by Una Tiers
“A needle?” I asked.
David nodded.
“Would liquor interfere with the medication?” I asked.
“I could ask. Was he a heavy drinker?”
“Don’t know. There was a cocktail hour at the start of the reception. It seems like a bad place to get real drunk. Some opinions might come out that would haunt you. It’s different from bar group meetings where there aren’t as many judges.”
“Is there a lot of drinking at lawyer clubs?”
“Sometimes yes.”
David made more notes.
“You know, I keep thinking about the talk about his heart. But I just can’t remember any names or faces.”
“Fiona have you talked to Rosie about this since the announcement that he was murdered?”
“No, I’m not sure what to say to her. Somehow it seems like additional or special condolences are warranted, but I can’t think of how to express them.”
“We’ll talk again.” With that and a smile he left.
On Wednesday David called early, “I’m reporting in Fiona.”
“I like that.”
“I spoke to the supervisor for the reception. He talked about when the food is set out and when they remove the covers. They have a strict policy to keep an eye on the tureens because if they don’t, people will start to stick their noses or fingers in them. They put them out only a few minutes before they open the buffet for diners. Someone could have dropped something into a tureen as they walked through the line, but King was at the head of the line.”
He added he was still checking about the medication and whether or not alcohol could reduce its effectiveness.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I called Melanie Dock, the Water Club president. After pleasantries, I mentioned the guest list.
“I got your message and one from a detective but I’ve been out of town. I’ll get him whatever he needs, I just do not want the club to receive a subpoena. Really how would that look?”
The obsession with appearances never failed to disappoint me.
“Who makes up the menu?” I asked.
“It’s almost the same each year, we only make changes when the price goes way up. This was your first judge’s night reception at our club wasn’t it?
“Yes I thought it was very nice.”
“I’ll drop a membership form in the mail to you. The tickets for receptions are cheaper if you’re a member Fiona.”
Sure I said to myself, but if I don’t join the ticket once a year is less.
“Great thanks. Do you know how many tickets were sold Melanie?”
“I’m making a list of the paid tickets and the comp or complimentary tickets. Some were sold in blocks. For those we don’t have individual names.”
“Who bought blocks of tickets?”
“A few banks, they do that every year.”
“Well thanks.”
“I’m also working on the drinks only crowd. There are always people who don’t buy a ticket.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Some people have a drink, shake a few hands, fill up on the appetizers and say they have to get back to the office.”
“How can you identify them?”
“We have pictures galore. They are the known skinflints who pull the same trick whenever they can. I’m having a set of the pictures made for the detective. Fiona have you already been interviewed?”
“Yes I talked to the police.”
“What kind of questions did they ask?”
“Um,” remembering David’s request about not talking to Mildred before he interviewed her, I punted, “They asked general stuff.”
“This is awful for us. We certainly don’t want the news to focus on our group. I hope no one blames the Water Club. Don’t you remember any of his questions?”
“I don’t really remember and I don’t think anyone will blame the club.”
She never asked why I was asking questions. Was she the murderer and giving me bad information to throw me off the track? The officers of the bar group were probably there early enough to have an opportunity to tamper with the food. Maybe one of them paid a waiter to drop something into the food.
My next call was to the caterer, without a plan. My on the spot lie was that I needed a caterer, but I was worried about my food allergy. He assured me that after I made my selections he would make any necessary ingredient modifications.
He said they bought most of the desserts from a local bakery, but he refused to give the name. They could also accommodate allergies.
How petty he was, now I didn’t want to hire him for my imaginary catered event.
The amateur busybody business is interesting, like a 500 piece puzzle, but it takes a long time to get to the answer. Maybe I needed a prescient cat. Did pet birds ever solve crimes? Parrots have always fascinated me.
Since nuts seemed a more likely ingredient in baked goods, I decided to canvass the bakeries around the caterer’s store. From the telephone book, the number of bakeries documented a neighborhood sweet tooth syndrome.
The bakery field trip reminded me of Mrs. Culbertson because I bought bakery cookies for the signing of her will. Her phone was unanswered and she didn’t answer my letters. I didn’t know what else I could do to find her to sign the will. Maybe I would go and knock on her door.
In the two weeks since they announced that Judge King’s death was being handled as a murder investigation, I had become a courtroom celebrity. Everyone was talking to me.
On court days, I was smiling and waving to everyone in the hallways and nodding in the courtrooms.
Almost too many lawyers took the time to stop and chat and passed the hello barrier. Hello attorneys are those that I know only well enough to say hello to in passing. The occasional conversation attorneys seemed to be moving toward the business acquaintance attorney’s category.
After a while I couldn’t remember any of the new names. To cover my forgetfulness, I started handing out my “new business cards.” At least I knew the names of those who exchanged cards. I also listened when people greeted one another in the hallways, in case I could catch a name, even though it seemed like cheating. After a short while I noticed that many attorneys addressed each other as “counsel.” Did they know the others’ names?
The celebrity thing escalated to a point where I no longer had to buy my own coffee and had a chance to sample all of the scone flavors and most of the sandwiches at the coffee shop across the street from court. On days when no one invited me to lunch, I shamelessly stopped at the restaurant where a lot of lawyers hang out after court, looking for a lunch sponsor.
Two lawyers from larger firms treated me to lunch at nice restaurants. For a few blinks of the eye I thought about a job with a large firm. Fancy offices, office supplies, secretaries, clerks and that fat paycheck all lured me. My suits would not come from the sale rack, they would be tailor made. Then I thought about the time you needed to bill, about 2000 to 2400 hours annually.
My common sense returned knowing the first time I wore purple leggings into the office, I would get a warning letter. Appearances would increase in importance. I would probably be asked to take a corporate appearance class, a remedial one.
One morning my greed came back to haunt me when after all the free lunches, I couldn’t get the button on my skirt closed and I immediately went on the ‘no-scones’ diet.
Like all good things when you overdo it, they reach a freaky level. When you stare at your hand for a few minutes it takes a long time before it looks normal again.
Without question, the conversations with my new friends were less than genuine. However, I enjoyed being able to observe a lot of lawyers spewing nonsense up close. My conclusion was that a lot of them weren’t real smart, but covered it up with a lot of hard work. Others who weren’t really smart were world class bluffers.
Three weeks into the notoriety it was getting on my last nerve. I think of myself as a people person, with a limit. I left court, head down
stopping at a lesser known carry out place to pick up a salad. All in all it was like an out of body experience I would not care to repeat.
One more lunch was scheduled with P. Alexander Ans of the law firm Lars, Mars and Ans, a very large, very politically connected law firm. He asked me right after the news that I represented the estate leaked out and I didn’t want to cancel. It would be my swan song.
P. Alexander Ans is something of a legend. He publishes and lectures so often that it makes you wonder when he has time to practice law, eat dinner or get his nails done. He was a curiosity I wasn’t willing to relinquish even though I had a premonition that something bad would come of it.
In his invitation call, he sounded normal. I had to remind myself many attorneys eat human flesh when even slightly provoked. He suggested we lunch at his club, the Clark Street Club so that I could combine lunch with a work out. It made me a little paranoid that people were talking about my scone belly.
Since moving my office downtown and attending different bar group meetings, I learned there are quite a few, private clubs in anonymous buildings. The two I’d been in had a medieval decorator, with dark paneling and an occasional suit of armor. If not for the Chicago Fire, you might assume they were around since the days of Robin Hood, if he lived in Chicago.
Many of these places have pools and steam rooms and sometimes a weight room. The state of the art exercise equipment hadn’t arrived.
The clubs have a long checkered political history. The exclusivity for membership was historical and they only started admitting women and minorities in the last twenty years.
We have a lot of history here in Chicago. At one point I thought there was a relationship between the clubs and the sweets that were born here. The clubs are famous for having swimming pools and saunas, the way the elite work out.
Chicago is the birthplace of such favorites as Crackerjack, Twinkies, malted milk shakes, Carmel turtles, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth candy bars and more. However, after doing a little reading, I learned that the clubs were started before restaurants came into style and not because we are a cradle of sugar consumption.
It took me two days to find the telephone number of the club to try to get a little information because I wanted to be prepared and appear sophisticated. Unfortunately only members were entitled to any information at all.
All I wanted to know was whether they had hair dryers, towels and locks. If I was a member I would know those things. Luckily, two days before the lunch, an assistant to P. Alexander confirmed our lunch-time, location and reminded me all I required were workout clothes or a swimsuit. Marlene Dietrich couldn’t have said it better.
At a store on State Street I found a seven-dollar swimsuit on a sale rack and had it tucked in my briefcase in a zip lock bag. After a doorman opened the door to the club with a smile and a uniform that was not faded, I was greeted as a registered guest. They provided me with a schedule of classes and services in the next two hours and escorted me to the locker room.
La de da.
In parting, my escort reminded me of my one o’clock lunch meeting in the main dining room.
The club had a balance of elegance and arrogance and I loved it. However, when I was offered a special ‘valuables concierge,’ I declined and pulled my sleeve down over my plastic watch. Maybe I should have asked Sophie to borrow her fur coat, there were storage accommodations for them as ‘one might expect.’
The pool was magnificent, it had a painted ceiling with clouds and angels. The chlorine wasn’t overbearing and the soft classical cello music in the background mirrored my swimming pace. Best of all there were only two other swimmers. I kicked happily, lap after lap, until my arms were aching from clutching the float board. I can swim a little, but hate water in my ears, and never got the hang of inhaling left and exhaling to the right. Putting my head under water is just not going to happen.
Afterwards, I showered and changed into a few of the soft fluffy towels and headed for the steam room. When I opened the door, two women were walking out and I heard the tail end of their conversation.
“Did you hear that the honorable you know who dropped her because of appearances?”
They giggled with evil delight.
Why did I think they were talking about Judge King?
David said someone besides the judge was in the condo that night. Was it a lover? Did she leave before he got sick? In a flash I realized that she could be the murderer, or is it murderess?
Since everyone looks alike wrapped in towels, all I saw was a shiny red watchband leaving the steam room.
After a minute, I casually and reluctantly walked back to the lockers to listen for the voices I’d heard without luck. Although I asked five women the time, they all had obligatory gold watches, many of them encrusted with rare jewels. I didn’t see any shiny red bands.
My growling stomach reminded me to get to lunch.
There wasn’t a menu. The waiter recited three dishes, fish, chicken or beef. There was a choice of soup or salad and dessert was set. There was no bread basket.
“Everything’s really good here, Ms. Gavelle,” my host assured me.
Lunch was mostly elegant. I couldn’t name the greens on my salad, although a few looked like tree leaves. My miniature salmon fillet was broiled to perfection, and both spears of asparagus were as tender as a rose petal. Dessert consisted of a half scoop of something cold, balanced on a strawberry. I didn’t know what it cost, because the server didn’t recite prices. No, that would be too vulgar.
He set aside his dessert and ordered a cup of espresso. P. Alexander said it was a shame that the profession lost a fine Judge like Laslo King. I considered fleeing with regrets I would have to abandon my strawberry since we were approaching the deep end of the confidentiality waters.
He quickly switched to the topic of sole practitioners working alongside large law firms. His opinion was that we (the mere sole practitioner) were hindered, condemned and restricted to woefully small cases.
Curious to see where he was going with this line of baloney, I shrugged in response, cutting my strawberry into four pieces to make it last longer. Some arrogance was expected here so it didn’t annoy me.
Personally, I’m a firm believer a sole practitioner, and a group of others, called my friends, can manage any large complex matter.
While he went into details about the fee division when a sole practitioner brought a Sears Tower sized case to a large law firm, I tuned him out, and guessed how much his wristwatch cost. He probably used the ‘valuables concierge.’
I didn’t say much because he had so much to say and I felt out earned. In a small way, I felt his equal since I represented an estate I knew he wanted. This is the lawyer equivalent of having the new bike on the playground or having a really cool red bike bell.
He signaled the end of our meeting by nodding to the waiter, who had him sign a tab for lunch. As we walked to the coat checkroom, P. Alexander invited me to attend the Executive Probate committee meeting the following week. I lied and promised to check my calendar, knowing that I was available but could not continue this charade. Those lawyers represented multi-million dollar probate and trust estates I did not.
Giving a little thought to the concept of who you represent, I liked my clients and their asset brackets.
I drifted back to my office, (stopping for a submarine sandwich to remain within the water theme), anxious to tell anyone where I had been for three hours. I even had a few souvenir pens and matching notepads from the club.
“I brought you a pen and notepad,” I announced to Annette.
“Well thanks.”
This did not impress her.
I had two messages on the machine, one was already a thank you from P. Alexander. It was probably too late to show that I had manners.
The other message was from a Mrs. Line. Maybe she was related to Robert Line the treasurer from the Water Law Club?
Mrs. Line wasn’t home and was the third person that didn’t believe i
n answering machines. The other two were Mrs. Culbertson and Sophie King. Just to cover all the bases, I put another reminder letter in the mail to Mrs. Culbertson about the signing of her will.
I was virtuously running a back up tape on the computer and putting files away when a tap on the door startled me. It was David.
“Ms. Gavelle.” He closed the office door.
“Hi,” I said smiling before thinking.
As I watched him, I saw the little veins on his temple sticking out. This was probably not a good sign. His lips were drawn up in a knot and his eyes looked threatening like a hurricane. When his hair fell over one eye he looked like an unhappy pirate when advised of low ticket sales for a new movie.
“You had lunch with P. Alexander Ans in a private club?”
While I was trying to identify the problem, he continued. Did I make plans with David and forget? No.
“What were you thinking, that all of a sudden a lawyer like that is interested in making friends? Did you bother to check whether or not he attended the Water Club Reception?”
“I had lunch with another attorney.” My face was starting to burn and for an inexplicable reason I was agitated and feeling guilty. It was just lunch, a teeny tiny lunch.
“Did it occur to you that accidents happen at private clubs? Did it occur to you that no one knew where you were? This isn’t like eating scones at the bakery Ms. Gavelle.”
When I realized I was being dressed down, my temper ignited.
He paused, making goldfish lips pulsing in and out before he continued.
“Did you consider all of the attention from those lawyers is because some clerk returned the probate file to the file room and it was taken out twenty five times before the mistake was caught?”
Now I knew how everyone knew I represented Judge King’s estate. But, I put David on MUTE. What was his problem?
“We didn’t work out together, I just went swimming and had lunch David.” When I moved behind my desk a little like a fort, he stepped to the side of it and intruded upon what I considered Switzerland, whispering.
“Someone killed Judge King and you represent the estate, does that suggest something to you about safety? Anything at all?”
