by Nevada Barr
The upside of the YouTube phenomenon is that Royal’s grandmother, Elizabeth Pryor, has not only agreed to accompany Rose when she turns herself in but will also represent her in all things pertaining. Royal promises Rose can’t find a better criminal defense attorney than his grandma. What better recommendation can Rose ask for?
Not that she has to ask. Now that she is a media sensation, everyone and his or her dog is clamoring to represent her. Mel calls to let her know Uncle Daniel had to unplug the house phone and that after her dance class, he and she will be driving to the Highlands. A friend of her dad’s has a cabin there. She and Daniel are to hide out for a few days until, to quote Flynn, “I get this finalized.”
Not a phrase that comforts a felon with a target on her back.
At two thirty, dressed in another of Izzy’s outfits—a gray pinstriped skirt, a fitted cap-sleeved blouse in white cotton, black patent leather flats, and an ear-length auburn wig, shingled into gentle flying buttresses to either side of her face—Rose calls for a ride.
Once the will is changed, she will breathe easier. Flynn, Daniel, and Grandma Nancy will be removed, if not from suspicion, at least from the temptation to make any future attempts on her life.
Maybe it’s because of the numbing effects of drugs working their way out of her system, but if the greedy murderous person is family, Rose doesn’t want to find out who. If it is Flynn, Mel will be shattered. If Daniel or Nancy, the hit won’t be as devastating, but it will hurt. Blended-family gatherings are hard enough to navigate without one member having literally tried to murder another.
Ms. Lopez and the provider of victims might still want to kill Rose for what they imagine she knows. Oddly that doesn’t frighten her as much as it should. That isn’t personal. She is too tired to drum up any interest in deadly strangers. Spiritually and psychologically, Rose is exhausted, the kind of life-fatigue she occasionally glimpses in the eyes of the very, very old. Her mother-in-law at ninety-seven, her great-uncle at ninety-five, no sorrow, resentment, or despair, just a great weariness, a desire to leave this party and go home.
Unfortunately for Rose, though she is a lousy Buddhist, she is a believer. If she nods off with her karma in such a snarl, she’ll just be born into another life and have to work the whole thing out over again.
From scratch.
A good reason to stay awake and alert, she thinks, as, on the screen of the cell phone, she watches the Lyft car stagger robotically through its paces as it zeroes in on her location.
The estate lawyer’s office is twenty minutes toward the central, skyscraper-infested part of the city, near, but not in, what in New Orleans would be called the business district. Rose doesn’t know what it is called in Charlotte. Like many other private practices, the office is in a repurposed home. What was once the front lawn is paved to make an eight-car parking lot, prettily edged with planter boxes to soften the blow for a neighborhood in transition from residential to commercial.
The building is two stories, of the ubiquitous brick, painted pale yellow with forest-green shutters. A sign, imitating an old brass plaque, lists the estate lawyer and another law firm, JENSON & DAUGHTERS. An omen, Rose hopes, indicating that the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket, or at least not as quickly as she sometimes fears.
The driver lets her off. Rose takes a moment to gather herself, make sure that her costume—conservative Izzy elegance—is hanging neatly and that there is no lipstick on her teeth. Her objective is to look overwhelmingly sane and utterly harmless. To further this effect, Mel had brought her pearl stud earrings, a pearl necklace, and a clutch bag that matches the shoes. The clutch holds nothing but a cell phone and a lipstick. These are all the personal accoutrements Rose can lay claim to, unless one counts acrylic animal skins and three plastic arrows, one missing the feathers.
Inside the building, a receptionist, serving both firms, is seated behind a faux antique cherrywood desk that supports a discreet computer and phone. She directs Rose to the elevator. Given it is a two-story house, Rose requests the stairs. The receptionist emits a mildly irritated huff, then indicates a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT on the far side of the room.
The stairs, plain and shabby, are a dirty little secret the elevator aficionados are spared. As she emerges, she finds Greene and Associates to her right. The door is open. There are two rooms in the suite; the first, the paralegal’s domain, guards the second, an inner sanctum where the lawyer holds dominion.
The paralegal’s desk is untenanted. As Rose enters, a small, pleasant-looking woman, midfifties at a guess, with narrow shoulders and wide hips, comes into view from the inner office. A mischievous smile quirks her thin lips. The lenses of her oversized glasses reflect the gray of the walls. “Mrs. Dennis.” She advances with a fine-boned hand, graced with an emerald ring, the stone too heavy for the delicate fingers, extended. “I was so sorry to hear about your loss.” Her handshake is firm, her flesh cool and dry. “Come in, come in. My paralegal is out on an errand. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
Rose is ushered into the office. Lush carpet, bookcases heavy and dark, leather chairs with high backs: little has changed. The woman doing the greeting and ushering, Rose realizes, is Alma, the old paralegal. The furnishings might have stayed the same, but Alma is changed. She looks younger than Rose remembers. Her hair is a different color and worn in a fashionable cut. She’s lost weight. Where Rose remembers a bit of an aging drudge, there stands a polished, vibrant professional.
“Alma?” Rose says.
“Alma,” the woman agrees with a smile. “When I met you I was finishing up law school. I was promoted to junior partner. When my mentor—and friend—passed away several years ago…” She shrugs and smiles as she gestures at the room. “I left the manly décor because it reminds me of him. And it seems to comfort people.” Alma raises her eyebrows. “We have tea, if you prefer.”
Tea sounds good, civilized. “I would like some tea,” Rose says.
Alma leaves to fetch refreshments. Rose studies her surroundings. The furniture mimics antiques but is probably no more than twenty years old. Boilerplate, as if the importance of male professionalism has been captured by a franchise designer, and sold as Big Deal Lawyer in a Box. As one would expect, gigantic framed diplomas and certificates cover the wall behind the desk. Alma Mae Greene, magna cum laude, Tulane University. Much in the way of olde-fashioned script and gold foil. In lesser frames, on a lesser wall, are the memorabilia of the firm’s founder.
Rose remembers him, a slight man with thinning white hair. There was a genuine kindness about him that settled the inevitable queasiness stirred up by deciding who would benefit from one’s demise. Rose notes he also graduated from Tulane, sixty years to the day before his protégée.
“Choices,” Alma says, returning with a tray bearing an honest-to-England tea set complete with matching sugar and cream servers.
“Perfect,” Rose says. She chooses Lady Grey. Alma pours steaming water over the bag. Not quite in keeping with the classics, but close enough.
They settle down to the arduous business of rewriting the will. Alma, the professional woman Rose hadn’t seen when she was the firm’s paralegal, doesn’t ask Rose why she is cutting Harley’s sons out of the will less than three months after their father died. Undoubtedly stepparents do that sort of thing all the time, which is probably why someone in Harley’s family wants Rose too crazy, then too dead, to make the aforementioned changes.
Mel, too, is cut from the will. Though it can be changed back at any time, it feels like a betrayal. To alleviate her conscience, Rose leaves three million to Mel’s favorite charity, a no-kill shelter for animals of all kinds on a big chunk of land in Arizona. The remainder Rose leaves to Planned Parenthood. Until overpopulation is curbed, addressing other issues is merely postponing the inevitable.
By four thirty the bulk of the work is finished. Mel’s dance class lets out soon; then she will be heading to the Highlands with her uncle. Rose wants to see her
before she goes, say goodbye, and hope Mel has forgiven her the lies and the gun.
Flynn is due in on an eleven-ten flight. Rose will not see him until after Elizabeth Pryor has negotiated her surrender. Hopefully this will keep everyone safe. With the will changed, Flynn won’t suffer the temptation to strangle her for her money, but he might for the incredibly bad example she set for his thirteen-year-old daughter, not to mention showing her a severed finger and dragging her along on quasi-criminal adventures.
Rose signs, reads, drinks tea, signs more papers. Outside the light changes. Alma reviews and explains, makes copies, and heats water for fresh tea. Periodically both women check their cell phones, the lawyer writing necessary texts and Rose hoping for one.
The afternoon drags on. Alma murmurs explanations and types into her computer. Rose’s mind is fixed on her upcoming role in Orange Is the New Black: The Golden Years, the coming booking, mug shot, cavity search, and she knows not what else.
Long after everything is signed Alma still shuffles paper assiduously. Rose sips tea and wonders if the lawyer is waiting for something. Or wasting time, padding an already substantial bill. Alma’s mentor, Phil Miller, would have hated that. He and Harley were associates from when Harley worked in Charlotte—long before he met Rose. Mr. Miller was on Harley’s board of directors, hence the choice of him as their estate lawyer, that and the fact Flynn, their executor, lives in Charlotte.
Phillip Miller.
Miller and Associates.
Alma killing time.
Rose takes the cell from her bag and texts her sister.
Five minutes pass while Rose, like Pavlov’s friend, waits for the bell. Finally her phone pings.
The text reads: “There was a Miller on our dead MCU list. Phillip Marsden Miller, age eighty-two. Rapid onset. Died six weeks after incarceration. No early onset, hence dropped from core study group.”
Miller is a common name. Even Phillip Miller is a common name. Rose stands, stretches, and wanders around the room pretending to read book spines, books that computers have turned from precious information venues to wall décor. Miller’s diploma is tucked between bookcases. Phillip Marsden Miller.
Four months after Alma graduated from law school her beloved mentor suffered rapid-onset dementia and was put in Longwood’s MCU under the kind auspices of Wanda Lopez. Six weeks later he was dead, and the newly minted Alma inherited a lucrative law practice. A branch of law that specializes in the knowledge of precisely who will benefit from the death of whom.
The skin on the top of Rose’s head creeps as the hairs try to stand on end beneath the wig. She needs to leave this office. She sets her teacup down on the desk. First she needs to use the restroom.
Returning, she is girded for battle; no argument, she is walking out regardless of how the will is situated. Striding into the office, she doesn’t sit down. “I’m sorry,” she begins.
“We’re all done,” Alma announces with a bright smile, as she moves her phone off a folder. “Bet you thought you’d die before we finished your will.”
Rose smiles. “It did cross my mind.”
“No one dies until after Greene and Associates finishes the will. Company policy.” Alma rises from her chair and hands Rose her copy of the papers in a thick creamy folder embossed with the firm’s name. Rounding the desk, she retrieves Rose’s clutch, tucks it under Rose’s arm, and walks her to the elevator, evidently as anxious to have her go as she was to have her stay five minutes before.
Rose wants out badly enough that she doesn’t even start an argument about taking the stairs.
The elevator arrives. “You’re the last out tonight,” Alma says as Rose steps into the elevator.
CHAPTER 29
The elevator is small and old, probably installed when the house was a home. It is also slow. Though the descent is no more than fifteen feet, it inches and creaks along like an old man afraid of falling. Usually, Rose would suffer a few pangs of claustrophobia. Today her mind is such a tangle of thoughts, reality is as inaccessible as Sleeping Beauty’s castle before the lawn boy came.
Alma stirred up countless memory fragments from a life Rose hasn’t visited since she first became aware of the fog machine installed in her skull—a machine that still periodically manages an obscuring puff. Drugs don’t clear out immediately, nor without leaving residue. In the old days, it manifested as flashbacks. This time around, it manifests as confusion.
You’re the last out tonight, Alma said.
Rose suffers a disorienting sense that a memory, a name, is teetering on the edge of her mind, an important revelation on the tip of her tongue.
The elevator slows to less than its arthritic creep and begins groaning as it settles onto the ground floor. Rose waits while the doors decide whether or not to open this one last time. They manage it in halting lurches. The receptionist has gone home for the day. Rose lets herself out.
Last out tonight. Alma’s words niggle and tickle.
She is standing on the wide doorstep, juggling the fat folder and the slippery clutch, when she hears a familiar voice.
“Gigi! Over here!”
Mel is leaning out the passenger window of a flame-orange Jeep Wrangler Sport. Rose’s heart lifts so strongly, she rises up on her toes. Mel loves her. Mel has forgiven her. Mel has come to say goodbye.
Smiling like a fool, she trots over to the Jeep and climbs into the rear seat.
“What a treat,” she says. “I was afraid you were going to leave before I got to see you again.” She is about to give the driver the address of Royal’s house, where she is to meet with Elizabeth to strategize her coming surrender, when the driver leans around the seat.
“Hello to you, too, Rose,” Stella says.
“Stella! What are you doing here?” Rose’s voice is tart, bordering on rude. The sudden appearance has startled her, as does the orange Jeep. She’s never seen Stella drive one.
“I would have texted,” Mel says, “but Stella took my pack and phone. She shoved them under her seat.”
“There is no possible way to have a civilized conversation when you’re glued to that thing,” Stella says.
“Uncle Daniel told her to pick us up,” Mel continues. “But she won’t tell me why.”
“I did tell you,” Stella says, maneuvering the Jeep into traffic. “I told you I don’t know why. I just got this hysterical text from Dan. Don’t let’s go through this song and dance again.”
“You and Daniel are split up,” Mel insists stubbornly.
“Eleven months and thirteen days,” Stella says.
“I’m surprised you’d do any favors for Uncle Daniel,” Mel says.
“I didn’t do it for him.” Stella meets Rose’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I did it for you two. Regardless of Dan’s being a prick, I couldn’t leave you stranded, now, could I?”
“We aren’t exactly stranded,” Mel says.
“Jesus!” Stella bangs a palm on the steering wheel. “What is it with you Dennises? Never say ‘thank you.’ Just expect everybody to hop when you say ‘jump’.”
“Uncle Daniel isn’t a jerk,” Mel says.
“I didn’t say he was a jerk,” Stella snaps. “I said he’s a prick. And you’re a twit.”
“Where are you taking us?” Rose doesn’t worry about sounding rude this time.
“To your new house on Applegarth. And don’t ask me why. I’m just the fucking driver.”
Rose settles back in the seat. Careful to make no noise, she opens the clutch. She will text Daniel and see what is going on. In Izzy’s purse there is nothing but a tube of lipstick. She left the phone on the desk in Alma’s office.
Or did she?
She thinks she remembers putting it in the clutch before using the restroom, but then she remembers a lot of things that never happened, and doesn’t remember a lot of things that did. Could Alma have stolen the phone? To what end? So Rose couldn’t call for Lyft?
Or dial 911?
Not last out tonight but
She won’t last out the week. It was Alma’s voice in the hallway outside her bedroom in the MCU, the other participant in the conversation Rose heard as a threat to her life.
She reaches past the headrest and lays her hand on Mel’s shoulder. The girl’s fingers close warm around hers for a moment.
Eleven months and thirteen days. Daniel, too, was counting the days; Mel had said so. At the time, Rose thought he was merely celebrating his freedom.
The Greene and Associates gilded cream folder lies next to her empty clutch. An unpleasant premonition causes her to reach out and flip open the cover. The pages inside are blank.
“Eleven months, thirteen days,” Rose says. “Why are you counting?”
Stella doesn’t reply.
“In North Carolina you’ve got to be separated for a year before you can file for divorce. Uncle Daniel can file in seventeen days,” Mel says spitefully.
Stella does not respond. A moment later, Rose hears the telltale thump as the doors are locked from the driver’s seat.
Once the papers are served, the marriage is officially at an end. The marital property accrued during the union will be split. Daniel and his wife lived in a rental, have no children, no investments, no property, and a good bit of debt: Stella will get half of nothing. Unless Daniel comes into a windfall before he files for divorce.
“Stop the car,” Rose orders.
“Keep your panties on. We’re almost there.”
Rose considers strangling Stella from behind but is afraid the ensuing car accident might hurt Mel.
The Jeep turns onto Applegarth and proceeds in the direction of Rose’s house. Late-afternoon sun paints the white brick a burnt orange. Though it is prime dog-walking hour, the street, as usual, is empty of life, doors closed, windows curtained. In this moment Applegarth strikes Rose as a stage set for The Truman Show, Our Town, The Stepford Wives, a place real people don’t reside. Where neighbors never notice murderers on the porch roof, or strange sounds in the night.
Stella conns the Jeep up the empty driveway and noses it in in front of the one-car garage.
