Paul pinched a card between his index finger and thumb as if testing it for ripeness and continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Flora’s decided to hold off on the will she wanted you to prepare. How do you feel about that?”
Once again, she fought to keep from showing surprise that he’d also managed to talk the elderly woman out of the will, but Paul’s frequent boast was that he could sell buttons to the members of a nudist colony if he put his mind to it.
Choosing her words with care, she replied, “Relieved, I suppose. Such a will would set a match to the tinder of greed—we’d have people swearing out affidavits that Grandpa John drove his Model T like a maniac or Uncle Pete run down some poor girl while under the influence of corn liquor, turning in their deceased kinfolk for cash.”
Paul turned the card around so Abigail could see its face. “There’s a joker in this deck, Abby.”
She tensed again. “What else did she say?”
He shuffled the card back into the deck without looking up. “Flora wants you to make an investigation into the last few weeks of Rosemary’s life.”
“She wants me to what? Paul, the girl died over fifty years ago! It’s an impossible task.”
“But I promised Flora you’d do it.” He rummaged in the jar and pulled out a piece of candy wrapped in purple paper. “Just track down the gal’s contemporaries, listen to their memories, and assemble a report.”
His nose twitched rabbitlike under her gaze as he unwrapped the sweet—he must be exercising an attorney’s privilege of selective disclosure. Only give ’em what they ask for.
She leaned forward and rapped on the desk. “I’m still here, Paul, and you’ve left me a few cards short on this deal. Just what exactly does Flora want to know about her sister?”
Paul scooped up the cards again and did a waterfall shuffle. “Just the little things—her favorite perfume, how she kept her lingerie from yellowing, who killed her.”
“Investigate a murder? May I remind you that I signed on as an attorney, not as a detective?” She had the sinking feeling that this conversation had somehow gotten away from her.
He was at his most reasonable. “Get off your high horse, Abby. Flora’s promised to pay our outrageously high fees, no questions asked, and if you won’t help her, she’ll hire someone who will. Now, no more back talk—the boss has spoken.”
“The boss better start leveling with me—”
He spread the cards in a fan. “I’ve already cleared it with Flora for you to work with State’s Attorney Stewart on this one. You’ll need his help if you come up with a suspect.”
“Since you’ve given up smoking and swearing, Paul, you’re enough to try the patience of a saint.” She rose, aware that he wasn’t going to divulge any more information and burning with resentment at being maneuvered into a position where it was impossible to refuse the dying woman’s request.
But Paul wasn’t through. “This investigation will do you good—you’ve been spending too much time behind a desk in those straitjackets you call office attire. Can’t have you pining away on me, wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
“My sleeve?” Abigail followed the direction of his gaze and discovered that one of the hearts from the valentine was stuck to her blouse. She slammed the door on the cackle of Paul’s laughter.
Chapter 6
The Fox on the Green was jammed with its usual noisy luncheon crowd; businessmen and women sat elbow to elbow at the bar, designer jeans crowded into the booths, and the pearls and hats of the country club set adorned the tables like exotic centerpieces.
Abigail gave the traditional pat for luck to the nose of the huge ceramic fox standing guard at the door of the restaurant and followed a waiter into the boisterous maelstrom of humanity. Paul’s handsome apology this morning had been followed by an invitation to lunch at her favorite place, proof that he was genuinely sorry for that crack about her social life—or lack of one.
She stepped back to avoid getting splashed by beer as two men in business suits stepped away from the bar, talking and gesturing with their steins as they trailed a waitress into the nether regions of the basement dining area. Her guide avoided imminent collisions and stepped over outstretched feet with the ease of long practice while Abigail was bumped and jostled in his wake until one of the pins holding her hair into its workday chignon came loose.
With a sigh of relief, she slid into the chair held by the waiter and reached up to anchor the pin. “This place is always like a football scrimmage but their linguini and clam special is worth it—”
She choked on her words. The man sitting across from her was a stranger. “I’m sorry. I asked to be seated at Paul Faber’s table.”
“And so you were. But Paul’s not coming.”
Her companion had the jutting chin of a crusader and glittering eyes the color of her grandmother’s emerald brooch. His shoulders stretched the fabric of a black suit. Hair the color of a sand dollar, cut ruthlessly short, reminded her of the silky fur of the kitten she’d adored as a child.
“Perhaps I should introduce myself.” His voice cut into her rambling thoughts—it was as husky as his build; he’d probably had no trouble making his way through the crowd of lesser men.
She tucked a strand of hair into place and shoved the pin in, wishing Paul was on the receiving end of the jab. Her boss had more nerve than an IRS agent—pitch-forking her into this situation—but she’d just placed the other man’s features.
With a smile, she said, “Ross Stewart needs no introduction. Elected state’s attorney at thirty-two and a dynamic courtroom advocate, you were recently written up in the Chicago Tribune for, and I quote, ‘Trying cases with a rare passion for justice tempered by a concern for the victim.’”
A rumble of laughter came from her companion as the din assaulting her ears seemed to fade into the background, leaving them isolated at the table for two. “You’re way ahead of me. All Paul told me about his associate was that she had red hair and a knotty problem. But I’m not sorry I agreed to come.”
His eyes flashed a message of warm approval and she found her hand going to the collar of her blouse as if to loosen it. She was wearing a charcoal-shaded suit with auburn flecks, one of the outfits Paul referred to in disparagement as “straitjackets.”
A waitress appeared, her curly perm echoing the turbulence of their surroundings, and directed a smile and the forward thrust of her bosom toward Abigail’s companion.
With an intimate look containing enough steam to take the starch out of the ruffles at the hem of the girl’s short skirt, Ross waved off the menus she offered. “I’m told one of your specials is worth fighting over—linguini and clams for two, please.”
The waitress retreated with reluctance and a final envious glance at Abigail who found herself wondering if Ross was under the impression that she’d put Paul up to this.
It was suddenly very important to set the record straight. “Paul suggested that I contact you for assistance, but I haven’t had a chance to plan my strategy for the investigation.”
He laughed again, his gaze intent on her face.
“Paul likes to arrange things,” she added.
“A story which I think typifies Paul’s personality is that as a kid he planted the seeds in the afternoon and rushed out at dawn the next morning to harvest his watermelons.”
“Exactly!” She was delighted with his perception. “He possesses a brilliant mind, but does tend to treat his colleagues as windup toys who need a push to set them in motion. Whenever a judge takes a motion under advisement, Paul considers it a personal insult.”
The waitress appeared again, and refilled Ross’s coffee cup. “Can’t go back to prosecuting DUI’s with alcohol on my breath.” His gaze swept over Abigail again with definite approval. “Paul was wrong—not red hair, but the exact shade of those flecks of color in your outfit. Auburn? Copper?”
Her hand crept up to touch the locks under consideration. “I don’t believe there’s a stig
ma attached to having red hair. After all, red is the color of fire engines, holly berries, stop signs—”
His amused smile stopped her in midsentence. “So you favor the mundane over the poetic? When I hear the word ‘red,’ I think of passion-ripe lips, a glowing ember on the hearth, or the soft breast of a scarlet tanager.” Although his tone was impersonal, Abigail felt a flush of heat rise to the surface of her skin like steam and reached for her water glass to ease the sudden dryness of her throat.
He was controlling the conversation—controlling her—and she tried to match his dispassionate tone. “What tactics did Paul use to get you here? He offered to buy me lunch.”
“Piqued my curiosity—claimed you had a fifty-year-old possible homicide to solve and wanted me to prosecute the murderer when you brought him or her to me in shackles.”
She moved her glass aside as the waitress placed a platter of steaming food before her. “You might not be interested after you hear the details. The ‘murder’ could simply have been a hit-and-run accident on a lonely country road. The only reason I’m going along with this charade is that my client is using her illness and an inflammatory will to exercise a little emotional blackmail. My primary sources of information will be the victim’s contemporaries and most of them must be in their seventies by now.”
“Unreliable eyewitness testimony with details obscured by the passage of time and a perpetrator who any good criminal attorney could get off with probation just by bringing in the violins and playing a geriatric tune—’don’t let my client die in prison’ stuff. You’ve described a case to gladden any prosecutor’s heart.” He picked up his fork. “Start with a profile of the victim.”
Abigail squeezed a slice of lemon over her entree and studied the drops of juice shimmering on the pasta. “First of all, her name was Rosemary…”
Later that afternoon, Abigail sat at her desk and tried to complete a research memo, but her thoughts kept flitting back to the Fox on the Green and the pleasurable shock that had jolted her when she first saw her dining companion.
Ross had proven himself to be a perfect listener, asking just the right questions. After spending three hours with him, she could imagine a person on the stand revealing all under the influence of those glittering green eyes.
She stiffened. Michael hadn’t troubled her today. Intrigue with the challenge of Flora’s commission and eagerness to see Ross again struggled with guilt over having forgotten Michael for the afternoon. She felt like a Regency widow who’d discarded black gloves before the proper period of mourning had elapsed. Yet something else niggled at the back of her mind. Desire?
She picked at a spot of color in her skirt. Red. A poetic red. Unbridled masculinity in a business suit was a potent combination. Abigail was a normal, healthy woman and he had a sensuous mouth and the most sexy glittering green eyes and the music had been too long stilled within her body.
At the sound of the intercom, she flushed, grateful Debbie couldn’t see her face.
The caller was Flora Albertson. “Are you going to accept my commission, Abigail?”
A hint of suppressed laughter in her voice prompted Abigail to be blunt. “You leave me no choice.”
“I know. I’m a wicked old woman and I’ll have to confess the sin of blackmail to Father Davis when he stops by to give me communion. He’ll be shocked, but I don’t care. He’s an old fuddy duddy at the age of forty.”
In the background, Abigail could hear the light tinkle of notes, but the name of the tune being played eluded her. “You sound as though you’re feeling better.”
“Revenge is a strengthening medicine—more powerful than any of Belle’s herbal potions. I made a vow to my sister the night she died, Abigail, that her murderer would not go unpunished and those words have crouched at the bottom of my soul for years, a reminder of unfinished business. Now, knowing that soon I must face her beyond the grave, I want to be able to tell Rosemary that I didn’t let her death go unavenged.”
“You’ll have to give me a starting point, Flora—a person’s name. Did your sister have a best friend?”
“Connie Wheeler—name’s Pringle now—used to tag around with Rosemary. Whenever I saw them together, I could tell that child thought the sun didn’t rise till Rosemary woke up in the morning. Abigail, don’t waste precious time filling me in on your investigation. I don’t want to see you again until you can give me the name of the driver of that car and tell me that State’s Attorney Stewart is filing charges.”
“I’ll do my best, Flora, but the trail is very old.”
A sigh eloquent of sorrow and unspoken regrets. “Since our first talk, I’ve had trouble sleeping because I keep going over and over that last night in my mind. I believe now that Rosemary was on her way home when she was killed—she died on Kelton Road, only a mile or two from our house. Do you suppose she was coming back to apologize for taking my dress?”
Belle cut in. “Flora, you’re exhausting yourself and you promised you’d rest.”
Abigail heard a faint protesting murmur and the connection was severed, leaving no doubt as to Belle’s opposition to the investigation. She wrote down the name “Connie Pringle” on a legal pad. Flora’s last wistful question haunted her, along with the illusive tune of the background music. Lifting the phone directory out of a drawer, she flipped to the “P’s” and found herself singing, “You make me happy when skies are gray…”
You are my sunshine. Daniel’s gift of the music box had allowed Flora to assume another identity, one where she was cherished and loved and no longer had to live with her sister’s betrayal. The dying woman had resurrected the music box, but its magic was gone—Flora was still tormented by Rosemary’s motivation that fateful night. Why had she stolen the gown—risked alienating her only sister? Could she have possibly been “coming back to apologize” as Flora wanted so desperately to believe?
The narrow lines of print blurred and Abigail winked back tears of pity. Only one Pringle was listed in the directory and she jotted down the phone number.
The phone began to ring while Abigail was proofing the typed research memo. She checked her watch; Debbie set the phones to ring in the attorneys’ offices after five o’clock.
On the chance that the call might be important, she picked up the receiver. “Faber and Kallen. Ms. James speaking.”
“Just the woman I wanted to talk to.”
Abigail recognized the speaker’s voice and winced, but kept her tone level. “This is a law office. You have the wrong number.”
“No, darling. You’re the one. I’m calling to give you a tip about Rosemary.”
Abigail stiffened. How did the gardener know about Rosemary?
“Hot tip number one—start with the men in her life. I’ll bet Belle didn’t tell you about Judge Kyle.”
“Judge Kyle?” Abigail’s voice was sharp.
“Belle was a live-in maid for the Kyle family when Rosemary died. Lawrence Kyle’s son, Austin, was head over heels about the girl, much to the dismay of his blue-blooded relatives. Sister Julia was madder than a cat with its tail caught in a mousetrap.”
Quincy’s tone was vitriolic and Abigail stalled for time, trying to fathom the man’s motive for this call. “Are you implying Austin Kyle was infatuated with Rosemary?”
“Infatuated? Once when Belle was changing the sheets on his bed, she found a painting in a little round frame under the pillow. Rosemary—wearing nothing but brush strokes.”
“Judge Kyle used to sleep with a miniature of a naked Rosemary under his pillow?” Her voice rose in disbelief.
“Maybe he didn’t stop at sleeping with her picture.” Quincy gave a nasty chuckle.
“Where did you get this information? Belle’s too young to have been a maid fifty years ago.”
“Belle’s older than she looks. She also likes to drink—and not that grassy tea slop she feeds the old lady. Give her a bottle and she’ll tell you all about Austin and Rosemary.”
Abigail was silent, her m
ind reeling with possibilities.
The caller spoke again. “Take my tip and see the judge. I’ll collect my fee from you later.” A smacking sound, another evil laugh, and the burr of the dial tone.
She cradled the receiver and reviewed her knowledge of Judge Kyle. A distinguished appellate court judge, now retired, current rumors involved his making a foray into the political arena for a state supreme court appointment. Picturing the lean, distinguished figure, she added another dimension to the man: a lovesick boy panting after Rosemary…
Checking her watch, Abigail noted the time. 6:33—the investigation begins. As she locked up the office, she remembered that red was also the color of blood.
Chapter 7
The Kyle mansion was located on Linmar Avenue, two estates down from Flora’s. Turning into the driveway, Abigail leaned forward to study the residence towering above the half mask of concealing pines. Then she drove between the heavy bronze posts that supported an open gate. A peacock, the glory of his tail furled, strolled past a snow-white gazebo, stepping on grass that looked as though each blade had been trimmed with a razor.
Old family money was evident in every line of the mansion, a noble structure painted white with dark green shutters flanking the arched windows of its second and third floors. A sculpted maiden with tangled marble locks poured water into the basin of a fountain set in the center of the manicured lawn and a man in khaki pants polished a silver Mercedes in front of a building that had obviously once served as a carriage house.
Abigail stopped the car under the brick porte cochere and stepped out into the humidity of a late summer afternoon. Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, she recalled her only encounter with Judge Kyle. It was at another attorney’s retirement party. They had exchanged pleasantries—a very feeble basis for a visit. She unearthed her compact from under the jumbled items in her purse and, peering into the mirrored lid, was adding a stroke of color to her bottom lip when a white apron and cap were reflected in the doorway behind her.
Rosemary for Remembrance Page 4
