“Good for you,” Kat said softly. “I hope you got a good lawyer.”
I nodded. “I’ll be back by one.” Grabbing the briefcase and the bags by the front door, I headed for the bedroom. Slipping into the red-flowered Donna Karan crepe de chine dress and sandals, I exited the house quiet as a ghost.
I didn’t want to give them a chance to ask who my lawyer was.
***
Donovan Reid was peppering a small plate of olive oil swirled with balsamic vinegar when I arrived at Salvadori’s in Westwood. Since it was lunch, he drank not wine but iced tea and ordered one for me, too. The iced tea was welcome as was the caprese sandwich placed before me almost before I sat. With a pang, I remembered how Sebastian let me order for myself no matter how easily he could predict my choices. He hadn’t controlled me as Donovan had.
With a sip of iced tea, I adjusted my thinking. I needed Donovan’s help, so I could accept a few high-handed actions for Sebastian’s sake.
“You look well, Leslie.” His gaze lingered on my dress. Except for the tasseled boots, I wore the same outfit as when we last met. Either he’d forgotten or only remembered that he’d recommended that I buy the dress when we were dating. Judging by the complacent look on his face, I suspected the latter.
“Thank you, Donovan.” I smoothed the linen napkin on my lap. “You look dashing as always.”
He inclined his head. “I suspect I know why you wanted to meet me today. Now that we’ve dispensed with the niceties, let me address the issue while you enjoy your sandwich.”
He hadn’t a clue why we were meeting. Since I wanted to catch him off-guard, I nodded innocently and bit into my sandwich. Since I was only human, I moaned slightly when I tasted the tart balsamic blending with the mozzarella and basil.
Another gratified look crossed his face, and he dipped a morsel of bread into the peppered olive oil and vinegar. “I heard this morning that Sebastian Crowder is no longer comatose. Knowing my standing at the agency, I trust you did not think I wouldn’t find out?” He raised an eyebrow.
I lowered my eyes with artificial shame. “When I called the agency last night, I knew Florence would call you immediately. The whole situation was awful, Donovan. I couldn’t bear for you to be dragged into it.”
A flicker of concern creased his forehead. Florence hadn’t called him last night, and he was probably wondering if she’d called another agency lawyers before he found out this morning.
“Whether you can bear having me on the case or not is moot, Leslie. Being what you call ‘dragged into it’ is my job at the agency. Trust me—this case isn’t the worst I’ve faced.”
I hesitated, suddenly curious what could be worse, from the agency’s viewpoint, than a comatose husband waking. Since I figured my time with Donovan was limited, I pressed on.
“I know you hated the terms of the contract with Sebastian’s family. I expect Florence is regretting not listening to you now.”
If it put Donovan in an amiable mood, I would spend the entire lunch flattering him. I’d spent most of our dates doing so. By his emphatic nod, I decided he had softened considerably. When his calamari arrived and his defenses dropped even lower, I presented my next argument as he dipped a forkful of battered squid into aioli.
“I’m so sorry, Donovan, that the Westwood agency’s reputation was besmirched on your watch. This must be just killing you.”
He choked slightly and grabbed his iced tea. Beneath hooded eyes, I watched him carefully.
“We cannot be blamed for husbands who don’t die.” His voice rasped, and his fork trembled.
I shook my heard sorrowfully. “But you know as well as I do that Sebastian could still die. Will probably die. And everyone will say, Where was his Abishag wife then?”
“Who will say …?”
I talked over him. “I don’t know why things can’t always go according to plan, but I know that you will make sure that the family agrees to my remaining till Sebastian is dead.” I took another bite of my caprese sandwich.
He gaped at me, and the oiled calamari fell off his fork. “I can’t guarantee something like that.”
“Of course you can.” I thought about fluttering my eyelashes at him but couldn’t manage it. I sipped my iced tea instead. “Good lawyers can always find a point of law to make their case.”
“What case …?”
I talked over him again. “Isn’t the agency about ensuring peace and comfort for the loved ones till they pass? Is removing Sebastian Crowder’s Abishag wife ensuring his peace? Who will bring him comfort as only an Abishag can? Surely not a hospice aide. Their concern is only for monitoring physical health.” I silently said an apology to Dog and Connor.
“But Leslie—” It was a sign that I was getting to Donovan that he actually sounded human in his confusion. “An Abishag wife is only there for the dying. Crowder woke. He has no need for that kind of comfort and peace.”
“No?” I stared at him till he squirmed. For a moment, I wanted to cheer. I’d never known this power before, certainly not with Donovan. I felt the fierce protectiveness it took to defend someone you loved.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Did I actually think the word “love?” Is that what I’d been guarding myself against? Falling in love with Sebastian?
Gathering my courage, I stared unblinking at Donovan. “So what is the contract all about, Donovan? The ones you prepare so carefully for the family and the Abishags. The wedding ceremonies are conducted in the legal offices of the Abishag agencies for good reason. Lawyers protect the rights of the family, the husband’s power of attorney, and the Abishag’s duty to serve her husband. Are you not also the guardian of every legal right afforded to the Abishag and her marriage?”
Donovan’s voice shook as he repeated, “Crowder has no need for an Abishag wife’s comfort and peace. He’s not dying.”
I pushed away my half-eaten sandwich. “We’re all dying, Donovan. The agency and its lawyers protect the dying as they should be protected. Like I said, Sebastian’s waking may be temporary. How will it look if he dies without the comfort of his Abishag wife? Can our agency stand the bad press of an Abishag not at her post? This is the nightmare of every family whose loved one dies alone.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to Florence about it.”
I leaned forward, my gaze fixed on him. “Will you, Donovan? Or will you put the agency in a publicity nightmare if you remain silent and terminate the contract?”
His fork clattered to the table, striking the small plate of oil, vinegar, and pepper. He didn’t see the dark drops splatter his white shirt. “That’s very hard of you, Leslie. I’ve never heard you speak so uncivilly.”
I dropped my napkin near my plate. “I’m sorry for that, Donovan, but I’m fighting for a kind and compassionate death. I’m asking that you do the right thing for Sebastian and the agency. And me. Do you have it in you to fight?”
Small lines radiated from his lips and around his eyes. He looked shaken to his core. I remembered what Professor Stegnar said about the failure of morality in a crisis.
At that moment, I didn’t know if Donovan was capable of doing something wrong for the right reasons.
Kat always gave her Nefarious Crew what she called a St. Crispin Day speech before an enterprise. I summed it up with: “Someday, Donovan, you will look back at this moment. Will you think yourself cursed that you did not act or will you remember that today you fought with courage and honor?”
Holding my breath, I waited. When his chin tilted and he reached for his phone, I knew I’d won.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Traffic was bad on Wilshire and the 405. When I arrived at the house, I saw two cars I didn’t recognize.
I opened the front door, and Kat hailed me from the living room. “Join us, Les. We’re just getting started.”
I recognized the power of me wearing haute couture when the male immediately jumped to his feet. He looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s of average height and we
ight, non-descript brown hair and pale brown eyes. He dressed in a dark brown polo shirt and khaki pants. He dressed as if he wanted to fade into the background—or please every flavor of constituency.
“Storm Rollins,” Kat murmured.
He didn’t look like a storm, more a tepid mist. I couldn’t tell if his appreciative stare at my red-flowered Donna Karan curve-hugging dress and warm handshake were manufactured to win potential voters or just his candidate’s daughter. Whatever. He was too dull to be a money launderer.
I turned to greet the woman.
“I’m Patricia,” she said. Her grip was firm, and her gaze prickly. Slight but fit, her hair blond-going-gray, she moved like a snake, a predatory gleam in her eyes.
Hello. This woman was dangerous.
I sat demurely in a chair farthest from the sofa where Rollins and Patricia sat, letting Kat steer the conversation from the love seat near the fireplace. Dog wasn’t present. I wondered if he was asleep or working a shift at the hospital or basically avoiding his wife’s disreputable activities.
Kat and I could be facing Sebastian’s attacker without backup. Instead of fear, I felt satisfaction. I’d taken out the last killer we’d faced with a Jimmy Choo platform sandal. Since you couldn’t always count on wearing deadly shoes, Kat and I’d been taking Taekwondo at the community center. I leaned forward, eager to use our new skills.
Kat officiously opened a folder, scanned it, and placed it next to her on the seat. “We haven’t talked to Mr. Greene yet, but since you’re key members of the staff, I’ll be giving you the results of our investigation.”
Rollins blinked. “Investigation?” Coldly uninterested, Patricia tapped a talon-like nail on the armrest.
Kat nodded. “I’ve been tasked by Crowder Industries to monitor Vote Greene finances. My predecessor found irregularities in accounts, including donations from shell companies and potential money laundering.”
Rollins’ eyes widened. Patricia’s fingernail paused.
Kat touched the file next to her. “I have only recently been able to track the history of those who accessed the particular records. The candidate Greene and you two.”
Rollins yelped. Patricia’s thin eyes narrowed to slits.
“Of course you’d find our names on those files,” she said. “We work with all the campaign supporters and their donations.”
“What was Gerry doing in the accounts?” Rollins asked. “Did he do something wrong?”
I don’t know if Rollins was trying to deflect attention off his own involvement or disillusioned with the candidate. That didn’t bode well for Dad.
Kat waved a dismissive hand. “For various reasons, we don’t consider Mr. Greene a viable suspect. Which only leaves you two.”
“It wasn’t me.” Rollins flicked Patricia a resentful glare.
She gathered her keys and small purse. “As I had nothing to do with—what did you say?—money laundering and fraudulent book entries, I’m leaving.”
“Wait.” Kat leapt to her feet. “Can you prove your innocence?” She looked between Patricia and Rollins.
“I can,” Rollins said.
Patricia shrugged. “I could also if I recognized your authority to accuse me.” As she left, she glanced at me. A look of curiosity in her cold eyes. I wondered if she had heard that I was an Abishag wife.
Rollins sidled towards the door. “Okay, then. I’ll be going, too. Sorry for the misunderstanding.” Then he fled from the house.
I took off my sandals because they were pinching, not because I planned flinging them at someone. “That didn’t go well.”
“On the contrary.” Kat almost preened with satisfaction. “Rollins did it.”
“No way,” I said. “He’s too bland. Has to be Patricia.”
She shook her head. “He said he could prove his innocence. Obviously he’d prepared an alibi, and you don’t do that unless you’re doing something reprehensible.”
She extracted her cell phone from her fishing vest. “Besides Storm Rollins’ history only goes back a couple of years. Okay, Fitz thought Patricia Hazelton might have a fake identity, too.”
I frowned. “They’re in it together?”
She shrugged. “Could be your dad’s campaign managers don’t vet the volunteers very well.” She waved her phone. “I gotta call Fitz.”
What a waste of time. I retired to my bedroom to change.
***
Florence Harcourt called before dinner. Since Sebastian’s doctors deemed him no longer vegetative, the agency would terminate the contract and begin proceedings to dissolve the marriage.
My heart sank. Was this how Donovan was “helping?”
Florence’s voice softened. “I know this is a complex situation for you, Leslie, and I’m truly sorry if you’re distressed. In time, you’ll see this is best for all concerned.”
I gritted my teeth. It was certainly not best for Sebastian. Nor best for me.
“When will the termination be in effect? How long till the marriage is dissolved.” I know I sounded stiff, but my world was falling apart. I needed to know how long I had to fight.
“Tina Crowder and her lawyer will be in the office tomorrow morning to sign the termination order. Our lawyers are still working through the marriage dissolution process.” She still sounded sympathetic.
Tomorrow morning. My throat went dry. My thoughts racing, I asked, “What if I don’t sign the dissolution papers? Won’t my marriage to Sebastian still be valid?”
“No.” No longer sympathetic, she sounded tart. “The courts would never award in favor of an Abishag over the family’s wishes.”
Dispiritedly, I thanked the director for letting me know. I tried calling Tina, but my call went straight to voicemail. As did my call to Donovan.
I managed not to cry when I told Kat and Dog over dinner. I did cry in bed that night, and my pillow was damp when the alarm sounded. When I checked my voicemail, I found a message time-stamped after I’d turned the phone off to wallow in my misery. From Connor.
“Leslie, I thought you should know: Sebastian’s mother has asked me to be at the townhouse this morning. Sebastian will be released from the hospital before noon.” He signed off without a good-bye.
I toyed with asking if he’d let me see Sebastian later, but not for long. Tina had made it clear that she didn’t want me at the townhouse, and I couldn’t put Connor in a position where he’d be fired.
I dragged myself to the kitchen and started the coffee. I ate the last of the Captain Crunch and meditated on dark thoughts.
“How are you doing, Les?” Kat hovered at the kitchen door.
I blinked at her. A headband secured her wild hair, and she wore a navy blue business suit with navy blue skimmers. I almost didn’t recognize her.
“Are you interviewing for a job?” This was the only reason I could imagine Kat going to drastic measures like matching clothes. Even for a job, I couldn’t believe it. Before Sebastian’s accident, she’d been interviewing at accounting firms with the same outfits she generally wore, except less wrinkled.
She shook her head. “I’m meeting the policeman that’s been keeping tabs on Adam Reich. You want to come along?”
“No.” The Captain Crunch was gone, but I kept my head down, spooning up the milk still sweet from the cereal.
“I think you should.”
I was too tired to argue, but I’d planned to wallow some more. Maybe till dinner. Seemed like a decent amount of time to grieve over losing Sebastian. My grandmother had mourned for three months after my grandfather died. They’d been married nearly sixty years. Then she died.
Sebastian and I had been married for only six weeks, so I probably shouldn’t be greedy. Last night, I understood why my grandmother hadn’t survived her grief. I would, but I wouldn’t be the same.
Aware of Kat waiting patiently, I said, “I’m not dressed.”
“I’ll wait.”
Kat could out-stubborn me any day. Too tired and too depressed to argue,
I put my breakfast things in the sink and trudged to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I was wearing a Vera Wang aqua-flowers-on-a-black, drape-front, sleeveless tunic over black tights. I’d bought it at a thrift store for a friend’s uncle’s funeral last year. (It hadn’t seem appropriate to wear one of the dresses I’d worn to my husbands’ funerals.) I wore my old black huaraches because I wanted to be comfortable.
I handed over the keys to my Soul and let Kat drive.
“I’ll do the talking,” Kat said.
“Fine.” Listlessly, I stared out the window.
“You gotta snap out of your funk, Les. I know life looks bad now, but if we don’t find out who tried to kill Sebastian, it could get even worse.”
“You’re right.” I didn’t bother trying to sound chipper.
She exhaled loudly.
I echoed with a gentler sigh. “Just give me till this evening, Kat. I promised myself that I could be sad for a day so let me be till then.”
When she suddenly barked with laughter, I scowled at her. “What?”
“You’ve put a time limit on your grief?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. It’s good mental hygiene to put boundaries on such things.”
“How’d you come up with mourning for just a day?”
I explained about my grandmother. “So I did the math. I should only take 15 hours, but considering my grandmother had lots of good memories and loads of time with Grandpa, I figure I should round up to 24 hours for getting so little time with Sebastian.”
Something crossed her face, but it could have been either amusement or compassion or irritation because an SUV just cut her off. She finally said, “Sounds logical to me.”
“I probably shouldn’t add time for regrets, but I feel bad about not telling Sebastian that I loved him.”
An Eggshell Present: An Abishag’s Fourth Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 4) Page 11
