Avayan forced a tight smile. "Yes, you have." His bushy eyebrows did a little dance above his eyes. "And First National appreciates your business very much."
"But?"
Realizing I wasn’t going to give up, Avayan sighed and explained. "The loan you're requesting is for a down payment on the business. According to the terms of your agreement, you intend to pay off the balance from the business receipts over the course of five years."
I shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing is wrong with it. In my opinion the agreement is quite generous. But if you are promising the future receipts to pay off the balance of the purchase price — plus interest — the bank can't use the business as security for a loan. You have no equity in the business that can be collateralized."
"But what about the sixty thousand?"
He raised an eyebrow. "The sixty thousand you intend to use as part of the down payment?"
I gathered my things. "So then there's no point in putting the paperwork through? I wasted my time and yours?"
Avayan shrugged. "There's always a chance."
"And that's all I have is a chance? As in a slim to none?"
He smoothed his suit jacket and fiddled with his tie again. You do have an impressive business plan — carefully thought out, aggressive but realistic. Plenty of experience and understanding of the industry. That's clear..."
"But?"
He hunched a narrow shoulder. "These are tough economic times, Miss Fitzgerald — for everyone. I wouldn't want to foster false hope."
If I'd had more self-respect, I'd have told him to go to hell and marched out with my head held high. Instead, I hung onto the shreds of hope he offered, thanked him for his time, and walked out to my car.
Fighting the urge to weep, I got into my car, and headed for downtown L.A. If traffic was in my favor and the rain didn't start again, I'd make it to George's lawyer's office with a few minutes to spare.
<<>>
Lloyd Sessions, Esquire had an office on Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles. Which was a nightmare to navigate and people avoided it like the plague. Naturally, I couldn't find any parking nearby, so I parked in a public lot three blocks from Sessions' building. Under other circumstances it might have been a pleasant walk. The air felt fresh and clean and there were plenty of shops along the way that could satisfy the urge to window shop. But I was late, power walking in heels and wished to hell I'd brought Zelda with me. My stomach growled because I’d passed on breakfast and only grabbed a large coffee to go on my way to the bank.
By the time I stood in front of Sessions' secretary, I was out of breath and in no mood for the mild reprimand she issued for being late. "I'm sorry," I said breathlessly. "Traffic." I shrugged and gave her a sunny smile. "But I'm here now."
Once she was satisfied she'd humiliated me enough, the old battleaxe ushered me into Sessions' private office. Impressive is the only word to describe it — antiques, original artwork, and even the air smelled of money. But I guess you can't work for the wealthy without a little of it rubbing off on you.
Lloyd Sessions was one of those dignified lawyers that made you think of English butlers in mystery novels. The word proper fit him to a tee. He wore an expensive pinstriped gray suit that I guessed was custom made. His hand felt soft and pampered when I shook it. And the leather of the visitor chair I sat in was as smooth as a baby's bottom.
"Sorry I'm late," I said and smiled.
He nodded and cleared his throat.
I pulled my battered leather briefcase into my lap and reached inside for the agreement with George.
Sessions raised a hand and said, "That won't be necessary." He consulted a file on his desk. His lips moving as he read through it. Finally he looked up. "I presume your wish is to have the family honor the agreement?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"Have you spoken to Mrs. Manston or any other members of the family?"
"No, I thought it best to contact you."
"And, you wish me to contact the family regarding this matter?"
I nodded again.
He picked up a beautiful black fountain pen, uncapped it, and poised it above a legal pad. "And what is the name of your attorney?"
I cringed. "I don't have an attorney."
His pale blue eyes looked up from the legal pad and regarded me with surprise. "No attorney?"
"Do I need one?" I waved a hand at his desk. "You have the agreement. I'm assuming you recognize George's signature. And I'm also assuming you drew up the contract that we were going to sign, as well."
Sessions favored me with a brief smile. "The reason I asked if you have an attorney Miss Fitzgerald, is that the estate is in probate."
I shrugged and held up my hands. "Which means what, exactly?"
He smiled indulgently, as though speaking to a child. "Meaning that your agreement with Mr. Manston is now a claim against the estate."
I bit my lip. "Does that mean that you can't go to the family?"
Sessions lay his fountain pen down on the desk gently. "My point, Miss Fitzgerald, is that your agreement was not with the family, but with Mr. Manston." He raised a hesitant finger. "Also, they may wish to dispute your claim."
I sighed. "I'm shit out of luck?"
Sessions chuckled in spite of himself. "Not necessarily. But you have to understand that when a person of Mr. Manston's financial status passes away, all manner of claims are made. And often it takes a very long time for these issues to resolve."
"Meaning, there's nothing you can do for me?" I stood, knowing the answer to my question but not wanting to appear rude.
"You're certainly free to make your claim. Although, I'd advise strongly that you retain an attorney to work in your behalf. The process can be daunting for a lay person."
I reached across the desk and shook his hand briefly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Sessions."
"Not at all. I wish I could have been more helpful." He looked sincere and I believed him. I nodded, gathered my things, and turned to leave. "And off the record..." I turned back toward him and raised a hopeful eyebrow. "I'm sorry your plans weren't realized. I know that Mr. Manston felt great enthusiasm for your ideas and wanted to contribute to your success."
It was a nice thing to say and something he didn't have to tell me. "Thank you, I appreciate that."
"Perhaps if you gave it a little time, you might be able to approach Mrs. Manston personally? She may entertain the idea of carrying on where George left off?"
I tilted my head and studied him — trying to read between the lines. Was he trying to help me or just being nice? "But you said that the estate was in probate."
Sessions shrugged. "If Mrs. Manston chose to champion her husband's cause, it wouldn't be a matter for the estate."
I left Sessions' office slightly more hopeful than I had the bank. If I'd read the lawyer's clues properly he believed that Maggie Manston would honor the agreement — if I approached her in the right way.
The question was what was the right way?
Chapter Eight
After the dinner rush ended, Manny announced he had plans and walked out the back door. His departure was punctuated with the growl of his Trans Am as he pulled out of the lot. He shot out onto Foothill and buzzed by in a blur of fire engine red kicking up a trough of water in his wake.
I shivered involuntarily. "I'll never get used to that sound."
Zelda smirked. "Well, you know what they say. The louder the lion roars, the smaller his balls."
"Speaking of cars, when do you get yours back?"
Zelda glanced through the window. "Any time now. Ted promised he'd bring it by after dinner."
I peeked in the kitchen from the pass-through and saw Chewie the cook was in his usual spot by the door — smoking and talking on his cell phone. I stepped back to the counter, pulled my laptop out of its bag, and set it down.
Zelda drifted over and eyed the computer. "What are you doing?"
I grabbed a cup of coffee
, sat down and fired up the laptop. "Research."
After I left Sessions' office, I decided to do an Internet search on Maggie Manston. If what Sessions said was true, my best chance was to find out everything I could about her.
Zelda stood behind me and stared at the screen. "What kind of research?"
I typed in Maggie's name and got back thousands of search results. "I told you what Sessions said."
Zelda scoffed and plopped into the seat next to me. "You think you're going to find Maggie Manston's soft underbelly on the Internet?"
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying."
"I don't need your negative vibes."
"The woman is a bitch."
I stopped typing and shot Zelda a wilting glance. "I'm kind of out of options here. My best shot is finding some common ground that we can bond over. Unless you have a better idea?"
Zelda rolled her eyes and made her monkey face then looked at the computer screen. "Okay. Fine. What have you got?"
I scanned the list of results and clicked on several links. There were the usual power wife profiles that covered the trials and tribulations of being married to a formidable and famous attorney. As well as mentions of various charities she championed. She supported the L.A. Philharmonic, the L.A. Ballet company, and had plans to start a scholarship program for local art students.
A few of the articles mentioned Lauren Manston, George and Maggie's daughter, who was pursuing an acting career. The girl certainly had the looks to be a movie star — cascading blonde hair, soulful eyes, and perfect bone structure. The camera definitely loved her and I could imagine 40-foot billboards adorned with her image.
"Oh yeah, you've got lots of common ground — art, ballet, classical music."
"Shut up." I continued clicking through the search results. "There has to be something." But if there was, I couldn't find it.
"Why are you so convinced of that?"
I pushed the laptop away and stretched. "You think the lawyer made that up? Why?"
Zelda got up and refilled our coffee mugs. "Because everybody lies.” She put the pot back on the burner then slouched against the counter. "Don't you ever learn?"
I poured cream into my coffee until it was the right color, then took a sip. "Everyone can't be liars."
Zelda grabbed a bar towel and wiped down the counter. "Says who?"
I closed the laptop, dumped my coffee cup in a bus tray, and collected the sugar holders. "George wasn't."
Zelda stopped and turned to me. "Are you sure?"
The front door swooshed open and effectively halted our conversation. Ted Jordan stood at the entrance and greeted us with a smile. He dangled Zelda's car keys. "Evening, ladies."
Zelda rushed across the dining room to Ted. "Finally! What did you do, rebuild the engine?"
Ted looked more handsome than I remembered, even with wet hair plastered to his forehead. "Hi Ted."
He shoved the wet hair off his brow and smiled. "Hello Scotti, how are you?"
Zelda snatched the keys out of Ted's hand. "Enough chit-chat, where's my jeep?"
Ted pointed through the front window. The jeep was parked in front on Foothill and glistened in the evening rain — its hood no longer dimpled. I stepped closer to the window and scrutinized the jeep. "Did you paint it too?"
Zelda squealed and looked out the window. "No way!"
Ted laughed. "No we didn't paint it. But Frank detailed it inside and out then took his buffer to it." He shifted his gaze to the jeep. "Looks pretty good, don't you think?"
"It looks amazing," I said. "I've never seen it look that good."
Zelda cracked the door and looked out. "How's it running?"
Ted turned to Zelda. "Great. Considering the damage to the hood, we decided to replace the radiator, just to be on the safe side."
Zelda pushed through the door. "I better go do a test drive."
"Zelda, it's raining. Put on a coat."
She waved me off with a backhanded gesture and went through the door. A few seconds later, the familiar rumble of the jeep's engine sounded. Zelda waved as we watched her pull away.
For a moment Ted and I stood in the middle of the dining room looking at each other. And he seemed perfectly comfortable to stand and stare at me but I felt the burn of blood rising to my cheeks. "Coffee?"
"Sure."
Ted followed on my heels and he smelled really good. I'm a sucker for that freshly showered man smell — and it made me nervous.
Ted took a seat at the counter and I poured him a cup of coffee. He added no cream or sugar and took a sip. "Good coffee."
"Are you hungry?"
He nodded and reached for a menu. "I could eat. What's good here?"
"I just made big pot of roast beef vegetable soup."
He put the menu back in its holder. "Then soup it is."
Ted had two bowls of soup, three rolls, and a vat of coffee before he sat back and said, "That was good."
I did a little girl curtsy. "Thanks, I made it myself."
He touched my hand briefly and smiled. "Right, you're a chef. Well, if the soup is an example of what you can do, then I'd recommend you open your own place."
I nodded and refilled his coffee mug. "That's the plan. I'm going to buy this place."
Ted sipped his coffee then smiled. "Ambition — I like that in a woman."
He locked eyes with me and I felt the blush in my cheeks again. I turned to the pastry case. "Dessert? We've got pie, cookies, and brownies." When I turned back I bumped right into him. Taking a step back I said, "Wow, you're quiet. I didn't even hear you get up."
Ted looked down at me with probing green eyes. "I've had a little training in stealth approaches."
I sidestepped and pointed at the case. "See anything you'd like?"
Ted didn’t look at the pastry case and kept his eyes on me. "What does your boyfriend think about your buying this place?"
I cleared my throat. "I don't have a boyfriend." Ted liked that answer. I put my hands on my hips. "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter what he thought of it. I make my own decisions."
Ted nodded in approval. "Independence — I like that in a woman too." He stepped a little closer and his scent made my insides quiver. "And I have a weakness for blue eyes."
The door swooshed open, bringing cold, wet air, and a rain-soaked Zelda inside. Ted and I broke from our trance. He returned to his seat and I wiped down the counter with a bar towel. "So, how was your test drive?"
She crossed the dining room, shaking her head like a wet dog, and sending rain splatter everywhere. "Great!" Plopping into a seat next to Ted she said, "So you aren't going to charge me anything for it?"
Ted nodded. "I'm not."
Zelda looked at me. I shrugged.
Ted's cell phone chirped and he answered the call. After a brief conversation he put his phone back in his pocket. He stood and said, "Time to settle up. My ride is here. What do I owe you?"
"Nothing," I said.
He seemed surprised. "Nothing?"
"Not even a tip," I said. "Dinner's on me tonight."
"Well, thank you. That's very nice. I'll have to take a rain check on the dessert though." He pointed to the pastry case and smiled. "I’ll be back for a piece of that blueberry pie."
"Okay, I'll save you a piece."
We grinned at each other and probably would have stood there for another five minutes if Zelda hadn't barged in. "Okay Ted. Well, thanks a lot." She flashed a thumbs up.
"And tell Frank I said great job."
Ted continued to grin at me. "Sure Zelda, happy to do it."
Outside, a horn honked and pulled Ted's gaze to the front window. A black SUV idled on Foothill. He turned back to me. "Good night." He shrugged into his trench coat, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Before he stepped outside he glanced at me and said, "I'll be back for that pie."
I watched him get into the SUV and then the car pulled away. Zelda snickered. "What's so funny?"
She batted her ey
es and said, "Do you really think he was hitting on me?"
I opened my laptop again. "You got something in your eye?"
Zelda craned her neck. "Now, what are you looking for?"
"I'm looking for the funeral home where George's viewing is being held." I found the link I needed and clicked on it. "Here it is, Brooks & Sons."
Coffee & Crime Page 5
