Ghost Times Two (7 page)

Graham's face was touched with red. He knew a put-down when he heard it. He turned toward the others in the hallway. “The show's over.” His tone was brusque. “Like everything else in a law office, anything discussed in the hallway this morning is confidential. I expect everyone”—he looked at each in turn—“to dismiss this from your mind.” In other words, no gossip, no description of the scene, keep your mouths shut. He looked at Megan, jerked his head toward his office.

Megan, green folder beneath one arm, followed him.

As if that had been a director's cue, Lou hurried toward the waiting room, murmuring, “I believe I heard the phone.” Anita sagged back into her chair and plucked at the wad of tissues in her lap. Sharon sat immobile with one hand on her mouse, staring at the computer screen. Nancy immediately hurried to her desk, but a pink flush of excitement still stained her cheeks. Geraldine tugged her sweater down a little on her hips, strolled toward her cubicle, looked amused.

In Graham's office, he was already seated behind his desk, half turned toward his computer screen. As Megan crossed the room, he waved a hand at one of the wing chairs. He didn't bother to speak or look her way.

Megan sat down, settled the folder in her lap. She said nothing, waited with a pleasant expression.

He swiveled in his chair, punched the intercom. “Sharon, I want Anita here. ASAP.”

Megan reached forward to place the folder on his desk.

He glanced down, frowned. “That brief in the Adams case won't do. I told you to cite the Carson case.”

Her voice was even, but firm. “The Carson case was overruled in a new opinion.”

“I've told you before. That's up to the plaintiff's lawyers to find.” He leaned back in his large leather chair, amused. He waved a big hand. “I'll take care of it.”

“Mr. Graham, I'm giving notice this morning. I've been offered another position. I'll be leaving September first.”

He was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Big blond brows lifted. “Who's the lucky firm?”

“It's a new firm. I'm joining Blaine Smith.” Although she tried to be impassive, her eyes shone and her voice was buoyant.

Behind her the knob to the door twisted and the door began to open.

She didn't announce the firm of Smith and Wynn. I suspected she intended to insist to Blaine that she be an associate, not a full partner, until she could build a practice.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you.” There was no warmth in his voice, instead an edge of derisiveness.

Her eyes glinted, but she merely nodded. “Thank you.” She rose, ready to depart.

“Of course, that means we'll have to let go of Anita.” His voice was smooth as honey.

Megan stopped, gazed at him steadily. “Let Anita go?”

He was calm. His voice held a regretful tone. “Always sorry to trim staff, but we won't need her if you leave.”

Megan stared at him. “She was here when I came.”

“Was she?” He raised an eyebrow. “Times change. Oil boom, now a bust. We can get along with Sharon and Nancy.”

Behind her the hall door was open perhaps an inch, then another.

Megan took a step nearer his desk. She spoke quickly, forcefully. “Anita has to have her job.”

The hall door stopped.

I moved to the hallway.

Anita bent forward, listening. Her face was slack, the hand on the knob began to tremble.

Megan's voice was low, but clearly audible. “You know how difficult it is with insurance now. Different policies cover different things and some won't allow a choice of doctors. Anita has found a doctor who has a plan for Bridget.”

Anita gripped the knob, held tight for support.

“Anita's an excellent secretary.” Megan was emphatic.

Through the slight opening, I watched Doug Graham lean back in his huge expensive leather chair, lace his fingers behind his head. His broad face was bland. “She used to be. Seems distracted these days. But maybe you can help her find a job. I suppose your new firm might need a secretary.”

“It would not,” Megan spoke stiffly, “be the right time for her to make a change. You know her daughter—”

“I don't inquire about the personal affairs of my employees. It's up to you. If you leave, we won't need her services. If you stay, she has a job. So”—and now his cold smile was challenging—“shall I accept your resignation?”

Megan spaced the words. “If I leave, you'll fire Anita?”

Anita leaned against the wall, still clinging to the knob. She struggled to breathe.

I wished I could wrap my arms around her.

“It will be a shame.” Graham's smooth voice was mocking. “Would you like to tell her?”

One silent moment, another. Megan's back was rigid. Abruptly,
her voice expressionless, she spoke. “I withdraw my resignation.” Megan turned to walk toward the door.

Anita drew a gulping breath, let go of the knob, stumbled away. She hurried blindly toward her alcove.

The door to Graham's office was pulled back. Megan stepped into the doorway.

Graham called out, his voice lazy with an underlying taunt. “About the Adams case. On second thought, you make the change in the brief.”

Megan stopped, almost turned, then, her face set and hard, she strode up the hallway. She was obviously angry, holding herself in check.

At her desk in the opposite alcove, Sharon King looked up. She glanced from Megan's set face to Graham's partially open door. The secretary's gaze was intense. Perhaps, as all employees do, she was wondering how to deal with a superior who was obviously not in a pleasant mood.

Megan was a few feet short of her office when she saw Anita huddled in her desk chair. Megan swerved to the alcove, came around the desk, put a hand on a shaking shoulder.

Anita looked up, her lips quivering. Tears streamed down her face. “I heard what he said.” Her anguished whisper was low enough that only Megan could hear. “Bridget . . . I don't know what I'll do.” She held a gold-framed photograph of a young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with springy brown curls and a laughing face.

Megan plucked tissues from a box on the corner, tucked them into Anita's free hand. “It's all right.”

“All right?” Anita's voice was thin, scratchy. “The doctor—”

Megan gripped her arm. “It will be all right.”

Her eyes wild and desperate, she stared at Megan. She held the picture in one hand, scrubbed at her face with tissues in the other.

“I'm sorry you overheard my talk with Mr. Graham, but you will not lose your job.” Megan also spoke softly, but her tone was decisive. “I'm not leaving. It was a possibility, that's all. You are not to worry.”

“But you told him—”

Megan's face was composed, her voice firm. “I changed my mind. Everything will be as it has been. I promise you that.”

The intercom buzzed. Sharon King's voice was disinterested, matter-of-fact. “Mr. Graham no longer needs to see you, Anita.”

Anita stared up at Megan, her face splotchy. “If he fires me—”

“That isn't going to happen. I'm here. And I'm staying.” Megan glanced at her watch. “I'd better get to work. Print out the petition in the Branson case for me.”

Megan stepped into her office, closed the door. She walked purposefully to her desk.

“Megan, you got to—”

She cut Jimmy off. “Not now.” She slipped into her chair, bent to her right to open the bottom drawer.

“That guy's rotten.” Jimmy was angry. “You can't stay here. You can't let him treat you like that.”

She picked up her purse, yanked out her cell. “Oh, right. I walk out. He fires Anita. He knows about Bridget. He knows she only has a slim chance to live.” Her voice trembled. “So yes, I want to go with Blaine. I want out of here more than I've ever wanted anything. Bridget's eleven years old. Will she get another year? I don't know, but I have to do anything I can to give her a chance. If the
new drug works, if she gets better, maybe Anita can leave. Until that happens, Graham's won.”

Jimmy exploded. “There has to be something we can do.” I knew he was standing nearby, handsome face furrowed, hands clenched.

I tried to help. “Maybe Megan can check out insurance policies. Maybe Blaine could offer a policy that would cover Bridget's doctor.”

A slight ping sounded from the cell she held in her hand. “Hush. Both of you.” She looked at the screen and a new illuminated text.

I peered over her shoulder, knew Jimmy was right beside me.

Champagne on ice. Have grill and steaks. Six
o'clock?

“I
'm sorry, babe.” Jimmy's voice was soft.

She blinked away tears. “Isn't this what you want?” Her voice was shaky. “Smith and Wynn knocked off the map? When I tell Blaine, he'll think . . . I don't know what he'll think. I can't tell him why.”

“Of course you can,” I said emphatically. “He's a decent man. Anyone can tell that.”

Megan looked in the direction of my voice. “He's a very decent man. If I tell him what happened, he'll be furious. He'll want to confront Doug. I don't need anyone, not even Blaine, to fight a battle for me. Bridget's battle is the one that has to be fought. I'm the one on the front line. Even if Blaine could offer the kind of insurance we get here, it isn't worth a hassle. Anita can't take a chance on derailing her coverage. You know how it goes—sure, there's insurance available but it's likely to cost more, have higher deductibles,
and the idea you can keep your doctor or hospital is a joke for everybody except the people in Washington.”

She pressed her lips together, texted:
Hold champagne. Will explain. White Deer pier six o'clock.
She clicked off the cell, dropped it in her purse. At her desk, she drew out the bottom right drawer, dropped her purse into the drawer, slid the drawer shut. Slipping into her chair, she punched the intercom. “If anyone”—a slight pause—“calls for me, I'm not available. Offer to take a message. You don't know when I'll be in the office.” She clicked off the intercom.

A muffled peal sounded from the closed drawer holding her purse.

Megan rubbed knuckles hard against one cheek. When the ringtone—the cheerful sound of marimbas—ended, she picked up a pen, reached for a folder.

“Babe—”

“Go away, Jimmy.” Her voice was tired. “I'm working.” She flipped open the folder, began to read a record of a deposition.

I spoke quickly. “Megan needs some time alone, Jimmy. What do you like to do on a summer day?”

A considering pause. “Spoon chocolate ice cream out of a strawberry soda. Flop in a hammock. Fish. Tube on the river.”

Big black truck inner tubes offered a silky wet journey, fairly cooling when the temperature nudged a hundred. I squeezed my eyes in thought. Perhaps there was something similar. “Megan, does Graham's fancy house run to a swimming pool?”

She looked up, her expression wary. “Yes. Why?”

“Obviously, he's single since he's getting ready to marry a rich widow, so no one should be at the house.”

“Like they say, the rich get richer. He came out on top in the divorce. He has the fancy home with spires and turrets and a swimming pool. His ex-wife Rhoda lives in a 1950s brick house in the old part of town. She's a bookkeeper for a construction company. Two kids, both in college. Last I heard one was a camp counselor in Missouri and the other one's waiting tables in Colorado. There won't be any family at Graham's house. Maybe a housekeeper.” Megan shrugged. “For that matter, maybe a chorus line for all I know. He thinks he's irresistible to women.”

“Is that why they divorced? Did he have interests outside the home?” That's small-town parlance for
extramarital affairs
.

Megan wasn't interested. “I never heard that. The divorce was pretty quiet.”

I focused on the main point. “Housekeepers keep houses. They don't lounge in a pool. Jimmy, meet me at Doug Graham's pool.” In case Jimmy was unaware of the ease of transport for spirits, I added, “Think
Doug Graham house
and you'll be there.” And I was.

Graham's turreted, copper-spired, stone and brick house was on the curve of a heavily wooded street. A stone deer was forever alert in the center of a huge front yard. Stone walls provided privacy from neighbors. Over a wall, the roof of a large home to the east was more than a football field away.

I hovered over the house, looked down on a back terrace and pool with a cabana to one side. Sparkling water splashed over boulders at one end, creating a faux fall. Beyond the pool was a stretch of a golf course fairway. Several tall sycamores separated the pool and patio from a three-car garage. Summer sounds included a not-too-distant lawn mower, a burst of Latin music likely from a yard worker's truck, and the steady clack of a hedge clipper.

A geyser of water exploded from the deep end.

The watery plume reminded me of long ago and Rob cannonballing off the
Serendipity
into the Gulf. What makes cannonballing into water irresistible to young men? The curtain of water rising and falling? The satisfying smack on impact?

I remained invisible. Should Wiggins in faraway Tumbulgum be aware of my status, he would be pleased I was not seen. Nevertheless, I always like to be appropriately costumed. I changed into a moderately cut blue floral swim dress with a full skirt. White hibiscus on top melded into a blue background with clever dark vertical streaks on the skirt. Had I been visible, I was confident I would have looked my best.

I picked up a plastic float and slipped into sun-warmed water. I stretched out on the float, used my hands to propel the float to the deep end.

An inner tube moved through the air and plopped into the pool. Jimmy jumped next to it, then pushed the tube down into the water as he settled in the center.

“Pretty nice.” He didn't sound happy.

I heard sadness in his voice as he remembered wonderful hazy days of summer when he was alive, pools and rivers, mountains, cars, a beautiful girl.

“Tell me about Megan.”

His voice lifted as he recalled school days and picnics and occasional snowfalls and sledding down Adelaide hills. “She moved here in junior high . . . Some of the girls made fun of her because she was skinny and wore big glasses and didn't have the right kind of shoes, whatever they were back then. And she came into town
and everybody already knew each other at school so she was on the outside. Sometimes she didn't have anyone to sit with at lunch, so one day I stopped by the table and asked if she'd explain a poem to me for English. Girls liked me.”

There was no particular pride in his voice. He was simply stating a fact. Handsome Jimmy, always desirable, a magnet to admiring girls.

“First thing you know, we had a whole table full and some of the nicer girls found out Megan was funny and quick and always kind.”

“That was sweet of you.”

A robust laugh. “Sweet old Jimmy? Not. You want the truth? The first time I looked at her, pigtailed, skinny, intense, always striving to be the best, I was sunk.”

“Why?”

“She's Megan.” He spoke with finality.

I heard caring and kindness and a tinge of awe in his voice. I liked him very much.

“I followed her to OU and I was always there when she needed me. Everything changed the semester we spent in Tuscany. The university has a campus there. Pretty amazing place. When we danced under the stars, I'd tell her”—his voice was suddenly soft—“
Mi cara ti amo.
And
Il mio cuore ti appartiene.
And
Vi soro pio bella che la luna e stelle.
We came back to school and suddenly it was the two of us.”

The water rippled and warmth touched us. I didn't know Italian, but I didn't need a translator to tell me they were words of love. I felt surrounded by remembered happiness.

“The happy summer. The best summer. I even thought about being a lawyer because of her.” A hoot of laughter. “I knew that wasn't for me. Maybe a trial lawyer. But you have to wear a suit in court and say,
Yes, Your Honor
and
No, Your Honor
, and I'd come into some pompous jackass's court and end up in jail for contempt. Megan always knew what she wanted to be. Her parents died when she was twelve, and that's when she came to Adelaide. She lived with her uncle. He was a judge, very respected. He died when she was in law school, so she doesn't have any family. Maybe that's why she's so thoughtful about other people. She started a drive in high school to raise money for a teacher whose house burned down. She tutored me in English and never told anybody and helped me graduate. At least”—he sounded embarrassed—“she thought she did. Actually, I was good with words. I never tried to make grades. But I'm not good enough with words to explain how I feel about Megan.” A pause.
“I never saw so sweet a face / As that I stood before. / My heart has left its dwelling-place / And can return no more.”

“‘First Love' by John Clare. The last verse.” Astonishment lifted my voice.

“Not what you expected from me? Like they say, sometimes the cover doesn't tell what's in the package. I was always a fool for the romantic poets.” He slapped his hand on the water, making a splash. “That's . . . that was a deep dark secret to everyone in the newsroom. I would have gotten cute e-mails every day. Like . . .
and such are daffodils / With the green world they live in
 . . . The subject line would be something like:
Daffodilling this morning, bud?
”

“Keats,” I murmured automatically.

“How'd you know?” Now he was surprised.

“At one point I taught high school English.” Touching so many bases, Beowulf, Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Dickens, Twain, e. e. cummings, Millay . . .

“You sound like a lot more fun than my high school English teacher.”

I laughed, remembering one rowdy class that loved to chant:
Mrs. Raeburn has a crush on Charles Darnay.
I won't say there wasn't some truth to their claim.

“Now you're a ghost—”

“Emissary.”

“Whatever. You're here to kick my butt up the stairs.” Robust splashes and the inner tube moved toward the swirling water near the boulders.

I followed, propelling the float with matched strokes.

The inner tube moved with the current created by the falling water. “Hey, fun.”

I positioned my float in the current and fetched up beside the inner tube. “Speaking of the stairs—”

“Do you see them?”

I looked toward the evergreens. Despite the intense summer sunlight, the curving stairway glowed silver and gold and white. “Don't you think they look welcoming?”

“Maybe. I can't go yet. Megan's in big trouble. I didn't want her to work with Blaine Smith, but I don't want her stopped by a big blowhard bully. Maybe I'll leave an anonymous message for the guy who took my place on the
Gazette
, how a local lawyer would let a kid die to get his way. Hey, that's an idea. Lawyers hate bad publicity—”

“Graham would be smooth as honey and say he can't imagine why a young lawyer would spread that kind of story about him although her work had been in question.”

“Oh.”

I made the likely outcome perfectly clear. “He'd assume Megan leaked the story. He thinks only he and she heard their conversation. He'd get back at her. Actually, the conversation was overheard. Anita was at the door. She listened, but she'd be the last to tell anyone. Graham holds all the cards. Sometimes we have to recognize we're caught up in something we can't control. All Megan can control is her actions. If she stays, Anita stays.”

“Graham's a son of a bitch to treat Megan like that.” Jimmy's voice was loud. “Somebody—”

I have excellent peripheral vision. I caught a flicker of movement among honeysuckle vines in the arbor near a cluster of outdoor tables and chairs of white wrought iron.

“—may kill him one of these days.”

I looked toward the arbor.

A slender young man about twenty in a tee and shorts and grass-stained athletic shoes stared at the pool. A pair of clippers dangled from his right hand. Slowly his eyes, huge in a darkly handsome face, traveled up and down the pool.

Jimmy's voice was gruff. “If I were here, I'd punch Graham out. I'd flatten him.”

To anyone listening, the voice clearly came from the pool, the brusque threat and the soft lap of water against the tiled sides.

The yard worker bent forward, stared, perhaps seeking a swimmer submerged for a moment. Then his gaze swept the terrace.

Of course, he saw no one.

“Jimmy . . .”

His voice overrode my whisper. He sounded steely, dangerous. “I'm going to stop Doug Graham. I'll do whatever it takes. I've got some ideas.”

The yard worker moved backward. Fast. His eyes looked wild and frantic. “Shh.” My warning was too late.

With a panicked bleat, the yard worker dropped the clippers, turned, ran. His thudding steps grew fainter and he was out of sight behind the Bradford pears.

“He heard you threaten—” I broke off.

The inner tube, no longer low in the water, floated empty. Jimmy was gone.

I didn't call out for Jimmy. I had no doubt that I was alone. I was very much afraid he was out to make trouble for Megan's nemesis. Jimmy was angry, young, and rash. I had to find him, stop him.

I started at the law office, changing my apparel en route, a short-sleeve pink silk sweater, beige silk crepe trousers, pink sandals.

Megan's fingers flew over the keyboard. I had no sense of Jimmy's presence. There was no telltale impression on her sofa. I doubted he could be in Megan's presence for long without speaking.

With a feeling of panic—Jimmy likely acted on impulse and didn't think through the possibility of unintended consequences—I moved to Doug's office. In a quick glance, I felt relief. There was no vandalism. Not that Jimmy was likely to resort to petty destruction. But he was both angry and frustrated.

Speaking of angry . . .

Doug's big face was hard and set. His hand moved in savage
jerks as he wrote on a legal pad. He stopped, read, ripped off the page, crumpled and threw the sheet into the wastebasket to join a growing mound.

I looked over his shoulder.

He started fresh. No salutation.
I never promised anything. If you make any claims, I'll deny everything. You—
He stopped, shook his head, tore off the sheet, threw it away. He started again.
Let's talk again. We can work this out.
He looked satisfied. This sheet was carefully removed, folded, tucked in his shirt pocket.