by K. K. Beck
“As I understand it,” said Jane, “she was terrified of going to jail. She made a deal with the prosecutor.”
“But,” said Glendinning, “Richard English wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t begun your investigation. Which was based on the spurious assumption that these Flame people got Linda’s money. If you righted any wrongs, it was accidentally.”
They sat there in silence for a moment. Jane didn’t feel she could add much more. “I believe,” she said firmly, “that Uncle Harold would have approved of the results of my endeavors.”
“We’ll need to discuss this further, gentlemen,” said Mr. Montcrieff. “Harold’s work was always more cut and dried. Mrs. da Silva seems to have cut rather a wide swath.”
“I did my best, and I did it in the spirit in which Uncle Harold intended,” she insisted.
“What about publicity,” said the bishop. “Is there going to be any publicity?”
“I have made every attempt to keep my role anonymous,” said Jane. “The scholarship to Leonora was announced without any reference to me. I may have to appear in the Hawthorne trial, but only as a concerned friend of Leonora.”
“No cheap publicity,” said the bishop. “You don’t want to be some odious local celebrity, do you?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jane. “I want to lead a quiet life, doing Uncle Harold’s work.” And spending Uncle Harold’s money, she added to herself. In quiet good taste.
Mr. Montcrieff shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to discuss this among ourselves. This has some twists and turns that are a trifle unorthodox.”
“Before I leave,” said Jane, “I’d like to add that I was badly beaten during the course of this work. It wasn’t pleasant or easy. I was frightened and tired, and sometimes what I learned made me very sad. But whatever you decide, I’ll know I did what my uncle wanted me to. And more. And that I’d do it again.”
• • •
“It was that last speech you gave ’em that almost pushed them over the edge,” said Bucky later. They were at a large table at the South Pacific, a garishly decorated bar specializing in fruity rum drinks, where Bob Manalatu’s band was performing standards with a Hawaiian lilt.
“I can’t believe they shafted me like that,” said Jane, staring gloomily into her piña colada. “I practically got killed. What more did they want?”
“They’re very literal minded. And they fear anything vulgar. Uncle Harold was much more refined about the whole thing. But cheer up. They’re giving you another chance.”
Jane sighed. “Three more months, and an allowance. I feel like a kid on probation. I’m tempted to just tell them to—” She stopped, realizing Bucky was Mr. Montcrieff’s nephew. She supposed she should try to be discreet.
“Fuck themselves?” said Bucky, finishing her thought. “Come on. Give them a break. They’ll get used to your style. Just try to get a case that’s a little less byzantine next time. I mean, think about it from a legal point of view. Basically, you blackmailed someone into helping out a sweet kid.”
“But what about solving that old case?”
“They’re not nailing him on that old case. They’re nailing him on Richard English. Who never would have been killed if you hadn’t stirred things up.”
Jane shivered a little. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I can’t really be held responsible for his death. Dr. Hawthorne killed him. And English sowed those seeds years ago when he took Linda’s money.” She tried not to think about Richard English’s widow. Why couldn’t life be more straightforward? She suspected that for Uncle Harold it was. Life on the edge, where she always seemed to end up—and she realized with trepidation, where she liked it—could be messy and morally ambiguous.
“You bought yourself some time with that last speech,” said Bucky. “You should be grateful. It’s a holding action.” A steel guitar line ran through “Some Enchanted Evening.”
“They might have just sent you down the road,” he continued, “if they’d heard about your pal Bob. Uncle Harold never used big Samoan thugs.”
“Do I look stupid?” said Jane. “It’s simply a matter of the male’s superior upper body strength. I mean, you guys can open pickle jars better than we can.” She looked at Bucky sharply. “How do you know I left Bob out of my spiel?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Bucky, “I listened to the whole thing through the door of conference room B. I was really pulling for you, kid.” He put his hand on her knee and squeezed.
“Look,” said Jane, waving. “There’s Calvin Mason. I did tell you I invited him too, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t,” said Bucky, removing his hand and looking irked. He turned around.
Calvin came up to the table. “I want something with a paper umbrella in it,” he said eyeing the decor appreciatively.
“Prom drinks,” sneered Bucky. “I thought you were bringing Marcia.”
Calvin ignored him and scraped his chair into place. “Rough day working those divorce cases and snooping around motel parking lots?”
“I subcontract that to you, remember?” said Bucky.
Claire Westgaard, if possible even more obviously great with child, and wearing another billowing chintz slipcover of a dress, came up to their table accompanied by a thin man with glasses.
She gave Jane and Bucky each a peck on the cheek. “So nice of you to invite us,” she said. “Especially after the whole thing kind of crashed for you.”
“I wanted to thank the people who helped me,” Jane said.
“This is my husband,” said Claire, beaming. “Ben.” Jane introduced Calvin. “Great place,” Claire said, peering through a fringe of plastic palm leaves out over the dance floor, where the patrons seemed to be a strange mix of the geriatric and the young and trendy.
“Your Samoan buddy’s band is pretty good,” said Calvin Mason. “I love these old songs.”
“I know them all,” said Jane, reaching for pineapple and shrimp on a toothpick.
“That’s right,” said Bucky. “You’re a singer, aren’t you?”
“Used to be,” said Jane.
“Let’s get a couple of drinks in her and get her to sing,” said Calvin.
“No,” said Jane, laughing. “No. No. No.”
“Great idea,” said Bucky, hailing a muumuu-clad waitress staggering under a tray of drinks. “How about ‘Melancholy Baby.’ You know that?”
“Of course I do,” said Jane huffily. “But,” she added, “I’m not going to sing it now.” She glanced over at the entrance.
“So who else did you invite?” said Bucky, following her glance. “You look like you’re expecting someone.”
She shrugged. “Oh. John Cameron said he might drop by.” She shifted her gaze to the stage where Bob, swaying over the bass, lifted his chin in greeting. He was wearing a mammoth shirt covered with tropical fish and a dozen or so pink plastic leis. The band was now performing “Take the A Train” with ukeleles. It actually worked.
The waitress arrived with the latest offerings from the blender. “Nice try,” said Calvin, toasting Jane. “You almost just came into a lot of money.”
“Almost,” groaned Jane. “I’m sick of almost.”
“Too bad you can’t pay my bill,” added Calvin philosophically.
“I’m sorry about that.” She leaned forward. “I really am. But I’ve got a little left of my original stipend and I am buying you that drink.”
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” said Bucky. “Especially if it’s this place.”
“Come on,” said Jane “Don’t be a snob. This is great.” In the background a macaw screamed. “You know, this concept would really work in Europe,” she said. “Garish and tropical and American.”
“You’re not going back there, are you?” said Bucky.
She sighed. “The world is a different place. Everything went global. It doesn’t matter where I am, really. I’ll always be able to find what I want, anywhere in the world. I think I’
ll stay right here, close to the trustees. And look for another hopeless case.”
“That finder’s fee still holds, I take it,” said Calvin.
Claire squeezed into Jane’s side and said, sotto voce, “So how about you and Bucky? Making any progress?”
Jane wasn’t about to tell Claire that Bucky wasn’t her type. Claire would report it to Bucky as soon as Jane left the table to go to the ladies’ room, and Jane still needed an ally with links to the trustees. “To be honest, Claire,” she said, lying blatantly, “I’ve been too busy to think about men.”
Claire looked thoughtful. “When you find the right one, you’ll know.” She smiled over at her husband.
“I know,” said Jane. Behind her, she sensed a presence. She turned to see John Cameron, looking distinctly untropical in a brown tweed sport coat. “Thought I’d just come by and say hi,” he said. Jane introduced him around, and then he asked her to dance.
“Holding up?” he said, when they were out on the floor.
She closed her eyes for just a minute, and relaxed against him a little. “Yes,” she said. “They gave me another chance. I get to live in the house and I get some walking-around money.”
“I still say it’s a screwy way to make a living,” he said.
“I know. But I think I’m good at it. Or will be. Better than I was at my last job.”
“What was that?”
“I sang American ballads to jaded Europeans,” she said.
“You mean like ‘As Time Goes By’? Stuff like that?”
“That’s right. In satin dresses. I’m getting too old for that kind of nonsense.”
“No kidding? With long black satin gloves, too?”
“No,” said Jane, indignant. “Nothing cheap or tacky. I had a class act.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said, holding her a little tighter around the waist. “They scheduled the Hawthorne trial today.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Really? When?”
“August twenty-first.”
“Think you’ll nail him?” Silently she added, “And do you think I’ll nail you, right after the trial?”
“The prosecutor thinks so.”
“Good.”
He cleared his throat. “And my wife called this morning,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She thinks we should try and get back together. It’s what I thought I wanted, but now I’m not so sure.”
Jane was silent as they danced. “But I believe it’s worth a try,” he went on. “For the kids. I’m crazy about those kids, and they want us back together.”
“Then you should do everything you can to get back together,” said Jane.
“That’s what I figure.” They smiled into each other’s faces until Calvin Mason cut in. “You don’t mind, do you?” he said to John.
It felt rather comfortable to be held by Calvin, who danced in a direct, take-charge way, after the prickliness of feeling Cameron’s body next to hers. “While you were gone, Bucky went up and talked to Bob,” said Calvin. “The band wants you to sing with them.”
“It’ll never happen,” said Jane, laughing.
“Oh, come on. You better get those pipes in shape. You might have to go back to singing for your supper. Besides, I want to hear you.”
Over his shoulder, she saw John leave the room. He gave her a wave and a wistful smile. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, she told herself. He had been lonely. And he wouldn’t be anymore. She had been scared. And she wasn’t scared anymore.
“Are you listening to me?” said Calvin.
“Sure. You want me to sing. Forget it.”
The song ended and they went back to their table, where Bucky, sloshing his drink a little, announced, “It’s all arranged. You’re on next. ‘Melancholy Baby.’”
“Oh, what the hell,” said Jane. “This looks like a pretty easy room to work.” She plucked a plastic orchid from the centerpiece and stuck it behind her ear. Then she went up to the stage.
