Fool Me Once (23 page)

“If he is, I'm out on the street. As in ‘fired.' Lillian appointed me because she didn't think she had any other relatives. If I don't have a job, we can't get married, Olivia. Worse than that, we lose Cecil. The legal department is the one who found this guy. He didn't come to them. He didn't even know who Lillian Manning was. From what I can gather, which isn't much, he's shiftless, no job, just bums around doing odd jobs. Drinks a lot and sleeps even more. He was arrested on two separate drug charges. The investigative report said he's fathered seven children, all to different women, and pays no child support. He also spends a lot of time in jail. He happens to be roaming free right now. And he's only twenty-three years old. They're going to trust him to take care of Cecil!” Jeff's voice cracked with anger.

Olivia struggled with her breathing. Losing Cecil and not getting married. Talk about a double whammy. Well, that wasn't going to happen. Not if she had anything to say about it. “They would never give Cecil to someone like that! We'll go on television and the newspapers. Listen, Jeff, I have a family of dogs I have to photograph right now. Are you coming out this evening? If so, we'll talk and come up with a plan.”

“Are you kidding! I'm halfway to your house right now. I just cut out the minute the old man told me the news. I'll see you in a bit.”

Olivia bent down and picked up both Yorkies. She cuddled them close. She swore later to Jeff that they knew what was going on because their little hearts were beating triphammer fast. “Easy, easy,” she crooned. “You're staying right here. No biker dude is getting his greasy hands on you two.”

Olivia carried the two little dogs into the studio, where she offered treats so everyone would calm down. Her mind a thousand miles away, she proceeded to photograph the beautiful retrievers and their frisky pups.

An hour later, Olivia was on her knees, aiming the camera at the three rambunctious pups, who were squabbling over a ball of bright red yarn. Their owner was laughing uproariously at their antics. The fattest pup bit the littlest one's ear. He in turn bit the darker-colored one on the tail as they got even more tangled in the red yarn. Sonia and Stash barked, then growled, hoping for obedience. When it didn't happen, the mother dog took matters into her own hands—or jaws, if you will—and picked up the fat one in her mouth and deposited him next to the owner's shoes. The father dog picked up the littlest one in his mouth, plopped him on a footstool, and barked, which meant, “Stay put.” The darker-colored one looked around as he tried to untangle himself. When nothing happened, he lay down and went to sleep on top of the bright red ball of yarn. Olivia joined the pups' owner in laughter.

“That'll do it, Mr. Donovan. I'll call you in a week with the proofs.”

“They keep me young, and they make me laugh,” the old man said. “They're wonderful company. I'm keeping all three pups! The bed's going to be a little crowded, but what the heck. Once you get as old as I am, you don't need much sleep.”

“Good for you, Mr. Donovan.”

Olivia handed out more treats, tussled with the older dogs for a minute, then closed the door. She raced into the kitchen, where Jeff was standing by the window. When he turned she could see he was holding Cecil and Loopy. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Olivia could feel her own eyes fill up. “We'll make this come out right, Jeff. If I have to, I'll use every last cent of Allison Matthews's money to make sure you get to keep Cecil. That reject is
not
going to get Cecil. I mean it, Jeff!”

J
eff hugged the two little terriers close to him as he followed Olivia into the great room. Overhead, the paddle fans whirred softly, late-afternoon sunshine creating a line of sunbeams on the wood floors. Olivia realized that Jeff was so focused on the dogs, he didn't notice all the fresh flowers sitting on the tables. The fact was, he didn't see anything, not even her.

“Damage control, Jeff. That's what we have to do right now. We need to go to the press and the local TV station here in Winchester. The bigger stations, and the AP wire service, will pick it up lickety-split. Cecil is news. We want to show what a great person you are and what good care you give Cecil. You're young, you're good-looking, and you're stable, with a good job. Forget the fact that people hate lawyers. We'll pose together with the other dogs, showing what a wonderful life Cecil has. Then when that biker dude arrives, we'll arrange to have him photographed along with his police record.

“We'll call the SPCA and every animal organization in the country. The press will eat it up, and people will choose up sides. Your firm is not going to come out smelling real good if they stick with the biker. I think you should go into the office tomorrow to your boss and tell him exactly where you stand in regard to Cecil. You're not giving Cecil up, that's the bottom line. He was traumatized when Mrs. Manning died—he'll be worse if he's taken away from you. We aren't going to be shy about telling the press who I am and who Adrian Ames was. With all that money behind us to fight for Cecil, I think they'll buckle.”

The two terriers whimpered in Jeff's tight embrace. “Okay, okay, I like the way that all sounds. But, Olivia, don't we need to know which dog is Cecil?”

Olivia's voice was soft and gentle. “I know which one he is, Jeff.” She reached out for one of the terriers, who was whimpering the loudest. “This one is Cecil. He understands everything we've been saying. He knew there was trouble coming when you called earlier. I told you dogs are smart, and this little guy is at the top of the class. I put a little red mark on his tail with a Magic Marker when we were in the studio. This is Cecil!” she said, holding him out for Jeff's inspection. “And,” she said, rubbing her nose playfully against Cecil's, “he's staying right here with us and his buddies. That's
my
bottom line.”

Cecil looked up at Olivia with adoring eyes. He licked her chin and barked.

“See, he understands, and he
trusts
us. We are not going to let him down. We do have to act fast, though.” Cecil squirmed in Olivia's arms. She lowered him to the floor, where he scampered off with his friends to do whatever they did when no one was watching.

Jeff rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “I'm not opposed to any of this, Olivia. I will get fired, that's a given. No one makes waves at my firm. I've never been fired before.” His voice was so grim, Olivia winced.

“Fired and famous! Law firms will be forming a line to snap you up for standing by your principles. You'll probably end up with a better job than you have now. Worst-case scenario, you'll hang up your own shingle here in Winchester. The town can always use another lawyer. Bear in mind, animals and their welfare are as American as mom's apple pie and hot dogs. This will be human interest at its best.”

“How'd you get so smart?” Jeff teased.

“I don't know about the smart part—I just want to marry you. Maybe that does make me smart. Besides, I love Cecil. We are not giving him up. Maybe something good will really come from Adrian Ames after all. Now, let's have a glass of wine while you tell me everything you know about Lillian Manning. Every single thing, no matter how small or inconsequential you might think it is. First thing tomorrow morning, I want to be geared up to put Operation Cecil into action. I have all kinds of ideas swimming around inside my head. Sort of like Plan A, Plan B, and, of course, Plan C in case things go awry.”

Jeff's eyebrows shot upward, then he burst out laughing. “Remind me never to go up against you. You are devious, Olivia Lowell, and I love it!

“Okay, this is what I know about Lillian. She insisted I call her Lillian, said it didn't make her feel so old when people called her by her first name. She wasn't as rich as the papers made her out to be. The main reason she left her estate to Cecil was because she thought she didn't have any other relatives. I made sure to do an extensive search, and this guy didn't show up anywhere. It's possible he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. If Lillian had known about the guy the firm found, I'm sure she would have mentioned him with a bequest in her will. That's the only sticky part I can think of that might bite us. Well, maybe there is one other thing. Ambrose Martindale was a personal friend of Lillian Manning and handled her affairs for years and years until Lillian requested some ‘young blood,' which is why he assigned me to manage her affairs and draw up her will. She and I really hit it off.

“I'm digressing. When everything was said and done, she had a little over five million dollars, not the hundred and fifty million the papers said she had, but certainly more than enough to see Cecil through his final years. There was a special fund she had set aside to pay for one cook/housekeeper for twelve years. She paid her property taxes on the house for those same twelve years. Of course, if they raise the taxes in the future, the funds will have to come from the main account. There were, like, six or seven bank accounts set up to pay various household bills, outside maintenance, car upkeep, that sort of thing. There isn't much in the accounts, but there is enough to take care of things. There was even an account set up for me as Cecil's handler. I never touched a penny of it. I couldn't take the money. Taking care of Cecil, ill prepared as I was, was more of a favor than a job. Lillian had it all down to a science. She said she wasn't taking any chances that things would go awry. According to her will—and, by the way, I drew up the will—after…after Cecil is gone, the remainder of her estate is to go to various animal funds. Those are the people we need to get in touch with so they can rally round to protect their future inheritance. I'm the executor of the will.

“Did I ever tell you that she had every picture you ever took of Cecil hanging in her bedroom? Didn't you ever wonder why she wanted so many pictures?”

“No, not really. I just knew she loved that little dog. She was so pleased when I made him Mister July on last year's calendar. She hugged me. She did tell me she loved Cecil more than she had loved either one of her husbands. We both had a good laugh over that. She had a wicked sense of humor. I liked that.”

Jeff laughed. “She told me the same thing. Now what?”

Now what, indeed? “I'm going to call an old friend I grew up with who works at the
Winchester Star
and ask her to come by early in the morning. We want to get this in the papers
before
you get fired. While I'm doing that, you can get us some wine.”

Wineglasses in hand, dogs at their side, Olivia and Jeff plotted and planned. Planned and plotted. They gave some thought to scheming and manipulating, but in the end they decided just to go for the jugular.

Dee Dee Pepper, Winchester's ace reporter and photographer, arrived at 509 Eagle Drive at 6:00
A.M
. on a bright red motor scooter that matched her flaming red hair, which in turn matched her freckled face. She hopped off the scooter, slung her camera over her shoulder, and marched up to the front door, where Olivia and Jeff were standing. The two women hugged, reminisced for a few minutes, then got down to business.

“Damn!” the reporter said when Olivia finally wound down. “We gotta do this real quick if you want it in tomorrow's paper, and you have to trust me, Ollie, okay? Hey,” she hissed, “that's some good-lookin' guy you got there. Does he have a friend?”

Olivia laughed. “I don't know, but I'll ask. I'm going to kiss him good-bye now, so don't look!” Dee Dee grinned as she turned around.

The dogs liked the laughing young woman in the Doc Martens who romped in the yard with them as she snapped and snapped her camera. “Dogs need green grass, bushes to lift their legs on, and other dogs to play with for a full and rounded life,” Dee Dee babbled as she continued clicking and clicking her Nikon. When Cecil dug up a bone from under an azalea bush, she snapped again as he proudly laid it at her feet.

The photo op took all of twenty-three minutes before Dee Dee shoved the digital camera back into its case. “With the pictures I took of Jeff cuddling Cecil and the ones I just took, I feel we have a really good pictorial. After I download and tweak these, I'm going to write up my article. Since time is of the essence, I need to know if you trust me enough to go to press without your okay? I can fax it to you, but it will be after the fact. You okay with that, Ollie?”

“Sure. Just do a good job, okay? How can we get it in the
Post
and
USA Today
?”

Dee Dee laughed. “Hey, this is me. If I have to, I'll hand-deliver it to them. They'll run it tomorrow. You owe me, Ollie. Make sure you ask that hunk of yours to bring a friend out this way. I'm getting a little tired of being a bachelorette. I find myself longing for that little house with a white picket fence. My clock is ticking. Damn, he's good-lookin'. Way to go, Ollie.”

Olivia took a step backward. The young woman was a whirlwind as she raced through the door and out to her motor scooter. Olivia knew she was in good hands.

And all of this had happened before she'd had her first cup of coffee.

Olivia crossed her fingers the way she used to do when she was little. Then she scooped up Cecil, checking to make sure she had the right dog, and whispered in his ear. The little guy yapped happily before she set him back on the floor.

After playing with the dogs for a while, Olivia was waiting for the coffee to brew when she looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Jeff should be at the office already. Was he talking to his boss, or was he steeling himself to get up the nerve to do it? She crossed her fingers again as she made a wish that her fiancé wouldn't get fired, but she knew it was a fruitless wish.
Think positive, think positive
, she told herself over and over.

Jeff straightened his tie, smoothed back his unruly hair, and shrugged under his jacket so it would settle more evenly around his shoulders. Time to beard the lion. And Ambrose Martindale was a lion with a roar that had no equal.
Yeah, well, I can roar, too
, Jeff thought, when a vision of Cecil romping in the yard passed before him.

Jeff looked around his office, which he'd packed up on the fly. There wasn't much left—the pictures of his family, a shaving kit complete with toothbrush and a whitening toothpaste, along with his nail clippers. His briefcase, a gift from his parents when he'd graduated from law school and now containing the personal files he had downloaded from his computer, along with his day planner, had already been placed in the trunk of his car.

Standing in the doorway, Jeff wondered if he'd made a mistake in not calling Martindale's secretary to ask for an appointment.
Too late now,
he thought, taking the elevator to the top floor, where Ambrose Martindale reigned supreme.

The middle-aged secretary, who was stuffed into a peach-colored suit, looked like she could roar as loud as Martindale. She sat primly behind the polished desk that held only a computer and a phone console. She looked up from the computer screen, a frown on her face.

“Yes?”

“I'm Jeff Bannerman, I work on the sixth floor, and I'm also Cecil's handler. I need to speak with Mr. Martindale.
Now.
”

“Everyone wants to speak to Mr. Martindale. Unfortunately, that simply isn't possible today. Every minute of Mr. Martindale's day is accounted for, and your name is not on any of those minutes.”

“Well, that's too bad,” Jeff said. “Just tell him I am not giving up Cecil to some long-lost relative of Lillian Manning. Lillian wanted me to take care of Cecil, and that's what I'm going to do. If Mr. Martindale wants to sue me, tell him to feel free to do so, but also tell him I will go to the wall to keep Cecil. Another thing, tell him
I quit!
”

Jeff turned on his heel but not before the secretary's jaw dropped. She blinked rapidly as she tried to come to terms with the message she was to give to her boss.

Jeff was almost to the door when she said. “You're quitting over a dog, is that the gist of your message?”

“Not just any dog. Cecil is the dog that inherited Lillian Manning's estate. I'm his handler.” He opened the door, then closed it behind himself with a loud bang. Well, quitting was better than getting fired. He supposed he would have to quickly type up his resignation and take it down to personnel. Well, hell, he could do that. As a matter of fact, it would give him great pleasure to do just that.

He'd quit, that was the important thing. He hadn't gotten fired.

The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, where he raced over to the secretary he shared with three other lawyers on his floor. “Type up a resignation letter and print it out so I can sign it. I want to drop it off at personnel on my way out. Snap to it, Hillary—I can't wait to get out of here.” He realized suddenly that what he said was the truth. He really couldn't wait to get out of the steel-and-glass building with its recycled air and artificial plants. Hanging out his own shingle was starting to look better and better. His own boss. A small office in Winchester. His clients would be his neighbors, his friends. He'd be a member of the community. Yep, it was looking better and better.