by Ellen Hart
“I was. Had to take Hattie over to Hazel’s house.”
“She has a friend named Hazel? One who isn’t in her eighties?”
“Don’t be ageist. The name’s coming back. Hattie and Hazel and Jabril, a boy who lives a couple blocks away, are best buds. They bonded over geology. Can you believe it? Bonding over dirt? Don’t quote me, but I believe they’re the official science mafia at their school.”
“That sounds pleasant.”
“So what about it? Can I tempt you?”
“With what?” Jane’s stomach had been growling for the last hour, and beyond that, she needed to change gears, not spend the rest of evening overanalyzing what had just happened with Julia.
“A surprise. Will the good doctor be joining us?”
“Not right away. She’s Skype-ing up in her office.”
“More food for us if we eat fast. While we’re eating, we can discuss Rashad’s case. Peace, Janey. Out.” She cut the line.
“Cordelia? Are you there?” She returned her attention to the bottle of vodka, but before she could fill the shot glass a second time, the front bell chimed.
“Food delivery,” cried Cordelia as Jane opened the front door. She rattled several white sacks above her head as she swept inside.
“You already bought it? Am I that easy to convince?”
“Who isn’t in the mood for the Rainbow’s lemongrass meatballs? Just think of me as your personal Grubhub.” Instead of her usual fur-lined cap with the requisite ear flaps, she’d donned a man’s fedora set at a rakish angle. Reaching the dining room table, she shrugged out of her coat, revealing a vintage maroon-and-gray man’s smoking jacket. Very deco. It was an extra-generous size, selected to accentuate her curvaceous girth.
Dropping her coat over the chair, Cordelia eyed Jane. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh?”
“You’re upset. I can read you like the directions on the back of a frozen pizza. You can talk to me about anything, you know. I am a veritable font of discretion.”
Jane was grateful for the concern. “Thanks.”
“I am also the reincarnation of Dear Abby, with the soul of Mister Rogers.”
“I’m fine, Cordelia. Really.”
“All right,” she muttered. “Moving on. You have plenty of the elixir of life, I presume. Chilled and ready for moi?”
“I have black-cherry soda, no strawberry. You drank it all last time.”
“That will do. You go get it, and I’ll set up the food display.”
Jane released Gimlet from her arms as she crossed back into the kitchen. She pulled the can of pop out of the fridge, grabbed herself a beer, found plates and napkins, and returned to the dining room.
“Honey walnut shrimp,” said Cordelia, sweeping her hand over the containers. “Chicken in black bean sauce, a sweet vegetable curry, the egg rolls, chicken-and-chive dumplings, and, of course, the aforementioned meatballs.”
They sat down and began to pass the cartons around.
“Before we begin,” said Cordelia, removing the paper cover from a pair of plastic chopsticks, “have you heard from Peter today?”
“Not a word.”
“Hattie had a brief sighting early this morning. That boy needs to check in once in a while. I’m not his mother, but if he’s going to live under my roof, he has to obey the rules.”
“Which are?”
“I’ll think some up and post them on the refrigerator. Next item on the agenda: Tell me what you know about his marriage. Is something amiss?”
“He hasn’t talked to you about it?”
“He clammed up when I asked. Clammed up like a … well, like a … clam. Sorry, Janey. I can’t always be verbally brilliant.”
“I think they might be in trouble,” said Jane. “I don’t have details.”
“Well, let’s get on the horn after dinner and call Sigrid.”
“It’s none of our business.”
“Of course it’s our business. We love them. It’s up to us to help.”
“I mean it, Cordelia. If one of them decides to open up and tell us what’s going on, and if we’re asked for an opinion, then we give it. Otherwise, we’re intruding.”
“Horsefeathers. Poppycock. Total and utter baloney.”
“Promise me you’ll stay out of it.”
Cordelia chewed a meatball and refused to commit. “Tell me what you’ve learned that might help Rashad. Don’t leave anything out. Oh, wait.” She squeezed her eyes shut and touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “Yes, there we are. All my little gray cells are standing at attention. You may begin.”
While Jane ate, she went over every significant piece of information her father had given her. She also mentioned that she’d read the police report and was working her way through the trial transcript.
“Been there, done that,” Cordelia said.
“It’s all new to me,” Jane said, finishing up with her visit to Cantrell & Diaz.
“So,” said Cordelia, stabbing her chopstick through a chicken-and-chive dumpling, “your dad will deal with all the legal mumbo jumbo while we’re supposed to sniff out the real murderer.”
Jane stopped chewing.
“Right?”
Swallowing her food, Jane said, “I suppose you could put it that way. Dad seems pretty certain that Gideon knew his murderer.”
“Because there was no evidence of a break-in.”
“Exactly. Even though the security cameras weren’t up and running in the upper stories of the Finnmark, it was still a secure building. You couldn’t gain access to the condo tower unless you had a key or knew the key codes.”
“And our current suspects are,” said Cordelia, checking the names off on her fingers, “Chuck Atchison, Gideon’s nephew and the man he fired from his law firm. His daughter, Marlo Wise. And her husband—her fiancé at the time—George Krochak. I’m sure, as I dig further—”
Jane restrained herself from rolling her eyes.
“—into the case, other possibilities will arise.”
The doorbell rang.
“Maybe it’s Peter,” said Cordelia, leaping up.
Before opening the door, Jane checked through the peephole. She didn’t recognize the middle-aged woman standing outside. “Can I help you?” she asked, keeping the screen door locked.
“Are you Jane Lawless?” asked the woman.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Marcia McBride. Andrew Cantrell gave me your information and asked me to contact you. I was Gideon Wise’s executive secretary at Cantrell & Diaz. I was out and about tonight and thought … I probably should have called first. I hope I’m not coming by too late.”
“Not at all,” said Jane. She usually had to chase people around to get them to talk to her. This was a pleasant surprise. “Please, come in.”
“I don’t live far from here,” said Marcia, bending and holding her hands out so Gimlet could sniff them.
Cordelia stood by the table, adjusting the belt on her smoking jacket. “I am Cordelia M. Thorn, world-renowned theater impresario.” She crossed into the foyer and offered her hand.
“Oh, wow,” said Marcia, her eyes growing wide. “I thought you looked familiar. I am such a fan. I love your theater. My husband and I have been there many times and never been disappointed.”
“You’re too kind,” said Cordelia, her eyelashes fluttering coyly.
Jane helped Marcia off with her coat.
“I’m so sorry if I’ve interrupted your dinner.”
“We were all done,” said Cordelia, offering Marcia her arm. “Why don’t we adjourn to the living room? Jane, feel free to bring in the after-dinner cordials and cigars.”
“She’s kidding,” said Jane, though Marcia seemed happy to take Cordelia’s arm.
Once they were all seated—Jane and Cordelia on the couch, Marcia on the rocking chair by the fireplace—Marcia began, “I guess I was excited by the idea that I would finally get to tell someone about what happened, why Chuck
Atchison was fired.”
“How long have you worked at the firm?” asked Cordelia, all business now.
Marcia switched her gaze between Cordelia and Jane. “Are you both working on the case?”
“I’m a licensed P.I.,” said Jane.
“And I add that extra special zing,” said Cordelia. “Every endeavor in life needs that, don’t you agree?”
Marcia looked uncertain.
“Another joke,” said Jane. “You can speak freely. Cordelia is … assisting me.”
“Well, cool,” said Marcia. “An impresario on the case. You can’t beat that.”
Cordelia smiled demurely.
“Okay, so I worked for Mr. Wise for nine years. He was the best boss I ever had. Very fair.”
“And Chuck Atchison?” asked Jane.
“A horrid man. A month or so before he was fired, Mr. Wise began calling him in for unscheduled meetings, usually late in the day. At the same time, all these female staffers, law clerks, paralegals, and even a few of the new associates began to parade through Mr. Wise’s office. Some of them had tears in their eyes when they left. They eventually all came back and handed me a sealed envelope, which I was directed to pass on to Mr. Wise without opening. Perhaps I shouldn’t have listened at the door when he finally called Atchison in for the last time, but I couldn’t help myself. The conversation got really heated really fast. Mr. Wise said he had seventeen verifiable accusations of sexual harassment against Atchison. They ranged from unwanted touching to, in three instances, attempting to force women to have sex with him by telling them that if they refused, he’d see to it that they lost their jobs.”
“Heavens,” said Cordelia.
“He denied it, of course. Said the women were out to get him. He demanded to know who’d made the complaints. Mr. Wise refused to tell him. Instead, he fired him, right there on the spot. Said he’d keep the situation private as long as Atchison left quietly. Atchison flat-out refused, said he’d fight it, that he’d sue. It went back and forth like that for a few minutes. Eventually Mr. Wise convinced him to see reason. If the accusations became public, it would end his career.”
“It should have ended,” said Cordelia, “with him going to prison.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But it was Mr. Wise’s decision. Atchison was his nephew. I’m sure that was why he let the matter go at termination with no letter of recommendation.”
“The old boy network is alive and well,” snarled Cordelia, “in case anyone was still wondering.”
“Mr. Wise told Mr. Atchison that if he ever learned that Atchison was engaging in the same kind of behavior somewhere else, that he would personally see to it that he was disbarred. He insisted that he stay away from his daughter, Marlo. I’ve never seen a man look as red-faced and furious as Atchison was when he left Mr. Wise’s office. A security guard went with him while he cleaned out his office, and then he was walked to his car.”
“He must have hated his uncle for talking to him like that,” said Jane.
Marcia gave a firm nod. “I’ve been told that your father is trying to reopen Mr. May’s case. I hope he can. The police didn’t know anything about what happened between Mr. Wise and Mr. Atchison. I thought about telling them, but in the end, I figured it was best to stay out of it. I mean, the police know what they’re doing, right? But I never changed my opinion. If anyone should have been in the hot seat for Mr. Wise’s murder, it was Mr. Atchison.”
“Just the kind of intelligence we’ve been looking for,” said Cordelia.
Marcia seemed pleased. “Well,” she said, “I’ve said my piece. I should probably get home. You two have a lot of work to do.”
“Before you go,” said Jane, “will you answer one last question? You saw Gideon Wise every day. Did anything else happen around that same time that stands out in your memory?”
Marcia fingered a button on her blouse. “Since you bring it up. I don’t like to tell tales out of school, but there was this … one thing. It had nothing to do with work. I came in one morning and found Mr. Wise’s door closed. He almost always kept it open.”
“If you listened at the door again,” said Cordelia, giving Marcia an encouraging smile, “we promise we won’t think badly of you.”
“Go on,” said Jane.
“Well, I mean, even with the door closed, it was impossible not to hear the shouting. And then, before I knew it, the door flew open, and a man came out. He was a little bit stooped, leaning heavily on a cane. He never looked at me or said a word, just left the office. Once he was gone, Mr. Wise walked into the reception area. He seemed like he was about to say something, perhaps explain what had just happened, but instead he turned and went back into his office.”
“Do you know who the man was?” asked Cordelia.
“I didn’t at the time. I saw him again at Rashad May’s trial. A friend pointed him out to me as George Krochak, the one who’d married Marlo Wise a few months before the trial began.”
Jane sat forward. “He was leaning on a cane? Was he ill?”
“No idea.”
“Do you remember anything that was said that morning? Any words or scraps of sentences?”
Marcia grew uneasy. “Mr. Wise did a lot of cursing. Name calling. I’d heard him raise his voice before, but never anything like that.”
“And Mr. Krochak?” asked Jane.
“If he said anything, I couldn’t hear it.”
“You have no idea what prompted Mr. Wise’s outburst?”
“I assumed he had some sort of business with the man that had soured. The next time I saw Mr. Wise that morning, he was in a good mood, acted as if nothing had happened.”
“Is there anything else you remember that might be helpful?”
“Not really. But I’ll let you know if I think of something.”
“You’ve been immensely helpful,” pronounced Cordelia.
Marcia smiled, still looking a little starstruck. “This is so amazing to meet you like this.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“I mean, you know so many famous people. And now … to learn you’re a private eye. You must have an incredibly exciting life.”
“I do,” said Cordelia. “And wildly glamorous.”
Rising from the rocking chair, her eyes still locked on Cordelia, Marcia said, “This is so cool.”
Jane helped her on with her coat. Walking her into the front foyer, she said, “I really appreciate how candid you’ve been with us.”
“I’m happy I could help.” She snuck one last look at Cordelia, who was standing with her arm resting on the mantel, one hand dipped into the pocket of her smoking jacket. On her way outside, Marcia stopped and turned around. “Before I leave, let me be candid about one last thing. I never felt comfortable with the verdict at Mr. May’s trial. I’d seen Mr. Wise and Mr. May together many, many times. They always seemed very much in love to me. I know things aren’t always what they seem, but even so, I had a hard time buying the picture the prosecution tried to paint, that it was all an act on Mr. May’s part, that his only interest was Mr. Wise’s money. I hope you’ll be able to get to the bottom of what really happened that night.”
“I hope so, too,” said Jane.
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
Cordelia appeared behind Jane, offering Marcia a solemn nod as she wiggled her fingers.
After Marcia had driven away, Jane shut the door and glanced over her shoulder. “You were a big hit.”
“One does what one can. Now, Jane, dear. Didn’t you forget something? My cigar? My crème de menthe?”
16
The offices, printing and distribution areas for Marlo’s greeting card company, SwankyNotes, were located in a single-story warehouse complex in St. Louis Park. Marlo usually arrived by seven each morning and worked late.
As the nine A.M. hour approached, she found herself sitting at her drafting table, staring at nothing in particular. Every few minutes, she would wake out of h
er reverie and order herself to stop daydreaming. But the problem was, Marlo never liked being ordered around, even when she was the one doing it. She ignored her better self and kept right on thinking about George. He’d been so nice to her lately that she wondered what was going on. Last night, he’d been positively amorous. Had his feelings changed? Was it possible to marry and then fall in love? Nothing about their marriage had been normal, so why change now?
The intercom buzzed. “Marlo?” came a woman’s voice. “You got a visitor.”
Marlo checked her appointments. She had nothing on the calendar. “Who is it? What’s it about?”
“I’m quoting here. ‘Something personal.’”
“Oh, all right. Send him in. And hey, find out when I can do that press check. Jason said he’d have it ready by nine.”
“Will do.”
Margo climbed down off the stool and moved over to her desk. Before she sat down, a woman appeared in the doorway. She was middle-aged and attractive, with short, wavy, brown hair and mirrored aviator shades, dressed in jeans and a navy peacoat. At five two on a tall day, Marlo was shorter than most people, and this woman was no exception. “Can I help you?” Marlo asked, trying her best to sound pleasant.
The woman introduced herself as Jane Lawless.
“Any relation to Raymond Lawless?”
Jane took a few steps into the office. “He’s my father. I’m an investigator, working with him on the Rashad May case.”
Marlo stopped making any attempt at morning cheer. “Well that’s just peachy keen, Ms. Lawless. Turn around and get the hell out of my office.”
“We have reason to believe Rashad might be innocent.”
“I’m not interested in your theories.” She sat down with a thud and began rearranging papers on her desk.
“Could I just ask you a couple of questions? Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
“No,” said Marlo.
“It’s about your cousin, Chuck Atchison.”
Her head jerked up. “What about him?”
“Did you know your father fired him a few weeks before his death?”
“Who told you that?”
“Your father had seventeen written affidavits from women at the law firm accusing Mr. Atchison of sexual harassment. If you don’t believe me, you can talk to his secretary, Marcia McBride.”
