Dreams of the Dead

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Nina looked down, recalling the snowy night. Bob had not been home. She, alone, had felt afraid but brushed off her fear. Foolish. Outside, a killer crept. If it hadn’t been for Paul—

  “This guy jumped the murderer and there was a hell of a struggle. One of the strangest fights ever. They were both quiet to keep you out of it. He was quiet so that he wouldn’t alert you. He was in good shape, Nina, younger than the guy and tough. The guy didn’t murder him. The murderer was trying very earnestly to kill the guy. They fought a fair fight and the good guy won. The guy put him down. He took the body of the murderer away and buried it in the mountains.”

  Paul finished without emotion. He rubbed his palms together. “He never meant to kill, but he’d never allow someone to hurt you, Nina.”

  “And he didn’t.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’m right here, right now, thanks to you.”

  “But now I have to ask you for something. Can you help the Strong family, what’s left of it, by proving Jim’s dead without involving either of us? Without getting me put away for the rest of my natural born days?”

  “I wish I could promise. I’m not sure.”

  The waiter returned. Paul asked for a pint of Hefeweizen.

  “As a minimum,” Nina said, “we have this obligation: we have to make it possible to push the Paradise sale through. That should be the goal. At least that way the family is not ruined and publicly disgraced. They won’t go bankrupt.”

  “It would be nice to find the money Jim stole from the resort.”

  “It’s gone by now. Spent. It has been a couple of years. Life’s expensive. No. Wait. He’s dead. I’m confused, Paul.”

  “How much money do you think Jim stole?”

  “Over a million dollars, including smaller thefts over a period of time, and the big theft right before he—”

  “A lot, then.” Paul leaned back, drank some beer.

  “The embezzlement started a cascade of financial problems that leads straight to this sale.”

  “I get it. I do. I wouldn’t necessarily be feeling all that helpful,” Paul said, “but I’m reeling from reading this affidavit. Someone has big ideas. They want some of the sale proceeds. But how could anybody lay hands on Jim Strong’s share?”

  “I don’t know. The situation is starting to shape itself. There are several different moves ahead, but I just set up the ongoing game on the board and haven’t got a real picture as to where the pieces go yet.”

  “I need to spend some time up here. Such a quaint little mountain town it is, too.”

  “About that night, Paul.”

  “That dark, bloody night.”

  “I took photos of the scratches on my doorknob a few days afterward. I wish you’d pounded on the door and come in and called the police.”

  “I never wanted to involve you.” He spoke hoarsely, head down. He meant this.

  Nina put her forehead to Paul’s and said softly, “He’s dead? You’re positive?”

  “Positive.” Paul watched as Sandy’s ample denim-clad hips swayed their way. “Cue our conscience.”

  “Did I pretend to be having fun elsewhere for long enough?” Sandy asked. “Figured you had catching up to do.” She sat down next to Paul. She liked him and sometimes showed it by suddenly slapping him on the back or chucking him on the chin. The ice had melted in her iced tea. They had polished off the shrimp.

  “Salud,” Nina said, tapping Paul’s beer and Sandy’s tea with her water glass. Glug glug.

  “Is Wish doing his job down there in ol’ Carmel?” Sandy asked.

  “He’s fine. I think he has a girlfriend,” Paul said. “He answers his phone, turns red, goes into the storeroom, and shuts the door. Then I hear the whispers.”

  “Glory be,” Sandy said. “I hope she can cook. I’ll call him tonight.” Wish hadn’t lived at home for several years, but Sandy still concerned herself actively with her son’s love life. “So are you gonna get involved with this new case?”

  “Have to,” Paul said.

  “True,” Sandy said. “No choice there.”

  Paul looked at her. Sandy squeezed lemon into her tea as if nothing mattered but the lemon, the tea, as if the world moved in stately sequence and untoward emotions never occurred.

  Paul looked at Nina. She gave a slight nod.

  “Sandy?” he said. “I apologize. I’ve made some missteps that hurt Nina and you.”

  “I’m well aware,” Sandy said.

  Their lunch arrived.

  “I screwed up,” Paul said. “I should have knocked on Nina’s door that night and gotten you and the police involved.”

  “True,” Sandy said. “Who’d you think you were? This is America.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” Sandy said.

  They talked about Paul’s kayak trip, where he had almost been overturned by dolphins gamboling all along the Pacific shores that year. The dolphins came at Christmas. Nina thought it amazing that dolphins took a regular route down to Mexico for Christmas, not a whole lot different from seniors taking their winter vacations. “You grew up on the Monterey Peninsula,” Paul said to Nina. “Don’t you miss the ocean?”

  “I used to think I wouldn’t be able to stand it, but it turned out for me that Lake Tahoe had the same effect, you know? It’s a huge body of water, alive like the ocean.”

  “So you don’t miss Pacific Grove?”

  “I sure don’t miss the fog.”

  “Well, Pacific Grove misses you, honey,” Paul said, and both Nina and Sandy laughed.

  After coffee, Nina got back to the case.

  “There’s a hearing tomorrow regarding the sale of Paradise Ski Resort, and the lawyer who has been handling all of it, Lynda Eckhardt, needs me there. It’s possible Judge Flaherty will insist on proof of Jim Strong’s death or signed permission before he allows the sale at all. That’s the worst possible result, and I can’t believe he’d do that, even with this new claim that he’s alive.”

  “Can’t he be presumed dead? It’s been two years,” Paul said.

  “Probate Code section 12401 says the person has to have been missing for five years in almost all cases,” Nina said.

  “Wow, long time for the family to wait for their money.”

  “That’s right. And even worse . . .” Nina explained that the judge was likely to put the full $2.5 million net after the sale into escrow, not charging Jim’s gross share with a proportionate share of the debts, since Jim had not consented to having that share taken out.

  “What does that mean in terms of what the family gets right now, then? If that amount goes into escrow?”

  “They get zilch. All the other money will go toward the debts, and these net proceeds will all be tied up in an escrow for the indefinite future.”

  “Especially since Jim’ll never show up to take possession of it and work out a settlement with his family. Any idea who might be involved in this affidavit?” Paul asked. “It’s a forgery, and according to you, a credible one.”

  “I have thought about it.” And so she had, with Jim’s face glaring at her from underneath her eyelids at three in the morning. “Michael Stamp and his firm are representing Jim Strong. They’ve been retained through the Brazilian attorney. Mike is smart and articulate. He’s got plenty of international business. He might have a deal going with a Brazilian lawyer. Maybe he’s got a brother down there desperate for money? Maybe he’s run into problems with his stocks being worth nothing, and he’s close to retirement age? Maybe he promised his wife five carats for her fortieth?”

  “I like the greedy-trophy-wife angle. Always blame her if you can. Yeah, sure, maybe it is Stamp. That’s a good first guess, anyway.”

  Nina smiled at him, knowing he was working hard to be his usual carefree self, when he appeared far from it. “Hard to know what will push someone over the edge. You might spend your whole life honorable, and then blow it all because you didn’t get what you thought you deserved in th
e end, and you see all of your hard work turning into nothing.”

  “We have a forged affidavit and a possibly compromised attorney so far. Got anything else?”

  “Philip’s daughter-in-law, Marianne, has some sort of connection with Brazil. She always said she wanted to run the resort, along with her half brother, Gene. Maybe this is a twisted way of taking control of it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Nina shook her head. “I’m not sure. But they don’t get along, any of them. Then there’s Kelly, his daughter. Remember her?”

  “The law student, right?”

  “She has changed so much, Paul, you wouldn’t recognize her. I don’t know. Something off there. She’s hiding something. Maybe she’s hiding a lot of things.”

  “I bet the scammers figured they had a crack at getting the money sent down to Brazil, getting hold of it down there. Lynda Eckhardt—she wasn’t exactly putting up a fight, right?”

  “It’s risky, Paul. How could they know Jim wouldn’t hear about it on Twitter or something and make another claim himself? They don’t know for sure he’s dead.”

  “Good question.” Paul shook his head. “But I do know he’s dead, so Brazil is a scam. I’ll go down there.”

  “No. Philip’s investigator’s going. Eric Brinkman. He speaks Portuguese. We’ll get this figured out.”

  “I don’t know this guy, Eric Brinkman.”

  “He’ll be at the office at four,” Sandy told Paul.

  “And I’m not invited?” Paul said.

  Nina said, “I just heard about this myself. Can you come?”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Ho, ho.” Sandy slapped a hand on the table. “You know you want to be there.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there. So how’s the novel going, Sandy? Nina’s dying to hear more.”

  Sandy discovered something interesting on her plate.

  The waiter stopped by. Nina refilled her black coffee but felt too full to finish it.

  “Wimp,” Paul said, finishing his second mug. “Sandy, you coddle her. It’s a good thing I’m here.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Confession of Guilt

  a novel

  by Sandra Whitefeather

  Proud descendant of a master basket maker of the Washoe tribe, Sondra Dat So La Lee Filoplume woke up early that morning, almost as if her dreaming self realized the day would be tough. She put on her clothes carefully, choosing a tight skirt that best showed off her fine-looking legs, kissed her current boyfriend good-bye, and climbed into her new Lexus, a gift from her employer for last year’s job well done.

  Sam, a tall, rangy Washoe cowboy from down Minden way, stood on the porch waving her off, his hooded eyes tired-looking after last night’s exercise.

  It being March and a dry, sunny day, Sondra drove the road from Gardnerville up to Lake Tahoe in record time, admiring the small signs of spring that brought out early birds along with pesky bicyclers that made negotiating the mountain road a little annoying.

  Brushing off her mood, which had most to do with Sam’s telling her last night how he wanted to marry her—why did they always want to complicate a good thing?—she decided she would leave work a little early this evening. She and Sam would take the horses out for a sunset ride, and she would set him straight.

  She arrived at the foot of Ski Run Boulevard at South Lake Tahoe, where the ten-story high-rise held the offices of Fox, Wagoner, and Josephson, and pulled into the brand-new underground garage after nodding to the guy in the booth, who had been pestering her for months for a date.

  In the elevator to the penthouse suite, she rode up with Barry Manilow. He stared at her beauty through bloodshot eyes.

  “Beautiful day,” Sondra commented.

  “It’s daytime? Shit,” said Barry Manilow.

  By the time the elevator reached the tenth floor, Sondra was alone, with enough time to adjust her coral-colored lipstick in its mirrored surface.

  War paint, she chuckled to herself, clicking the lid shut and popping it into a dedicated pocket of her new designer bag. She needed lots of it these days. Her boss hadn’t been herself since her husband had died tragically, smothered by snow, killed by a madman. Sondra had had to pick up the slack in all departments, including creating a cheerful, professional mood every single day.

  The doors parted to reveal one of the slickest offices in South Lake Tahoe, the envy of all the other lawyers in town.

  [Insert action. Sondra does something—saves Riley. Runaway horse? Then: kick from Sondra that makes Riley Fox get skeptical, like she should be. Then back to the real story of a deceptive client.]

  Sondra’s door flew open. Her boss stood outside, wet with snow, the outfit that appeared so immaculate that morning now bedraggled and muddy around the cuffs.

  “You okay?” Sondra asked.

  Her boss sighed and pushed wet hair off her forehead. “Dandy.”

  “You know what you have to do now, don’t you?”

  “Sure wish I did.”

  “Sit.” Sondra directed Riley Fox to one of the plush waiting-room chairs. “Listen. I can help with this. I’ve studied the paperwork and news reports. A good thing is, you trust people. You defend people who look guilty to everyone else. But this is different. This is your life on the line. Now you should examine that instinct to trust, okay? Time to look on the dark side. He’s bad, Ms. Fox. You need to take him out.”

  Her boss tossed her a rare smile. “I’m so lucky to have you on my side,” she said, leaning forward to listen.

  [Add that her boss has a hot love life and has to decide between two very different men. Sondra nudges her the right way.].

  Sondra had totally accidentally overheard a few strained conversations taking place in Ms. Fox’s office. “Busy day ahead,” she said, keeping the mood light but professional.

  Riley slipped gracefully out of her light jacket and hung it in a spacious double closet flanking the entryway. She stood for a little longer than usual, looking unusually troubled. “I need time this afternoon. An hour.”

  Sondra reviewed all the appointments she had booked and how hard she had worked, organizing them, and nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Take an hour and a half, two o’clock on.”

  Her boss’s eyelids looked huge as they drooped over unhappy eyes. “Thanks.”

  Sondra watched the door close on her office. She would cancel urgent cases, but that’s what she did, watched her boss’s back.

  Another relationship bites the dust, she thought. She flipped through the contacts list on her computer, writing down the relevant three, picking up the phone, thinking about what she needed to say to cancel ’em and leave ’em happy regardless.

  Another hour and a half wasn’t going to solve their problems, she thought, punching in the first number, but Sondra had never mistaken this guy for the right guy anyway. Her boss would get over it and figure out what was what eventually.

  “Hello,” she said into the phone. She explained about the double-booking of clients, all her fault, such busy times, her boss so hugely successful and all. While the client squawked and she took it, she straightened files on her desk and pondered the future. Things in the present appeared so blighted.

  Five minutes later, after being subjected to some painfully accurate verbal abuse, she could finally hang up the phone and allow herself a silent parting thought:

  Things would end happily.

  Somehow.

  An hour after lunch, Sandy glided into Nina’s office. “Mr. Brink-man is here.” She often gave nonverbal cues about new people coming through the door. This time she betrayed nothing, not even the cock of an eyebrow.

  Perplexed, Nina came around her desk and went into the front office.

  The man standing there turned around. She had to keep herself from staggering back. He seemed to fill the small office. Well over six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and brought a scent of leather and the outdoors. She reacted to that, partially. She registered a f
ew details; Prada sunglasses, rugged cheeks, creases in his cheeks even though he must be in his midthirties. The smile—whoa! Shiny, happy, expensive dentistry. Harley jacket and jeans, right for the weather. He looked like an advertisement for an outdoorsman. A slender outdoorsman. An elegant man dressed as an outdoorsman?

  “Hello, Mr. Brinkman.”

  He took off the sunglasses and parked them negligently on his head. “Eric, please.” His eyes were blue, the eyebrows darker than his hair, which was cropped short. He gave her a polite smile.

  Sandy, at her computer, watched sidelong while her fingers moved at a hundred words per minute, no doubt on her novel, since Nina hadn’t given her any work this afternoon and the files were in excellent condition.

  Nina held out her hand, also smiling, in her usual greeting to professional strangers. Brinkman looked at her hand, took it, turned it over, and bowed and touched his lips to the palm. He had long, white fingers and a thick gold ring with an onyx stone on the index finger.

  Resisting the urge to pull back her hand, she wished that she had applied some wonderful-smelling hand lotion.

  He returned her hand. “Thanks for seeing me. Phil Strong suggested I stop in.”

  “R-right. Sure. Come in.”

  He followed her into her office.

  “A colleague of mine might join us.” She watched him take in the sliver of lake view, the decor, such as it was, and the banged-up desk.

  “Fine.” He sat down and crossed an ankle over his knee. “My card.” He handed it across the desk to her. The embossed card said only BRINKMAN INVESTIGATIONS with an e-mail address and website. “I’ve seen you in court. You have a way with a cross-exam.”

  Rubbing the card between her fingers, she said, “I’m glad you came. Where’s your office, Mr. Brinkman?”

  “Eric, please. I mostly work the Nevada side. Like to play golf, so I set myself down close to Edgewood Tahoe. I share an office with someone you might know, Ed Quinn?”

  She had heard of Quinn, a security specialist. She nodded. Brinkman went on, “Actually I work mostly out of my home office, or on my boat.”