Hopefully, what he was about to do would ultimately help Layla.
If it didn’t get him arrested.
Victor wore an old work jumpsuit that had belonged to his dad. He drove his older model pickup, but the piece de resistance was his Dad’s old plumber’s license and giant tool box. He was going to present himself at Phillip Draper’s house, claim that he had been called to check on a leaky toilet in the upstairs back bathroom, and hope that he’d get a chance to snoop. From the many online newspaper articles on Phillip’s socialite wife, Jennifer Draper, Victor had learned she went to some kind of Junior League meeting on Wednesday afternoon. This being Wednesday, he figured he had a clear shot at dealing just with the housekeeper.
He’d found a photo spread of the Draper house in an Architectural Digest article that gave him a good idea of the floor plan. The back bath on the second floor might give him the best chance at an undisturbed study of Mr. Draper’s den. Humming an old George Jones song his father had favored, Victor carefully tucked his hair up under a baseball cap, snapped down his Dad’s old aviator sunglasses on his face, and hoped this counted as some kind of disguise.
Twenty minutes later, he eased his truck around the curved driveway of the Draper mansion on Live Oak Plantation Road and turned the engine off.
An older woman in a crisp white uniform and an apron opened the door to his knock. “May I help you?”
“Gordon Rutledge, plumber. Someone called about a toilet that keeps running in the bathroom on the second floor.” Victor glanced at a work order he’d written up himself. “Says it’s the guest bath near the den.”
“May I see that?”
He handed the work order over to the woman, noticing as he did that she frowned.
She scrutinized it closely before she looked up, studying him as carefully as she had the work order.
He had the sudden feeling this was a bad idea.
“Mr. Draper ordered this?” She waved the paper in the air.
“Yes.”
The woman looked at the work order again. Finally she stood back. “Wipe your feet.”
Victor knew a good deal about toilets and plumbing in general from all those summers in high school he’d been forced to work for his father. So he wasn’t flustered at all when the housekeeper in her crisp whites followed him upstairs and stood watch. He could fake her out easily. “Probably just needs a new ballcock.” He glanced up at the woman and smiled.
She sniffed as if he had said something dirty to her.
“Or maybe the flapper,” he added quickly.
“Nobody told me there was any problem. And it’s certainly not running now.” The woman glowered as if this oversight was Victor’s fault, which of course it was in a backhanded kind of way.
From off somewhere in the house, a phone rang. The woman frowned. “I better get that.” She gave him a quick once over and said she’d be right back.
Victor smiled at her retreating footsteps. It hadn’t been that hard to convince his handball partner to call the house and pretend to be doing a follow-up interview for the Tallahassee Magazine on the Drapers’ culinary tastes.
As soon as she was gone, Victor peered out in the hallway, looking around. He didn’t see or hear anyone. As quietly as he could, he tiptoed into the den, where Architectural Digest had said Mr. Draper liked to retire to his “man cave” and work in the evenings. Layla had once let it slip that she and Mr. Draper worked in his den when Mrs. Draper was out. When he’d raised his eyebrows at that, she snapped that it was much quieter at their house than at the law firm.
The den was immaculate. Victor didn’t have a clue where to start looking, or what exactly he might be looking for in the room. The phrase “needle in a haystack” came to mind and he started to just leave.
But leaving wouldn’t help Layla.
He studied Phillip’s den for another moment before he tiptoed over to a filing cabinet. He pulled open a drawer, pleased that it wasn’t locked. He flipped through the files, but the documents all related to the house. Repressing a sigh, he closed the drawer, and opened the next one, only to find it was full of newspaper and magazine clippings of Philip and his wife.
Victor shut the drawer and rifled through some papers on top of the desk and in the top drawer. Finished with the desk, he glanced around the room, before scouring through the credenza and finding nothing of interest in it or the heavy barrister’s bookcase. Frustrated, he cocked his head, listening for the housekeeper’s voice or her footsteps. Not hearing a thing, he stepped out of the room and listened as he stood at the head of the stairs. He heard a low murmur and caught the word “organic” and “asparagus.” Grinning, he made up his mind to intentionally lose the next handball game to pay the guy back for faking this interview. Then he crept down the hall to a guest bedroom.
A second later, he stepped into an oddly plain room and began to feel under the mattress. Nothing. The chest of drawers and night stand were empty. Out in the driveway, a car drove up, and someone honked. Victor peered out the window and saw the housekeeper hurry outside. Mrs. Draper—Jennifer—was getting out of the car with an armload and the housekeeper struggled to take all the packages.
Damn. So much for Jennifer Draper’s afternoon meeting. Victor cursed himself for taking a big risk for nothing and hurried back to the bathroom, lifted the top off the tank, and tinkered with the chain and flapper until the toilet definitely would be running improperly. As he placed the top back, he spotted something taped under the tank. He felt it with his fingers. Small, wrapped in plastic. With his fingernails, he pried it off and dropped it in the pocket of his overalls.
Time enough to look at it when he was safely out of the house.
Below him, he could hear women talking.
Now might be a very good time to leave.
Victor abandoned the toilet, which was filling with water improperly, and slipped down the stairs and out the back door.
He made himself wait until he was two blocks away before he pulled over and unwrapped the package he’d pulled off the toilet tank.
Inside he found a flash drive. In the telltale bright pink that Layla favored for her flash drives.
He spun out on the road, gave the pickup the gas, and sped back to his house, eager to read whatever it was on the flash drive that was worth somebody hiding it.
Chapter Ten
By the time Abby returned to the law offices after lunch, she was panting from the heat and the hurrying. Coming in from the parking lot, she was grateful for the rush of air conditioning that hit her face as soon as she stepped inside the steady hum of technology, tension, and talking that filled the office.
As Abby dashed down the long hallway, she spied Mr. Draper and Delphine with their heads together just outside her office door, whispering like co-conspirators. Mr. Draper looked up and caught Abby’s eye. He waved her to join him and Delphine, and Abby picked up her pace. As soon as she paused in front of them, Delphine smiled her big teeth-baring grin and Abby felt the trap door about to spring.
“Lovely,” Delphine said, nodding at Abby’s change of clothes.
“Very professional looking,” Mr. Draper said, though he barely glanced at her.
“Thank you, Mr. Draper.” Abby tried not to blush, which of course made her blush more.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you call me Phillip?”
Abby blushed deeper. No, she didn’t think it was time to call him Phillip. She preferred addressing him as Mr. Draper as if that formality might protect her against the vagaries of named partners and their demands.
“Yes, Phillip.” Abby could count on one hand the meaningful conversations she’d had with him as from day one she’d been assigned to work with Delphine.
“Well, then, good, let’s get ready for our guests.” Delphine fiddled with her jacket and patted at her short-cropped hair. “They should be coming in any moment now.”
Abby still didn’t know who was coming to the office. But if Delphine was nervous, they
had to be big. Just as Abby opened her mouth to ask, Layla came bounding down the hallway. Delphine positively hissed.
Even Philip inhaled a bit too sharply, but then, after a heartbeat, he began to smile.
Abby couldn’t take her eyes off Layla. Gone were the beads, the long, flowered skirts, the giant hoop earrings, and the whole wild Boho look. Layla’s curly hair was coiffed in something like a French Twist, and she was wearing a smooth, pale peach suit that set off her dark complexion beautifully. She was stunning. And she looked every bit as professional as Delphine.
“Didn’t I reaffirm Phillip’s communication and tell you—” Delphine started to say.
“To stay the hell away,” Layla finished.
This time it was Abby who sucked in air so fast she made a gasping noise. Layla had been told to stay away. Yet here she was, disobeying a direct order from Phillip and Delphine both.
Layla turned to Phillip. “You won’t ever need to be ashamed of me.”
Abby cut her eyes back and forth between Delphine, who was steaming mad, and Phillip, who beamed at Layla with pride in his eyes.
What the hell is going on? But Abby didn’t have a chance to ponder the situation. Their gracious office manager ambled down the hallway with Pam Bondi, Florida’s attorney general, on one side and the governor, Mr. Dread Shaw, on the other side. Everyone was chatting at once.
Abby wiped her hands nervously on her skirt. She’d lived in the state capital since her undergraduate days at Florida State University, but she’d never shaken hands with a governor. She suspected she was about to get the chance. But as she lifted her gaze to take the man in, the first thing she thought was that he looked like a giant Q-tip. She bit the inside of her lip to stifle a giggle.
Of course, the office manager introduced Pam Bondi to Philip first, and then the usual polite exchanges between Delphine, Philip, Gov. Shaw, and Ms. Bondi flew over Abby’s head. She glanced once at Layla and saw she was standing still with unusual poise. And she wasn’t chewing gum.
“And, Ms. Bondi and Governor, may I introduce two of our most promising associates.” Philip’s voice had a lift, as if he were a proud parent. “Miss Abigail Coleridge, who has been with us four years and won a national moot court tournament in law school. She’s one of our appellate experts, though we use her in trial work also.”
Actually, during her law school days, even the thought of moot court competition had scared Abby to stuttering. Yet she knew to keep her mouth shut about Phillip’s misrepresentation. She stepped forward and took each politician’s hand in turn, murmuring how pleased and honored she was to meet them.
Philip turned to Layla. “And our youngest associate, Layla Freemont, is the editor of the FSU’s law review. She’s rapidly becoming an expert on oil and gas exploration and leases, which will be of great assistance to us if you decide to retain our firm.”
Layla shook hands, repeating as if scripted nearly the same words Abby had said. Beside her, Abby could hear Delphine utter a soft sigh as of relief.
But then Layla winked at the governor. “I’m not really an associate just yet as I’m a third-year law student, but I will be an associate as soon as I pass my bar exam.”
Abby couldn’t believe Layla would wink at the governor. Or correct a partner. No one ever corrected a partner.
Delphine reached out and snatched Layla’s hand. “I need Miss Freemont’s assistance, right now, on a legal emergency. I’ll rejoin you in just a moment.” Delphine tugged on Layla’s arm until finally Layla took a step, then another, and followed Delphine down the hallway.
“Abby,” Phillip said, “might you join us in showing our guests around?”
With a sinking feeling, Abby realized she was not going to get Delphine’s trial brief done this afternoon either. Instead, she was going to have her first formal foray into seducing new clients to join the firm—the rainmaking for which Phillip Draper was famous.
Chapter Eleven
“Stop throwing your used gum in my potted plants.” Abby was so tired she yelled at Layla. Whatever had possessed her to invite Layla into her home while the contractor repaired Layla’s own apartment? The young woman had only been there two days, and already Abby’s house and life jumbled with messes.
Trouble gave Abby an intense stare and made a guttural sound, half-hiss, half purr.
Great. Even the cat was fussing at her now. Abby glared back at Trouble, keeping her eyes off Layla, but already she felt guilty about snapping.
“Okay, it wasn’t my best day either, but I’m not taking it out on you, am I?” Layla was curled up on the couch in Abby’s living room, her feet bare. Trouble sat Buddha-like next to her. Layla had taken down her hair and it curled about her face in such wild profusion that she looked rather exotic.
“I’m sorry, really. I’m just so worn out and I still have to finish that damn trial brief and this afternoon I realized I need to get some frigging old cases—too old for computerized research—and I’m going to have to go to the law school library to dig through all that ancient stuff in the basement, and all I want to do is eat a bite and go to bed.” Abby didn’t like to raise her voice, and she certainly didn’t like to whine. But somehow she’d just done both in the space of two minutes. “And the library closes to the public in a couple of hours and I don’t know if I can make it there in time to finish —”
“Inhale, exhale.” Layla swung her legs off the couch and stood up. “I have an access card—all of us on the law review do. I’ll lend it to you so you can get into the library’s basement and stay as long as you want.” She paused, looking at Abby, with a tentative look on her face. “I’ll go with you if you need me to help.”
Abby sighed. Layla didn’t appear too eager to actually go with her to the library, but she was great at research and would make the job go much faster.
Yet, as Layla had just said, it hadn’t been her best day either.
Abby should let Layla off the hook and just borrow her library access card and go. But the thought of all that work—all by herself in the basement of the law school—felt overwhelming at the moment. “Okay, yes, I’d like your help.”
Layla nodded, for once not talking. She chewed on her gum with renewed vigor.
“Well, if we’re going, let’s get ready and go,” Abby said, hoping Layla would show a little more enthusiasm. After all, Layla had volunteered, hadn’t she?
“All right, but let me check my blood sugar and grab a quick shower.”
“Quick, okay? I’ll fix some supper.” Abby could zap some frozen fish and broccoli while Layla showered and dressed.
As Abby opened the fridge, she spotted Layla’s insulin in its plastic container with the blue lid, and she sighed. Here she was, irritated at Layla, when she should be more patient and compassionate. After all, the young woman had a serious medical condition that required constant monitoring.
After promising to herself to be nicer to Layla, Abby grabbed two pieces of fish for the microwave and dropped some broccoli in the steamer. Trouble rubbed against her and purred in high octaves. “Okay, three pieces, Trouble.”
The doorbell chimed. Abby hit the start button on the microwave and went to the door. She peered out the peephole and jerked backed, sucking in air.
Jennifer Draper, Philip’s socialite wife, whose photos appeared regularly in the Tallahassee Magazine and the Tallahassee Democrat, was standing on Abby’s front stoop. Jennifer was so eternally calm she never even broke a sweat at that awful outdoor Fourth of July firm picnic they’d had in the one hundred-degree heat. Frankly, the woman scared the wits out of Abby.
Abby peeked again in case stress and fatigue were making her hallucinate. Nope, no mistaking that smooth, peaches-and-cream complexion and the perfect blond pageboy and the linen sheath dress that didn’t have a wrinkle on it.
Abby opened the door, pasting a smile on her face as she did. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Draper.”
Jennifer didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. She didn’t offer her hand to
Abby. She didn’t explain a thing. The woman whose name was practically synonymous with Southern Hospitality and graciousness just stared.
“Uh, hello.” Abby repeated it as Trouble eased up beside her, brushing his fur against her bare leg. “Would you…er, …like to come in?”
“Is my husband’s law clerk, Layla, here? I understand she’s been staying with you?” Jennifer’s words were slow and oddly spaced.
“Ah, yes, I mean she’s staying here. But she’s in the shower. And we’re getting ready to go to the law school…I mean to the library. The law school library. To the basement. Old cases and old books. We’ve got this huge project. You know, work, work, work.” Abby made herself shut up. Under the best of circumstances, Jennifer Draper made her nervous, but this was not the best of circumstances. And when ultra- nervous, sometimes Abby babbled.
“It’s important that I speak with her. Might I come in and wait?”
Abby nodded, standing back to let Jennifer inside, yet wondering why in the world Phillip’s wife needed to speak with Layla. Because of the attack behind the law firm maybe? A sorry-you-were-mugged-visit? She was dying to ask, but instead offered Jennifer tea, water, or coffee.
“No, thank you. I’ll just wait.” Jennifer idled in the entryway, though she glanced into the living room.
“Please, come in and have a seat.” Abby practically bit her own tongue to keep from jabbering.
The microwave dinged.
Jennifer took a seat in the living room, and Abby excused herself. As she stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, Abby caught a glimpse of Layla hurrying out of the bathroom, a cloud of stream following her. She was dressed in a bathrobe with a wild pattern of golds and reds, and she saw Jennifer almost at once and hurried down the hallway toward her.
Trouble in Tallahassee (Familiar Legacy Book 3) Page 4
