Midsummer Night's Mischief (5 page)

“Odds are three to one, fellas. We may want to rethink this one after tonight.” Chuckling, he turned to me. “Want in on this, Keli? I'm collecting for the office baseball pool.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, anyway. I'm not much of a gambler.”

Crenshaw stood quickly, gave me that obnoxious half bow, and motioned to the chair vacated by Randall. “Have a seat, Keli. Tell us, does fortune smile upon you?”

I ignored the chair and the allusion and leaned against the door frame. “I've got to get to work. I just wanted to see how Jeremy's feeling.” Turning to Jeremy, I said, “I thought you weren't coming in today.”

Before he could answer, Pammy poked her head in the room. “Oh, Crenny, there you are. I wanted to ask your opinion on this case I'm working on.”

Crenshaw motioned to the empty chair again but stayed seated. “We were just having a brief postprandial chat. Not much else this hour of the day is good for.”

Jeremy snorted and leaned forward to grab a pen from the plastic beer stein he used as a pencil cup. He began doodling on the oversize blotter calendar in the center of his desk.

Pammy walked around me and sat down in the empty chair. “Keli,” she said, “I was really sorry to hear about your client passing away. She seemed really sweet.”

“Thank you,” I said. “She was eighty-four yet so youthful. I guess she'd had heart troubles before. Still, it was quite a shock.”

“Is the funeral all arranged?” asked Pammy.

“There's a visitation tomorrow from five to eight. I plan on stopping by.”

“Where's the First Folio?” asked Crenshaw. “You don't have it, do you?”

“No,” I said. “Eleanor was having so much fun with it, showing it off. It's probably still at her house. I'll try to talk to her daughter about it if I get an opportunity.”

“She still lived in her own home?” Pammy asked.

“Mm-hmm.” I nodded.

“Gosh, what a blessing,” said Pammy. “My siblings and I are in the process of looking at nursing homes for our mother.”

I gave Pammy a sympathetic look and was about to say something more when Crenshaw cleared his throat. Affecting a pose, he projected his voice as if he were on a stage. “‘But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch.'” He looked at each of us as if he had uttered something profound. “That's Shakespeare, of course.
Hamlet
, act five.”

For a moment, we all stared at Crenshaw. Then I slipped out without a word.

CHAPTER 5

The sun was still bright in the western sky when I arrived at Carlston Funeral Home, a whitewashed colonial-style mansion. I stood for a moment on the broad porch before the closed front door, and I took a slow deep breath. And then another one. With my feet planted firmly on the Berber entrance mat, I mentally grounded myself to the earth and centered myself in the present. It took only a moment, but it worked. I felt calmer and stronger as I pushed open the door and crossed the threshold. People milled about, somber and quiet. The muted colors, floral arrangements, and soft organ music in the background gave the place a churchy feel. Spotting the guest book, I signed my name. Then I made my way to the viewing room to pay my respects.

After placing my flowers among the others, I went over to introduce myself to Darlene. Darlene was a petite, youthful-looking woman in her fifties with highlighted auburn hair. She had Eleanor's dimples, which she flashed briefly, putting on a determinedly brave and gracious face for the public. I recalled Eleanor telling me that Darlene's husband, Bill, was retired from the army but had recently taken a job with a military contractor. He was currently somewhere in the Middle East, heading up some sort of infrastructure project. I wasn't surprised he hadn't made it back for the visitation.

While I talked to Darlene, we were joined by Eleanor's son, Kirk, who came in through a side door, picking cottonwood fluff out of his hair. An attractive man with graying temples and deep laugh lines, Kirk was just a little taller than me and appeared to be in his late forties. He put his hand on my arm and said by way of greeting, “Is it over yet? All this sympathy is giving me hives.” Darlene shushed him affectionately, while another woman nearby chuckled softly. I gathered that Kirk was the comedian in the family.

After offering my condolences, I wandered over to the reception room. I had no appetite for the store-bought cookies and fruit punch, but I did want to look at the picture boards. There was Eleanor throughout the years, in black and white, faded Kodak, Polaroid, and digital. I smiled as I perused the photos: Eleanor as a little girl and as a young lady, Eleanor and Frank on their wedding day. Children, grandchildren, birthday parties, Christmas celebrations. Posed shots and silly candids.
What a sweet life
, I thought.

I grinned at one family portrait, so recognizable in its universality. Every expression was a story in itself: the determined cheerfulness of the harried mom, the bored smirks on the teenagers, the goofy faces on the overstimulated kiddos, the screaming baby. One person always with his eyes closed. And in the middle, a beaming Grandma Eleanor and Grandpa Frank, so proud of their brood.

Hang on a minute.
My glance went back to the bored teenagers, apparently two brothers. These would be the grandsons Eleanor mentioned in her will, Wesley and Robert.

Hmmm.
There was something familiar about the older one. I searched the boards for a later photo. There it was.

Oh. My. God.
Dark hair, warm eyes, sexy smirk. Wesley was Wes! He was the hottie from the bar. The disappearing hottie. It must have been the news of Eleanor's death that had caused him to leave the bar so abruptly.

I stood a little straighter as the next realization hit. He could be
here
! In fact, it was highly likely that he was. I swung around and gave the room a sweeping glance. No sign of a dark-haired hottie.

I was about to go prowling through the other rooms—Was that wrong? That was so wrong—when someone gasped to my left. I started guiltily and glanced over to see who the mind reader was. A middle-aged woman with short, frizzy hair peered at one of the photo boards.

“I forgot all about that picnic! Look at Aunt Eleanor in that yellow minidress and sixties flip. And Uncle Frank in that plaid suit! That's me, the scrawny little kid in braids.”

She turned to me, smiling and misty eyed. “They were doing Shakespeare in the Park, the university theater troupe. Uncle Frank and Aunt Eleanor thought it would be fun to get dressed up and to bring a picnic basket with wine and cheese and fruit. Apple juice for us kids, of course. Don't we look like we're straight out of some European film?”

I looked at the picture with her, murmuring in agreement. She pointed out her mom and dad and her cousins, which would be Darlene and Kirk. The kids, squinting into the sun, sat cross-legged on a blanket. Eleanor looked so young and elegant, standing with one hand shading her eyes, the other draped at her side. She looked as if she had just been laughing.

“And here we are with Santa.” The woman had moved on to another photo.

“Such a beautiful family,” I said. “The love and warmth really shine through in these photos.”

“Yes,” the woman agreed, nodding. Then she turned to me again. “I'm Sharon, by the way.”

I stuck out my hand. “Keli Milanni,” I said. “Eleanor's lawyer.”

“So nice of you to come,” Sharon said. She reached over to touch my arm and lowered her voice. “Say, as a lawyer, maybe you can help. I told Darlene she needs to request an autopsy before it's too late, but she's not real keen on the idea.”

“An autopsy? That's not really necessary, is it?”

“Look at this,” Sharon said, pointing to one of the more recent photos on the display board. “Look how healthy Eleanor appears, years younger than her real age. This was taken less than a month ago.”

“But she did have a history of heart issues, didn't she? And high cholesterol?”

“Yes, but we don't know for sure what happened. The coroner said she had probably passed away a few hours before Darlene found her on the kitchen floor. I'd just like to know the exact cause of death.”

I nodded slowly without saying anything. I knew it was natural for family members to want answers.

“You know what?” Sharon said. “I'll ask her doctor tomorrow. I work at the hospital, which is right next to the clinic where Eleanor always went. Her doctor can ask for an autopsy.” She turned back to the photo board and shook her head. “I just have a hard time believing she up and had a heart attack out of nowhere.”

Clearing my throat, I decided to change the subject. “There seems to be a big turnout today. Was the whole family able to come?”

“I think so, except for Bill. Poor Darlene. I guess she's used to being an army wife, but it's a shame her husband has to be so far away, he can't even fly home for things like this. Most of the cousins from out of state made it in this afternoon.”

“Of course, much of the family lives right here,” I said, thinking of Wes again. “Like her grandchildren, I think.”

“Mm-hmm, some of them. Darlene's boys are here, and two of Kirk's kids are in nearby towns. Kirk's youngest daughter is in L.A., but she got here this morning.”

“I think I'm actually acquainted with Darlene's son Wesley,” I said, pressing on. “I'd like to offer him my condolences. Do you know if he's here?”

“Well, he
was
here, but he left.” Sharon's disapproval couldn't be more apparent if she'd worn a sign.

Uh-oh.
The guy ditched his own grandmother's memorial service?

“He had to work?” I ventured.

“Work?” said Sharon, fairly scoffing. “No. He had to avoid being in the same building as his own brother, apparently. Two grown men still acting like children. Shameful, if you ask me. Just shameful.”

* * *

Maybe it was the memory of our first encounter, cut short just as it was getting interesting. Or maybe it was his second aunt's insinuations. Either way, I couldn't get Wes out of my mind. I think I dreamed about him that night after the visitation, but the memory of it vanished with the early morning fog.

Still, I kept thinking about him as I jogged through Fieldstone Park and over to the old rail trail, lightly populated on this Sunday morning by a few other joggers and cyclists. I guessed most people, or at least most of the college students I often saw on this trail, were sleeping in after a typical Saturday night of partying. Others might be at church. Edindale had something like twenty churches, so that would be a safe bet.

As for me, I
was
at church. Nature was my church. The trees formed my cathedral; the birds made up my choir. The fresh scent of the earth was better than any incense. And the sun streaming through the clouds, and the gentle breeze on my face, were like heaven itself.

I was feeling pretty good, running at a brisk pace and basking in the holy environment, when I thought of Wes again. What would he think if he knew I was a Goddess-worshipping, Earth-loving, tree-hugging nature girl? Would he be cool with that? Or would he run screaming for the proverbial hills?

My first impression of him was that he seemed to be a laid-back, open-minded kind of guy. He probably wouldn't be scared off too easily. Yet . . . would it matter to him if I told him a love spell had brought us together?

Um, perhaps I wouldn't be telling him that anytime soon. In fact, who knew if I'd even see him again? Those chocolate eyes, that chiseled chin . . .

Whoops!
My toe caught on a stone sticking halfway out of the dirt, and suddenly, after a split second of useless flailing, I was on my hands and knees.
Guess I really am a Holy Roller
, I thought wryly as I dusted myself off. I sat on the edge of the trail for a minute, checking to make sure nothing was twisted, ripped, or broken. Luckily, I was all in one piece, just a little scuffed and bruised. As I pondered how I'd managed to trip on the only loose pebble visible on the whole trail, it hit me.

Loose Rock.

This was a sign. If I wanted to see Wes again, I needed to go back to the place where I first met him.

I walked for a few minutes, then gingerly began to run again, heading back the way I'd come. With a new sense of purpose, I fairly flew through town. Of course, I still had a few hours before the Loose would open up, so I slowed down when I got home. I stretched and sipped water. Then I made myself a refreshing green smoothie consisting of frozen banana, a big spoonful of peanut butter, a couple of handfuls of fresh spinach from my tiny backyard garden, and a healthy splash of soy milk.
Delish.

Then I showered, shimmied into a lime-green sundress and strappy sandals, and applied a touch of bronzer, a swipe of mascara, and a kiss of lip gloss. I was ready to go.

At 11:00 a.m. Jimi would just be opening up the Loose. I hoped to catch him before he got too busy and grill him about his old college buddy. He ought to be able to share some useful information, such as Wes's phone number.

As I suspected, the place was nearly empty. While my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I made my way over to the bar to ask for Jimi. The bartender was leaning down, stocking some bottles, so I took a seat and waited, contemplating what I would order if I were inclined to order a drink before noon on a Sunday. Bloody Mary? Mint julep? Cold beer? I had no idea.

I started idly drumming my fingertips on the bar as I squinted at the labels along the shelf. The bartender stood up and started apologizing.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't see—” He stopped when he recognized me, and I nearly fell off the stool when I recognized him. It was Wes . . . daylighting as a bartender?

“Hey!” he said, a smile lighting up his face. “It's good to see you again, Keli.”

He remembers my name
, I thought with relief. “Wes! Hi. You bartend here?”

“Oh, well, I'm filling in today. Helping Jimi out. What a nice surprise to see you! What can I get you?”

“Hmm . . .” I hesitated, furrowing my brow.

“Oh, are you . . . uh, are you waiting for someone?” Was that disappointment I detected on that dreamy face of his?

“Actually, I was looking for you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about the loss of your grandmother.”

Now Wes looked really surprised and a little perplexed. For a second, I let him wonder. It was fun to be the mystifying woman, but I couldn't play the part for long. I came clean.

“I was your grandmother's lawyer,” I said. “I didn't know you were related to her until I saw your picture at the memorial yesterday. And then I realized the phone call you got Thursday night was probably about your grandma.”

Wes absentmindedly grabbed a towel from behind the bar and started wiping the scratched wood. For a minute I was afraid it was too weird that I had come. Maybe he didn't want to be reminded of his grandmother's death. Then he shook his head in wonder.

“That is so wild. What a coincidence.” He stopped wiping the counter and looked at me again. “Oh, hey, I'm sorry about cutting out on you so abruptly the other night.”

“Oh, gosh, don't be sorry. I mean, it's perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.”

Wes regarded me for a minute. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “Why don't we finish that drink now? You had rum and Coke, right?” He reached under the bar, pulled out a bottle of Bacardi, and placed it in front of me. As he turned to grab a glass, he paused and looked over, waiting for an answer.

“Okay,” I said agreeably. “But put it in a tall glass, please. And with lots of ice.”

Wes grinned. “Of course.” I watched as he pulled out two highball glasses, filled them with ice, and deftly mixed the cocktail. He garnished each glass with a wedge of lime—a nice complement to my dress—and pushed a glass in front of me. “Your Cuba libre, senorita.”

I picked up my glass and swiveled around on my stool, while Wes walked around the bar to join me. He motioned to the waitress to come get him if she needed help with any customers, and we went back to our table from the other night.