Stand

by Becky Johnson

  We were meeting at a Country Club outside of Arlington. It was about a half an hour drive. Skeet and I arrived at eleven twenty. Big Bertha was out of place. The parking lot was full of Lexuses, Mercedes, and BMWs. We got out at the valet station, gave them the keys, and went inside. I gave my name at the front desk. We were shown into a private dining room. The concierge who sat us said he would let Elizabeth know we had arrived. Skeet and I did not fit in here. The concierge was better dressed than either of us. I hoped that would work to our advantage. Sometimes the very rich think everyone else is stupid. Elizabeth might underestimate us.

  Skeet and I were kept waiting for at least twenty minutes, a classic power play. The spicy floral scent of Notorious perfume accompanied Elizabeth’s entrance into the dining room. She was decked out in designer clothing. Her dark chocolate silk pantsuit didn’t seem seasonally appropriate, but it was beautiful. Elizabeth’s auburn hair had to come from a very expensive salon. I doubted that shade of red was natural. Her skin was pale and smooth – most likely with the assist of Botox. She wore enough diamonds that she probably needed a security guard trailing her. She had an affected accent. That upper class fake British accent. She embraced both Skeet and I when we stood to greet her. I didn’t like her. She struck me as incredibly fake. “Charlotte, I was so intrigued when I heard that you were going to write a book about my dear mother, Muriel, God rest her soul.”

  Fake, fake, fake. I really wanted to sneer, but I plastered my best smile on my face. My cheeks hurt I was smiling so much.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with my associate and I. We really appreciate it. Right now we are on the information gathering part of my research. I just have a few background questions about your mother.”

  “Of course, ask whatever you need.” Elizabeth motioned to a waiter hovering in the doorway and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and a cheese tray. The waiter turned toward Skeet and I. I asked for some water and Skeet asked if they had a 2009 Cade Napa Cuvee. I wasn’t sure what he ordered because I am not a wine drinker. Apparently it is a fine red wine. Knock me over with a feather. I was not expecting that. It worked though. Elizabeth was impressed. When I turned toward Skeet I was shocked. He was sitting different, confident and relaxed. He looked like he belonged here. I felt even more out of place. Skeet was more at home in a country club than I was. I never in a million years would have guessed that. There is nothing about him that says country club patron. But I ceased to exist, and Elizabeth began to talk exclusively with Skeet. Skeet and I shared a look and he took over the questioning.

  In the end this was to my advantage. I was able to observe her reactions to his questions. It was the perfect set up. Maybe Skeet should always come with me on interviews.

  Skeet started off with questions about Muriel’s background, her childhood and schooling. He went into her marriage and relationships with her children. Then he got serious and reached forward for her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I know these next questions will be difficult.” I almost gagged. Elizabeth simpered, actually simpered. It was a little ridiculous. I refrained from rolling my eyes, but it was difficult.

  “Your mother’s health started fading in October?”

  “It was all so sudden. She was in such great health and then it felt like she started going downhill overnight. The doctors said she was having small strokes. I guess they just sort of built up.” She gave a little sniffle. “Excuse me, this is just so difficult to talk about.”

  Skeet was still holding her hand. “I understand, take your time. I guess that’s when you hired Anna Brinikov.”

  “Well, as mother’s health declined. I started to worry about her. I talked to some friends and they recommended a caregiver. The first caregiver was Bernice. But that was a disaster.” Elizabeth gave a little chuckle and shook her head. “You trust someone and let them into your life, then they betray you. We started noticing some small things disappearing. Mother seemed nervous and household items weren’t in the same place they were supposed to be.”

  Skeet made encouraging noises and patted her hand.

  “It was awful. I had to fire Bernice. She was stealing. I couldn’t involve the police. That would have crushed mother. In the end, I tried to let her go quietly.” Elizabeth leaned forward like she was about to tell a secret. “I think Bernice was after mother’s money. She even convinced her to change her will. It is just shameful what people will do for money, don’t you think?”

  I interjected. “You hired Anna Brinikov?”

  She looked surprised to see me still there. “She came recommended.”

  “Who recommended her?”

  “I don’t remember. What does this have to do with my mother’s story?”

  “We are just trying to cover all bases. I mean Anna must have been one of the last people to see your mother alive. From what I understand, your mother needed increasing assistance those last few months.”

  “Yes, she did.” I could tell I had thrown her off. She was trying to recover. “It was awful. It got so that mother could barely do anything. Anna was a life saver. Mother adored her.”

  Elizabeth glanced down at her watch and gave a theatrical gasp. “Oh dear, I had no idea it was so late. I really must be going. I hope I have been able to help. It was so nice meeting you both.”

  Elizabeth gestured to the waiter who had been serving us. Skeet and I were escorted out, quickly. I guess we had worn out our welcome. Everyone was very polite, but it was obvious they did not want us to linger.

  When we got into my car, Skeet and I looked at each other and said in unison, “She did it.”

  I gave him a huge smile.

  I didn’t know what Elizabeth conspiring to kill her mother meant in relation to Jimmy, but I knew we were on the right path. This is what Jimmy had been in the middle of when he died.

  Skeet and I were both starving. The wine and cheese had been nice, but not exactly filling. We drove to a local dinner. Once we were settled at a table with burgers and fries we started recapping our discoveries. Anna wasn’t going to talk to us. We hadn’t known about Bernice, but we could try and track her down. We both thought Elizabeth was guilty, but there was no real evidence and I am not sure where her guilt got us in terms of finding out what happened to Jimmy.

  I called Jack and asked him to find Bernice. He seemed annoyed, more so than usual. It might have been because Skeet kept interrupting with another question or angle for Jack to look at. He definitely wasn’t happy. Yikes.

  As we finished our burgers I looked over the list of people we could still talk to today. The one I kept coming back to was Richard Francis, the lawyer who drew up Muriel’s last will. He worked alone and primarily handled divorce cases. His office was in Washington D.C., no more than a half an hour away. I knew where I wanted to go next. It didn’t take me long to convince Skeet of the same. It was a little after two in the afternoon and we were headed into D.C.

  ______

  Richard Francis’ office was sad, in a sad neighborhood, on a sad street, in south D.C. We parked across the street. His office was on the third floor of an old brick townhome. The bottom floor was a pawn shop and the second floor wasn’t occupied.

  The door to Francis’ office contained three locks that I could see from the outside. The door was a dingy brown and the window with peeling letters desperately needed a good wash. There was an intercom and buzzer. I pushed the buzzer and waited. A tiny recorded sounding voice asked who was there. I introduced myself and said I wanted to talk to Richard Francis. We were buzzed in.

  Richard Francis was short, balding, and overweight. His belly stretched the buttons of his shirt and his collar was stained in sweat. His office contained two well-worn chairs positioned in front of a metal desk that had seen better days. The desk chair creaked loudly when Francis stood up to greet us. His hand when I shook it was clammy. Francis was a long way down from the together and smart looking lawyers that made up Johnson, Lewes, and Ferguson.

 
“Mr. Francis, my name is Charlotte Marshall. I’m an author working on a book about Muriel Fitzgerald. I was hoping I could ask you a few quick questions about her.”

  Francis sat back in the chair with a groan. “Muriel Fitzgerald. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. There’s not much I can tell you, attorney-client privilege.” He gave Skeet and I a long look. “My hourly rate is seventy-eight. What can I help you with?” At least he would help us, even if it meant paying for it, and that wasn’t a very expensive hourly rate.

  “How long did you know Muriel?”

  “Not long. She came to my office one day and asked me to draw up a new Will. She didn’t want anyone else to know she was changing the Will. I guess it was about eight months before she died.”

  “Did she say why she wanted a new Will?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. She had everything together. She’d had a mental evaluation done that same day. It seemed pretty straight forward. I provided the notary and witnesses. It was quick, clean, and perfectly legal.”

  “Not everyone agreed with that.”

  He laughed, but it was dry. “Yeah. Her family hired a whole slew of lawyers to rip that Will apart. I was the only one saying it was legal. That Will didn’t have a chance. It never did.”

  “Mr. Francis, what was your impression of Muriel and her family?”

  “Old money makes people a little crazy in my opinion. Muriel didn’t like her daughter, and I don’t think her daughter liked her much.”

  “What makes you say she didn’t like her daughter?”

  His chuckle was sarcastic. “She called her a gold-digging bitch. Not a normal term of affection.”

  It certainly wasn’t. I looked over at Skeet. He had one last question. “Did anyone from Muriel’s family or law firm ever contact you outside of official business?” Good question, I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Yeah, a young lawyer from Johnson, Lewes, and Ferguson, he came to talk to me just as the lawsuits were starting. He asked a bunch of questions about Muriel and the will, said he was curious about Muriel’s family. I answered as best I could and then sent him on his way. Never heard from him again.”

  I thanked Francis for his time, wrote a check, then Skeet and I left. By unspoken agreement we got in the car and drove back north. We were both quiet for a while, processing the information from today. It was a little before three in the afternoon.

  “You ready to head home?”

  His question broke our thoughtful silence. I wasn’t surprised Skeet wanted to go home; I had dragged him out here on a wild goose chase. But I wasn’t ready to go home. I pulled over to the side of the road and parked.

  Skeet frowned. “I guess that means you are not ready to go yet.”

  “I feel like I’m missing something. What am I missing? Elizabeth and Anna conspired to kill Muriel, but how do we prove that? Muriel died of sepsis from pressure ulcers. You can’t give someone sepsis. So they neglected her. And how does Jimmy fit in? He was working on the case and he spoke with Francis, so he must have suspected something off about Muriel’s Will or death. So did someone kill him? Who? Elizabeth, Anna? How would they have even known he was talking to the lawyer? What does his law firm have to do with all this? Because something doesn’t add up there, either, how do we find out what happened to Jimmy?”

  I looked over at Skeet. He looked serious. I mean he always looks serious, but now he looked extra serious. “Who else do you have on your radar?”

  “You mean who else did I hope to talk to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It would be nice to talk to Bernice, or to more people on the street where Jimmy was last seen. I feel like I’m missing one small piece and if I get it, everything would make sense.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, “let’s go back to the street. We’ll have to get Jack to find us info about Bernice.”

  We drove back into the city, toward Jimmy’s office. Last time I had been here I had only been able to talk to a few vendors on the street. Today I was going to keep going until I got answers or Skeet made me leave. Since we were going to be outside for a while we bundled well when we left the warmth of Bertha. We left the garage and walked the few blocks to Jimmy’s office. Once there I went one way, while Skeet went the other. We both had a photo of Jimmy.

  ______

  I hit pay dirt with my third homeless man. He called himself Rory. It was hard to place his age. Probably in his early sixties, but it was impossible to tell for sure. He wore a large blue down coat, which was in surprisingly good condition. He also had a red knit cap and mismatched gloves.

  When I showed him the picture of Jimmy he got excited. He didn’t know Jimmy’s name, but he called him friend.

  “My friend, my friend.”

  “Rory, do you know this man?”

  “He’s my friend. He brings me coffee. Do you have coffee?”

  “Sure Rory, I can get you a coffee. Do you like sugar and cream?”

  “Sugar, I always get sugar.”

  “Did your friend get you coffee with sugar?”

  “Always.”

  “When was the last time he got you coffee with sugar?”

  “I don’t know, last week? He doesn’t get it every day anymore.”

  Last week? Rory must be confused about his time. It was years since Jimmy went missing.

  “Do you remember what happened the last time you saw your friend?”

  “He got me coffee.”

  “Was there anyone else around? Did your friend say anything to you? Anything different?”

  “No, just me and him. He doesn’t talk to anyone else. Just us.”

  “Us? Who’s us?”

  “Billy, Janie, those of us on the street. He doesn’t talk to the workers anymore.”

  I wasn’t able to learn more from Rory. I called Skeet on his cell to give him an update.

  Skeet said he had met someone who saw Jimmy around the time he went missing. He had few more questions to ask them and then he would meet me at the garage. I walked back to the car garage. I kept an eye out for anyone else I could ask about Jimmy.

  I was reaching for the driver’s door of my SUV when I heard a noise. I should have jumped in Bertha and locked the doors. But I have always had a terminal case of curiosity.

  Garages are not a place to be if you are feeling a little jumpy. Especially not in Washington D.C. They are dark and smelly and hold the certain knowledge that you are sharing space with rodents and cockroaches. It is enough to make anyone jumpy. Add in the flickering florescent lights and my own paranoia and you have a cocktail guaranteed to make me shaky.

  I walked around the SUV twice, listening carefully. I didn’t hear anything else.

  My phone rang, startling me. I jumped. I answered and must have sounded a little off because Skeet immediately asked if I was okay. “I’m fine.” I assured him. “I just don’t like garages. How was your last interview?”

  “I didn’t get anything worthwhile. I’m almost back.”

  I hung up and started to put my phone back in my pocket when a tiny breath of a noise behind me alerted my instincts. Ice slid through my veins. Someone was behind me. Before I could turn an arm wrapped around my neck and a hot, sweaty hand clamped over my mouth. The body behind me was male, bigger than me by a few inches, and smelly. I mean seriously smelly old sweat, urine, and garbage, a lovely trifecta of smells that made me gag.

  He didn’t say anything, just started to drag me backwards. Distantly I heard someone shout. But my instincts kicked in and my body reacted. Muscle memory. I didn’t think, I just moved. Tuck the chin. Bend forward. Step to the side. Strike to the groin. Use the thumb to twist the hand around and away. Swing to the side. Kick to the stomach. Back away. Now I understand why Moshe made me run through those defense trials again and again. My body knew exactly what to do. I heard my attacker’s grunts as my blows hit and the scuffs of our feet on the floor as we fought, but none of that registered. When I was free and away, then I froze.

 
I heard footsteps thudding closer, but my focus remained on the guy that stood hunched over with one hand clutching his balls and the other his face. My hands were fisted, ready for another fight. He looked up at me and my defensive position dropped.

  “Jimmy?”

  Chapter 20

  I was shocked to see the dead man I was looking for standing right in front of me. So shocked I couldn’t really process what was happening. I just stared. I heard boots thudding towards me and Skeet charged in. I don’t think he cared that it was Jimmy so much as that I was being attacked.

  “It’s Jimmy,” I yelled.

  My training partner froze with his hand fisted in Jimmy’s collar and looked at his opponent. Then Skeet swore and let him go.

  I wish I could say that I was suave and in control of the situation. In truth I didn’t have the foggiest clue what to do now. I never imagined this outcome. I never imagined finding Jimmy, or having Jimmy find me. I assumed he was dead.

  It was a good thing Skeet was with me or I think I would have just stood and stared. Skeet, once he decided to not kill Jimmy, started talking to him. Although since his first question was “Aren’t you dead?” Maybe he was as shocked as I was.

  Jimmy seemed pretty surprised by the turn of events as well. “You hit me!” His words were muffled by his hand still clamped over his nose, but I got the gist of what he was saying.

  “You attacked me.” I was quick to justify my defense. I don’t know that a man grabbing a woman from behind in a parking garage has a right to be upset if he gets hit.

  “I just wanted to talk to you.” It seemed Jimmy was having some difficulty getting over losing to a girl.

  Once we all calmed down I convinced Jimmy to join us at a diner. Since he was clearly homeless, I hoped a good warm meal would convince him to cooperate with us.

  ______