The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (26 page)

A
T THE OFFICE,
the hunt continued. Mercedes focused on comparing entries on calendars to entries on the reservation logs for the suite, reading phone messages, and digging more deeply into the identities of the witnesses. Page by page she sifted until she spied an incongruous page from a telephone memo pad stuck in the middle of the typed minutes from an executive committee meeting. The handwriting on it was feminine. The author’s rounded letters formed curlicues at the end of each word, and there were tiny circles for the dots of the i’s. At the bottom of the page were several symbols, identical to those she had found in the reservation log. Beside each symbol was the name of a senior manager of the corporation. Four symbols, four names.

“I found it!” she exclaimed.

Lindsay and Simone dropped what they were doing and came to see. Mercedes pinned the small piece of paper to the bulletin board next to the list of dates. She rummaged through the papers on her desk and pulled out the reservation log. She flipped to various dates on the list and showed them the symbols—symbols which they now could match up to names.

They excitedly looked at each other and said, almost in unison, “We have to find out who wrote the memo.”

Lindsay reached for the photocopies of handwritten calendars for several of the company’s executives, maintained by their secretaries. Somewhere in those pages they would find more of the mystery woman’s handwriting.

In addition to calendars, there were voluminous amounts of typewritten correspondence signed by the four men. Simone compiled a list of the typists, whose initials appeared at the foot of each letter, and the dates of the letters.

Mercedes put in a call to Percy Millner, the employee in Human Resources who had been so helpful.

“I’m in a meeting,” he whispered. “I’ll call you right back.”

Mercedes made copies of several of the reservation log pages, each of which showed a different symbol, and pinned them up on the bulletin board. She added copies of pages from the reservation log that showed the same symbols, each written on a different date. Simone added pages from the personal calendars for the same dates, from each of the men whose names had been assigned a symbol. The entries matched. Where the reservation log showed that man’s symbol, his personal calendar said, “out of town.”

When Percy called back, Mercedes was ready. She gave him a range of dates showing when the correspondence had been typed, and a list of the typists’ initials. With that information he was able to identify the secretaries who had worked in the Franjipur executive offices during the times in question. Two of the women were still employed by the company. Mercedes wrote names beside her list of initials and added them to the growing collage on the bulletin board. Now there were more witnesses to interview.

The paralegals searched through the calendars for other samples of the handwriting with curlicues and circles for the dots of i’s. Lindsay made the discovery—on phone messages for one of the men whose deposition Darrel would be taking. Thanks to Percy, they
could now match a name to the handwriting, and they added it to their wall: Shirley Idol.

Lindsay, Mercedes, and Simone exchanged exuberant high-fives. They had decoded part of the mystery: they knew who had used the executive suite, at what times, and the names of the staff who had assisted them.

Mercedes practically sprinted to Darrel’s office. He looked up from his reading, surprised by her sudden appearance and the expression on her face.

“What is it?”

“We have something to show you on the Taylor case. I think you’ll like it,” she said, beaming.

In short order they were standing before the agglomerate of documents.

“According to this note,” Mercedes said, pointing, “which we’ve been able to determine is in the handwriting of a secretary named Shirley Idol, each symbol represents one of the managers at Franjipur’s New York facility. We’ve matched entries on their calendars with dates on the reservation log for the executive suite. See their symbols on the log?”

He nodded his head and scrutinized the documents on the wall.

“We found correspondence sent out under each of their signatures, and we called Percy Millner. He was able to give us this list of names,” she said, pointing to another page pinned to the wall. “And these are the names of all the secretaries they had working for them at the time. Maybe they have some knowledge of what went on in the suite and why there was such a need for secrecy. If not, why did they have to use symbols in the reservation log?”

“I like it. This is great!” Darrel’s eyes were quick with excitement as he praised his paralegals.

“Maybe Tony Grey, our private investigator, can track down the
secretaries who’ve left the company. And now that we have specific dates, maybe he can get his contact at the escort service to open up about whether any of their employees were sent to the suite on those nights, who visited, and what they did.”

Darrel agreed. “We need to know exactly what Rand knew about all this, when he knew it and who at Franjipur knew that he knew. Has Emerson seen this?”

“No. We just now put it together. I told him about my idea yesterday, but he wasn’t terribly enthused.”

“I want him to get this into the outline.”

“I don’t think he welcomes my suggestions, to put it mildly.”

Darrel looked annoyed. “Okay, make sure Stuart sees this right away. I want him to get in touch with Tony immediately and to come see me as soon as he’s gone over it. Please write a memo about this and circulate it. And draft a notice of deposition for Shirley Idol. We need to get it on calendar ASAP. This is excellent work—all of you. Thank you very much!”

Stuart was all ears when Mercedes went to his office. When she’d finished, he grinned at her. “You may have done it again, just like you did in Fredericks.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“When will Jack be back? He’s the one with the client’s ear.”

“Not until next week. But we can call him in the Philippines, or send him a telex.”

“What’s keeping him there?”

“He’s sick with a bad cold,” she said, fingering her engagement ring.

“It’s probably the first time he’s been able to catch his breath in a while,” Stuart teased.

She sighed, thinking of their insatiable, sleepless nights together and longing for the next one.

T
HE TEAM WAS SEATED AROUND
Darrel’s desk late the next day when Melanie put the call through.

“Jack, I hope it’s not too early for you. We’re sorry to interrupt your vacation,” Darrel began.

A fit of coughing was the reply. Mercedes winced.

Then, in a gravelly voice, Jack said, “I’m happy to have a distraction. Is my fiancée there?”

“She is indeed,” Darrel responded. “And it’s because of her that we’re calling.”

If Emerson had been a cat, his ears would have gone back on his head.

“I knew if I left there’d be trouble,” Jack joked.

“She solved a riddle, or part of a riddle.” Darrel explained their recent discovery and how the paralegals had cross-referenced the documents to put it all together.

More coughing erupted on the other end of the phone. “You’ve been busy,” he sputtered. “Good work. How’s Tony?”

“He’s pretty certain he can get us what we need before the depositions, which is why we’re calling. We need you to get in touch with Rand and have a heart-to-heart. He needs to be completely forthcoming with us.”

Emerson shot a hostile look at Mercedes.

“I think he has been,” Jack replied. “He had suspicions, but that’s all. That and the hope that we would find out what it was all about. I’ll call him again to be sure there’s nothing more he can tell us.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

After the business portion of the call was done, Mercedes went to Jack’s office and closed the door so they could speak privately.

“Jack, you sound awful.”

“It sounds worse than it is.”

“I’m glad you have room service and a doctor. What did he say?”

“He said it’s bronchitis and a sinus infection and gave me antibiotics. I’m supposed to feel much better in a day or so. I’ve been lying here scheming about our future and what I’m going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you.”

“I’d love to go to Florence on our honeymoon! Were you serious about that?”

“Absolutely.” He broke into another fit of coughing, which went on for some seconds.

“I wish I were there to take care of you.”

“There will be time enough for that,” he whispered hoarsely. “Give my Scrabble partner a hug for me.”

She sat in Jack’s enormous chair and took stock of the room. She tried to imagine being him, with a law practice, facing marriage and parenthood for the first time at age thirty-nine. She looked out his windows toward the lake. Now that darkness had fallen, the path around it was lit by a necklace of lights.

Jack’s desk was the antithesis of Emerson’s. On top was a snowstorm of paper, which had a suggestion of order only thanks to Melanie. Mercedes opened the top drawer. Loose papers filled it to the brim. She opened the drawer farther. The top document had a fax cover sheet addressed to an insurance company. She turned the page and saw an application for insurance in Jack’s handwriting. Her name was there, too.

Someone knocked on the door. She quickly closed the drawer and called out, “Come in!”

Melanie entered with the day’s mail. She spied Mercedes, who was dwarfed by Jack’s chair and desk. “Is he as sick as he sounds?”

“I think so. He lost his voice completely during the call and was coughing horribly.”

“Lying in bed will drive that man crazy,” Melanie said, as she carefully deposited the newest mail.

“He’s been planning the honeymoon, though,” Mercedes said gently.

Melanie looked at her sweetly.

“You know, I’ve worked for Jack for many years. He has a moody streak and can be . . . difficult at times, but I’ve never seen him so content. I think you and Germaine give him ballast, a sense of purpose. It’s the family life he’s always wanted, and being accepted for who he really is.”

“What’s
not
to love? He’s Prince Charming.”

Melanie’s face softened. “He is with you.”

J
ACK LAY BACK ON HIS
pile of pillows, coughing strenuously, his face vermilion and his hair disheveled. During a brief respite he forced himself upright on the edge of the bed. He struggled to his feet and teetered in his rumpled pajamas, only to be hit by a new bout of coughing. He reached for the glass of water on the night-stand, then moved toward the desk, sipping as he stepped carefully over the clothes, magazines, and dirty towels that littered the floor of the luxurious suite. He rummaged through his opened briefcase until he found his address book and picked up the phone. In a moment the international call went through. He sat down in the upholstered chair and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Hello? Rand Taylor speaking,” the voice drawled.

“Rand, it’s Jack,” he wheezed, then took a gulp of water.

“My goodness, counselor, you sound a bit under the weather.”

Jack coughed violently for a few seconds. “We have to talk,” he croaked. “I just got off the phone with Darrel. The paralegals are beginning to piece together the details about the suite—who in
management used it and when, and who their secretaries were. They’re getting down to brass tacks.”

“Very enterprising of them,” Rand commented dryly, “but you know what I know.”

“Darrel is concerned. His instincts are—” Jack broke into a violent cough. “I reassured him that you’d already told everything you knew, and that you only had suspicions of what went on. No direct personal knowledge.” His voice was growing hoarser with each phrase. He took another drink of water.

“So what happens next?”

“Tony will work with his contact at the escort service to try to find out who went to the suite and what went on there, and who at Franjipur they were in touch with. So far your name has not come up directly.”

“And if it does?” Rand drawled, sounding more casual than circumstances warranted.

“You just let me handle it. You know the depositions start next week, right?”