Alison Reynolds 01 - Edge Of Evil (v5.0)

by J. A. Jance

  “Thanks, Chris,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  The tears came then, and she let them. Having someone hold her as she cried made all the difference.

  Chapter 4

  As Ali and Chris finished loading the Cayenne, Chris paused next to the ski rack. “Should I bring ’em?” he asked.

  Ali shrugged. “Why not? After that big storm, I’m sure there’s plenty of new snow up at Flagstaff, and you know how much Gramps loves to ski, especially with you.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, with Reenie and everything…”

  Ali nodded. “Reenie’s my problem, not Dad’s. Besides, remember how he was when Aunt Evie died? Practically useless. We’ll be better off with him skiing than we will be with him under hand and foot twenty-four seven.”

  Obligingly, Chris loaded the ski rack and the skis onto the Cayenne’s roof rack. And when they left the house, Chris drove while Ali rode shotgun, managing the MP3 player. Wanting to think about song lyrics instead of what had happened to Reenie, Ali scrolled through the index, selecting one musical after another, songs Chris had culled from Aunt Evie’s personal CD collection and added to the playlist.

  Her mother and Aunt Evelyn had shared more than just their birthdays and a lifelong partnership in the Sugarloaf Café. Together they had adored musical scores, everything from Showboat to Cats; and from Carousel and Oklahoma to Evita and The Lion King. Aunt Evie had collected them all. To celebrate their sixtieth birthday Ali had convinced her mother and aunt to get passports. Then, as a surprise and using some of Paul’s and her own accumulated air miles and credit card points, the three of them—Ali, her mother, and Aunt Evie—had flown first-class to London for five days of wonderful first-class hotels and nonstop theater productions. It had been great fun, and they had done it just in time, too. Only a few months later and with no advance warning, Aunt Evie had succumbed to a massive stroke.

  While listening and riding, Ali glanced over at Chris. He drove with both hands gripping the wheel and with his eyes constantly focused on traffic. As she watched him, Ali was at once both startled and gratified to realize how old he was and how competent. Christopher was twenty-two—a grown man now—only two years younger than his father had been when he died. And a close-but-not-quite carbon copy of his father—Chris was taller and heavier than Dean had been.

  For the past seven years, living with his stepfather’s money and privilege and with his mother a staple on the nightly news, it would have been easy for Chris to lose track of who he was. An atmosphere of poisonous privilege and ready access to drugs had blighted many of his classmates. That he hadn’t fallen into those traps was due primarily to the way his mother had raised him prior to Paul Grayson’s appearance on the scene.

  For years it had been just the two of them—Ali and Christopher. There had been a song in Aunt Evie’s collection that spoke to that as well—Helen Reddy’s poignant “You and Me Against the World.” And now, driving eastward on I-10 and in heavy traffic, it was true again. But with Chris grown—in another two months, he’d be graduating from college—this might well be the last road trip they’d take together, riding along and listening to Aunt Evie’s music. She wondered if, as Chris grew older, hearing some of these old familiar songs would bring him back to this long sad trip.

  They drove onto the 10 at the beginning of rush-hour traffic, so it took them the better part of three hours to make it to Palm Springs. They had just passed Rancho Mirage, Ali mindlessly humming along with “Adelaide’s Lament” from Guys and Dolls, when her cell rang. She saw at a glance it was Paul.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded the moment she answered. “How come you’re talking to an attorney? I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t start any proceedings against the station.”

  There was no mention of what had happened to Reenie. No explanation of why it had taken him so long to get back to her. No, just an instant all-out verbal attack.

  “I don’t remember any such agreement,” Ali returned.

  “Come on, Ali,” he said. “I told you very clearly the other night that, with me as a network exec, we couldn’t afford to get mixed up in any kind of legal dust-up. We just have to take our lumps and move on.”

  “Our lumps?” she asked. “What do you mean our? I’m the one who got fired, not you.”

  “And you sure as hell better hope it isn’t catching. What if you piss them off and they end up firing me, too? Then we’d be in a hell of a mess. We can get by without what you make, but we can’t get by without what I bring home. Now tomorrow, I want you to go see that attorney and give him…”

  “Her,” Ali corrected.

  “Her then,” he conceded. “Give her whatever she needs to drop the case. If you just talked to her to day, she can’t have done very much. If she wants to keep the retainer, fine. Let her. Just be sure the case gets dropped. I don’t want it to go any further than it already has, understand?”

  Ali understood all right. Paul was handing down orders, and he expected unquestioning obedience. That’s what he required of all his underlings, and the salary comment made his wife’s standing pretty clear—it was in the lower echelon of the chain of command. Why did he have to be such an overbearing jerk at times?

  “I can’t,” she said quietly.

  “Can’t?” Paul shouted into her ear. “What do you mean you can’t?”

  Ali looked at her son. Chris seemed intent on the road and traffic, but she knew he was listening.

  “Just what I said. I can’t,” she told him. “Chris and I are on our way to Sedona. Reenie died over the weekend—in a traffic accident. I want to be there to help Howie and the kids.”

  If Ali expected a word of sympathy about what had happened to her friend, none was forthcoming.

  “Call the damned attorney from Sedona, then. You can do it over the phone if you have to. I just want to be sure it’s stopped before there’s any more damage.”

  “As in damage to your career?” Ali put in.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Of course. What did you think I meant?”

  “What?” Ali said. “What did you say? I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hello? Hello?” She closed the phone and slipped it back in her pocket.

  Chris gave her a sidelong glance. “That call wasn’t really breaking up,” he observed. “I checked the last time I drove through here. There was good service with plenty of signal from here all the way to and from. What’s going on?”

  Chris and Paul had never gotten along. Paul had disapproved of almost everything his stepson did, from the clothing he wore to his choice of school. He had been particularly offended by Chris’s stated intention of squandering his fine arts training by hoping to become a teacher. Paul Grayson wasn’t the least bit altruistic and had no patience with people who were. Ali, on the other hand, had been inordinately proud.

  “Your stepfather doesn’t like it that I consulted with an attorney about filing a wrongful dismissal suit against the station,” Ali admitted quietly. “He thinks I should just shut up and take my lumps.”

  “Are you going to?” Chris asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not. No matter what Paul wants, I’m going to take them on, and it won’t just be for me, either. It’ll be for every woman in the television news business who’s in danger of being put out to pasture because she’s past forty and isn’t interested in joining the Botox nation. Meanwhile the guys can stay on the air until they’re doddering old men and need guide dogs to drag ’em around. No one says a word to them. They’re still viewable.”

  “Good,” Chris said. “And what about Paul?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a jerk. And with everything else that’s going on…”

  At first Ali thought Chris meant everything that was going on with Reenie, but then she looked at the grim set to her son’s jaw and realized there had to be something more.

  “What everything else?” she asked.

  Chris shook his head. “Come on, Mom.
You know what I mean. There’s no point in talking about it.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any idea. Tell me.”

  Not wanting to answer, Chris compressed his lips and shook his head. “Why do you let him treat you like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like crap.”

  Ali wasn’t thrilled to be discussing her troubled marriage with her son—or with anyone else, for that matter. After seven years of playing peace maker and running interference between Paul and Chris, Ali’s first ingrained response was to attempt to minimize whatever had been said, in both directions.

  “He’s opinionated,” she commented. “And he’s upset that I’m going ahead with the wrongful dismissal suit. You know Paul. He’s used to having people jump to do whatever he says.”

  Chris drove in silence for several miles before saying anything more. “You do know he’s screwing around on you, don’t you?” he said at last.

  “He’s what?” Ali demanded. She felt as though a bucket of icy water had been flung in her face.

  “He’s got a girlfriend. More than one actually.”

  Ali could hardly believe her ears. Chris was her son. Surely she couldn’t be having this conversation with him.

  “I don’t know,” Ali managed stiffly. “And if you do, maybe you should let me in on it.”

  Chris gave his mother a questioning look. With his attention momentarily diverted, a gust of wind, blowing through the mountains behind them, sent the Cayenne wandering across the lane-edge warning bumps along the shoulder of the freeway.

  “You really don’t know?” Chris returned.

  Years of sitting in front of a camera reporting on all kinds of catastrophes had taught Ali Reynolds how to master her own emotions and maintain control. She did that now.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “April Gaddis, Paul’s new administrative assistant, is the older sister of a friend of a friend,” Chris explained. “That’s how I heard about it, sitting around having a beer with the guys after a basket ball game. The brother asked me if it was true you and Paul were getting a divorce. According to him, April is telling all her friends that they’ll be married by the end of the year.”

  There was a long pause. At last Ali found her voice. “Well,” she said, “if that’s the case, he’ll have to get a move on, won’t he. From what I hear, there’s no such thing as an instant divorce in California.”

  “Don’t joke about this, Mom,” Chris said, his voice tight with concern. “It isn’t funny. And then there’s Charmaine.”

  “Charmaine?” Ali repeated stupidly. “You mean my Charmaine?”

  Charmaine Holbrook, an intently cheerful young woman, had been Ali’s personal assistant for the past three years. She had come through a temporary staffing agency and had turned into a permanent employee. Ali would have trusted Charmaine with her life.

  Chris nodded miserably.

  “What about her?”

  “One Friday night, I had a few too many beers and one of my buddies gave me a lift home. I went inside to take a nap. You were at work. When Paul came home, my car wasn’t in the garage and my lights weren’t on. He must have assumed I wasn’t home, either. A while later, I heard them carrying on out in the pool. That’s what woke me up. He and Charmaine were both in the pool naked, but swimming isn’t all they were doing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me at the time?” Ali demanded. She felt betrayed, as much by her son’s silence as by her husband’s infidelity.

  “I thought you knew, Mom,” Chris declared. “I swear to God. I figured you must have decided to make the best of a bad bargain. Lots of women around here do that, you know. They find out what their husbands are up to, but, for one reason or another, they decide to just put up with it instead of throwing the bum out.”

  “I had no idea,” Ali murmured.

  “I know that now,” Chris said. “And I’m sorry, but hearing him ordering you around like you were some kind of servant…”

  “How many people know about this?” Ali asked suddenly.

  Chris shrugged. “Lots, I suppose,” he answered. “I mean, if I know, then other people must know, too. They probably haven’t taken out an ad in the Times, or anything like that, but…”

  Ali’s phone rang. Paul’s number showed in the display. “It’s him,” she said. “I’m not going to answer.”

  And she didn’t. The cell rang five times before it went to message. A few seconds later, the lights started flashing, indicating she had a voice mail waiting.

  For ten miles or so, Ali did nothing; said nothing. Finally, she reached for her phone.

  “Don’t call him back,” Chris pleaded. “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not.”

  Instead, she picked up the phone and scrolled through the called numbers until she located the one for Marcella Johnson’s cell phone. Marcella answered on the second ring.

  “Hi,” Ali said. “It’s Alison Reynolds, your newest client.”

  “Did you change your mind?” Marcella asked.

  “Why would you ask that?” Ali returned.

  “I just came from Leonard’s office—Leonard Weldon, the senior partner. He called me in right after your husband called here.”

  “Paul Grayson called you?” Ali asked.

  “Oh, no. He didn’t call me. He called Leonard and hinted very strongly that we should think about returning your retainer. That if we did, he’d make sure some of the network’s very lucrative business got thrown in our direction.”

  “That underhanded son of a bitch!” Ali muttered under her breath.

  “Yes,” Marcella said. “That more or less covers it.”

  “So I suppose I need to go looking for a new attorney.”

  “No,” Marcella said. “Not at all. I believe Leonard pretty much told him to stop throwing his weight around and put a sock in it.”

  “He did?”

  “Leonard told me he was in the same foursome with Paul Grayson at a charity golf tournament a number of years ago, and Paul kept shaving strokes. If there’s one thing Leonard Weldon can’t tolerate, it’s someone who cheats at golf!”

  Among other things, Ali thought.

  “So if you’re in, we’re in,” Marcella continued. “Weldon wants us to pursue this case to the bitter end.”

  “Oh, I’m in all right,” Ali declared.

  “So what did you need, then?” Marcella asked.

  “Does anyone at your firm handle divorces?” Ali asked.

  “I don’t,” Marcella said. “Not personally. But we just brought in a lady named Helga Myerhoff.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ali said. “I’ve heard of her. I seem to remember she specializes in high-profile divorce cases. Don’t people call her Rottweiler Myerhoff?”

  “That’s right,” Marcella laughed. “Or Helga the Horrible, depending. Most of the time, though, the only people dishing out those names are Helga’s opposing counsel after she takes their clients to the cleaners. Her clients praise her to the high heavens.”

  “She works with you, then?” Ali asked.

  “That’s right,” Marcella said. “Three months ago, Helga’s long-term partner retired. She and Leonard Weldon went to law school together a hundred years ago. When Helga decided she didn’t want to be a sole practitioner, she came knocking on Leonard’s door. But who’s looking for a divorce attorney?”

  “I am,” Ali said in a small voice. “At least I think I am.”

  “Do you want me to have Helga call you?”

  “Not right now. My son and I are driving to Sedona. At the moment, we’re in the middle of the desert between Palm Springs and nowhere. Have her call me tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” Marcella hesitated. “I don’t know you very well, but you sound down. Are you going to be all right with whatever’s going on? If you want me to call her right now…”

  “No,” Ali said. “Tomorrow will be fine. As I said, my son’s with me,
and he’s been a brick.”

  “All right then.”

  “So I’ll need to send another retainer?”

  “Talk to Helga first,” Marcella advised. “Then you can decide, but if you’re talking to an attorney about this, you should probably also get in touch with your banker. You could find yourself up a creek without a credit card and without a checking account, either.”

  “I think I’m okay there,” she said. “I’ve got my own checking account and my own credit card as well.”

  “Good,” Marcella said. “Lots of women don’t.”

  Ali closed the phone and put it in her pocket. When she looked over at Chris, he was grinning. “You’re going to hire Helga Myerhoff?” he asked.

  “Why?” Ali returned. “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve heard of her. Remember Sally Majors, the girl I took to the senior prom?”

  Ali remembered the photo her son had given her that year. He had stood in front of someone’s massive fireplace decked out in a white tux, pale pink shirt, and cranberry-colored cummerbund and tie. Standing beside him, dwarfed by his size, had been a tiny girl in a full-length cranberry gown that screamed designer label. Ali had always been struck not by the beauty of the gown, but by the unremitting sadness in the girl’s eyes.

  “I remember her,” Ali said.

  “Her father’s a worm,” Chris said. “He was getting ready to ditch his wife. Same thing. Younger woman. He was hiding assets, doing all kinds of underhanded crap. Sally’s mother hired Helga, and she nailed him. I ran into Sally at Starbucks a few months ago. She told me all about it.”

  “Go Helga,” Ali said. But her heart wasn’t in it.

  After that, she turned up the music and subsided into silence. As the miles rolled by, she was surprised that she didn’t feel more. Maybe, with all that had happened in the past few days, she was simply beyond feeling anything at all. That turned out to be wrong, however. Because when she finally did start feeling, what hit her first was anger—with a capital A.

  “How old is this girl?” she asked finally.

  “April?” Chris returned. Ali nodded. “A little older than I am,” he said. “Maybe mid twenties.”