by Ginny Aiken
I winced but took it anyway. "Hello?"
"Good evening, Ms. Farrell. It's Sam Harris."
"Yes?"
"Um ... it's come to my notice that you might be in some trouble here."
When I didn't respond, he ummed and aahed some more. Then he cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is ... well, you're going to need legal representation, and since I'm already the attorney of record for Mrs. Norwalk's affairs, it would make things easier if you retained me for the criminal matter."
The gall of the man stunned me silent.
"You do see the advantage, don't you?"
"Yeah. To you. But I don't need a lawyer. I haven't done a thing, and the cops are just slow finding the killer. I'll thank you to leave me alone-"
"Ms. Farrell, you don't understand how serious your situation is. You're the only person with motive, means, and opportunity. Those three things are what law enforcement considers crucial for zeroing on their man ... er ... woman, in this case."
"The conversation's over, Mr. Harris. Don't call me again. If I need you for Marge's business, I'll call you."
In my twenty-five years, I'd never hung up on anyone. I hadn't thought I could be that rude. But it felt good-great, actually. The sleazy shyster and the cheating builder would make a great team. I wonder if Harris represented Dutch in his lawsuit.
"I gather it wasn't the police," Dad said, TV clicker in hand. It was almost time for the ten o'clock news, and he never misses the program. He says he has to check before bedtime to see what the Lord wants him to pray about.
"You got that right. It was Marge's weasel lawyer." I blew at some strands of hair that had fallen over my eyes. "Can you believe he offered to represent me?"
"I thought he already represented Marge's estate. Doesn't that sort of cover representing you too?"
"Oh, he didn't call about the will or the estate, Dad. He figures I need a criminal lawyer."
My father closed his gray eyes. "I guess he read the paper."
"Must have. Either that or he's been chatting up his pals at the cop shop again."
I tried to keep my tone light, but my turkey tenderloin dinner was now ready to rumble. What was Detective Tsu doing if the best she could come up with was to pin this thing on me?
"Don't worry, Dad. I'll figure it out. The cops can't be so dumb as to think I killed Marge. Sooner or later they'll find the killer."
For the first time I could remember, Dad didn't turn on his newscast. He put the clicker down on the coffee table, then gathered up his Bible and headed for the stairs.
At the bottom step he turned and said, "Haley, I know the Father will see you through this, but I suspect that before that happens, things will get much worse. You might want to find yourself an advocate. I'd rather you reach out to the Lord, but you should hire a lawyer too. A different one, since you dislike this man so much."
I didn't have a decent answer, so I only said, "Good night."
When his bedroom door closed, I headed for the kitchen. Midas's nails clicked on the hardwood floor as he followed. The doggy cookie I tossed him didn't get the chance to hit the floor.
I smiled. At least one person didn't care what the cops thought. True, he had four paws and thick golden fur, but as far as Midas was concerned, he was just as human as the next guy ... dog ... whatever.
After a cup of chamomile tea, my stomach felt better, but I didn't. The newspaper article made everything too real. I was halfway through my fifth read when the phone rang.
"Haley?"
"Gussie! I'm surprised you're still awake."
"Tom brought in the evening paper, and after I read that article, I couldn't relax. How are you doing?"
"Just peachy dandy."
"I figured." Gussie's sigh felt almost as comforting as the gentle touch of her hand. "What are you going to do?"
"Aside from not hiring Marge's crummy lawyer, who just called to make me a generous offer I definitely could, and did, refuse? I don't know. I'll tell you this though. I'm not going to jail for something I didn't do."
"Of course not. Why would you?"
"Because the cops can't see what's before their noses."
"What do you see before your nose?"
"One of three people did it."
She gasped. "Who ... who do you think killed Marge?"
"Well, according to TV shows and newspaper stories, conventional wisdom says the spouse did it. I know Steve wasn't in town, but maybe he was and only pretended to be gone. You know, building himself an alibi."
"That's ... possible." Gussie didn't sound so sure.
I tore off a narrow strip of newsprint and balled it up. "There's always the business connection."
"Ozzie?" The shock in Gussie's voice was almost funny.
Before I could explain myself, she added, 'Are you sure about that? From all I've seen, Ozzie is the most loyal employee a person could want."
"Maybe they disagreed on an auction or an item. Who knows? Maybe ... oh, I don't know. I just know I didn't do it, and Steve and Ozzie are the two other people closest to Marge. Unless some deranged serial killer stopped by at the sale. That's my third and favorite choice, of course."
"You know that's not likely."
"That's why I'm sure it must have been Ozzie or Steve."
"Then why do the police seem so sure you did it? I mean, aside from the inheritance, but then, anyone who knows you knows that's got nothing to do with anything."
My point exactly. "Beats me, but the article makes it clear they're not looking at anyone else. They should, and if they don't start pretty soon, then I'm going to make sure they do."
"What are you going to do?"
I made a face. "Maybe Bella does have a point."
"Haley! You wouldn't-"
"Wait, Gussie. Hear me out." I hadn't given it much thought, but somewhere in the back of my mind, an idea was taking shape, one, I had to admit, that Bella had planted. "I'm going to think about this some more and then maybe ask a couple of questions. I'm sure I'll come up with something to tell the cops."
"Oh, Haley. This sounds like trouble. Bella's never too far from the edge of disaster, you know. You don't want to follow her."
"Don't worry. I won't do anything crazy. And I won't spray mace on anyone either."
"Is that supposed to reassure me?"
"I guess not, but I can't sit here and wait until they show up with a pair of steel bracelets. You know I only wear silver."
Gussie gave a halfhearted chuckle. "Just be careful. Someone hated Marge enough to kill her. I wouldn't want you to upset that someone and get hurt. I ... I love you, honey."
"Thanks." Gussie was one of the nicest people I knew, and I was glad she'd called. "Thanks for checking on me too. You didn't have to, but I'm glad we talked. You helped me clear my thoughts, and I now have a better idea what to do next."
"That really sets my mind at ease." Gussie's sarcasm wasn't wasted, but I wasn't about to back down. I was the one in danger of a change of address.
Gussie added, "I don't like the idea of you taking such risks, but I guess I'm going to have to be happy with it, right?"
"That's right. Now, you'd better run, run, run to bed before Tom takes my Starbucks away. Real punishment, you know."
This chuckle had more oomph. "Good night, Haley. And let me know what you find out. I am concerned about you."
"I know, but you shouldn't be. Now, get a good rest, and I'll talk to you again soon."
I hung up and stared at the phone. Maybe Bella did have the right idea. To a certain extent, that is. I wasn't about to turn into Angela Lansbury, nor was I going to start dressing out of L. L. Bean, but I could check out those two men. If nothing else, I had a couple of questions for Steve.
Tomorrow looked like a good day for answers.
Okay. So why did I ever think I could pull this off?
I'd driven past Marge's house about seventeen times already, and nothing came to me. I had no idea how to approach my mentor's widower.
Especially since he had company, company that was in no apparent hurry to leave.
A silver Jaguar sat in the driveway next to the Norwalks' Mercedes. For work, Marge had relied on a box truck; it could handle the tallest highboy or armoire. For herself, she'd used the VW Bug. She only used the Mercedes when she met new customers or when she and Steve went out together. The rest of the time, Steve used the posh vehicle. His drive to and from the school where he taught algebra and geometry was less than a five-mile round trip.
"Well, I'm not going to learn anything while I waste gas, am l?"
I pulled into a strip mall about a half mile away from the entrance to the enclave of mansions. That's what I called them. Most residents preferred the euphemism "luxury home."
They were luxurious, all right. I'd love to land a contract to do one or two. That'd set me up for years to come. But they'd still be mansions, no matter what.
At the moment, though, the only one I cared about was the cedar, glass, and steel one at the end of the cul-de-sac. I didn't bother to lock my Honda. It looked ridiculously humble among the Saabs, BMWs, Mercedes, and Volvos in the parking lot.
I hurried toward the Norwalk home. But by the time I reached the lush rhododendrons at the end of the long driveway, I still had nothing but the need to know who'd killed Marge. I'd take any idea right about now, no matter how crazy, even something Bella cooked up.
Oh, don't be such a wimp! Thus bolstered, I approached the front door. As I aimed for the bell, music wafted from the backyard.
Strange. You'd figure a widower of only days would be more likely to spend time in silent reflection remembering his late wife. But if I wasn't mistaken, Steve Norwalk had chosen the lush, sensual sound of Ravel's "Bolero" for this morning's tune.
I figured I'd better not make much noise. At the very least, I didn't know if I'd find the man weeping because the music had held some particular meaning for him and Marge. I wouldn't want to just burst in on him.
Then I heard a giggle. A feminine giggle. A flirty feminine giggle. That didn't sound like a lot of grieving going on.
I took my time and was pretty careful about where I crept. As I came to the end of the side walkway, I grinned. Up ahead sat the perfect cover. Because Marge's new home was such a chichi place, even the trash rated its own private abode. I'd laughed myself silly when she'd shown me the shed.
"Hey!" she'd cried. "I don't want garbage and recycling junk to mess up the curb appeal."
Now I was glad she'd had the foresight. If I pushed the cracked-open door a bit further, I could hide behind it and still see the backyard through the space between the hinges.
Which is what I did.
And nearly blew my excellent cover. The sight of Steve Norwalk and Noreen Daventry in bathing suits-if one could call the Band-Aids they wore on their buff bodies bathing suits-and wrapped around each other nearly made me puke.
How dare they! Poor Marge wasn't even in the ground yet, and here they were cavorting in her house, her pool. I glared at them.
They were way too close for new acquaintances. Had Marge known about the affair?
Maybe I wouldn't get to ask Steve any pointed questions today, but at least I'd learned something new. There was another suspect in the design of this crime, and her name was Noreen.
That brought up another question. Should I stay and see if I could hear anything that might incriminate them? Or should I head straight for Detective Tsu's office with my discovery?
As I pondered my dilemma, a strange squeak came from my left, right behind the gargantuan trash toter our fair hamlet provides its residents for their refuse.
I'm not crazy about scavengers. Give me dogs, cats, bunnies, even the occasional guinea pig, but real rodents? Reptiles? Vultures and buzzards? Uh-uh. I'll pass on those.
I scooted out as far as possible and still remain hidden behind the door. Of course, I tripped-on a huge beat-up running shoe, foot within.
To my credit, I didn't scream. But the inhuman squeal that rose from behind the trash can scared about ten years off my life. A pair of rats sped past me. Their humongous size horrified me, so I zigged when they zagged and brought my heel down on the grungy sneaker.
"What do you think you're doing?" Dutch snarled.
When my heart resumed beating, I said, "Ah ... well ... I wanted to pay my condolences ... Yeah, that's it. I wanted to pay Steve Norwalk a condolence call."
Dutch gave me a look of pure disgust.
I didn't blame him. I wouldn't buy it either if I'd found the person who tried to feed it to me in a trash shed. So I figured it didn't really count as a lie. It was just a momentary diversion.
Another of those giggles rose over the notes of "Bolero."
Dutch looked over the door. I leaned to peer through my crack between the hinges. Thanks to Ravel, neither Noreen nor Steve seemed to have heard the rats. Their embrace had only grown steamier since I last checked.
"I'd never have pegged you for a peeping Tom," Dutch muttered. "Thomasina, actually."
"Those two are disgusting." I put more distance between us and waved poolward. "I can't believe they're-"
Crash!
No way the two on the lounge chair could've missed that. People in China heard the trash can fall. On me.
"Come on," Dutch ordered. "We have to get out of here before they call the cops and we're hauled in for trespassing."
He grabbed my arm and, before I scraped the wilted lettuce, coffee grounds, and soggy potato chips off my clothes, dragged me away. It wasn't an easy proposition, I'll give him that, since my sandals slid on repulsive green goo, but Dutch wasn't about to be thwarted.
"Oh, for crying out loud." With a final yank to my arm, he knocked me off balance and scooped me up in his arms.
Fear hitched in my throat. My heart pounded. He was too close. I was too vulnerable. Four years melted away.
He trotted off, and in spite of my efforts to escape, I noticed the wrapper stuck on his shoulder.
I laughed. It was a nervous laugh, shrill, full of strain, and on the verge of panic, but still a laugh. The label seemed appropriate. I might be garbed in produce past its prime, but Dutch bore a warning. The label on his shirt decreed him a Nutty Buddy. Buddy? I didn't think so.
Nutty? Oh yeah.
"Put me down."
My demand gave him no leeway, and I know he heard it, since I made it mere millimeters from his ear.
It was a nice enough ear but, apparently, out of order.
He jogged down the drive, past the two pricey cars, and didn't pause when he reached the sidewalk. His stamina impressed me; his noncompliance didn't.
I had to get out of his clutches before a panic attack struck. I hadn't had one in about a year. Since he hadn't harmed me-yet-I held my breath for a couple of seconds, long enough for my heartbeat to resume a semiregular rhythm.
"Hey!" I smacked his shoulder, dislodging the Nutty Buddy wrapper. Pity. It suited him to a T. "What's wrong with you? Can't you hear? I said, put me down."
"Nothing's wrong with me, and my hearing's fine."
He didn't even sound out of breath. And I'm no teenymini woman. But I couldn't let his strength blind me to his insanity.
"I just have a healthy regard for freedom," he added. "We have to get out of Dodge ASAP, and those funky sandals of yours look like they'd make lousy joggers."
"My Birkenstocks are excellent for everything."
"Not for staying ahead of the jailer."
"You should know."
That stopped him. I took advantage of his downgraded momentum to shove myself out of his grasp. I nearly landed on my rear.
Since he didn't answer, I stole a peek. Uh-oh. He wasn't happy.
"Just for the record," he said through gritted teeth, "I've never been arrested. Don't even get speeding tickets. None yet, and I'm thirty years old. That should tell you something."
"Yeah. You run faster than the law. And not by foot either."
"What's that supposed to me
an?"
"That you got yourself a lawyer who kept you this side of trouble in that slippery slope mess you made."
As I indicted him, I heard Noreen, no longer out in the backyard.
Dutch looked back. "Come on. It'll be worse if she finds us here. Trust me on this."
My stomach did a nervous flutter. Trust was not one of my strong suits. Plus, his Tarzan swoop had brought back unbearable feelings. Loss of control didn't sit well with me.
"Fine. I'll go. On my own steam." My sandals slapped the concrete in a brisk beat.
Where did this sleazoid get off demanding answers, anyway? I was innocent. Well, innocent of everything except for maybe a wee bit of trespassing and eavesdropping. But what was his deal?
"So now that we're on our way to freedom, Dutch, how about you tell me what you were doing in Marge's trash shed?"
"I found you there, and I asked first. How about an answer?"
Thank goodness the strip mall was only about a block away. I'd had enough of Dutch. "I told you I came to pay my condolences-"
"Uh-huh. And the moon is made of marshmallows, and Mars of ketchup and beets."
"Gross!" I'd take a diversion any day. "Good thing you didn't go into cooking, even if you're a less than excellent builder-"
"You don't know a thing about me, so don't condemn me until you do. If you recall the stories you seem familiar with, I won that suit."
"That means nothing. Lawyers come in all stripes, and they twist the truth every which way but up."
"Not in my case."
I stopped in my tracks. "The house slid down the hill."
He got in my face. "Because my subcontractor cut corners when he drilled into the hill to install the support beams for the house. Instead of going twenty feet down, he only went ten. He also used cheap cement to anchor them. It was full of sand and practically melted in that monsoon we had. He made a killing off not just me, but a bunch of other contractors and then skipped to Rio. I proved it, and it's a matter of public record."
I gaped. Then I scoffed. "If that's the case, then why does your name still reek of old fish in the Seattle business community?"
He ground his teeth. I saw his cheek muscles flex.
