Betsy nodded. “Impressive. What did Mr. Nye specialize in?”
“He was good at taking raw information, analyzing it, and making it into plans of action,” said Tasha. “He was also what they call a good rainmaker.”
“‘Rainmaker’?”
“He could find new business for the firm.”
“The partners must have found that equally valuable,” said Betsy. “How long did you work for Mr. Nye?”
“Four years. Well, nearly four years—three years and ten months, actually.”
“What was he like to work for?”
Was there the merest hesitation? “He worked very hard. He was a good lawyer, he knew what he was doing all the time. That is, he knew the law—no, he
understood
the law. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so. Do you mean that he hadn’t just memorized a bunch of rules, he understood how the law could be used to advantage?”
Tasha smiled. “Yes, exactly. That is exactly what I mean. When you combine that with his ability to analyze, you can see he was a very valuable person.” She gestured at Betsy to write that down.
Betsy did, then asked, “Did you like him?”
Again that brief hesitation. “It was more that I admired him. He was very . . . focused on his work. He liked everything to be done exactly right.” She raised her chin. “I was the secretary who lasted the longest with him because I could be as . . . correct, I think that is the word, in my work as he was in his.”
“Perhaps ‘accurate’ is the word you want.”
Tasha thought about that. “Yes, I believe you are right.”
“Did you like working for him?”
“Yes.” A firm nod. “He was pleasant and did not lose his temper, or not very often. He was going to be a partner in this law firm, and he said I could still be his secretary when that happened. I was looking forward to that.” She added, confidentially, “Secretary to a partner in a law firm, that is a good position.” She nodded. “More money, too, that would be nice. He said I would have a raise.”
“Was he an easy boss?”
“No, not at all.” But Tasha didn’t think that a negative. “He was proud of me, he would brag about me, he would say, ‘Here is a woman who knows how to work!’” This time her eyes lit up and her chin was very high. Then she looked out of the corner of her eyes at Betsy and laughed softly. “You don’t think that is so wonderful.”
“Oh, but I do! To find someone to work with who appreciates your efforts, who admires your hard work, that’s always a blessing.” Betsy made and note and said, “Now, I didn’t know him well, but I have gathered that he could be difficult, because he had strong feelings about how things should be done, and preferred things to be done his way. He would get . . . unhappy when he couldn’t get others to agree to go along with him.”
“Well, yes, but that was because he was so very intelligent, and so was pretty generally right.” Tasha frowned and shifted position slightly. “He was a good man, very talented,” she said, taking the edge off his being difficult. “But perhaps not patient.”
“I understand why you would think well of him. You must have been a good match for him.”
She nodded proudly. “Yes, I was.” Then her face went sad. “I will miss him.”
“I’m sure of that, too. Will you be able to stay on here at the law firm?”
“I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if I want to.”
Taking the opening, Betsy asked, “Did John Nye have any enemies here at Hanson, Wellborn, and Smith?”
Tasha looked scandalized. “That is not a nice question!”
“Murder is not nice.”
She frowned. “You are right there, certainly.” She shifted uncomfortably, then said with firmness, “But I am sure no one at this place would have ever,
ever
thought to murder Mr. Nye. Such an idea is ridiculous.”
“I understand that John’s superior here was Mr. David Shaker. Did you know him?”
“Of course I know him. I see him—I saw him every day, or nearly every day.”
“Did he and John get along?”
“Of course they did. Mostly.”
“Were they friends?”
She hesitated. “I don’t think I should say that. They had a . . . professional relationship. Very correct. Mr. Shaker is a partner, after all, and John was a senior associate, but still . . . only an associate.”
“How long had John worked here?”
“I don’t know. I was hired five years ago, and I worked for a year for two new attorneys, then for Mr. Nye and Preston Marson. Mr. Marson quit a year ago and I have worked just for John ever since. I have heard that Mr. Nye’s work was always very good. I remember it was only a few weeks ago that Mr. Kedge, who is a
managing partner
”—she said that title with awe—“said to Mr. Nye, right in front of me, that he never knew anyone who understood the law on executive compensation as well as he did.” Tasha inhaled, basking in the reflected glory of that moment.
“Was Mr. Kedge a friend of Mr. Nye’s?”
“Not really. Mr. Kedge is”—Tasha lifted her hand over her head, palm down, and again spoke with awe—“a
managing partner
. He is also the nephew of Mr. Wellborn, who is retired. I could see his compliment made Mr. Nye sure he would be made a partner very soon.”
“How about Mr. Shaker—he’s a partner—did he get along with Mr. Kedge?”
Tasha shrugged. “That is far outside my area.”
“I understand,” said Betsy. “I’m not asking you to make an official report. Nor am I a police investigator or even a licensed private eye who will make an official report. I’m asking as a private citizen, as a friend of Mr. Nye’s very dear friend, who is innocent of murder yet sits in jail, his future in the balance. Please, won’t you help me find out who really murdered your boss?”
She wavered, but then stiffened her spine and said, “I don’t want to repeat gossip. I don’t know, myself, if those two might have been friends or not.” She unbent enough to add, “Of course I want to know who murdered Mr. Nye. I want the murderer caught and sent to prison. But I still think it is the responsibility of the police to discover that.”
“Well, I want to help the police, if I can,” said Betsy, closing her notebook. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”
“You are quite welcome.”
Tasha led Betsy out into the hall and started for the lobby.
“Betsy!” called a voice. They both turned. Susan Lavery, tall and slim in something pale green, her improbably-red hair a flame on top, waved at her.
“Why, Susan!” said Betsy. “I didn’t know you worked here!”
“Ms. Lavery,” said Tasha in greeting.
“Tasha,” replied Susan. Which meant Susan was not a fellow secretary.
“Are you an attorney?” asked Betsy.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Susan. “I don’t suppose I mentioned that when I came into your place for stitching materials.”
“Probably not,” said Betsy.
“Are you here seeking legal advice?”
“No, I’m investigating the murder of John Nye, helping Godwin’s defense, I hope.”
“She’s doing private investigator work for Marvin Lebowski,” noted Tasha.
“Hiring the big gun, I see,” said Susan in her dry drawl.
“I want the best for Godwin,” said Betsy.
“Yes, I was startled to hear he’d been charged with the murder. I know you think the world of him. Are you on your way in, or out?”
“She was just leaving,” said Tasha.
“Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?”
“Thank you, I would love a cup of coffee.”
Susan made a detour to a break room for two mugs of coffee. Betsy picked the decaf variety and doctored it with almond-flavored creamer and Splenda sweetener. Out of Tasha’s hearing, Susan said, “What’s up?”
“I’m trying to learn more about John. Tasha was his secretary, but she isn’t much of a gossip.”
Susan looked at Betsy out of large eyes the exact green color of her suit. “I am. Follow me.”
They stopped in Susan’s cluttered office, where they found her officemate tapping at his computer. “Just passing through,” said Susan. She sat at her own computer and clicked through several screens. “Here we go. I’ll be in Conference J, Chris.”
“Uh huh,” he said absently.
When they were comfortably seated in a very small conference room furnished entirely in shades of garnet except for the table, Betsy said, “What do you know about Tasha?”
“Not a whole lot. She’s polite, correct in her dealings—she’s kind of class-conscious, did you notice that?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s a question to be asked: How rigid is the caste system in this place?”
“If I tell you that Tasha is completely in her element here, does that answer your question?”
Betsy laughed and opened her notebook. Susan had fetched their coffee herself; she evidently was not a supporter of the caste system. Betsy said, “Tasha used words like ‘polite’ and ‘correct’ and ‘professional’ to describe the relationship between John and David Shaker—was he John’s boss?”
“Boss is not the right term. Superior, supervisor, those are closer. And only until John made partner.”
“Anyway, she didn’t say ‘friendly’ once. Is that significant?”
“Oh, yes. There was bad blood between John and David. What did Tasha tell you about David?”
“Nothing, really. Except that he’s a partner.”
“She didn’t mention the big fight they had in John’s office the day before he was found dead?”
Betsy hauled her sagging jaw back into place. “No, she didn’t.” Then she recalled the silence of John’s office and asked, “How did you come to overhear it?”
“Overhear? I didn’t overhear anything!” Susan laughed. “I just saw things I’ve seen before. David Shaker is the company pit bull. He can be obsequious, sweet, or enraged, depending on the situation, and what you see of him depends on where you stand in the upper echelon’s opinion. They send David out to do their dirty work. He is really good at lighting fires under attorneys, and he doesn’t mind if people don’t like him. He’s not the best attorney in the world, and there are people who think he’s a partner because he has the goods on several other partners.” She paused to take a drink of her coffee and look out the window. “Is it as warm out as it looks?”
“Yes, a beautiful day out there.”
“I’ll have to take Liam for a walk when I get home. They grow up so fast—he’s going to be eight in just another month.” She blinked and returned her attention to Betsy. “Where was I?”
“Telling me how you know Mr. Shaker and Mr. Nye had a fight.”
“Oh, yes. Well, for one thing, when David’s been reaming someone out, he walks like . . . like Popeye the Sailor.” Susan lifted her arms straight out from her shoulders, then bent her elbows so her hands hung straight down. She moved her upper torso back and forth and smiled with only one side of her mouth.
Betsy laughed. “Come on, he does not!”
Susan laughed, too, and brought her arms down. “All right, not as obvious as that. But he does have this cocky walk he does after he’s laid into someone. Sometimes he even whistles. And last Thursday morning, he came out of John’s office just like that. Whistling ‘Mexican Hat Dance,’ I think—did you know John went on vacation to Mexico a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yes. Goddy took him. They had a great time.”
Susan twinkled at her. “That’s what you think.”
Betsy frowned. “What do you mean? Godwin told me in so many words, they had a great time. And John’s brother, Charlie, told me John raved about the Museum of Anthropology they toured down there.”
“John whined to Dick Kennison—those two went to college together and came to Hanson Wellborn at the same time and they’re good friends. But Dick is a gossip, and he said John whined to him that he didn’t like Mexico City. It’s too big, it’s too dirty, the air is thin and smells funny, there’s no ocean . . .” Susan was counting on her fingers. She paused to think, bending one long, white finger back until Betsy feared it would come out of its socket. “Oh, the hotel was third-rate, and full of school children who ran wild while their teachers danced in the lobby.”
Betsy, writing frantically, said, “Teachers dancing in the lobby? Godwin never mentioned any of this.”
“No? Maybe he was having too much fun trying to learn the steps. Bill said John said something to that effect. Oh, and also that Godwin took to flirting with the native guide he hired.”
“Native guide? Oh, that must be the taxi driver. Godwin said he was a hoot, and really knew the city well, took them everywhere.”
Susan closed her eyes and shook her head, evidently imitating Bill imitating John. “Tacky, the man was
tacky
. He was short and pudgy, he wore double-knit fabrics, and his cab smelled of cigarette smoke.”
Betsy was surprised into laughter. “That does sound like John, even third-hand!” Then she sobered. “Sorry. After all, he’s dead.”
But Susan was smiling, too. “That’s one reason I repeated it to you; it sounds
exactly
like John.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not all that well, but well enough. He treated me like a paralegal, giving me scut work to do. Not that he wasn’t a very busy man.” Susan frowned, trying to decide whether to continue. She nodded abruptly and said, “It’s my never-humble opinion that he was being seriously overworked. David was trying to spoil his chances of getting that partnership. Wanted to push him out of the firm entirely, if he could.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well . . . pretty sure.”
“Why? Was it David’s idea? Or someone else’s? After all, you said he was the company pit bull. Who sicced him on John?”
Susan sat back in her chair and tapped the side of her nose while she considered that.
“I think getting rid of John was David’s own idea. I heard this story a month ago about a conference John was called into with a client of Mr. Kedge. David was there. Some kind of problem had come up before the conference, and Mr. Kedge had asked David to work on it. I don’t know what the problem was, exactly, but it involved setting up a contingency compensation plan for a CEO. David did what he’s done before, palmed it off onto John. John came up with a very complicated solution that, I believe, involved foreign investments. And when David tried to present the solution as his own, Mr. Kedge seemed to think something about it didn’t make sense. So David said something on the order of, ‘I don’t understand it, either; it’s something John Nye dreamed up.’ Mr. Kedge said, ‘Get Mr. Nye in here.’ John came in and explained his idea, and Mr. Kedge said, ‘Oh, is that what you meant?’ and the two of them explained it to the client, who was very happy to implement it. Mr. Kedge sent John off laden with trophies, medals, and rose garlands. David tried to say John explained it to him poorly, but then said something that showed he still didn’t understand it. He would have it that John deliberately didn’t make it clear, but Mr. Kedge knew better. The thing was over David’s head.”