Motion for Murder (25 page)

 "Just one more thing." He ignored my admittedly juvenile display. "Don't make me say this again."

I accidentally knocked the bag of chips on the rug when I jumped up and stormed out of there, spilling salt and spiky shards of tortilla everywhere. Served him right. He had a boatload of nerve for someone not even involved in the investigation himself. I knew the Black Orchid was a bad idea. I knew Hilary Heath was bad news. I knew you didn't pull a tiger's tail. But no one seemed to understand the suffocating daily stress of looking into co-workers' eyes knowing one of them was capable of murder. Of all people, I'd have expected Curt to understand how that felt.

I stomped up the stairs and slammed into my apartment, reeling with anger. If that was what marriage felt like, then Sherri could have it.

*  *  *

By the time I'd showered and changed into dry clothes, I was marginally calmer. At least I was able to consider that Curt's motives might be pure; he didn't want to see a friend get hurt. A small, mean part of me also thought he didn't want to lose his rent stream. I clung to that part a little longer. I'm the stubborn type.

The phone rang while I was towel-drying my hair. "Jamie." It was my mother. "I just wanted to let you know, they're taking applications at Bertelli's Beauty School, over on Station Road. My friend Gladys told me her daughter graduated from there and is making six figures now."

I was making six figures, too, if you counted the ones that came after the decimal point.

"Of course, Estelle works in New York," my mother was saying. "I don't expect you to work in New York. They're crazies up there. But there are some perfectly good salons closer to home."

"I don't want to cut hair, Mom." I tossed the damp towel on the recliner.

"You don't have to cut hair. You could do nails."

That was worse than cutting hair.

"Or be a colorist," she said. "Those Hollywood colorists make all kinds of money."

From New York to Hollywood in five seconds. "I have to go," I said. "Tell Dad I said hi."

"Oh, your father." She sucked in a breath. "I almost forgot to tell you, he had a little stomach trouble today. We had to go to see Dr. Hurley."

I blinked. "Is he alright?"

"Oh, he's fine. The doctor said it's acid. He gave him some pills to keep it under control, but you know your father. He acts like it'd kill him to take an aspirin for a migraine. Men just don't believe in doctoring, do they?"

I hung up the phone with my mind spinning in a new direction. Suddenly I knew where to go next. My father might not believe in doctoring, but I knew another man who did.

I went home for lunch on Wednesday, mainly because I wanted some privacy. Since Dougie's death, it seemed like the office had a turnstile instead of a door. Dougie's latest commercial was still running and was bringing in both legitimate cases and nut jobs who'd heard of his passing and wanted to see the scene of the crime.

Howard was taking the opposite approach. His eagerness to erase every trace of Dougie from the office, including the firm name, gnawed at me. It almost seemed like guilt was provoking his overreaction.

I scrounged together a BLT without the bacon and ate it while I flipped through the Yellowbook. Howard Dennis, M.D. was listed under Psychiatrists, which surprised me a little. I'd expected Howard's father to be a neurosurgeon or a cardiologist, something more in keeping with the Dennis ego. I dialed the listed number and took a deep breath.

It was answered on the third ring by a crisply efficient woman. "Dr. Dennis's office."

"Yes, hello." My eyes shifted to the window. "My name is Sandy Kershaw, and I'd like to make an appointment with the doctor for sometime this week, if possible." I'd scripted this as carefully as possible. Sandy Kershaw was a hapless wretch of a woman, on her own from a young age, living on the streets, and using recreational drugs like Spanish fly to escape her miserable existence whenever money and opportunity allowed. I'd watched
Diary of a Teenaged Prostitute
twice to prepare. The thought of actually meeting Howard's father terrified me, but I didn't see any other way to explore the possibility that he'd inadvertently given Howard access to Spanish fly. His response to Sandy Kershaw, if I played my role convincingly, should tell me what I needed to know.

Clearly I was fresh out of good ideas. Not that this was a good one. I'd have to pay for this burst of brilliance.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Dennis is not holding office hours at present," the woman said. "The practice is closed indefinitely."

I blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry. I've heard so many good things about him. Was he in some sort of accident?"

There was a moment of silence. "What is your name again?"

Outside, the buzz of a lawn mower suddenly broke the neighborhood silence. "Sandy," I said. "Sandy Kershaw."

"Dr. Dennis had a stroke six months ago, Miss Kershaw. We're not sure when he'll be able to resume his practice."

Six months, and he was still unable to resume working. So it wasn't possible that Dr. Dennis had aided and abetted in Dougie's death. My relief was tempered by sympathy for the man. I might be mildly dishonest but I wasn't heartless. "Please tell him I wish him a full recovery," I told her.

"Thank you. I'd be happy to refer you to a colleague of his if
"

"No, thank you. I've changed my mind." I hung up before I could change it again. Stupidity had been averted, at least for now.

*  *  *

It was a day of surprises. There were no clients waiting when I returned from lunch, but there were boxes. Lots of them. Big ones, small ones, stacked two high, stretching across the floor and blocking access to the desks. Janice was there, flushed and pleased. So were Paige and Missy, looking less pleased.

I inched as far as I could into the room. "What's all this?"

Janice beamed at me. "New computers!"

"Can you believe it," Paige said dryly.

Janice ignored her. "Yours is over there, Jamie. I'll help you set it up." She climbed over a medium-sized box, as close to bubbly as I'd ever seen her. I stared after her in disbelief. There was a new computer system. Janice hadn't been lying. She hadn't been embezzling. Dougie couldn't have threatened to expose her.

Janice was in the clear.

"They're coming in to train us on the new software," Janice said over her shoulder. "So we have to get these things set up. We'd have had more time, but they couldn't get them built when I wanted them."

That explained a lot, including her conversation with Art.

"Not my job description." Paige stretched across some boxes to snatch her purse off her desk. "I'm going to lunch. I'll probably be late. I have an audition."

Janice whipped around to glare at her. "You'll be docked."

Paige shrugged. "Whatever. I don't plan to be here much longer anyway."

"Suit yourself." Janice turned back to the boxes. "There's 24 inch monitors!" she yelled after her, but Paige was gone.

Missy rolled her eyes. "Don't mind her. She's hot on this career change of hers."

Visions of the Black Orchid came immediately to mind, followed by visions of an office without Paige's surliness. Nice. I turned to Missy. "Audition?"

She shook her head. "Our Paige is going Hollywood. She thinks she wants to become an actress."

Janice snorted. "Yeah. That'll work."

I was thinking it might. Paige had played the role of inept secretary well enough to fool everyone at Parker, Dennis, and Heath. If I hadn't seen her in action at the Black Orchid, I'd be one of the people believing her biggest aspiration was to own the latest lipstick shades.

"Come on, guys." Janice was struggling with a block of packing Styrofoam. "Help me set up Jamie's new computer. We can worry about Paige later."

Not me. I'd be too busy worrying about my shrinking list of suspects.

A soft rain started falling late in the afternoon, and by dinnertime, thunder was rattling the windows, and the soft rain had become a downpour. I heated a can of soup for dinner and ate it in front of the news, not paying much attention to the stream of daily mayhem. A long empty night stretched ahead of me, and it didn't seem like a good idea to be alone with my mind. On the one hand, I was relieved that Janice's computers had arrived and thrilled that Paige might be leaving. On the other, every suspect crossed off my spreadsheet only managed to cause more confusion. Probably I should follow Paige's example and look for other work and forget about Parker, Dennis.

Except I thought someone should care enough about Dougie to find out who had prematurely retired him. Someone who knew and cared about him. Or at least knew him.

I rinsed out my dishes, stacked them on the sideboard, dried my hands, and decided I'd had enough solitude. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my parents' driveway and shut off the engine. Sherri's car was gone, which was no surprise. Unfortunately, it was Sherri I'd hoped to see. Ken's barbecue was edging closer, and I had no idea how to strike up a real conversation with the lawyers, outside of the context of work. I was relying on my sister to lay out a strategy for me.

My mother was waiting at the door. She reached for my umbrella before I had both feet inside. "Here, give me this. You're soaking wet. Have you eaten dinner?"

"I had soup," I said while she hustled off to deposit my umbrella in the bathtub. She came back shaking her head. "Soup's not dinner. You need some real food. Come with me."

I followed her to the kitchen and sat at the table, watching her gather dishes from the cabinet and plastic-wrapped bowls from the refrigerator and utensils from the drawer. After a little chopping and slicing and microwaving, she was sliding a steaming plateful of roast chicken in front of me. "Eat."

I didn't think I was all that hungry, but before I knew it, my pile of corn niblets had disappeared along with my dinner roll and half my baked potato.

"So." She leaned forward on her forearms. "Gladys picked up an application for you from Bertelli's."

I would have protested, but my mouth was full of baked potato.

"I tore it up and threw it in the trash."

I stopped chewing.

She shrugged. "Estelle's only getting herself into trouble up in New York, and Hollywood is no place for a young woman on her own."

I wondered who had gotten to her. It certainly hadn't been me.

"You'll get yourself another job," she said, managing not to sound too fatalistic about it. "When you're good and ready."

She reached for my bread plate. I put my hand over hers and looked at her hard. "Thank you."

She flushed and nodded. I let it go at that. I cut into the chicken breast. "So where's Dad?"

My mother tipped her chin upward. "Upstairs, trying on some old clothes. I told him he should buy a new wardrobe, but he claims the one he has is perfectly serviceable, and he means to prove it." She snorted softly. "You should see the socks I have to darn. Serviceable." I grinned. "At least he wears clean underwear," she said.

I stopped grinning. Too much information.

Footsteps pounded through the living room, and my father burst into the kitchen wearing a navy pinstriped suit of indeterminate vintage. "Have a look at this, Muth." He stopped cold when he saw me, his face reddening. "Oh, honey. I didn't know you were here. Glass of wine?"

"No thanks," I said automatically. I nodded at the suit. "Sharp," I said, and it would have been, thirty years ago. Now, the seat of the pants was shiny. The waistband was hidden beneath the swell of his belly, and his wrist bones jutted from the sleeves of the jacket. He looked pathetic and endearing at the same time, and seeing my mother's expression made me wish I had a man just like him.

Her fingers drifted down his lapels and lifted his tie, a broad swath of blinding yellow and black checkerboard. "It looks ridiculous, Al," she said fondly. "And what's this?" Her hand stopped at mid-tie, and my father wrapped his fingers around hers on his chest. "It's the tie tack you gave me on our first anniversary. Don't you remember?"

"That ugly thing," my mother said, flushing. "I can't believe you still have that. It's so out of style." She glanced my way. "He uses an old earring back to hold it together, you know. The original clasp fell apart a month after I gave it to him."

"I think it's great you still have it," I said, thinking Sherri knew what she was doing when she left and wondering if I should follow suit. The thunder had slackened but the rain was still falling, and the soothing sound together with the scent of good food made the house a cozy love shack.

"You look like an old gangster in that getup," my mother told him. "Go take it off."

"I could use some help," my father said, leering at her, and that brought me to my feet. "I should be going. I'll just, uh, leave Sherri a note…" I fumbled in my handbag for a pen and scrap of paper, scribbled something, and slammed the pepper shaker on top of it to hold it in place. "Thanks for dinner," I called over my shoulder, but I don't think either one of them heard me. They were too busy playing with my father's tie tack.