.”

  I pulled the car back on the road and headed down 9
5 South and Route 4 toward the Jamestown and Newport bridges. If anyone could pry those tight-lipped lockjaws loose, it was Beth—if she would only shut her mouth long enough to let someone get a word in edgewise.

  “I'm thinking Bootsie Bergen would be a good place to start,” Beth said. “Bootsie's daughter Lolly was great friends with Muffie. I mean, they were older than me, but Lolly and Chip Chase, her husband, had this great lodge in Stratton where we'd all ski winter break, and I remember Muffie from then. I always thought she was a little mannish looking now that I think of it—”

  “Why haven't you told us any of this?”

  Beth thought a minute. “Well… isn't it Scott Boardman you're interested in? The Chases' ski lodge in Stratton is a leap, isn't it?”

  “Honey, Muffie Booth was murdered too. And if Muffie and Pat Boardman had so tight a thing going on that the Muff was transferring millions in assets to her… well, it seems like their little love trysts might have been going on for a while. Someone has to know something.”

  “Right, I see. You're taking the whole thing from a different angle. Like Muffie was the target.”

  “Every angle, Beth. If there's nothing else you're going to learn in law school this fall, it'll be that there can be more than four angles to a box. The second most important thing you'll learn is that you need to unlearn the terms right and wrong. The only side that's important is the side you're on. I had a law professor in Torts. He made each one of us take a case and then argue both sides of it. Lesson being that both sides are the right side. How you argue it just depends on which side of the courtroom you happen to be sitting on.”

  I felt Beth looking at me and, from the corner of my eye, saw her beaming smile.

  “I always thought you just intimidated juries and that's why you win so much in court. But you're every bit as smart as Laurie. And Marianna's so pretty she doesn't have to be that smart, but… I mean… Mari's smart too.”

  So it wasn't respect after all. Everyone just got out of my way because I was as threatening as a Dumpster full of crap. Did any of my friends take me seriously as a lawyer? Maybe the Cohen case was an omen.

  “Why,” I asked Beth, “does everyone just assume Laurie is smart and I'm not? Because she's Jewish? I'm a dumb drunken Irishman and she's a descendant of Einstein?”

  “Shannon, I thought we all made a pact not to trash each other's ethnic backgrounds unless the trashee was present.”

  “Shit!” I picked up my phone and dialed Laurie at the office. “Laur, I just made a Jewish slur. Not only do all Jews think they're brilliant, but apparently they've got the whole fucking world bamboozled too. So what do you have to say about that? Huh?”

  “Scott Boardman's here,” she whispered. “In with Vince now. He just walked in with his brilliant lawyer Ron Esterman—a Jew, I might add.”

  “Fuck you, Laurie.”

  “Anything with you and Beth yet?”

  “We're working on friends of Muffie Booth. They all have purse-puppy names like Doogie and Bootsie and Lolly.”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  I wasn't sure whether she was talking about our leads in the case or the poodle names of the socialite set, but we agreed to keep each other posted and signed off.

  “So,” Beth prattled on, “Lolly lives in a condominium at Bonniecrest. She'd have been Muffle's closest friend-well, after Pat Boardman—but I guess technically Muffie and Pat Boardman weren't just friends. I should give Lolly a call first, though.”

  Beth made the call from the Newport Bridge, and fifteen minutes later we were in an apartment overlooking the same glass-green waves Marianna and I had seen from Virginia Booth's house. Beth had—on my suggestion—neglected to tell Lolly that she was being accompanied by a friend (as unlikely a pair as Beth and I were). We also agreed to keep Lolly ignorant of the fact that we were there on semi-but-unauthorized official AG business, so of course when Lolly Bergen saw the Mutt and Jeff team of Beth and me standing on her doorstep, her smile was less enthusiastic than a woman of her manners should be when entertaining for tea.

  “Be-eth?” she sang. “It's been ages. So awful about Muffie, huh?” Without a breath she looked at me. “Hi! I'm Lolly Bergen.” She extended her cool white hand.

  Lolly was Beth's height. Thin and wispy. Her palm green eyes made the brackish New England coastline look like swamp water. A few freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, and the waves of her strawberry blond hair were corralled tightly back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore those same Jack Rogers flats that Brooke had worn the fatal night at Al Forno, although Lolly's were apple green, and her short skirt was covered in pink and green seahorses.

  I tried my best to be subdued, more to convince her that Beth and I were actually close friends than because I didn't want to offend her. These icy kinds of girls always act stiff and proper until you get a few glasses of white wine in them, then they pull out a pack of Marlboro Lights, order a martini, and fuck every guy who winks at them.

  “Hi!” I gave her my paw. “Shannon Lynch. Nice place you have here.”

  “Oh yeah? Thanks. Chip and I bought it ages ago and Newport's suddenly hip again. Chip works in Boston and he stays there during the week. We have a condo there too. Can I get you two something to drink?”

  Beth took Lolly by the hand to her kitchen as she spoke. “You know, when I heard about Muffie I wanted to call you immediately, but you know my job and the conflict and all. But I said, the hell with it. Lolly Bergen's been my friend forever and no job is more important than your friends, so I just decided to come right over and throw caution to the wind.”

  I rolled my eyes and followed the chatty little birds to a kitchen that looked as sterile and steeled as an operating room. It always bugged the crap out of me that rich people—who never have to cook—always have the high-end commercial-grade appliances.

  I twirled myself into a counter stool and glanced over the sink through a triple bank of open windows to where the sea crashed and rolled, sending its sweet and salty smell into the room.

  Beth without a word had gone to the cupboard and pulled down three long-stemmed glasses. “How about wine? What've you got open?”

  Lolly pulled a bottle of Santa Margherita from the fridge. It was three-quarters full. She and Beth twittered catch-up gossip as they coordinated their efforts to pour us each a brimming glass, then they sat together at the white marble counter facing me. I snuck a look at my watch. Half past noon. Cocktail hour for unemployed socialites? But who was I to judge? How many scotch neat lunches had I imbibed at the Red Fez in the middle of the day in the middle of a trial?

  Hoping Lolly would have enough alcohol in her system to spill her guts before she found out I was an AAG, I plunged quickly into discourse of the most inane kind.

  “So, Lolly, you grew up around here, right? You guys are childhood friends?”

  Lolly looked over at her old friend Beth. “Well, Bethy's a bit younger. I'm between Muffie and Beth in age.” Then she remembered Muffie. “Oh my God, poor Muffie. Imagine dying like that. I mean being murdered. Do you know how she died, Beth?”

  Beth shrugged. “They don't tell me those things,” she lied like a true professional. “I'm not a lawyer there yet, you know.”

  Lolly nodded. “A hate crime maybe? Because of… well, you know… their thing together. And I guess it was getting really serious. You heard about Doogie's lawsuit, right? To stop Muffie from transferring assets or something. I think that's what it's all about. Money. Isn't it always?”

  Beth took a sip of wine. “Perhaps, Lolly, but I hope you aren't thinking Doogie could have murdered her own daughter?”

  Lolly's eyes opened wide, bursting with information, but she had the good breeding to make Beth drag it out of her rather than just gossiping outright.

  “Spill it, Lolly,” Beth said, refilling Lolly's wineglass to the brim and then dashing a bit more in hers and mine in a good-faith show of camaraderie. I'd faked a few sips of mine because wine gave me an instant
headache, but if it had been a nice single malt…

  Lolly woke me from my dream. “Doogie and Muffie haven't gotten along since… well… practically since Muffie got her first period,” Lolly said. “I think it was way back then that Muffie kind of knew… that she was different.” Lolly took two hefty gulps of wine and stared at the back wall for her next revelation. “Muffie and I actually experimented once. She wanted me to touch her—”

  “Okay! So wow, that's cool,” I said, stopping the conversation dead. “So Muffie and her mom were, like, at odds since… well, forever.” I was proud of myself, starting to pick up the WASP jive, drawing out my words with imaginary syllables and fluffing up my sentences with superfluous words.

  Lolly nodded deeply. “I mean, she married just to make the family happy, but she never had kids and they always traveled separately. The divorce was inevitable. I'm surprised it took so long to end it. But I think it was Pat who finally forced the issue…and now Pat and Muffie are both dead. I wonder what will happen to the money now that both Pat and Muffie are gone.”

  Beth's mouth dropped open as she looked to me for my legal opinion. I was shaking my head slowly, mixing up all the facts and trying a get a clean timeline of events. Trust and estate law wasn't exactly my area of expertise, but any second-year law student could have answered the question. “It depends on what stage the transfer was at,” I said. “If Muffie had successfully completed the transfer to Pat before their deaths, then the lawsuit will go forward, and Virginia…ah…Doogie… will ask a court to void the transfer and all the assets would revert back to her. But if she doesn't prevail in the suit—if she loses and the court finds the transfer valid-Scott Boardman, through his dead wife's estate, will be a little bit richer.”

  “And,” Beth finished, her eyes wide, “Scott Boardman just got another motive for murder.”

  OVER MY DEAD BODY

  BETH AND LOLLY DOWNED THE REST OF THEIR wine as Beth lulled Lolly into a dreamy discussion of the latest Newport gossip, none of which netted any further useful information. But Beth seemed thrilled to be back in the loop. She was animated with Lolly in a way I'd never seen her be with us, laughing, gesturing, and by the time we were ready to go, she and Lolly were practically in each other's arms. I felt like an intruder. I took my glass to the sink, signaling the end of cocktail hour, and Beth and I extracted ourselves from Lolly's hungry need for company.