by MJ Rodgers
“This is a bit formal, isn’t it? What’s the story?”
Octavia knew if either Kay Kellogg or Marc Truesdale, her other partners at Justice Inc., had asked her that question, she wouldn’t have told them. She certainly wasn’t about to tell Adam Justice, their firm’s senior partner—not after watching Adam turn from man to legal machine during the last six years.
She sent him a large, charming smile, the kind that she knew he didn’t know how to take. She hoped it might just make him uncomfortable enough to back off the question.
“Insurance,” she said.
The light eyes before her now pointed like two blue lasers. “What do you mean, insurance?”
The smile hadn’t worked. Octavia knew there was only one sure way to effectively distract the legal mind that was now so firmly fixed on what she had no intention of revealing. She was the only partner at Justice Inc. who both knew Adam Justice’s Achilles heel and had the guts to aim for it.
“Six years ago, Adam, you and I were involved in something that neither of us wish to share with anyone else. I want to ensure that neither of us will be forced to speak of it.”
Unconsciously, Adam’s fingers found and stroked the long white scar that disappeared down his neck into his starched white collar.
“You anticipate that someone might try to force answers from you or me about that...time? Why?”
“Anything is possible when it comes to an attorney of Brett Merlin’s ability. I intend to be thorough and aggressive in representing my grandmother. I have no doubt that the Magician will be equally as thorough and aggressive in representing his client. As we both know, his trademark is an uncanny knack for pulling obscure facts and laws out of his legal hat and combining the two to effect his adversary’s demise. I prefer to limit the facts he finds.”
“So by putting our relationship under a formal legal umbrella, you have placed our knowledge of each other and our communications under the attorney-client privilege.”
“Exactly.”
Octavia waited. Nothing showed on Adam Justice’s stone face in the long moment that passed. Only Octavia’s knowledge and sensitivity to the situation allowed her to see the fleeting, tiny flicker of light behind his pale blue eyes.
“All right,” he said finally.
Octavia didn’t show the relief that poured through her. She didn’t dare. Her senior partner was far too observant. He would have immediately suspected her “other” agenda.
Everything had to be done by the book with Adam Justice. Like Brett Merlin, he lived by the letter of the law.
But Octavia was not that kind of lawyer. She used her knowledge of the law to support what she knew to be its true code of justice. And now that the letters in some dusty law book were getting in the way of the spirit with which they were originally formed, Octavia knew it was time to get creative and find a footnote somewhere.
Or pencil one in.
Adam had been the only weak link in the bold plan that she had formulated today. Now that weak link had been braced. Now she could go ahead and fight for justice her way.
* * *
“BRETT, YOU REALLY SHOULD stay here. We’ve plenty of room. It will be no trouble,” Nancy Scroogen insisted as she dished out blueberry pancakes onto Brett’s breakfast plate.
Brett looked up at his aunt, still unsettled to see the deep lines that had dug themselves around her eyes and mouth, seemingly overnight.
Nancy Scroogen was his mother’s youngest sister, a mere ten years older than Brett. Brett had gotten along well with his aunt, admiring Nancy’s tomboy spirit and sense of adventure.
They had corresponded regularly after Nancy had used her journalism degree to land herself a job as a foreign correspondent. Over the years he had enjoyed her light, breezy postcards from exotic ports of call.
Then, seven years before, Nancy had surprised him completely by suddenly giving up her profession and spirit of wanderlust to settle down and marry Dole Scroogen. Brett had barely heard from or seen her since. Until a week ago.
Now, as he looked at her across the dining-room table in Dole Scroogen’s East Bremerton home, he was sad to note how tired she appeared. Despite her assurances to the contrary, he was certain she didn’t need someone else in the house to look after. Not when she already had her hands full, he thought, as he noted the scowling faces of Dole and his son Ronald.
“Thanks, Nancy, but I’m comfortable at the hotel. This matter I’m handling for Dole is very simple and should be settled soon. Then I’ll be on my way to tackle Rainier. I’ve climbed it in summer, but I’m told the real test is in winter.”
“You want to spend Christmas climbing a mountain, Cousin Brett?” six-year-old Katlyn asked.
Brett smiled at Nancy’s little girl sitting beside him. Fortunately for Katlyn, she had inherited her mother’s peachy complexion—and attitude.
“The sunlight sparkling on the snow and trees beats any artificial string of lights, Katlyn.”
“But don’t you want to be home Christmas morning to open all your presents under the Christmas tree?”
Brett stared into his little cousin’s eyes, so obviously full of delighted anticipation for that highlight of the season. Sometimes he wondered what it would have been like to have been brought up believing in fantasy instead of staunchly facing reality.
“Your cousin Brett has never been a big fan of Christmas,” Nancy told her daughter. “Probably because my sister and her husband didn’t believe in decorating or exchanging gifts.”
“You didn’t get Christmas presents when you were a kid?” Katlyn asked in obvious dismay.
“I was given what I needed at other times of the year,” Brett explained.
“Even Santa Claus forgot you at Christmas?”
Brett prided himself on never lying, for any reason. But he also knew from the warning look on Nancy’s face that his answer to Katlyn’s last question had better be the right one.
“What did you ask Santa for this year?” Brett asked, trying to both deflect his inquisitive cousin and to maintain his integrity.
“I sent Santa a whole list. I sure hope he reads it. Why don’t you ask Santa to bring you a mountain so you don’t have to go away?”
“Katlyn,” Nancy intervened, “leave your cousin alone now so he can eat his breakfast in peace.”
“I’m out of syrup,” Ronald Scroogen complained in his typically too loud and too sour tone.
Nancy immediately rushed to her feet to get more from the kitchen. Brett flashed Ronald a disapproving look. The young man could have easily gone to the kitchen and gotten it himself.
Ronald was Dole Scroogen’s twenty-two-year-old son from a previous marriage. He resembled his father physically, right down to the sour puss and whiny tone of voice. He also had that insecure, young man’s way of making everything that came out of his mouth sound like a challenge or a complaint.
Nancy returned to the table with the syrup. Ronald took it out of her hand without a word of thanks.
Brett caught Nancy’s eye over the beautiful handmade wreath of fragrant bay leaves adorning the table’s center. He sent her an appreciative smile.
“Everything smells, looks and tastes wonderful.”
The surprise and gratitude of her returning smile confirmed Brett’s suspicion that his aunt wasn’t accustomed to getting any appreciation from the two other males sitting at this table. He took a sip of her excellent coffee and worked on controlling his growing irritation.
Brett was only here because of Nancy’s call for help. If it hadn’t been for Nancy and her little girl, he’d be long gone on his postponed climb. Seeing how her husband and stepson treated her, Brett was surprised that the full-spirited Nancy he once knew wasn’t long gone, too. What was keeping her here?
Love, he supposed. Brett stabbed his pancake and shoved it into his mouth, knowing it did no good to wonder how anyone could love Dole Scroogen.
Love was an incredibly imbecilic malady that struck even the sanest of
souls and overnight turned clear reasoning power into gooey rubber cement. He remembered the affliction well.
He also remembered what it felt like to wake up the next morning only to realize he’d fallen for a fantasy.
Thank God that nonsense was all behind him.
“I don’t suppose you came over this morning just for pancakes, Merlin,” Dole said in his usual sour tone. “What’s on your mind?”
Brett swallowed and took another sip of coffee, trying not to let his uncle’s naturally abrasive manner get to him.
“What you said last night on the telephone disturbed me. It also disturbed me that you hung up afterward when I asked you to wait while I let in room service with my dinner.”
“I’m not a man accustomed to waiting, Merlin. And I meant what I said about that Osborne woman.”
“Look, Dole, we’ve already gone over all the reasons for handling this matter my way. Mab Osborne is popular. Insisting on a head-to-head confrontation would just generate more sympathy for her cause. Getting people to laugh at her instead of listen to her is the proper approach.”
“The Community Development Department is uneasy about all the mail and telephone calls they’ve received,” Dole said. “I’m getting heat from the chamber of commerce, too.”
“They are reacting to the public opinion Mab Osborne has stirred up. But the chamber can’t stop you, and I’m not letting Community Development withdraw your building permits. They were legally filed and approved and I’m making sure they abide by them.”
“But it’s getting worse every day. I even received a threatening letter from the old fools.”
“I wish you didn’t have to force the seniors out of their center, dear,” Nancy interjected.
Dole turned to his wife, his sour puss and whiny voice in full evidence. “Whose side are you on?” he demanded.
“Yours, of course, dear,” Nancy said, sounding immediately conciliatory. “I just wish there was another way.”
“Was the threatening letter signed?” Brett asked.
“No. But I’m certain it’s on Silver Power League stationery and Mab Osborne sent it.”
“Hand it over to the police. Let them investigate.”
“I’ve already done that. They say it could be weeks before they know,” Scroogen grumbled.
“All these irritations are temporary,” Brett assured him. “Once Mab Osborne has been defused, so will that public opinion.”
“What if your plan doesn’t work? What if she continues to whip up public sentiment against me?”
“After the initial article in this Sunday’s paper, I have three follow-up articles scheduled to be released over the next week with selected excerpts from her ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ programs.”
“What good will that do?”
“Mab Osborne likes to say shocking things to get her listeners’ attention. Each excerpt I’ve selected is taken out of context and is more sensational than the last. She’ll be so busy defending herself, she’ll have no time to whip up anything. Be patient. These things take time to work, but they do work.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I will take the next appropriate step. Mab Osborne is like a fly on your wall, Dole. Its buzzing may be annoying, but we don’t need a shotgun blast to get rid of it. A flyswatter should do the trick.”
“It had better, Merlin.”
Brett didn’t take that kind of sour tone and threatening language from his paying clients, much less from a man he was only representing for the sake of his aunt. Enough was enough. He put down his fork.
“Dole, if you don’t like what I’m doing, then you can go—”
“No!” Nancy interrupted, obviously reading the look on Brett’s face and eager to stop what he would say. She leaned across the table to rest her hand on his.
“No, Brett,” she said in a calmer tone. “Dole is grateful, as I am, for all your help. He’s worked so hard to make this condominium complex happen. It’s the dream of a lifetime. We need you to stand by us to see this dream come true. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Dole deigned to look up from his breakfast.
“Yeah. You do your thing, Merlin, so I can do mine. I need more coffee here, Nancy.”
For once Nancy didn’t obediently jump up. Her hand remained on Brett’s arm, her pleading eyes on his face, waiting for his response. “Brett?”
Brett exhaled a frustrated breath as he nodded.
“The coffee?” Dole’s irritated voice reminded.
Nancy smiled as she rose to her feet. “Coming, dear.”
Brett shook his head as he witnessed the domestic scene. Whoever said someone could become a slave to love knew what he was talking about.
“The city water and sewer lines were connected a day ago,” Scroogen said, sounding pleased for once. “The land should be completely dug out for the underground garage in the next few days. In a week or so, the concrete guys can come in and start on the foundation. Tami, my secretary, is arranging for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. The mayor, the city council, the chamber—everyone who is anyone is being invited.”
“Can I cut the ribbon?” Ronald asked his father, the eagerness and excitement clear in his voice.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Scroogen said. “Someone important, like the mayor, has to cut the ribbon.”
Brett saw what might have been anger or disappointment or both flare through Ronald’s eyes as he rose to his feet and stalked silently away from the breakfast table.
Dole didn’t even look up from his refilled coffee cup. Although not a fan of Dole’s son, Brett felt sorry for him at that moment. No doubt about it, Scroogen could be pretty damn insensitive.
“So, did you ever find out who the redhead was with those old fogys?” Scroogen asked.
The lady’s stunning face and figure flashed through Brett’s mind and with it a very annoying automatic tightening of the muscles down his back.
“She’s Octavia Osborne,” he said, concentrating his eyes on the swirling coffee in his cup. “Mab’s granddaughter.”
“How did you find out?”
“She came to see me last night just before you called.”
“Why did she come to see you?”
Brett looked up at the suspicious tone that had entered Dole’s voice. Did this guy trust anybody?
“To try to warn me away,” Brett answered. “Her threats were dramatic, but empty. Neither Mab Osborne nor her granddaughter can stop progress, no matter how much they might want to.”
“So you’re sure this granddaughter can’t cause any trouble?”
“I’m sure,” Brett said, his words replete with confidence. “Octavia Osborne is no one to worry about. The law is on your side, and I’m here to see it’s enforced.”
The telephone blared at the instant Brett had finished giving his client that positive and unwavering assurance. Nancy got up to answer it and brought the cordless receiver to the table to hand to her husband.
“It’s the foreman at the construction site, dear.”
Dole took the phone. “Yeah?”
Brett watched his uncle’s greenish-tinged face turn positively purple. Finally, Dole threw his napkin onto the floor and flew to his feet.
“What?” he yelled into the mouthpiece.
* * *
OCTAVIA’S GENUINE appreciation flowed through her voice. “Mab, this new community center of yours is outstanding. Its long rectangular shape, myriad skylights, ribbons of leaded glass windows and spotless white tile floor make it marvelously open and spacious. And the soft upholstered furniture you’ve selected adds just the right amount of warmth.”
Mab beamed. “I admit I had my doubts at first about the simplicity of the center’s design, but the natural light and clean lines are effective and efficient. We can cordon off any area with partitions, or open up the whole floor space for a large event, like our annual Christmas party coming up in a couple of weeks. How much better it will be now that we don’t have to crowd everyone into t
hat old barn. Constance’s design was right, as always.”
“Constance Kope designed this center?” Octavia asked. “That little lady who was on your ‘Senior-Sex-Talk’ program yesterday?”
“Yes, Constance and her husband owned an architectural design firm before he became ill, and they both retired a few years back. She has an infallible eye for what works.”
“When I think that your Silver Power League single-handedly created this building and all its beauty, I am in awe, Mab.”
Mab smiled proudly. “Wait until you see the greenhouse. Douglas Twitch engineered its habitat to maintain temperature, moisture and lighting control.”
“Douglas is an environmental engineer?” Octavia asked.
“A very fine one, who was put out to pasture only because the big firm he worked at for forty years checked the calendar instead of his contributions.”
“I thought you and Douglas didn’t get along.”
“His mental limitations are irksome. But the greenhouse he designed is an engineering marvel.”
Octavia chuckled at her grandmother’s unmitigated contradiction on the intellectual credentials of Douglas Twitch.
“Lead the way to this greenhouse, Mab.”
“No, first I want you to see what we are doing to raise money for our rent. It’s just a stopgap measure, of course. I’m counting on you to put all your legal training to work to come up with something more permanent. But for now, well, our members are busy working on them over in this room.”
Octavia gave her watch a quick glance. “Them?” she repeated.
Mab smiled. “Come see for yourself.”
Octavia followed her grandmother to the other side of a partition and saw that an assembly line of sorts had been set up. Seniors sat on both sides of a long set of tables drawn close to the windows to receive an optimum of natural light.
Each member of the assembly line had a task. The first attached legs to a stuffed doll’s torso. The second affixed arms that crossed over the doll’s chest. The third screwed on a head. The fourth, hair. And so on down the line until the finished doll emerged at the end, holding in its fist a white piece of paper filled with scribbles.
