Trace found looking at her painful, and turned away. He sipped his vodka and with his free hand picked up the crystal ball.
The door to the room flew open and Trace looked up as a young woman snapped, “Put that down. Who are you? What do you want here?”
“Before you go barking at me, champ, count the spoons. They’re all still there,” Trace snapped back.
The woman was in her early twenties. She wore jeans rolled halfway up her calf and a tight-fitting man-style shirt. Her hair was blond and frizzed out wildly around her face in a hairstyle that Trace found revolting. But the girl was beautiful. Even without makeup, she looked fresh and appealing.
“Oh, Muffy, don’t be cross,” Mrs. Carey said. “This is Mr. Tracy. He’s a friend of Bob Swenson’s. You remember Bob. From the insurance company?”
“Oh,” the woman said, and paused, then she walked into the room and extended her hand toward Trace. “I’m Melinda Belknap,” she said. Her handshake was surprisingly strong.
Mrs. Carey was on her feet and said, “Muffy, I’ll make you some tea.”
“Yes, Nana, please,” the young woman said.
Mrs. Carey left the room and Trace said, “I’m Devlin Tracy, I’m with Garrison Fidelity Insurance.”
“I’m sorry for barking at you just now. I just didn’t know who you were and I don’t want people bothering her. She’s not strong.”
Trace had placed the crystal ball back on the shelf and Muffy moved it slightly, as if to its correct position, then sat in the chair Mrs. Carey had just left.
“Now you know who I am,” Trace said. “Who are you?”
The woman smiled at him. She had large white even teeth and it was a good smile. “I was a friend of Belinda’s,” she said. “The Careys’ daughter.” She licked her lips as she spoke. Her lips were full and shiny and Trace wondered if lips like that came naturally or if she slept with her mouth pressed into a saucer of salad oil.
“We were in Europe on Easter vacation when she died,” the woman said. “We were friends, always together, all through college. Belinda and Melinda. They called her Buffy and me Muffy. Buffy and Muffy.”
“I had two friends when I was growing up,” Trace said. “They used to call us Huey, Louie, and Dewey. How come you don’t sound like a Muffy?”
“What’s a Muffy supposed to sound like?” the young woman asked.
“Like you’ve got lockjaw. From biting down hard so the silver spoon doesn’t slip out of your mouth.”
“Like this?” She curled her lips back so they showed her tightly clenched teeth, and she spoke with a voice that came from deep in her throat, like a series of glottal stops. “So, I said, Lyle, I said, Lyle, I told you I was a sailor, and this shabby scow has a motor, for Gawd’s sakes, a motor.” It was a devastatingly accurate impression of moneyed, female preppie speech, and despite his instant dislike of the young woman, Trace laughed aloud.
“That’s too good to be an act,” he said.
“All act. I only got to be Muffy after I met Buffy. Belinda and Melinda, I guess it seemed logical to make me Muffy. But the only silver spoon I ever saw was when Buffy’d take us out to a good restaurant for dinner. I grew up on pitted stainless steel.”
“How’d she die?” Trace asked.
“A car hit her. I was sleeping late. I usually do, but Buffy got up early and she was out shopping. She liked to go out early and buy apples and fruit and stuff. So she had her arms filled with bags and she was crossing the street, that was in Rome, and one of those lunatic kamikaze drivers ran her down. She died right away.”
“What happened to the driver?”
“Who knows?” she said. “He was arrested, but what happened, I don’t know. I came back here with Buffy’s body and Mr. Carey had gotten sick and I could see Mrs. Carey needed me, so I thought I’d stay to help her.”
“Do you know anything about Meadow Vista? Where Mr. Carey is?”
“What did Amanda say?”
Trace shrugged. “She didn’t seem to mind it.”
“Well, I don’t like it at all,” Muffy said.
“Why not?”
“Mr. Carey was getting better in the other hospital after his stroke, then they took him to Meadow Vista for some special kind of therapy.”
“Oxygen enrichment,” Trace said.
“Yeah. But he’s not getting any better and then I find out about that guy who changed his insurance to the doctor who runs the place. I thought, suppose it’s all a dodge and that’s what they do with these poor unfortunates. What would happen to Nana if Mr. Carey dies and she finds out that this doctor inherits his estate. Not just his insurance, but everything.”
“You think they do that? As a regular practice?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe they do. And maybe they make sure that people who sign things over to them don’t get well. I don’t know if they do that and I’m not saying that they do, but maybe they do.”
“That’s called murder for money,” Trace said.
Muffy shrugged.
“What does Mrs. Carey think about this whole thing? She’s the one who mentioned it to my boss.”
“You’ve talked to her. She can’t concentrate real well on things anymore. I’m not going to let anything—”
She stopped as Mrs. Carey reentered the room holding a tray with two cups.
“For you, dear,” she said as she put a cup of coffee in front of the young woman. “And I made you more coffee, Mr. Insurance, I forgot your name. That must be cold.” She cast a disapproving eye at the black coffee that Trace had not touched, and put it on the tray.
“You two must be busy, so I’ll leave you alone. Muffy, I’m going to trim the rose bushes back. Is that all right?”
“Of course it is, Nana. Just be sure to wear gloves and be careful of the thorns.”
“All right,” Mrs. Carey said as she left with the tray.
“You see what’s she’s like,” Muffy said after the door again closed. “She doesn’t really think a lot about her husband’s condition. I don’t know what to do. He’s in like a coma and she’s in a fog.”
“You told her to mention Meadow Vista to Swenson, I take it,” said Trace.
“That’s right. I met him at the funeral. Of course, Mr. Carey was in the hospital then. But later, afterward, she told me that Mr. Carey had a lot of insurance with your company. Then your boss called her last week, and I told her to mention to him about that man who died and the insurance. I guess that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I guess so. Anybody else you mention your suspicions to?”
“No. Well, yes, I talked to the family lawyer, but she didn’t seem concerned about it. I didn’t think much of her.”
“Who is she?” Trace asked.
“Callahan, her name is. Jean Callahan, I think. She just didn’t seem to think it meant anything. Sort of told me to get lost. I guess I lose my feminist merit badge over this, but I don’t trust lady lawyers.”
“Male or female,” Trace said with a shrug. “What do you think I can do?”
“Have you been to Meadow Vista?” Muffy said.
“Yes. Today. I talked to Matteson.”
“Then you’ve probably already done it. Just kind of let them know somebody’s watching what they’re up to. It should work out. And we hired a private nurse to be with Mr. Carey at night so nobody tries anything off the wall with him, you know, so let’s hope.”
“You think I scared them off?” Trace asked.
“Probably. Did you ever have an easier job from your office?” she said with a smile. It was a good warm smile filled with large perfect pearlescent teeth.
“Actually, it’s not my office. I work for the insurance company just on special cases. Did you talk to the police?”
“I didn’t have anything to tell them.” She hesitated. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to Mrs. Carey.”
“And you got all this in your head from that family suing Dr. Matteson over the ins
urance?”
“I saw it in the paper and it started me thinking,” she said. “Think about it. Mr. Carey was doing well and now he’s getting worse. How do you explain that when that oxygen therapy’s supposed to make him better? I just didn’t want to take a chance.”
“Have you ever seen the Plessers? Or talked to them?” Trace asked.
“No.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds and Trace tried to sip his coffee, but his stomach didn’t really favor it.
Muffy said, “So you’ll be leaving.”
“In a little while, I imagine,” Trace said. He stood up and finished his vodka. Muffy stood up also.
“I appreciate this,” she said. “I think you and Mr. Swenson may have done a real good turn for Amanda.”
She followed him to the front door.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Carey you said good-bye,” she said.
“Oh, by the way,” Trace said, “I saw Mr. Carey at Meadow Vista.”
“Oh really,” the girl said politely.
“Yes. He spoke to me.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“He said he was dying,” Trace said.
14
Jean Callahan’s law offices, on the second floor above a trendy small shopping arcade, looked like they might be the wave of the future in automated offices: all furniture, no personnel.
The walls were warm and woody and there were six empty desks neatly placed about, and Trace wondered where the secretaries and receptionists were. He heard a faint noise in the back of the office and found one young woman, sitting inside a glass cubicle, tapping away at the biggest typewriter he had ever seen.
He waited outside the glass wall for her to look up, but she was so intent on her keyboard that she didn’t until Trace rapped on the glass.
She saw him and a momentary frown shaded her face. Then she pressed a button on her desk and her voice came out metallically through an amplifier over his head. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Trace didn’t see any microphone into which he was supposed to respond. He didn’t like this anyway. He liked to talk mouth-to-ear, like live people, not microphone-to-microphone.
He moved his lips quietly, letting no words come out as he mouthed the syllables, I want to see Miss Callahan.
“I can’t hear you,” the young woman’s voice blasted back over the speaker.
Trace shrugged and again silently mouthed, I want to see Miss Callahan.
“The microphone’s over there,” the girl shouted. She pointed to one corner of the large glass window of her office and Trace saw a small microphone implanted in it. He walked toward it, lifted his head, and cupped his hand alongside his mouth as if shouting. Then he again mouthed, I want to see Miss Callahan.
“Goddammit,” the girl yelled, and got up from behind the enormous typewriter.
Trace heard another voice.
“Is it your usual custom to try to make secretaries crazy?”
Trace turned and saw a statuesque redhead standing in the doorway to another office. She was beautiful, even more beautiful than he had thought when he had seen her yesterday coming down the steps from Nicholas Yule’s office. Her voice was crisp, but there was a smile in her large dark eyes. Behind her, Trace could see a file cabinet and soft leather chairs.
He smiled sheepishly. “I guess I’m just not willing to join the electronic age,” he said. He turned and saw that the young woman in the glass cage had returned to her machine and was again tapping away silently at the typewriter keyboard.
“Now that you’ve disturbed us, what is it you want?”
“You’re Miss Callahan?”
“Yes.”
Trace handed her a business card, which she stared at suspiciously for a moment.
“Are you a lawyer for Garrison Fidelity?” she asked.
“No. Some things I wouldn’t do even—Never mind.”
“Exactly what is it you do?” She was a tall woman, and in her high heels her eyes were almost on a level with Trace’s.
“I’m kind of a claims investigator,” he said.
“Kind of? What else are you?”
“Well, not all of them for Garrison Fidelity. I’m a drunk and a reformed degenerate. I’m firmly committed to the libertarian principles of government. I believe in low tariffs and that you should not crucify man upon a cross of gold.”
“Any position on gun control?” she asked.
“I firmly oppose gun control, except as it relates to everyone else’s guns.”
‘Are you armed and dangerous?” the lady lawyer asked. She had a small smile on her very full wide lips.
“I’m disarmed and ingenuous.”
“You don’t talk like a gumshoe.”
“You don’t look like a lawyer.”
“Fair enough. I still don’t know what you want with me, but come on inside anyway.”
Trace followed her into the office, and when she sat behind the large oiled-walnut desk, he settled into a soft glove-leather armchair in front of her. The office walls and carpet and furniture were all muted, subtle colors, and a small refrigerator on one side of the room and a file cabinet against the other wall seemed to Trace like jarring contradictions to what could otherwise be a millionaire’s study.
“You’re here, I take it, about the Plesser matter.”
“That’s right,” Trace said.
“Honestly, Mr. Tracy, I thought your company’d send a lawyer, since it’s probably going to be involved in this suit.”
“My friends call me Trace.”
“I’ll save that privilege for when I’m sure we’re friends.”
“Shot down before I ever had a chance to fly,” he said. “The company usually sends me out to check things out before they commit lawyers and such to the battle.”
“Listen,” she said, “you’re not the advance guard for some army of minor functionaries who are going to be trooping in here every day for the next year, are you?”
“No. I’m the secret power behind the insurance throne in the United States. When I speak, heads of big conglomerates tremble.”
“Good. What do you want to know?” she asked.
“What were you talking to Nicholas Yule about yesterday?”
“So that’s where I saw you,” she said. “On the stairs.”
Trace nodded. “When I tried to pick you up.”
“Right. What did you think of Yule?” she asked, and Trace noted that she had not answered his question.
“I kind of like the idea of a lawyer who plays the trombone.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a cradle-to-grave service. Look at the versatility of it. When you buy a house, he can pipe you aboard after the closing. When you get divorced, he can take you out dancing and make sure you like the music. When you die, he can play taps before he reads the will. I hope you play the guitar or something. If he gets you into court and it’s you against him and his trombone, I don’t know what’ll happen to you.”
“Don’t let the trombone fool you,” she said. “Nick’s a very effective lawyer.”
“I noticed you didn’t say ‘good,’ you said ‘effective.’ That means something.”
“It means that he gets his way most of the time because everybody’s afraid of him. He’ll do a striptease in court. He sings his summations to the jury. He’ll cross-examine a witness in rhyme. I walked past a courtroom once and he was playing an accordion. The judges are afraid of him. At first, they just thought he was quaint, but now they’ve created a Frankenstein. The press loves him, and if one judge goes against him now and tries to put a lid on him, it could bring a batch of stories about what he’s been getting away with in everybody’s courtroom and that’d bring the wrath of God and the state supreme court down on all the judges’ necks. So they kind of leave him alone and let him do what he wants. They don’t know what else to do, so he gets away with murder, and sometimes so do his clients.”
“Maybe we should surrender now,” Trace said.
“Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“Nick can get away with a lot, but he can’t manufacture something out of air. There’s nothing there. He can walk into court with John Philip Goddamn Sousa leading the Boston Pops and he’s going to lose this case.”
“You don’t think he’s got a case?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Dr. Matteson’s treatment was medically correct for Plesser. No one exerted any influence on him to turn his insurance over to George. There’s absolutely no wrongdoing in this case and Nick doesn’t have a chance of winning it. That’s what I told him yesterday.”
“Do lawyers around here generally go visit other lawyers to tell them they’re going to lose?” Trace asked.
She nodded. “One for your side. No. I went and offered him a two-thousand-dollar nuisance settlement for him to drop the suit.”
“But he wouldn’t deal?”
“No.” She hesitated for a moment and said, “Look, I’m telling you this because we’re on the same side. I heard that Nick has got a problem with money shorts, that he owes a lot more than he can pay. That’s why I thought I might be able to buy him cheap. But I couldn’t. He said he didn’t need money.”
“I still say surrender,” Trace said. “Especially if we’re facing a lawyer who won’t take money.”
“Don’t get sarcastic,” she said.
“Sorry. What else did he say?”
“He said he couldn’t wait to parade the Plessers in court. A poor family against a rich powerful doctor. He’s writing the headlines already in his mind,” she said.
“Did you ever see the Plessers?” Trace asked.
“No.”
“They’re not going to impress anybody in court.”
“You talked to them?” she asked.
“All of them. Mother Plesser, Jasmine, Boofus T. Boofus, the son-in-law, and Rex the Wonder Dog. Rex is the smartest. They showed me pictures of Plesser. The only one with a smile was him lying in his coffin.”
Trace (Trace 1) Page 10
