Miranda Vaughn Mystery 01.00 - Chasing the Dollar (29 page)

"I hope they've got a good attorney."

"They did," Jack said. "Until Tate retired."

She'd forgotten about that little complication. "Let's hope he taught his nephew everything he knew."

*  *  *

With the help of Tate's nephew and a retainer that was considerably higher than what a small-town firm could reasonably command for a simple domestic matter, Helen convinced Tate to stop packing and postpone his retirement for a couple hours. He dug a battered briefcase out of one of his moving boxes and conferred with Jack before climbing into the back of the car to sit beside Helen. "Your driver knows where the courthouse is. It'll only take a couple minutes."

"The sooner you can get rid of Melissa, the better."

"Don't expect any miracles," he said. "I'm just doing my job. The job that I'm supposed to be retired from."

Jack stopped the car in front of the courthouse to let Helen and Tate out. Helen hesitated at the foot of the steep stairs into the building. She couldn't climb them, not the way her hip felt right now, at least not with any grace or confidence.

A sign with the standard wheelchair icon caught her attention. Perhaps there was another entrance she could use. The sign beneath the wheelchair icon read, "This courthouse is not wheelchair accessible," and gave a phone number to contact for more information.

Helen didn't need information; she needed an elevator.

She couldn't wait for it to be built, so she swallowed her irritation and slowly, painfully followed Tate up the stairs and into the clerk's office.

There were three people already in line at the counter, where only one clerk was working. Three other clerks sat at desks in the background, intent on their work, which apparently didn't include dealing with people at the counter.

"It may take a few minutes to arrange for the hearing. Monday mornings are usually busy with the arraignment of everyone who was arrested over the weekend, and the other scheduled matters run over to the afternoon session." Tate gestured at the battered and rusty straight-back chairs lining the wall across from the counter. "You might as well have a seat while you wait. Make yourself comfortable."

Helen looked at the battered straight-back chairs lining the wall across from the counter. No one could get comfortable in them, let alone a person with a damaged hip.

Helen feigned interest in the bulletin board beside the clerk's office doorway while she watched Tate do his job. There were three people in line before him, and while he waited, he greeted passing court officers and a few fellow lawyers, all by name and with every indication that he considered each and every one of them among his closest and dearest friends. Her ex-husband had done the same sort of thing when he was working a room. Her ex had obviously been successful with the schmoozing, since he'd been governor for a record-setting number of years, but he still wasn't half as good at it as Tate was.

Melissa didn't stand a chance against him.

Helen ignored the curious glances from the young man reading the notices on the bulletin board until he said, "Excuse me, but you're Helen Faria, aren't you? The governor's wife."

"It's Binney now. We're divorced."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I read about it in the
Boston Globe
. I'm Geoff Loring, by the way, and I work for the
Wharton Times
. If I'd been covering your divorce, I'd have been more even-handed, given you a fair shake, showed your ex for the bastard he was."

Helen was tempted to simply ignore him, the way she'd always done with the more annoying members of the press corps surrounding her husband. The rest she'd been polite to, while still not making any on-the-record statements. She'd actually liked quite a few of the regulars, the ones who truly cared about the people they interviewed or were extraordinarily insightful. But she'd known better than to trust them with anything she didn't want plastered across the front page of a newspaper or website.

He was blond and had a nice smile in an otherwise bland face. It couldn't have been too many years—ten at the most—since he'd been writing stories for the local high school's paper instead of the grown-up edition. He didn't seem like one of the vengeful, vigilante reporters who enjoyed wallowing in human misery. It was more likely that he just had an over-sized ego, which was almost a pre-requisite for the job these days. He just wanted a story that would get him a front-page by-line, maybe picked up for syndication, to validate his opinion of himself. In a small town like Wharton, he probably didn't have that many opportunities for a story that would appeal to readers across the state. The governor's ex-wife was automatically front-page material, at least for the local paper, so she was going to have to deal with Loring as long as she lived here. There was no point in intentionally antagonizing him. At the same time, she couldn't let him think there was any chance she'd give him some sort of inside story about the governor. He'd never leave her alone if she held out the least little bit of encouragement.

"My ex-husband wasn't a bastard," she said flatly. "We just wanted different things for the remainder of our lives."

"Right." Loring's hand strayed to his smartphone, obviously tempted to take notes. "I heard you had a vacation house here. I suppose you're just staying here while you decide what to do next?"

"It's a lovely little cottage," Helen said with intentional vagueness. Where was Tate, anyway? How long did it take to fill out a few papers and ask for hearing? She glanced at the counter, where he was still chatting with the clerk.

Loring either didn't pick up on her disinterest or pretended not to. "Perhaps I could stop by the cottage sometime and have a chat."

"I don't have anything to say to the press."

"Sure you do," he said. "Just because you're not the state's first lady anymore, that doesn't mean you've got nothing interesting to say. I'm sure the local citizens would love to hear your opinions."

"I believe the weather has been unusually mild recently," she said. "Is that what you had in mind?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of discussing why you're here in the courthouse today."

She might not want to antagonize him in ways that would reflect badly on her husband, but she didn't care whether he liked her or not. "I'm trying to get people to leave me alone."

He laughed, believing, like everyone else, that she was joking. "Are you planning to get restraining orders against everyone in town?"

"If necessary," she said. "Excuse me while I go ask my lawyer to amend the paperwork."

CHAPTER THREE

The reporter didn't try to stop her from joining Tate at the counter. By the time Helen had signed the application for a restraining order, and turned to leave the clerk's office, the reporter was gone. She doubted she'd scared him off permanently, so she wasn't surprised to see him waiting for her when she entered the courtroom.

Helen had attended a few high-profile hearings in
Boston courthouses. They were grand high-rise buildings, with elevated benches for the judge, and extensive seating for the press and the curious public. There was nothing grand or elevated or extensive about the county courthouse. The courtroom was about the size of a high school classroom, and most of the space was taken up with rows of chairs for parties waiting for their case to be called. In front of them was a rickety, waist-high divider that separated the observers from the judge and the attorneys. The attorneys' tables were plastic veneer, and looked like they'd been purchased at the local discount store. The judge's bench was made of solid wood, but far from the weight and pomp of the city courtrooms. It was only raised a single step above the floor level, making it a little too easy for the parties to look down on the judge instead of the other way around. The judge would have to rely on the strength of his own personality, rather than the trappings of authority.

Tate led Helen past the railing and offered her a seat at one of the front tables. She heard the reporter, the only other person in the room, move so that he was sitting directly behind them. "It may be a while until we're called," Tate said. "The morning session went longer than usual, and the scheduled hearing for this afternoon was postponed to another day, so we're the only case on Judge Nolan's docket today. She may make us wait, just to see how serious we are about this."

"I'm serious."

"You don't need to convince me. I know what you're spending to be here." He pulled an issue of
Woodworker's Journal
from his briefcase, and immersed himself in it.

Helen tried to find a comfortable position on the cheap chair, a match to the ones she'd disdained in the clerk's office, without fidgeting so much that Tate would notice her discomfort. Tumbling out the window this morning really hadn't done her hip any good, but she wasn't inclined to seek any sort of medical opinion at the moment. Certainly not with Melissa on the loose. Much higher on her priority list was finding a locksmith to replace all her locks at the cottage, so Melissa couldn't just let herself in before she was served with the restraining order.

After a few minutes, Helen tried reading over Tate's shoulder. Fascinating as he obviously found the tips for lathe maintenance, she couldn't get past the second sentence without her eyes crossing.

Helen was about to give in to her hip's demand that she stand up for a few minutes, when the uniformed bailiff entered the room, admonishing everyone to rise for the entrance of Judge Samantha Nolan.

Except for her official black robe, the judge looked like Hollywood's idea of a stay-at-home grandmother: perfectly permed white hair, rounded face with a hint of jowls, and a chunky necklace offering a bit of color along the collar of the robe. She was at least ten years older than Helen, but she walked briskly and didn't hesitate at the single step up to where she presided. No one forced a visiting nurse on Judge Nolan or expected her to take a nap, Helen thought.

The judge's clerk, a chubby middle-aged blonde in clothes that were too young and too tight for her, settled at an ugly little desk next to the judge. The clerk called Helen's name and recited a case number, before saying, "You may approach the bench."

After a final glance at his copy of
Woodworker's Journal
, Tate tossed the magazine onto the table and escorted Helen up to a spot a few inches in front of the judge's bench.

Judge Nolan glanced briefly at Helen before focusing on Tate. "Don't even bother. I've read the papers. You don't have grounds for a restraining order."

The judge might look like a sweet old grandmother, but she obviously wasn't a soft touch. Helen had to admire her strength, even if it was inconvenient under the circumstances.

"I know it's unusual, judge," Tate said, "but there's more to the situation than appears on the surface. There's a power dynamic here, between nurse and patient, that's clearly being abused."

"Not a bad argument," the judge said. "I might have bought it if your client's actions hadn't made it clear that she dislikes everyone in this town, not just her nurse. She's been living here in Wharton during the summer season for as long as I've been on the bench, and she's never so much as said hello to any of the local citizens before today. I'm sure our esteemed reporter, Mr. Loring, will confirm that fact."

Helen turned around to see the reporter nodding in response to the judge's statement. He was also keying notes into his smartphone furiously, apparently trying to record every single word spoken.

The judge continued, "I seem to remember that another local reporter tried to interview her a couple years ago, and the next thing he knew, he was being called in to have a chat with his boss about being demoted to writing obituaries."

"That's not in evidence," Tate said.

"I'm taking judicial notice of a commonly known fact," Judge Nolan said. "Your client doesn't like anyone, so it's hardly surprising she dislikes this particular person she's complaining about."

"Hermit or not, Miss Binney is entitled to privacy in her own home," Tate said.

"Only from governmental intrusion. Not from other citizens, by way of a restraining order." The judge looked at Helen, adding, "Not unless she's afraid of her nurse."

Helen stiffened. She wasn't afraid of anyone. She was angry and frustrated, not scared.

After a moment, the judge focused on Tate again. "All you've shown me is that Ms. Binney is annoyed with her nurse, who may have overstepped her boundaries somewhat. You haven't offered me any evidence that the nurse offered Ms. Binney any physical harm, and I'm quite sure that Ms. Binney won't perjure herself by saying she's afraid of Ms. Shores or anyone else."

The judge turned to Helen again. "Well?"

Helen suppressed a sigh. Too bad Judge Nolan hadn't risen higher in the judiciary, leaving this job to someone who would have rubber-stamped the request for a restraining order, someone who wouldn't have put Helen in the untenable position of having to admit—in front of the note-taking reporter, and thus, indirectly, in front of the entire town—that she'd been bullied by a silly woman wearing clothes embellished with children's toys. Helen's nieces would never let her forget it.

"I'm not afraid of Melissa," Helen told the judge. "I just want her to leave me alone. That's the whole point of restraining orders, isn't it?"

"You'd think so," Judge Nolan said as she gestured for the clerk to hand her some paperwork. "But you'd be wrong. I don't even have to take this under advisement. Sorry to ruin your courtroom winning streak, Tate, but the request for a restraining order is denied."

Tate waited until the judge had left before saying, "I did warn you the odds were against you."

"So what do we do now?"

He picked up his magazine and stuffed it into his briefcase. "Now I go back to my woodworking shop, and you go stay with friends for a few days while you negotiate a termination of Melissa's contract to visit you."

"According to the judge, I don't have any friends. I hate everyone."

"That may have been a bit of an exaggeration," Tate said. "I'm sure you've got friends somewhere." 

She used to, Helen thought. Back before she'd thrown herself into supporting her husband's career and hadn't had time for them. She needed to make amends or find some new friends. As soon as she got rid of Melissa.

"I won't be chased out of my own house. I'm going back there now, and she'd better be gone."

"Or what?" he said. "No, don't tell me. Just promise me you won't kill her, and you won't let your driver or one of his cousins do anything illegal."

"Don't worry," Helen said. "If I kill her, I promise not to tell you in advance, and I'll do my best to make it an interesting case for you."

*  *  *

Jack was leaning against the car, playing a video game, when Helen emerged from the courthouse. Tate had left her at the door, claiming he needed to return to the clerk's office on another matter, and he'd walk back to his office.

Jack tossed his smartphone into the car and ran up the courthouse steps to give her an arm to lean on if she wanted it. She considered brushing him away, but the stone steps were steep, and the railing looked shaky. She took Jack's arm with the hand not already using her cane.

After the first step, he asked, "Is it all taken care of?"

"Not exactly."

"I'm sorry," Jack said. "It's always the nice people that get taken advantage of, and the law won't do anything about it. It's just not fair."

"I probably deserved it," Helen said. "I'm not particularly nice."

Jack held the passenger door open for her. "What are you going to do now?"

Helen hated to admit it, but Tate was probably right about finding somewhere else to stay tonight. The nieces' homes weren't an option. Lily was out of town on business, and Laura's guestroom had been converted into a nursery. Helen might not have a friend she could stay with, but she could always rent a hotel room. Just until she could have the locks changed.

Jack would know the local hotels, but Helen couldn't make herself ask him. It wasn't just stubbornness. Her cottage was the only place were she felt comfortable these days. She wasn't going to be scared away from her one refuge by some crazy visiting nurse in silly pink clothes.

"First, I need a new phone and a locksmith," she told Jack. "And then I'd like to go home." 

After a detour to pick up two new pre-paid cell phones that were now activated and ready for use, Jack rolled the car to a stop at the end of the driveway, headlights shining on the otherwise dark cottage.

Over his shoulder, Jack said, "Her car is gone. Doesn't look like she's still here."

"She isn't the type to give up this easily," Helen said. "She might have hidden her car out back."

"Want me to come in with you?" Jack said. "Just until you've had a chance to look around?"

She couldn't let him do her dirty work, getting rid of Melissa, but she reconsidered letting him escort her to the front door. It had been a long day, after all, what with falling out the window and all. "Would you mind?"

"For you, I'd do anything." Jack opened the back passenger door and waited patiently until she was able to emerge from the low seat.

"This job would be so much better if all the clients were like you." Jack adjusted his pace to her slow one as they made their way up the walkway. "Some of them expect the driver to wait on them hand and foot, when they're perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. There was this one guy last week: he looked like a professional boxer, and you'd think he could carry at least his puny little briefcase or his state-of-the-art-thin laptop, but no, he expected me to carry them for him, along with his three over-sized suitcases. And he had the nerve to complain that he was in a big rush, and it took me too long, because I had to make two trips to get everything into the lobby."

Jack paused while Helen unlocked the cottage's front door, before adding, "And do you think he left me a decent tip for the extra work? Not likely. Bare minimum. Not even that, really. About ten percent."

Helen flicked the wall switch to illuminate the entry area and living room, half expecting Melissa to jump out of the darkness.

All she found, though, was the sound of the talk station blaring from the radio. On the plus side, the rooms were unoccupied, just the way she liked them. 

"She's definitely gone," Jack said. "You think she might come back?"

"I'm sure she will," Helen said. Probably not tonight, though. 

"Want me to stick around?"

"No, I have to handle this on my own." Helen crossed the living room and unplugged the radio. "Starting with this. Would you mind taking this away until I've gotten rid of Melissa?"

"Anything for you, Ms. Binney," he said, wrapping the cord around the radio.

"I think you should call me Helen, after all you've done for me."

"You've got your new phones where you can get to them, right?"

Helen patted one of the tiny phones, safely tucked into her pocket, and shrugged her shoulders until she could feel the spare one that she'd tucked into her bra. "I have them. Melissa might confiscate one of them, but I doubt she'll think to look for a second one on me."

"Why don't you put my home phone number into the memory?" Jack said, writing it on the back of a business card. "I wouldn't mind if you called me in an emergency. If you can't get through to dispatch, just call me at home. I'll come get you, even if it's my day off. Might not be a fancy car, but at least you can get away from here if you need to."

"That's very kind." Helen withdrew the first phone from her pocket and keyed in his number to reassure him. "I'm sure it won't be necessary to call anyone except the police, though. If Melissa comes back, she's going to wish she'd never met me, even more than I wish I'd never met her."