“You should have taken him up on his offer last week,” Pier commented. “Too late we grow smart, something like that. No?” He swished the remains of a martini around in his glass, then downed the last of it and lazily stood up and ambled to the sideboard to pour another.
“Pier, shut up.” It never had bothered her in the past for him to come in, mix martinis, help himself to whatever he wanted in her refrigerator. In fact, it had amused her to think that David, her ex, was paying the freight for her freeloading lover. That night it annoyed her, and Aaron's question repeated in her head: Are we going to be broke now? She didn't know the answer.
“You could always say you accepted his offer and had a handshake agreement until proper papers could be drawn up,” Pier said. “Your word against a dead man's word.”
Her annoyance turned to icy rage. “I'd like you to leave now,” she said coldly. “I have a headache.”
“Oh, spare me,” he said. “I haven't said anything you wouldn't have thought of in time. What's wrong with my suggestion?”
“Just get out of here,” she said and swept past him, up to the next level of the house and into her room, where she pushed the lock in the door.
But it was true, she admitted a few minutes later, after she heard his car leave with a squeal of tires on the driveway. She would have thought of it, perhaps acted on it. She returned to the lower level of the house and started straightening up in the living room, too restless to go to bed or to sit still.
On Wednesday David had called and asked her to meet him in town. He had named a restaurant. She had said no, she was tied up, but he could come to the house on Thursday between one and three, when the children would be in school and the housekeeper gone for the day. To her astonishment, he had agreed. David had rarely let another person set the agenda.
Expecting him to make a case for reduced alimony or child support payments, she had been surprised again when he made an offer to buy back the shares in the clinic that he had turned over to Aaron and Caitlin.
At the time of their divorce, she had had her attorney investigate the clinic. He had told her that as a clinic it was worthless, that without the donations and grants it would sink, but that the physical building and the land were worth at least two million. As a long-term investment for her children, it was worth going after. That afternoon, less than a week ago, she had told David no.
“You'll turn around and sell it, and we'll have a few thousand dollars while you make a mint.”
“We can add a provision that if it's sold you will receive ten percent of my share of the proceeds,” he had said. “Twenty-five thousand now, and ten percent if we ever sell.”
He had thought of it, she had realized that day, and he had come prepared to up the ante. But why?
That was still the nagging question. He never did anything that wasn't first and foremost for his own benefit. What he had said in answer to her question
of why had been at least part of the truth, she thought. Old man Kelso would soon own fifty percent of the clinic, and David could not bear to play second fiddle to a senile old man. He wanted equality. She believed that wholeheartedly, but she also believed there was more. But what it was she could not fathom.
“Think about it,” David had said, “and let's talk again in a few weeks.”
And now he was gone, the deal rejected, and the pretty little trophy wife would get the pie. No more alimony, no more generous child support. There was a trust fund for the education of the children, but nothing else for her. The day they signed the divorce papers, David had made a point of telling her he had changed his will. There would be something for the children, of course, but considering the amount in their education fund, their bequests would be modest, he had said.
He had come into whatever his mother had left, and he made a lot of money himself. His estate would be considerable, and all of it would pass on to the pretty new wife whether or not he had changed the will again. There were no siblings, no other close relatives. It would be hers.
Unless the pretty little thing had pulled the trigger herself, Lorraine thought suddenly, and she stopped moving aimlessly about the room. God knew the dear little thing would have had cause, she thought, remembering the many times she had wished David dead, wished she had a gun, wished for a fatal accident.
It was strange how she had loved him so passionately, blindly, in a storybook kind of way without reservation, and how that blind, all-encompassing love had turned into hatred just as passionate, just as all-encompassing. It had taken nearly five years for it to happen, she remembered, but when the switch came, it was absolute. The new wife had been married to him for almost five years.
She sat down on the sofa to think.
T
he only thing that Barbara Holloway really disliked about being a criminal lawyer was the fact that she had to wear panty hose and skirts for court appearances. Her father had advised her early on that some judges would take it out on her clients if they thought she was improperly dressed for court. At least at Martin's Restaurant she could dress as she pleased, usually in blue jeans and a sweat shirt in the winter. The clients who dropped in were dressed pretty much the same way and did not object. Twice a week either Barbara or her associate Shelley McGinnis held open office in the restaurant where Martin provided space and all the coffee, tea or soft drinks anyone could want. Many of the drop-in clients were eligible for Legal Aid services, but they
were hesitant to take advantage of that office, fearful of the bureaucracy, or reluctant to talk to real strangers about their problems, or too bewildered by the paperwork involved. Here, with good coffee at hand, they seemed to feel free to confide in Barbara. Often they offered to pay, sometimes ten dollars, or twenty-five; one even offered to mortgage her house and come up with a thousand dollars in time. Barbara had shaken her head and scolded the woman for putting her house at risk. She accepted the smaller sums and issued receipts, aware that pride was involved.
That Friday she was reassuring her last client of the day. “I'll talk to him, Mrs. Juarez. Of course, he can't have you arrested and you won't go to jail.”
“You tell him it's the flea in the house that draws the blood,” Mrs. Juarez said.
Her employer, a small shopkeeper, had accused her of stealing twenty-seven dollars from the till. She had worked there for nine years, and his sixteen-year-old son had just started working in the shop. The flea in the house, Barbara thought, and nodded at her client. “I'll mention that.”
After she walked to the door with Mrs. Juarez and hung the Closed sign, she headed for the kitchen, where Martin and his wife Binnie were prepping for the dinner crush. The restaurant was small, consisting of half a dozen booths and half a dozen tables. Within an hour it would be packed, although at the moment she was the only person in sight. She met Martin coming through the swinging door as she approached it.
“Hey, full house today, wasn't it?” he said, as he went to her table to collect the tray with a carafe and coffee mugs.
Barbara never thought of herself as short until she stood next to Martin, who towered over her. His white beret glowed against his black face and hair. He couldn't wear a chef's hat, he had explained, because the door frame kept knocking it off as he went in and out of the kitchen.
“I got some new wine from Chile,” Martin said. “New supplier. Want to try some?”
“No, thanks. Martin, what's going on here? Shelley said no one will tell her anything. For weeks she's had absolutely no one with a problem, and today I had four. Last week it was five. Have they turned against her? And if so, why?”
Martin laughed. It was a low rumbling sound that seemed to start somewhere down around his knees. By the time it emerged, it shook his frame and was like a receding train heard from afar, with just its vibrations left in the air.
He backed into the kitchen with the tray and she followed, then stood by the door. Martin and Binnie didn't like outsiders in their kitchen. Binnie looked up from the counter where she was rolling piecrust. Her crusts were the best this side of heaven.
“They just want to look at her these days,” Martin said. “They don't want to butt in on anyone as happy as she is with their problems.”
Binnie wiped her hands and began signing. Barbara could catch a little of it, but not much. Martin
laughed again, then said, “Binnie says they want to see if it's true that when she walks, her feet don't even touch the ground.”
Barbara snorted in exasperation. “Pass the word that I'll have her do most of the work on their problems. If they won't prick that bubble, I will.” Actually her four clients that day had brought in minor problems that would not take much real work; a letter or two, a little research, laying down the law with the shopkeeper who didn't know his own son. If he had wanted to press charges, take it to trial, he would have done something about it already. What he had done was demand the twenty-seven dollars, with the threat of jail, and Mrs. Juarez had been terrified.
“I'll let them know,” Martin said gravely. “Barbara, the whip-wielding, merciless dominatrix, has spoken. Sure you won't try some of that wine? The pinot gris is pretty good.”
“Can't,” she said. “One more appointment today.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, I've got to scoot, like five minutes ago.”
She was smiling when she started to drive. Her father called Shelley the little pink-and-gold fairy princess. These days Shelley in love, madly in love, gloriously in love, and equally loved back, was as radiant as a glow worm. Barbara really couldn't blame people for wanting to look at her, to bask in that glow.
Then her thoughts turned to the meeting she was going to be late for.
She had read about the murder of Dr. David
McIvey back in November, and the follow-up stories about the rehabilitation clinic his father had started with a partner, but since the initial stories, as far as she knew there had been nothing else. Certainly no arrest, unless it had happened that day. Early that morning Sid Blankenship had called to ask her to attend a meeting at the clinic. We need advice, he had said. Well, he was a corporate attorney, not a criminal attorney, and he probably knew as much about criminal law as she knew about corporate law, which was damn little, she had to admit. When she suggested that her office might be a more appropriate place to talk, he had said that quite a few people were involved. It might seem like an invasion. Besides, they couldn't all leave the clinic at the same time.
Traffic on Seventh was heavy. Although it was mid-January, Christmas lights were still glittering here and there, and the wet streets and traffic lights along with them made the streets a kaleidoscope of color. When she turned onto the Jefferson Street bridge, traffic stopped. From there on it was stop, go, stop, go. Friday evening traffic, people heading home to Springfield, up to the many new subdivisions north of Eugene, heading for the Interstate. Five o'clock on a Friday night was not a good time to call a meeting, Barbara decided, irritated. It had been a long day, hours in court, a quick lunch and change of clothes, hours at Martin's, and now this.
She was ten minutes late. A heavyset woman at the reception desk stood up when Barbara introduced herself. “I'm to take you straight back,” the
woman said. Barbara followed her through a wide corridor to a closed door. The woman opened the door, said, “Ms. Holloway's here,” and then left again.
Sid came forward and shook her hand. “Thanks for coming,” he said. His quick glance had taken in her jeans and boots, she knew, but his face was as smooth as glass, revealing not a bit of what he thought of her inappropriate garb.
She had known Sid for many years. Her father once said that in a close community like Eugene all the attorneys sharpened one another's knives, because if you're going to be stabbed in the back, you want a clean cut.
Sid quickly introduced the others in the room: Dr. Kelso, Dr. and Mrs. Boardman, Annie McIvey and Darren Halvord. Barbara admitted to herself that if they had come to her office, it would have been a tight fit; not impossible, but they would not have been able to spread out the way they could here. The Boardmans seated themselves on a very nice green, leather-covered sofa; Annie McIvey sat rigidly upright on a straight chair; Darren Halvord chose a flowered upholstered chair; and Dr. Kelso and Sid pulled out chairs at a round conference table for themselves, and one for her. The table was made of fine old cherry wood with a rich glowing finish. Although the room itself was handsome, comfortable, no one in it looked at ease.
“I also thank you for coming here,” Dr. Kelso said, apparently in charge; he had a folder in front of him.
Barbara thought he looked like a mummified monkey with sharp eyes, and his voice was raspy, the way some old people's voices seemed to get, as if rust had invaded.
“Before we begin,” Dr. Kelso said, “Sid has assured us that a consultation such as this, before we have retained you, is held in confidence. Is that so?”
She nodded. “It is.”
“Good. Miss Holloway, we find that we are being skewered by a two-pronged fork. At a glance they may appear to be two separate issues, but they are not. They are one and the same. The first is the destiny of the clinic itself, and the second is the murder of David McIvey. Neither can be discussed without involving the other.” Very briefly he outlined the mission statement of the clinic, the makeup of the current board of directors and the determination that David McIvey had expressed about the future of the clinic.
“So David was going to apply pressure to make this a surgical facility, and we, the rest of the governing board, wanted to proceed with setting up a nonprofit foundation to continue our mission.” He cast his sharp-eyed glance at the others in the room, none of whom had made a sound as he spoke.
“The second problem, the other tine of the fork,” he said then, “is the murder. Frankly, Miss Holloway, I don't give a damn who killed David McIvey, and I'm sure that many others will echo that sentiment.”
Barbara glanced at Annie McIvey, but she was impassive, not protesting, not agreeing. She looked tired and frightened.
“However,” Dr. Kelso said, “for reasons I don't understand, the investigating officers seem to have fixed on Darren Halvord and Annie McIvey as collaborators, conspirators, killer and accessory.”
Barbara looked again at Annie McIvey, who was so stiff she appeared frozen in place. Darren Halvord seemed absorbed in studying his shoes.
When Dr. Kelso paused, Barbara said, “Normally, anyone accused of a crime consults an attorney in person, not through a committee. I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“Of course,” Dr. Kelso said. “You see, probate court is holding David McIvey's estate until the facts of his death are determined. If Annie is charged with murder, or being an accessory to murder, she cannot collect his estate, including his shares in the clinic. In that case it will all pass on to David's children by a previous marriage. And Lorraine, the former wife, no doubt will vote to sell their shares to an HMO or something. There is no possibility that she would go along with setting up a foundation that will bring no income. Since Annie has no money, the board voted to hire an attorney on her behalf and be responsible for the charges.”
“And Mr. Halvord?” Barbara asked. He had not been mentioned as a board member or share holder.
“By sifting through their questions, comparing notes, discussing possible meanings, we have come to believe that they will charge him along with Annie with conspiring to do murder, and then concealing the crime, getting rid of the gun and possibly a raincoat
or poncho or some such garment. David's body, apparently, was moved, and she could not have done that.”
For the first time Darren Halvord spoke up. “I told them that if I'm charged with anything, I can get my own attorney.” His voice was deep and low, the words almost a drawl; he sounded not exactly bored, but indifferent, perhaps.
“But,” Dr. Kelso said, “we decided that one attorney to represent both of them, in the interests of the clinic, would be more cost efficient. Instead of two sets of investigators, litigators, one would do nicely. And, Miss Holloway, Sid here said that you were the best there is in these parts.” He shrugged. “If Darren hired someone less competent who failed to clear him, then Annie would be at risk, and the clinic would be, too. We prefer to do it this way.”
Barbara studied him: so old, and so wise, and totally selfish where the clinic was concerned. She wondered if Annie McIvey and Darren Halvord heard the same message that she did in everything he said. He was concerned about safeguarding the clinic; they were secondary.
“All right,” she said. “But with the clear understanding that I will represent the interests of Mrs. McIvey and Mr. Halvord. I will keep them informed along the way, but not a committee. Nor will I answer to a committee for any procedure or activity that I deem necessary to do my duty to them.”
Without hesitation Dr. Kelso nodded, and Annie visibly relaxed. On the sofa Dr. Boardman and his
wife exchanged a quick glance that seemed to be of relief and Darren stopped inspecting his shoes and regarded her with interest instead. Whether Annie knew that her fate was not uppermost in Kelso's mind, Barbara couldn't tell, but, she thought, Darren Halvord had known.
Dr. Kelso opened the folder on the table and Sid cleared his throat, but before either could say anything, Barbara turned to Annie McIvey. “Is it your wish that I should represent you in this matter?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And yours?” Barbara asked Darren Halvord.
He nodded. “Yes.”
Then she turned back to Dr. Kelso and Sid. “All right. We have a lot of details to work out, and I have a lot of questions. Also, I'll want to talk to each of you individually, probably at some length. I'd like to set up appointments before we break up here. And I want assurance that I'll have the cooperation of others here at the clinic.”