“Aargh!” Beth’s hand flew to her nose. Crak! The gun went off with an ear-splitting sound. Flame flared from the muzzle. Anne felt the heat of a bullet whizz past her cheek. The thought terrified her. Beth bent over, cupping her nose. Blood poured through her fingers.
Anne ran for her life. She bolted from the bedroom screaming, streaking for the stairwell and downstairs for the front door. In the next second Beth was after her, her footsteps hard on the stair.
Anne raced to the front door. She couldn’t make it in time. She’d be shot undoing the chain-lock. She’d have to fight. She looked around wildly. The rolled-up rug in the Hefty bag. Perfect!
She snatched the rug off the living room floor and swung it like a bat at Beth’s waist just as she hit the living room, raising her gun. The rug smacked Beth full-force. She doubled over, jarring the gun free. It fell to the living room rug, and Anne dove for it. She had it aimed on target by the time Beth straightened up, bleeding profusely from her nostrils and still howling with fury.
“You won’t shoot me!” Beth shouted, spitting blood.
Anne found herself shaking with rage. She hadn’t shot Kevin, but she couldn’t get off a clear shot then. She could now. She looked down the barrel of the gun, an old Colt revolver. No safety. Ready to fire.
Anne felt a surge of adrenaline. She could kill Beth. She should kill her. She should blow her face clean off. It seemed suddenly like a very good idea. The best Plan B Anne had had to date. No Lucy episode to cover this one. It was real life. She moved the site down, training the revolver between Beth’s blue eyes.
Anne flashed on everything Beth had put her through. She had just tried to kill her, she would have killed her. She had killed Willa. It must have been why Kevin was stalking her, not because he was in love with her, but because he knew she’d killed Anne. And she thought of Willa, her murder still unavenged, her lifeblood staining the walls.
Anne looked numbly at the gun in her hand. Then her gaze fell on something else. The Italian charm, twinkling around her neck, outside the tank top. It reminded her of Mrs. DiNunzio. The fragrant little kitchen. The percolating coffee. It reminded her of friendship, of family, and of love.
Anne’s fingers tightened on the smoking gun.
And she made her choice.
33
The fifth of July, a Tuesday morning, dawned clear and cool, the temperature hovered at a civilized seventy degrees and with no humidity. The sky over Philadelphia had a crystal-blue clarity, bringing the glitzy, metallic skyline into crisp focus. The sun was still low, lingering behind the skyscrapers, sleeping in after a busy holiday weekend of Uncle Sam stovepipes and red platform shoes.
The city was going back to work, collectively recharged. Boxy, white SEPTA buses barreled down streets that had been closed to traffic yesterday. Green-shirted employees of the business district speared cups and paper bags from the gutter. Storefronts rolled up their security cages on chattery, greased chains. People strolled to work a little late, wearing clean shirts with fresh tans, holding briefcases they hadn’t opened over the weekend. Many of them, like Anne, carried a folded newspaper under an arm.
FOURTH OF JULY FIREWORKS! read her Daily News headline, a special edition. Anne would have preferred CASE CLOSED, because the Chipster trial wouldn’t be going forward. Matt was at the courthouse, filing a notice of withdrawal. It would have been difficult to maintain a lawsuit with the plaintiff in custody for murder one.
Anne walked with her head held high, on taupe Blahniks. She wore a linen suit the color of buttercream with a white stretch T-shirt. She was feeling almost normal again, except that normal now meant no sunglasses, no lipstick, and a scar. And she was going in late to work because she’d dyed her hair back to its original color. Mental note: Life is too short to be anything but a redhead.
Her step was strong and lively as she strode the last block to work, down Locust. Part of her happiness was her clothes, but most of it was her new idea. The very thought buoyed her even as she floated toward the sea of cameras, reporters, and newsvans outside her office building. Uniformed police, eight of them, managed to keep the press from blocking traffic, and Anne smiled at the irony of the sight. It was more cops than she’d seen all weekend.
A reporter on the fringe of the crowd recognized her first and started running toward her. “Ms. Murphy, how did you catch the killer?” “What was Beth Dietz’s motive?” “We want the exclusive!” Other reporters started turning around, and camera lenses swung toward Anne. “Ms. Murphy! Anne! Over here!” they all started calling, and flooded toward her, breaking away as a mob.
Anne brandished her folded Daily News and met the throng. “No comment!” she said, waving them off as she plunged into the crowd. “I have no comment!”
She pushed through the crowd to the clicking of motor drives and the whirring of videocameras, but her way was blocked by a TV reporter until a beefy hand came around the reporter’s body and offered Anne an assist. She looked up gratefully, and at the other end of the arm was Hot-and-Heavy Herb, in full dress uniform.
“Outta the way, everybody! Outta the way!” he shouted, and he ran interference, leading Anne to the entrance of the building, where he ushered her in ahead of him and followed through the revolving door. He escorted her into the lobby, laughing and wiping his brow with a folded handkerchief. “Whew! Those guys are nuts!”
“Thanks for rescuing me,” Anne said, meaning it. She was in such a good mood, she was happy even to see Hot and Heavy, who was grinning down at her with more amusement than lechery for a change.
“So, Carrot Top, it was you, that new girl?”
“Yes, it was me, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you.”
“Are you kidding?” Herb waved a hand, chuckling as he walked her to the elevator, which was open on the ground floor. “I’m just glad you’re alive. I like you, kid.” His voice sounded genuine, almost fatherly.
Anne entered the elevator cab and pressed the button. “Thank you, I’m flattered,” she said, and the elevator doors slid closed, carrying her upstairs.
The elevator doors had barely opened again when the receptionist leaped from the front desk and started hugging Anne, and the other secretaries and paralegals flocked to her. “You’re alive! You’re really alive!” they chorused, and Anne, who was growing happily accustomed to having girlfriends, knew exactly what to do: hug back, get misty, then go shopping.
But when the receptionist released her, her teary eyes looked worried. “Anne, Bennie wants to see you. She has a new case. She’s in C.”
“A new case? No, you’re kidding!” Anne looked with dismay at the closed door to the conference room, off the reception area. “I don’t want to work! I want to hug and hug.”
The receptionist frowned. “You’d better go in. Judy and Mary are in there, too, waiting for you. The new client’s in conference room D. Something’s up.”
“A lawyer’s work is never done,” she said, with a sigh. She bid all her new gal pals good-bye, headed to the conference room, and opened the door.
Bennie, Mary, and Judy were seated around the polished conference table, in front of clean legal pads and Styrofoam cups of fresh coffee. Anne had seen them only a few hours before, back at the Roundhouse when Beth was arrested, but they looked as jazzed up as she felt, alert and businesslike. Bennie wore her khaki suit, Judy a T-shirt and blue denim smock, and Mary a silk blouse with a Talbot’s navy suit, her hair in a French twist.
“You really want me to work?” Anne asked, and Bennie smiled easily as she came toward her.
“Good morning,” she said, hugging Anne briefly. “You get any rest?”
“For two hours, yeah. Mel says hi.”
“I miss him.” Bennie smiled, and Mary and Judy came over, exchanging hugs, but the air felt tense despite the warmth and familiarity of the group. Bennie obviously had an agenda, but Anne had one of her own.
“Before we start, I have an idea,” she said. “Can I go first? It can’t wait.�
��
Bennie hesitated. “Okay, what is it?”
“Sit down, everybody. Especially you, Bennie. You’ll need to be sitting, for this. Here’s the deal,” Anne began, as all three women took their seats. “Well, I remember from the radio the other day, when you all thought I was dead, that you were offering a reward to whoever found my killer.”
“Yes.”
“The firm was offering $50,000.”
“Yes, sure.”
“Well, as you know, I found my killer, Beth Dietz, and last night I turned her in to the authorities and she was arrested.”
“So you’re saying what?” Bennie asked, and Mary and Judy looked equally uncertain.
“I want the reward. I want to donate it to a crime victims’ group, in Willa’s name. I think the money would make a nice memorial to her, and do a lot of good. Maybe even help prevent the Kevins of the world.”
Bennie nodded. “Fair enough. Done. That’s a very good idea.”
“Aren’t you going to fight me?”
“No.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“It sure is.”
“It comes out of your pocket.”
“Understood.” Bennie eyes darkened. “You may not have thought about this, but you may also want to use part of the money for burial expenses and the like, for Willa.”
“No, thanks.” Anne’s throat caught suddenly. “I’ve already decided. I’ll be doing that myself, and setting up a memorial service for her. It would be nice if you all could come.”
“We will,” Bennie said quickly.
Judy nodded. “Of course, we will.”
“We’ll help with the service,” Mary said.
“Thanks.” Anne patted the table, to dispel her sadness and get herself back to business. “Now, what’s going on? I hear we have a client waiting.”
“Yes, I know you’d love to relax, but it can’t wait.” Bennie rose at the head of the table and cleared her throat. “We have a new client, in trouble. Big trouble.”
“Murder?” Anne asked, but Bennie held up a hand like a traffic cop.
“Not that bad, but close.”
“Civil or criminal?”
“Civil.” Bennie nodded. “And I have to tell you, this client is liable. Absolutely liable. In other words, guilty. Very.”
Anne sighed. “Why don’t we ever get the easy cases?”
“We’re too smart for the easy cases.”
“Also we look hot in platforms,” Mary added.
“You maybe.” Judy scowled.
Bennie waved them into silence. “Now, getting back to the case, our client is guilty, but the transgression occurred a long time ago. There may be a defense in there somewhere.”
“The statute’s run?” Anne asked, meaning the statute of limitations, and wondering in which jurisdiction the client lived and what he did wrong.
“Not on this, but there are very interesting facts, ones you should know about and should be brought to light.”
Anne didn’t get it. “What did he do?”
“You have to get the facts. Investigate and understand everything about the situation. You know how to prepare a case. The client’s waiting for you, in D.”
“It’s my client?”
“Most definitely. You couldn’t have handled this case before, but you can now. I think after all you’ve been through, you’ve got the experience, the maturity, and now the perspective. Things come to us when we’re ready, sometimes. Take the next few days off and spend some time with it.”
“Really?” Anne rose, grabbing a clean legal pad from the center of the table. “Like a working vacation?”
“Absolutely.” Bennie smiled. “In fact, you know that place you rented down the shore, to get ready for Chipster? I rented it for you. It’s yours this whole week, and we’re bringing Matt down for the weekend. It’s all set up. A romantic weekend, just the five of us.”
“Really?” Anne squealed, and Bennie laughed.
“Really. By the way, have you ever dealt with anybody who was guilty before?”
“Gil, sort of. I hated that.”
“Well, here’s the key. Clients come to us the way they are, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way. So when you meet a new one, don’t judge, just listen. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“You can ask questions, and you can certainly doubt, but you may not judge. Lawyers don’t get to judge, only judges get to judge. Get it? It rhymes. Now get thee to a conference room!”
“Thank you so much, Bennie.” Anne went around the table to give her another hug, then went back toward the door and opened it. “I’ll stop by your office after I’m finished.”
“You do that,” Bennie was saying, as the door closed. Anne hurried though the reception area to conference room D and opened the door. There, looking very small, at the end of the table, sat her mother.
Her fake black hair had been pulled back and she wore a simple blue dress with only a discreet brush of neutral lipstick. She squirmed slightly in her chair, resting a manicured hand on the table’s surface, and her eyelids fluttered as if she were ashamed.
You should be ashamed, Anne thought. She was too surprised to say anything.
“I came here this morning, to see you,” her mother said. Her voice was halting, and her British accent had disappeared. “But your boss, Bennie, she asked me to wait in here. She said if she spoke to you first, maybe you would see me. She’s very kind.”
“You don’t know her.” Anne wanted to wring Bennie’s neck, until she remembered her words. Don’t judge, just listen.
“I was hoping maybe I could speak with you, before I went back to L.A. I don’t expect anything of you. I was just hoping we could speak to each other, one last time. And you should know, I’ve been clean and sober for five months and ten days now. I even have a job at the center. A real job, that pays.”
Clients come to us, and we don’t have the luxury of choosing them. They’re like family that way.
“If you want me to, I will leave now,” she continued. “I have a ticket on the next flight. It’s at three this afternoon.”
You couldn’t have handled this case before, but you can now.
“I just didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye. And, hello.”
Anne felt something come free deep within her chest. Something she had been withholding, but wasn’t ready to acknowledge. She remembered Mrs. Brown, alone with her crosswords, and Mrs. DiNunzio, surrounded by her family and food. Anne knew there was a connection, but was too shaken to puzzle it out right now. She found herself sinking into a chair and automatically setting the legal pad down on the conference table in front of her, as she would in a meeting with any new client.
“So we can talk awhile?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Anne answered. She eased back in the chair, ready to listen. After all, she was trying to start over starting over. Maybe this was a good place to start. Over. “Please, begin at the beginning,” she said.
And so, they began.
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are no rules about writing acknowledgments, and my personal survey says that every author does them differently. Because I think of acknowledgments as a special thank-you, in the past I have thanked my readers here. But I’ve come to think that it’s my readers who should get the ultimate thank-you—the dedication. And now they have. Courting Trouble is dedicated to my readers, for giving me their support and loyalty, for coming to book signings when there are so many other demands on their time, and for sending me notes and e-mail offering thoughts, encouragement, and even, occasionally, criticism. Books connect us, and my reader is always in my mind when I write each sentence, each word. My readers know that, and return it a thousandfold. So my deepest thanks go to you, dear reader. For your dedication, I offer mine. On page one, and every page thereafter.
Thanks to the wonderful gang at HarperCollins—to the great Jane Friedma
n, expert in both style and substance, and to Michael Morrison, Cathy Hemming, and now, Susan Weinberg. A huge and very emotional hug to my beloved editor Carolyn Marino, and another hug to galpals Tara Brown and Virginia Stanley. Thanks, too, to Jennifer Civiletto, for all her help.
Heartfelt thanks go, as always, to the lovely Molly Friedrich and amazing Paul Cirone of the Aaron Priest Agency, for their enormous help and guidance in improving this and every manuscript. And love to Laura Leonard, who keeps me laughing every day and works so hard on my behalf.
Thanks to the many experts who helped with Courting Trouble; their advice was critical, and anything I did with it was my mistake. Thank you to my dear friend Jerome Hoffman, Esq., of Dechert, for his legal expertise and creative imagination, and to Allen J. Gross, Esq., for all of the above. Thanks to Art Mee, my genius detective-by-the-sea, and to Glenn Gilman, Esq., of the Public Defenders Office of Philadelphia.
Thank you to the kind people who have generously contributed to some very important charities, in return for having their names used as characters in this novel. I could never have made them villains, for they are too kind: Lore Yao (The Free Library of Philadelphia), Marge Derrick (Thorncroft Therapeutic Riding), Cheryl Snyder (Pony Club), Crawford, Wilson, & Ryan (Chester County Bar Association), Rodger Talbott & Sharon Arkin (scholarship program at California State University, Fullerton), and Bob Dodds, for the Miami Valley, Ohio, Literacy Council, via book maven Sharon Kelley Roth of Books & Co.
For research concerning erotomania and forms of obsessive love, I am indebted to therapist Fayne Landes, and these fine books: I Know You Really Love Me: A Psychiatrist’s Account of Stalking and Obsessive Love, by Doreen R. Orion (1998) and The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence, by Gavin DeBecker.
Thanks and love to my husband and family, and to Franca Palumbo, Rachel Kull, Sandy Steingard, Judith Hill, Carolyn Romano, Paula Menghetti, and Nan Demchur, et al. You prove how important girlfriends are. And thanks to my brother, who lent his good humor and his gayness to a scene herein, and to my mother, who can get rid of the evil eye over the telephone. You think I make this stuff up?
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