by Kelly Rey
She blushed furiously. "I guess so. I was only passing through, not, um…shopping. I was on my way to the heat patches. You know, because I've had a lot of falls lately." She flashed me her bruised forearm as proof.
"The Supremes," I said with a nod.
She gave me a wan smile. "So we got to talking, and Don—that's his name, Don—he said it wasn't right that females can get training bras but males can't get…well…" Her cheeks flushed.
I'd had it all wrong. I felt a stab of sympathy for Don.
"Anyway," Eunice said, "I told him I thought he was right. And I advised him to come see me. As a lawyer. I mean, he can't be the only one, can he?"
"I wouldn't think so."
She nodded. "It's a classic case of size discrimination. And we can throw Patrice—that's her name, Patrice—in for loss of consortium."
"Eunice," I began, but I had no idea what to say to her. Maybe I should offer to help with her résumé.
"It's got class action written all over it," she said. "Only how would I go about finding all the other Dons?"
"I can't imagine," I said. My voice sounded faint. Wait till Wally got wind of this.
"Maybe a television commercial." She put down her papers and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, pondering. "Everyone watches television, right? We word it just the right way, this place will be swimming with clients. The key is not to embarrass them. We have to make like it's no worse than bad breath or dandruff. So they're willing to testify in court. And pose for photographs. I'll get right on it." She smiled. "You know, lawyers get some pretty good stories. Maybe I'll write a book."
I looked up in alarm. "You can't write a book! You'll violate attorney/client privilege!"
"Oh, yeah. There's that, isn't there." She chewed on her lip, thinking. "Maybe I'll wait till I retire. I'll need to make money somehow. It's not like my giant pension will carry me through my golden years. Hey." Her face brightened. "Do you have to go interrogate anyone?"
I nodded. "But it's sort of a do-it-yourself kind of job."
"Oh." Her shoulders dropped even more. "Well, I guess I'll go hide in the conference room, then."
"There's a deposition starting at ten," I told her.
She shrugged dispiritedly. "No one will notice me. I'll just blend into the woodwork."
Not true. The woodwork had some style to it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I had a lot of thinking to do, but I wasn't going to get it done on Howard's time. The morning began with a flurry of activity and devolved into a blizzard. Five attorneys and their respective clients, together with a court reporter, each with different beverage requests, were tucking into the conference room with Howard and Wally for the lengthy deposition of a defense expert. Eunice had been evicted from the conference room and told to make herself useful, which she did by taking a vacation day. Janice was rushing around juggling luxury car brochures. Donna was rushing around collecting books from the library and squirreling them away upstairs for some obscure project or other. Ken didn't rush anywhere—he strolled in at about ten-thirty and went upstairs for his morning nap. And Missy had been happily dispatched to the nearest bakery to acquire sufficient amounts of sugar to keep all parties alert until quitting time.
The end result was an unusual level of productivity, but a vague sense of restlessness to go along with it. Mostly because I wasn't doing so well in sniffing out Oxnard Thorpe's murderer.
That unhappy thought carried me until nearly five o'clock, when it hit me that there was actually something I could do. I clicked onto the Web, where I typed "Fire and Ice show" into Google. For some reason, I couldn't reconcile Bitsy Dolman with fashion shows, which of course didn't mean she'd knocked off Oxnard Thorpe. Still, it seemed somehow important to confirm her attendance at the show, since it was, after all, her alibi.
I clicked on the link to the official Fire and Ice website. An impressive slide show of untouchable models in unwearable couture appeared on the screen. Lots of bare skin and ludicrous feathery headwear and see-through gowns. I really didn't get fashion.
There were a series of buttons across the top of the page. I clicked on the one that promised a history of the celebration of philanthropy that was Fire and Ice. It was standard PR fare: the designers participating in the show represented the vanguard of the fashion industry, blah, blah, blah. And a little further down, what an honor it was to be in Chicago for this year's annual show.
Chicago? How could Bitsy have possibly attended Oxnard's wedding and been in Chicago for a fashion show on the same day?
She couldn't. Even if the flight schedule worked out, which never happened, Bitsy wasn't in the financial position to play jet-setter. Or to celebrate philanthropy. Which meant she'd lied. The question was why she'd felt compelled to lie to me. That was one I'd have to think about, preferably over a container of fast food chili.
I closed the browser, shut down my computer, and headed for my car when Eunice's Legume came rocketing into the lot and screeched to a stop in front of me. "Get in."
I kept walking. "I'm off the clock."
The Legume crept forward, keeping pace. "But I have information about the case."
"Eunice." I stopped with a heavy sigh. "You can't sue a condom manufacturer for not making a pee-wee size. Or file an improper imposition of curfew suit. I don't know where you went to law school—"
"Harvard Academy of Law," she said helpfully. "And Mortuary Science. Online."
Right. "I'm going to get some chili and go home." I started walking again.
"Got it." She inched the Legume ahead. "But that's not the case I'm talking about. I mean the murder you and Maizy are investigating."
Investigating. Good one. Maizy could probably find Amelia Earhart. All I'd done so far was gotten lucky with a simple internet search.
Then it hit me, and I stopped again. "What are you talking about?"
She grinned up at me. "I went back to see those old people again today."
Oh, no. "You don't mean the Thorpes."
The office door slammed, and Janice stomped across the lot, lugging a bulging leather portfolio. She saw us, looked pointedly at her car beyond Eunice's, and said, "Move."
The Legume immediately backed into a spot, maybe of its own volition. I sauntered after it, moving at an arthritic elephant's pace to sour Janice's sunny mood.
"Do you mean the Thorpes?" I asked her when I finally got there.
"Yeah, I do. The Thorpes." Her grin widened. "About the probate of Oxnard's will. Remember, they were waiting for the paperwork?"
"You don't have any paperwork," I said.
She did a dismissive wave. "Are you kidding? This place is nothing but paperwork."
I stared at her. "Are you telling me you took papers out of other files?"
"Only one file. And just a few papers." She shrugged. "They never knew the difference. They saw a briefcase, some documents, and a lawyer, and they think they've got a fortune coming to them."
"Maybe they do have a fortune coming to them."
She waggled a single finger. "Murderers don't get to profit from their crime. And those two killed their brother. Well, maybe not both of them. But one of them did, and the other one's covering for him—or her—and that makes him—or her—an accessory."
I felt a headache begin to gnaw at my temples. "How do you know that?"
"I'm a lawyer," she said cheerfully.
Janice roared out of the parking lot. She may or may not have flipped us the bird along the way—I wasn't paying attention. I was busy watching Donna creep out the back door. She did a finger waggle wave, tucked herself into her car, and putted off, leaving Eunice and me alone again.
"What I mean," I said patiently, "is how do you know they killed their brother?"
"After we went over the paperwork," she said, "we drank tea. And ate sponge cake." Her grin faltered. "I shouldn't have eaten the sponge cake. I'm kind of on a diet."
I wasn't connecting the dots. "I don't get it," I said.
<
br /> Eunice tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Her fingernails were short and unpainted, with a few ragged cuticles. "They told me they're Oxnard's sole beneficiaries. You know, in his will. That means—"
"I know what it means," I said. "How do they know that?"
"Abby said Oxnard told her," Eunice said. "When he had it drawn up."
"Did she see a copy?"
Eunice shook her head. "She said he filed it in his office."
"Did Howard draft the original?"
"I didn't ask." She seemed crestfallen. "Should I have asked?"
It probably didn't matter. The will was the will, regardless of who had drafted it. And if Abby and Alston thought they stood to inherit Oxnard's estate, that gave them millions of reasons to want to expedite the process. I remembered the scene at the pharmacy. It seemed they could use the money. And it was clear they coveted the mansion.
I smelled motive.
I hurried around her car and climbed into the passenger seat. "You did a good job, Eunice," I told her. "I'm taking you out for a nice dinner."
She laughed. She had a nice laugh. She should work it into her courtroom repertoire, if she ever saw the inside of a courtroom. "I did? Where are we going?"
I did a quick assessment of my finances. "Wendy's."
"Works for me," she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"It's not my fault," Maizy told me over Tuesday night dinner in my apartment. Ashley snored gently in her lap. Gene Rayburn orchestrated Match Game on the Game Show Network. Empty cartons of Chinese food littered my coffee table while I cracked open all the fortune cookies in search of a brighter future. No luck so far. The early evening sun slashed through the blinds, striping the floor in skinny golden bars.
A big brown shopping bag sat four feet away from me on the floor. I didn't like the looks of that bag.
Keep an open mind.
"None of this would be necessary if she had agreed to talk to us," Maizy grumbled. "I only asked her one question, and she hung up on me."
She was Sybil Sullivan Thorpe, who hadn't been very wise when she'd done that about three hours earlier. Obviously she didn't know that Maizy refused to be dismissed and would not be thwarted.
"She's hiding something," Maizy said, stroking Ashley's fur slowly. "I know it. I could hear it in her voice."
Be more open to adventure.
I sneaked another peek at that bag.
"So I thought we should go talk to her," Maizy said. "Only she's squatting at Oxnard's house. I checked. We have to get back there."
"How do we get past the gatehouse?" I said. "Hike through the woods and climb over the fence?"
"We drive in like everybody else."
I cracked another fortune cookie. Test your boundaries. I was getting tired of getting life coaching from a cookie. I shoved the rest away.
"What are we supposed to drive in?" I asked. "The Escort? The Z?"
She pointed. "The Bentley."
"What?" I leaped up and ran to the window. A shiny tan Bentley sat in the driveway, so fancy that I could practically see dollar signs floating in the air above it like champagne bubbles. I spun around. "Where did you get a Bentley?"
She shrugged. "Where does anyone get a Bentley? It's Honest Aaron's."
My jaw dropped. "You're kidding me. He rents out those dumpster fires on wheels, and he drives a Bentley?" I took another look at it. It practically twinkled. "How much?" I asked.
"No charge," Maizy said. "On account of I'm in the Gold Plan. Also, turns out I know his girlfriend. She's in my English class."
Eww. "He ought to be in jail," I said, outraged.
"Why?" Maizy asked. "She's 23. Tami's kind of a dangling participle, if you ask me. Anyway, the car has to be back tonight. She wants to use it tomorrow. And Honest Aaron needs to pick up his wife at the airport tomorrow night."
Life just wasn't fair.
"There's just one thing," Maizy added.
Here it came. I glanced at the bag, pretty sure that was the one thing.
"We still need a way to get in," Maizy said. She pointed. "And there it is."
"I don't like it," I said. Which was kind of a reflex when it came to Maizy and her schemes.
"You don't know," she said. "Give it a shot. Old people never remember how to have fun. God."
Well, I wasn't going to stand for that. Not until I hit 35, anyway.
"Give me the bag," I snapped. "I'll show you how to have fun."
Ten minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom in the world's worst fitting chauffeur uniform. The pants drooped badly and dragged on the floor, the jacket hung to mid-thigh, and the only thing keeping the cap on my head were my eyelashes. I was Big meets Driving Miss Daisy.
And I was so not having fun.
Maizy hadn't changed a bit in the time I'd been gone. Frayed jeans, Doc Martens, black midriff shirt that showed off a sparkling blue belly button ring, smudgy black eyeliner and hair in a full blue poof. The black hoodie had been left behind, providing a cozy bed for Ashley, who was kneading it furiously in preparation for her pre-bedtime nap.
I tried to set my cap farther back on my head without success. The thing had been made for a candy apple head. "What are you supposed to be?"
She blinked at me. "I'm Oxnard's free spirited granddaughter Willow."
"Doesn't seem too free spirited to have a chauffeur drive you around in a Bentley," I muttered.
"Would it be more believable if we drove up in your car?" she asked.
Good point.
She headed for the door. "Now pull up your pants and let's go get some answers."
* * *
The Bentley was everything I'd hoped it would be. Substantial and light at the same time, whishing over bumps and potholes like the whisper of silk over bare skin, gliding down the road with the grace of a majestic eagle soaring through the wilderness.
It was a flight on the wings of automotive fantasy except for one thing. The steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. I almost took out two stop signs, one fire hydrant, a picket fence, and a Volkswagen Beetle before we dropped anchor a half hour later. The guard was snoring in his gatehouse, a copy of the National Enquirer splayed open across his chest and his feet propped up on the counter.
I tapped the horn as gently as I could. Its blast shattered the silence like the horn of a cruise ship. Possible that Honest Aaron had done a little tweaking there.
The guard's feet fell off the counter, his cap fell off his head, and the Enquirer fell off his chest all at the same time. His window slid open and he stuck his head out, looking at us a little wildly. "Wha…?"
"Oxnard Thorpe's granddaughter is here," I told him. "If you'll buzz us through."
He nodded energetically. "Of course. I…" He hesitated. "But why? The place is empty."
Interesting. He didn't know Sybil was there.
"Is there a problem?" Maizy called from the cushy acreage of the back seat. "Willow won't be happy if there's a problem."
The guard leaned toward me and whispered, "Who's Willow?"
I pushed my cap out of my eyes and pointed my thumb to the back. "She is."
He glanced at Maizy. She flashed him a peace sign.
He scratched his forehead. "I gotta be honest," he told me, "I didn't think Mr. Thorpe had any kids."
The back window slid down and Maizy held out a fifty-dollar bill. "Is that relevant?" she asked.
The fifty disappeared into his pocket. "Not to me," he said.
Five seconds later, the gate swung open with excruciating slowness, and I navigated the Bentley through the exclusive community as though in a Fourth of July parade, not exceeding five miles an hour and staying as close to the center of the street as possible to avoid clipping a curb or a thousand-dollar hedge.
David was once again a monument to incontinence when we parked in Oxnard's circular driveway. Good thing Oxnard had manufactured adult diapers instead of erectile dysfunction medication. Other than David's immodesty, the house
was ready for a magazine layout. The lawn was perfect, the flowers in riotous bloom, the hedges trimmed. The Bentley was right at home.
I peeled off the ridiculous chauffeur outfit and left it in a heap on the front seat, pretty sure it had been solely for Maizy's entertainment anyway.
Sybil opened the door on the third knock, dressed in black. No red eyes. Full makeup. Her hair was done in one of those slicked-back low ponytails that looked simple but probably took a half hour to accomplish. "What do you two want?" she demanded. "How did you get in here?"
"You hung up on me," Maizy said. She brushed past her into the house. While Sybil was busy staring after her, I slipped in behind her, clutching the two invoices.
"These were left at my apartment," I told her.
"I have no time for this," she snapped. "I have things to do."
Odd. I thought vampires did their best work after dark.
"We won't take long," Maizy told her. "We have some questions."
"Such as?" Sybil's fists went to her hips.
"Such as," I said, "did you know Oxnard sold No Flows a year ago?"
Her face slackened. "That's ridiculous. He would have told me."
"Would you have married him if he did?"
Sybil hesitated for a beat. "Of course. I loved him."
My gaze went to her bare ring finger.
"How about if he made Abby his sole beneficiary?" I asked.
Sybil's lips tightened into a white slash. "Nonsense. I was his sole beneficiary. He told me so. What are you trying to pull?"
"We're just trying to figure out who killed your husband," I told her.
"Well, I certainly didn't do it," she snapped. "Why would I marry the man if I intended to kill him?"
To guarantee her inheritance?
"If you two are done," Sybil said, "I have an important meeting."
"One more thing," Maizy said. "We're trying to find Dusty Rose."
Sybil ignored her. "I'm expecting the funeral director."
I stared at her. "You haven't buried Oxnard yet?" Was she shopping for a bargain or something?
"Of course I buried him," she snapped. "Now I need to pay the man for giving Oxie a proper send-off. I went with a white theme. White hearse, white flowers, white casket. I never understood black at funerals. It's so bleak."
